The House of Ice and Fire - EliGuard (2024)

Chapter 1: Return of the Targaryen Wolf

Chapter Text

Valyria 310 AC

Jon Snow/ Aemon Targaryen

Underneath a sky painted in hues of blood and bruised violet, the excellent smoking sea of Essos stretched out endlessly, a churning cauldron of ash and embers. A dragon rider, perched atop a massive scaled beast with eyes like molten gold, surveyed the desolation below as an endless winter covered the once smoking land, and a blizzard ravaged everything with endless ferocity. The air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and sulfur, and the once-great cities of Valyria lay in ruin, their spires and towers reduced to twisted, blackened remnants of their former glory.

Beneath the dragon rider, the ruins of Valyria sprawled like the carcass of a fallen giant, its once-proud towers reduced to heaps of shattered stone. The city, which had once been a marvel of architectural ingenuity, was now a labyrinth of crumbling walls and scorched archways. Vines twisted like black serpents around the remnants of grand palaces, their tendrils snaking through cracks in the stone as if trying to reclaim what was lost.

Amidst the devastation, the dragon rider saw glimpses of the city's former opulence: shards of stained glass windows, their vibrant colors now muted by time and smoke; ornate mosaics depicting long-forgotten legends, their intricate details marred by the passage of centuries; and fragments of marble statues, their proud faces eroded by the relentless onslaught of the elements. Each step through the ruins was a journey through history, a reminder of the majesty that had once been Valyria.

The smoking sea, a vast expanse of turbulent waters, bubbled and churned with an eerie vitality, at least, it did long ago no the bubbles froze; the smoking sea was nothing but snow and an endless mass of frozen water. Wisps of smoke rose from its surface, obscuring the horizon and casting a ghostly pallor over the scene as if the lands still knew that they were once fire and were too stubborn to be only ice, just like the rider himself. The sea itself seemed alive, its depths concealing mysteries as ancient and profound as the ruins that surrounded it. The dragon rider could feel the heat from the smoking sea, a palpable force that prickled his skin and made his eyes water, and yet the cold winds stopped the heat from becoming overbearing; this was the only place of warmth that the dragon rider could survive in now.

As the dragon circled lower, the rider could see remnants of what was once a bustling harbor, now submerged beneath the ashen waves. The skeletal remains of ships jutted out of the water like the fingers of a drowning sailor, their masts and rigging tangled in a macabre dance. The sea, tainted by the cataclysm that had befallen Valyria, seemed to pulse with otherworldly blackened magics, a reminder of the terrible power that had brought about the city's downfall.

Even if the blood of the dragon was in his veins, the rider did not revel in his ancestors before the fall. They practiced magics blacker than sin, and all gods would condemn the magics that twisted flesh, magics of black, fire, and blood. The magic that twisted the great wyrms and mixed them with meek wyverns to make fire-breathing monstrosities that terrified both Essos and Westeros. The same creatures the rider rode upon now.

It was the blood of the First Men he claimed and honored the most. The blood of his mother, her father, and her father before him. Stubborn as they are, the First Men claimed him, fought for him, and died for him; his only regret was that he could not do the same for them a second time. The Freefolk claimed him when he was north of the Wall; the Northmen claimed him when he returned and brought the North against the true enemy, death.

But now there were no Valryians, no First Men, no Rhoynar or Andals, no Dathraki or Unsullied. All that was left was he; he was all that was left—the last dragon, the last dragon king, the last wolf, the last King in the North, the last man. He was merely Aemon Targaryen, one of the two last creatures with a beating heart and a thinking mind. After he and his mount, there would be no more.

In truth, Aemon welcomed this; Aemon welcomed an end to years after his resurrection by the red priestess. Aemon understood the truest magics after spending time in the ruins of Valyria, searching for a way to end the Others. Only death could pay for life, and the death of Shireen Baratheon, burnt alive, gave the witch enough strength in her craft to bring Aemon back to life.

He yearned to end this cruel joke from the gods if they were real. He knew not why he and Rhaegal, his mount, still lived through this horrible winter with no end. Even though their time had long since gone and their demise was inevitable, every time they met their enemies, they were released after suffering a little more damage. He had the impression that the Night King was amusing himself.

Both knew that only the other could end the existence of the other. Jon Snow had been killed at Castle Black and yet returned, later learning his true name and purpose. Arya had slain the Night King, and yet, as was said, only the promised prince can do such things; in the end, the Night King and his living dead returned once more, several years later after Westeros had fallen to Daenerys' madness.

The battle with the Lannisters and years of battle in the continent had drained the men dry of all things, and when Daenerys' armies came to fight in their stead, they were all slaughtered to gain the supposed victory granted by Arya. The Night King attacked when Essos' armies were weakened due to Westeros never fully rising to fight. Once Westeros fell, and Essos had no armies to fight back, it soon fell. And the world of men soon fell in quick succession.

There were moments when Aemon thought he should deny the Night King the win he'd long since earned in a game that would only conclude when he determined it would. He was ready to end his life at other times for various reasons. Sometimes, his suffering was unbearable, and he yearned to give in to the overwhelming impulse just to give up and go to them.

But he was unable to. Not only was he unsure a single heaven existed, let alone seven, and was waiting for him, but he was also uncertain if he would be accepted in such a place. In any case, why would the gods reward a failure like him? Why would there be a place for a man who was supposed to save the world and couldn't even save his family? A husband who failed to save his wife and a father who failed to save his kids. People such as that belonged in the seven hells that the earth had descended into, not the heavens; thus, he suffered life because he deserved to experience it.

The great-scaly creature roared a terrifying roar, ripping Aemon from his thoughts. His roar, a primal scream that echoed through the ruins of Valyria, sent shivers down the spines of even the bravest souls. It was a sound that spoke of ancient fury, a reminder of a time when dragons ruled the world and all feared their wrath. The air seemed to tremble with the force of his voice, and those who heard it could not help but quiver in its presence.

Rhaegal, the emerald-bronze dragon, soared through the smoky skies with wide wings, casting a vast shadow upon the ruins of Valyria below. His scales gleamed in the fading light, each one a mosaic of emerald and bronze, catching the dying moonlight in a dazzling display. Aemon had not seen the sun in years and thought it was a sign that, on this day, he would bear witness to the first moonlight during the second Long Night. With eyes like molten gold, he surveyed the desolation beneath him, a predator searching for prey amidst the wreckage of a fallen kingdom.

Rhaegal, the Emerald Death, they once called his dragon—the last of his brothers, the last of Daenerys' three dragons. The Night King, once he had returned once more, had taken Drogon to mount like he did Viserion. Drogon hated Aemon with a passion once Aemon had killed his rider. But the dragon knew the dead were far worse, sparing his life. The dragon somehow knew that the battle of the dead had not ended but was in reprieve. Once the dead had returned once more, Drogon came upon the horde of dead and set them ablaze with never-ending flames. Aemon recalled the battle in which Drogon was lost; the last battle in the living stood a chance.

In the depths of the darkest winter, when the world was shrouded in an eternal night, and the howling winds carried the icy breath of the Others, Rhaegal and Drogon, the last of their kind, soared above the frozen battlefield. Their scales, emerald-bronze, and obsidian-black, gleamed like beacons amidst the endless expanse of white. Their eyes, burning with ancient fury and defiance, scanned the horizon, searching for the horde of the Others that threatened to engulf the world in eternal frost.

The endless army of Others stretched out before them, a sea of pale, frozen faces and glittering blue eyes. The air frozen with the malevolent winds of their presence, and their footsteps echoed like the drumming of a funeral march. But Rhaegal and Drogon were not deterred. They were dragons, creatures of fire and blood, and in the face of the endless winter, they were the last hope of humanity.

With a thunderous roar, Rhaegal unleashed a torrent of searing flames upon the approaching horde. The fire danced and twisted, consuming the White Walkers in its embrace. The frozen creatures, once so confident in their invincibility, shrieked in agony as the flames licked at their icy skin, melting them into puddles of water and steam. The smell of burning flesh and charred bone filled the air, a testament to the dragons' wrath.

Drogon, the largest and most fearsome of the two, followed suit, his mighty wings beating the air with a deafening roar. His flames were hotter and more ferocious, a white-hot inferno that turned the very snow beneath him into molten rivers. The White Walkers, caught in the onslaught, were incinerated in moments, their bodies reduced to ash and smoke.

Amidst the chaos, Rhaegal and Drogon moved in perfect harmony, their movements fluid and graceful despite their massive size. They circled each other, creating a deadly dance of death and destruction. The White Walkers, once a formidable force, were now nothing more than a smoldering ruin in their wake.

But the battle was far from over. The Night King, with eyes as blue as the frozen sea, emerged from the midst of his dwindling army. He raised his arms, and a blizzard of ice and snow engulfed the dragons, attempting to smother their flames. But Rhaegal and Drogon were not so easily extinguished.

With a defiant roar, Rhaegal unleashed a blast of fire that cut through the storm, his flames burning brighter and hotter than ever before. Drogon followed suit, his flames merging with Rhaegal's in a dazzling display of power. The blizzard melted away, unable to withstand the sheer force of the dragons' fury.

Under the shadowy veil of night, as the stars flickered feebly above, the Night King's malevolent eyes fixed upon Drogon, the mighty black-scaled dragon. With a cruel twist of fate, he hurled a spear of ice, honed from the frigid depths of winter, with deadly accuracy. The icy projectile sailed through the air, finding its mark with chilling precision, embedding itself deep into Drogon's neck. A deafening roar of pain and fury shook the very heavens, reverberating through the snow-laden landscape.

Drogon writhed in agony, his enormous wings beating the air in futile desperation. His obsidian-black scales, once impenetrable, were stained crimson with his own blood. The dragon's eyes, once alive with fire, now flickered with a hollow, soulless blue as the Night King's magic seeped into his veins, twisting his very essence.

With a gesture as cold as death itself, the Night King raised his hand, commanding the fallen dragon to rise. Slowly, agonizingly, Drogon obeyed, his movements stiff and unnatural. The dragon, once a creature of freedom and majesty, was now a puppet, a slave to the Night King's will. His wings, which had once carried him to the heavens, were now bound in servitude, and his roar, once a cry of triumph, was now a mournful wail that echoed through the night, more like crackling ice and the screeches of a banshee rather than a proud dragon's roar.

Under the Night King's control, Drogon took to the skies once more, his undead form a terrifying sight to behold. His eyes glowed with an eerie, otherworldly light, and his breath, once a scorching torrent of fire, now exhaled a chilling mist that froze the very air it touched. The Night King rode upon his back, a figure of death and despair, his icy touch sapping the warmth from the world around him. From there, the war was over, and it was now merely a game to him; it took two dragons to defeat the Night King with an undead mount, and it would be twice as difficult now with a dragon bigger than an undead Viserion, but an undead Drogon was far harder to defeat.

Aemon, his thoughts heavy with the weight of the past, spurred Rhaegal onward, the emerald-bronze dragon stretching his powerful wings against the howling winds. Together, they ascended into the storm-laden skies. The world below vanished beneath a shroud of relentless white as if the very heavens wept in icy grief.

The blizzard that engulfed them was unlike any other, a tempest of such ferocity that even the once-fiery volcanoes of Valyria had succumbed to the biting cold. The mountains that had once spewed molten fury into the sky were now frozen sentinels, their peaks adorned with icy crowns. The very winds were cold with the frigid embrace of winter, and the world seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the storm to pass.

Rhaegal's emerald eyes glowed with an inner fire, a stark contrast to the desolation that surrounded them. His wings beat against the biting winds, carrying Aemon and himself through the heart of the blizzard. Aemon's fur-lined cloak whipped around him, its warmth a feeble barrier against the bone-chilling cold. Yet, he held on, his grip firm on Rhaegal's scales, his determination unwavering.

As they flew, Aemon's thoughts turned to the world they left behind. Valyria, the land of legends and forgotten mysteries, now lay buried beneath layers of snow and ice. The once-great cities, home to dragons and sorcerers, were nothing more than distant memories swallowed by the unforgiving embrace of winter.

The storm raged on, its fury unyielding, yet Aemon felt a strange sense of calm amidst the chaos. Perhaps it was the knowledge that he was not alone, that he had Rhaegal, the last of the great dragons, as his companion in this frozen wasteland. Or perhaps it was the realization that, even in the face of such overwhelming darkness, there was a flicker of hope, a glimmer of warmth that refused to be extinguished.

In the heart of the blizzard, Aemon's eyes narrowed with grim determination. He understood the Night King's strategy all too well. Valyria, the birthplace of dragons, the land where fire and magic once reigned supreme, was now threatened by the encroaching chill of the endless winter. The Night King sought to extinguish the very essence of what made Valyria legendary, turning its fiery heart into an icy tomb. It was a conquest that went beyond mere territory, the final nail in the frozen coffin of the world.

With each beat of Rhaegal's wings, Aemon's resolve hardened. He knew the importance of their mission. As the last living beings with ties to the ancient Valyrian magic, their demise would mark the end of an era. The Smoking Sea, once a cauldron of fire and smoke, would fully freeze over, its depths becoming a lifeless expanse of ice. The world, stripped of its mystical essence, would succumb to the Night King's icy grasp, a realm devoid of the warmth that had once sustained life.

But Aemon refused to let that happen. Even if he was no longer a man of the Night's Watch, he was the Sword in the Darkness, the Shield that Guards the Realms of Men. He was the last of the Night's Watch, the defender of the living against the encroaching darkness. And Rhaegal, the last dragon, was his ally in this battle against the cold. With every breath, they defied the Night King's advance, pushing deeper into the heart of Valyria, where the Night King awaited, his icy tendrils stretching towards the ancient source of power.

As they neared the center of Valyria, the land of fire-made flesh now swallowed by the relentless winter, Jon's grip tightened on Rhaegal's scales. His eyes met the dragon's molten gaze, a silent understanding passing between them. They were the last defenders of the realm, the guardians of a dying legacy. They would face the Night King together, their courage a flickering flame against the vast, engulfing darkness.

The winds howled around them as they approached the epicenter of Valyria, where the Night King lay in wait. Aemon unsheathed his sword, Longclaw, its steel glinting dimly in the fading light. Rhaegal roared a defiant cry that echoed through the frozen wasteland. They were ready to confront the Night King, to stand against the endless winter and protect the world from being consumed by the cold.

As Aemon and Rhaegal approached the center of Valyria, they beheld a sight that chilled them to the bone. An endless army of White Walkers and undead stretched across the frozen seas, their lifeless eyes gleaming with an unnatural blue light. The sea of corpses seemed unending, a relentless tide that marched tirelessly toward the heart of Valyria. The ground trembled beneath the weight of their footsteps, echoing the ominous beat of a funeral march.

The closer they ventured towards the center, the harsher the snow blew, as if nature itself rebelled against the encroaching dragon. The winds howled with an eerie melody, carrying with them the whispers of the fallen and the cries of the damned. The air grew thick with an icy chill, cutting through Aemon's cloak and biting at his skin.

Aemon's eyes, once steely and resolute, now reflected a mixture of determination and dread. The magnitude of the threat before him was overwhelming. The Night King's army was a force of unyielding death, an embodiment of the endless winter that threatened to consume the world. The odds seemed insurmountable, and yet Aemon knew he could not falter. He was the realm's last hope, the beacon of light in a world submerged in darkness.

Rhaegal's powerful wings beat against the storm, carrying them forward into the heart of the approaching horde. The dragon's eyes blazed with an inner fire, mirroring Jon's determination. With a silent understanding between them, they prepared for the battle ahead. Jon gripped his sword, Longclaw, hard harder as the dark rippled Valyrian steel shimmering in the pale light. He steeled himself, drawing upon the courage of generations long past, the legacy of the Starks and Targaryens, and the bravery of the Night's Watch. Jon Snow's voice, raw with determination and fury, pierced the air as he screamed.

"Dracarys!"

The ancient Valyrian command sent a shiver down the spine of Rhaegal, the emerald-bronze dragon, who responded with a deafening roar. With a mighty beat of his wings, Rhaegal ascended into the sky, his scales glinting in the pale light before he unleashed a torrent of green and bronze flames upon the unending hordes of the undead.

The emerald inferno erupted from Rhaegal's maw, a searing cascade of fire that consumed everything in its path. The flames roared with a ferocity that matched the dragon's wrath, casting a brilliant light amidst the encroaching darkness. The army of the dead, once a relentless force, now found itself engulfed in a cataclysm of dragonfire.

Rhaegal circled above the battlefield, his eyes ablaze with primal power. With each pass, he sent waves of fire crashing into the endless ranks of White Walkers and undead, turning them into pillars of ash and smoke. The air was thick with the acrid scent of burning flesh and bone, and the ground trembled beneath the force of Rhaegal's onslaught.

The emerald-bronze dragon moved with unmatched grace and precision, his flames carving a path of destruction through the sea of the undead. His roars echoed across the battlefield, drowning out the screams of the dying and instilling fear into the hearts of those who still stood. Rhaegal's wings beat rhythmically, carrying him effortlessly through the night, his movements a deadly dance of fire and death.

The hordes of the undead, no matter how vast, were no match for the fury of Rhaegal's flames. The dragon's fire engulfed them, turning them into charred remnants of their former selves. The endless ranks that had once seemed unstoppable now withered and fell before the might of the last living dragon.

The emerald and bronze flames erupted from the skies, casting a brilliant spectacle against the inky darkness of the blizzard as the storms consumed the moon once more. They cascaded like a celestial waterfall, a mesmerizing torrent of fire and fury, their radiance a stark contrast to the unending cold that had gripped the world. The embers of Rhaegal's flames danced with an eerie, ethereal beauty, their green and bronze hues painting a portrait of destruction and defiance.

As the dragonfire descended upon the endless hordes of the undead, it created a tapestry of searing death. The flames engulfed the Others and their minions, reducing them to twisted, charred figures that disintegrated into ash. The screams of the dying and the crackling of the fire echoed through the night, a symphony of chaos and vengeance.

Amidst the flames and the chaos, the Night King emerged from the depths of the snowstorm. His malevolent presence, a dark figure clad in icy armor, seemed to materialize from the very heart of the blizzard. Atop an undead Drogon, he exuded an aura of dread and power, a harbinger of death and despair.

The two dragons, Rhaegal and Drogon, roared in unison, their voices echoing through the frozen skies. With a deafening roar, the two dragons charged toward each other, their enormous forms colliding in a titanic clash. The sky became a battleground, their massive wings casting aside the storm clouds as they grappled in a deadly dance. Their roars reverberated through the night, a primal symphony of power and determination.

The battle in the skies was a spectacle of elemental forces, a contest of fire and ice, life and death. The dragons clashed with a ferocity that shook the very heavens, their flames and frost entwined in a deadly embrace. Each pass, each attack, was a testament to the indomitable will of both sides, a battle that would shape the destiny of the world.

As the dragons circled each other in the frigid air, their riders, Aemon Targaryen and the Night King, locked eyes in a silent challenge. It was a moment of destiny, a confrontation between the champions of light and darkness, a battle that would decide the ultimate fate of the realm.

The clash of dragons reached a fevered pitch as blue flames erupted from the undead Drogon's gaping maw, casting an eerie azure glow across the snow-laden battlefield. The Night King's dragonfire crackled with an unnatural cold, an icy blaze that contrasted sharply against the emerald and bronze flames of Rhaegal. The two dragons roared in defiance, their roars echoing through the frozen air.

Rhaegal responded with a blast of his own green flames, the embers roaring forth with a fierce intensity. The emerald and bronze fire clashed with the Night King's frigid blue flames, creating a dazzling display of elemental power. The sky became a canvas of contrasting hues, a tumultuous symphony of fire and ice.

Amidst the clash of flames, the dragons locked eyes, their primal instincts driving them into a deadly grapple. With powerful beats of their wings, they soared towards each other, their claws outstretched like talons of death. The impact was thunderous as they collided mid-air, the force of their collision almost knocking Aemon off his mount. The two masses of dragons slammed into one another with enough force to collapse the Wall itself.

Their claws hooked onto one another, and they spiraled in a deadly dance, scales grinding against scales in a cacophony of fury. Rhaegal's burnt golden eyes blazed with determination, and Drogon's lifeless blue gaze glowed with an unholy malevolence. Their jaws snapped open and shut, attempting to rip at each other's necks with razor-sharp teeth.

The clash was primal and savage, a battle of titans locked in mortal combat. Each dragon fought with an indomitable will, their bodies twisting and contorting in the air as they grappled for supremacy. The clash of their jaws sent sparks flying, and the smell of burning flesh and singed scales permeated the air.

In the midst of their deadly grapple, Drogon's jaws clamped down on Rhaegal's shoulder, his teeth sinking into the emerald-bronze scales. The force of the bite sent shockwaves of pain through Rhaegal's body, eliciting a deep, primal roar of anguish. Rhaegal roared in agony. His roar was almost a defeated whimper, but his anger would not allow him to make such a pathetic sound. He roared thrice as loud as ever before. In retaliation, Rhaegal twisted his neck and sank his own teeth into Drogon's flesh. At the same time, he unleashed a torrent of his green and bronze flames directly into Drogon's wound, the searing heat intertwining with the cold of the Night King's creature.

The flames mingled within Drogon's wound, going into the almost hollow body of the dragon. For a moment, the undead dragon faltered, his grip loosening as the intense pain and heat surged through his body. Yet, Drogon's undead nature proved resilient. His eyes, once blue and lifeless, remained unfazed, devoid of pain or fear. He let go of Rhaegal, his jaws snapping back, and though the wound smoked with the dragonfire, it showed no sign of slowing him down.

"Sōvegon, Rhaegal! Jikagon eglikta! Eglikta!" 'Fly Rhaegal! Go higher! Higher!' Aemon roared to his mount in High Valryian, his accent far too Northern than was customary.

The emerald-bronze dragon obeyed, beating his powerful wings with renewed determination. They ascended swiftly, leaving the battlefield below and the Night King's icy gaze far behind. As they soared higher, the blizzard raged below them, obscuring their path from the Night King's view.

Jon's heart hammered in his chest as they climbed higher into the stormy heavens. He knew they needed the advantage of surprise if they were to stand a chance against the Night King and his formidable undead army. With each beat of Rhaegal's wings, they ascended further until the howling winds and the biting cold masked their presence from the eyes of their enemies. The winds ripped past Aemon's face as the roar of air stopped all other sounds, and the icy snowflakes flew past his face like small spears.

Higher and higher, they climbed until Rhaegal's wings carried them past the storm clouds that churned below. Higher still, they rose higher than any dragon dared to rise before. The roiling tempest, once an impenetrable barrier, now seemed like a distant memory as they soared into the pristine tranquility above. The vast expanse of space unfolded before them, revealing the twinkling stars that adorned the cosmos like scattered diamonds. Galaxies stretched out in infinite spirals, their colors painting the void with hues of ethereal beauty.

The full moon hung in the celestial tapestry, its silvery light casting a gentle glow upon the world below. Its radiance reflected off the emerald-bronze scales of Rhaegal, illuminating the dragon and his rider in a surreal, otherworldly light. It was a moment of surreal peace amidst the chaos of battle, a fleeting respite where time seemed to stand still.

Aemon, perched upon Rhaegal's back, took a moment to appreciate the serene beauty that surrounded them. The quietude of the cosmos enveloped them, and the calmness of the night washed over him like a soothing balm. He marveled at the vastness of the universe, the countless stars and galaxies that stretched out into infinity.

In the hushed stillness of the high heavens, Aemon found solace. He gazed at the stars, contemplating the mysteries of the universe and the enigma of life. His fingers brushed Rhaegal's scales, feeling the warmth beneath the emerald-bronze exterior. The dragon's presence was a comfort, a reminder that amidst the chaos, there was still a bond, a connection between man and beast.

It was a moment of reflection, a pause in the midst of the storm. The calm before the battle that awaited them. Aemon closed his eyes, letting the silence of the cosmos envelop him. He drew a deep breath, inhaling the crisp, cold air of the high skies. In that moment, he felt a strange sense of clarity, a determination that steeled his resolve.

Aemon, his knowledge of dragon-riding gleaned from the ancient Valyrian texts, understood the fundamental principles that governed these magnificent creatures. As he clung to Rhaegal's back high above the storm clouds, he knew that to defeat the undead Drogon, they needed speed and agility.

A dragon's flight was governed by this unyielding principle. To gain altitude and soar high above the battlefield, the dragon must sacrifice its speed. The massive wings, each beat a testament to the power of ancient Valyrian blood, could lift the dragon to great heights, offering a vantage point to survey the battlefield and strategize. In the silence of the high skies, a dragon and its rider could survey the vast expanse below, identifying threats and opportunities alike.

Conversely, to gain speed, a dragon must descend, using the force of gravity to propel itself forward. The dragon's sheer size and weight became an advantage in these moments, allowing it to hurtle through the air with breathtaking velocity. It was a maneuver that required precision and timing, a dance of gravity and power, as the dragon dived towards the earth, the wind roaring past its scales.

Understanding this delicate interplay of height and speed was crucial in battle. Aemon had honed his skills, learning when to ascend for a strategic advantage and when to descend for a swift attack. His command over Rhaegal was more than just a bond; it was a partnership built on knowledge and trust to kill death itself and bring fire and blood to winter.

With a firm grip on Rhaegal's scales, Jon leaned forward, his voice cutting through the silence of the cosmos. "Ropagon, Rhaegal!" Aemon ordered. His words were carried away by the wind. Rhaegal, sensing his rider's determination, obeyed without hesitation.

The emerald-bronze dragon responded with a powerful beat of his wings, tucking them close to his body as he began his descent, and he spun in the air to face the clouds beneath them. The rush of wind filled Aemon's ears as they plummeted downward, using gravity to their advantage. The world blurred around them, the twinkling stars and galaxies becoming streaks of light as they hurtled toward the earth below.

As they dove, Rhaegal's massive form became a streamlined arrow, his scales cutting through the air with increasing velocity. A green comment was striking down from the heavens. Their height and Rhaegal's size make every passage of seconds thrice as fast in speed as before. The descent allowed them to gain incredible speed, a vital advantage in their battle against the undead Drogon. Sacrificing height for speed, they became a force of nature, an unstoppable juggernaut hurtling towards their target.

Aemon could feel the rush of the wind, the pressure against his face, and the sheer power of the dive. He tightened his grip on Rhaegal's scales, his eyes fixed on the distant battlefield far below. The Night King's undead dragon was their prey, and they would use their speed and momentum to strike him down.

With a fierce determination, Rhaegal shot down from the ground towards the undead Drogon, his wings tucked close to his body. Drogon, aware of the incoming threat, unleashed a continuous stream of blue flames, a torrent of icy fire that lashed out towards the descending dragon. The searing flames struck Rhaegal, enveloping him in a curtain of blue and white, but the emerald-bronze dragon pressed on, his roar echoing through the battlefield despite the onslaught. The fires did not slow down the dragon faster than lightning.

Undeterred by the ferocity of the flames, Rhaegal bore down upon Drogon with unyielding resolve. With a thunderous impact, he slammed into the undead dragon, his powerful jaws closing around Drogon's neck. With a savage twist of his head, Rhaegal tore Drogon's head from its body, severing the connection between the Night King and his fearsome mount. Rhaegal let out a loud whimper as the killing blow to his brother left him vulnerable to Drogon's talons to spear through his chest. Even if Rhaegal were to survive the talons, he would not be able to survive the fall from this height.

The force of the collision sent Aemon hurtling through the air; his body was propelled off Rhaegal's back. Time seemed to slow as he flew, the world a blur of chaos and motion. His eyes locked onto the Night King, perched atop Drogon, a malevolent smirk playing on his lips.

Just as planned, Aemon's body arced through the freezing air, his sword, Longclaw, gleaming in the moonlight. With a fierce battle cry, he brought his weapon down upon the Night King, aiming for the heart. The Night King's eyes widened in surprise as he attempted to raise his icy blade in defense.

The clash of steel rang out as Longclaw met the Night King's weapon, a shower of sparks illuminating the night. Aemon's strength and determination surged through him, the weight of the world behind his strike over-head strike. The Night King fought back with supernatural speed and strength, their blades clashing in a deadly echo as the Night King's weapon came to his defense. The force of the two collided, sending both to topple over the beheaded Drogon, falling down to the ground hundreds of feet below.

In the heart of the chaos, Aemon and the Night King were wrenched from their mounts as the dragons collided, their weapons spiraling away into the abyss of the stormy skies. They grappled one another, two adversaries bound by destiny, falling hundreds of feet through the air.

Their bodies slammed into one another with bone-jarring force, the impact reverberating through them. Yet, neither yielded. They grappled and clawed, their battle an intricate dance of death and defiance. The sky became their arena, and the stars and galaxies were mere spectators of the clash of titans.

Their bodies twisted and contorted as they struggled, locked in a deadly embrace amidst the tempestuous winds. The Night King's eyes blazed with icy fury, his grip vice-like, while Jon fought back with every ounce of strength he possessed. The battle for the fate of the world continued, even as they plummeted toward the unforgiving earth below.

The wind roared in their ears, drowning out all other sounds. The world around them became a blur of snow, ice, and clouds. They were suspended between heaven and earth, their struggle a desperate fight for survival and supremacy. Each movement, each twist and turn, was a testament to their determination and willpower.

With a primal roar, Aemon managed to gain the upper hand for a moment, breaking free from the Night King's grip. He seized the opportunity, delivering powerful blows in rapid succession, aiming for the Night King's vulnerable points. The Night King, however, was not easily defeated. With a surge of supernatural strength, he retaliated, countering Aemon's attacks with calculated precision. The struggle continued, their bodies locked in a deadly ballet.

With the bitter winds of the high skies whipping around them, Aemon found himself overpowered, the Night King flipping him over so that he would fall first. Yet, in the face of certain death, Aemon's eyes glinted with a solemn acceptance. A sad smile curved his lips as he looked into the Night King's icy gaze.

"Killing you was the point," Aemon said, his voice carrying a weight of inevitability. "But living, living was a luxury." His fingers tightened around the hilt of the Catspaw dagger, the same weapon that had once been used in an attempt to assassinate Bran all those years ago.

With a sense of purpose that burned like wildfire, Jon whispered the words of the red priests, their ancient prayer of fire. The dagger responded to his incantation, its blade igniting with a bright green bronze flame, the fires of his dragon Rhaegal. The flames danced with a life of their own, casting an eerie glow across Jon's face, reflecting the fierce determination in his eyes.

In that moment, Jon Snow became a vessel of fire and fury, a beacon of hope amidst the encroaching darkness. The green bronze flames of his dragon, Rhaegal, found their manifestation in the blade of the dagger, a symbol of the bond between dragon and rider, life and death, light and shadow.

"Night gathers..." Jon began as the Night King tried to fight back the dagger, but the winds were pushing his arms back, making it easier for Aemon to push the dagger toward the heart of the Night King. "...and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch for this night and all the nights to come."

As the flames illuminated the freezing abyss of the skies, Jon drove the dagger toward the Night King with a force that defied his mortal limits. The blade struck true, piercing through the Night King's icy armor and into his heart. A shockwave of power reverberated through the air, a primal scream that echoed across the heavens. The screech of then thousand banshees and the sounds of glaciers cracking with icy winds.

The Night King's eyes widened in disbelief, his grip on Jon weakening. With a final surge of strength, Jon twisted the dagger, channeling the essence of Rhaegal's flame into the Night King's very soul. The Night King convulsed, his body consumed by the green bronze fire, his once-immortal form succumbing to the power of the living.

At that moment, the Night King's malevolent presence shattered like glass, his icy visage melting away into nothingness. Jon Snow and the Night King fell together, their fates intertwined until the very end. As they plummeted through the skies, Jon held onto the dagger, his grip unyielding, his spirit unbroken.

As the Night King met his end, his malevolent grip on the hordes of the undead was shattered. In the aftermath of his defeat, a powerful wave of energy rippled through the battlefield. The ground trembled, and the very air seemed to crackle with magic. All around, the Others and the undead, once formidable and relentless, began to crumble.

Their frozen forms disintegrated into dust, the essence that had bound them to the Night King dissipating into the wind. The night was filled with the sound of shattering ice and the echoes of the fallen as the countless undead creatures collapsed, their existence erased from the realm of the living.

The Night King's hold on his army was broken, and in their defeat, the hordes of the dead were no more. The battlefield, once a scene of chaos and terror, now lay silent, save for the howling winds and the whispers of the departing spirits.

He looked to Rhaegal, his dragon watching him in turn. While his dragon did not speak, it was cunning; it knew what was to happen. They would die here. They would fall to their deaths. How ironic that dragons would die from a fall. But they accepted this. Aemon welcomed this death, for maybe they could see their precious ones once more. The living had won, but no soul was left to celebrate.

"And now, my watch has ended," Aemon said. Aemon closed his eyes before he slammed into the ground.

Aemon once heard right before death that one sees one's life over again. And this he can claim to be true. For at first, he saw Lyanna Stark caressing her freshly born son, the sheets too bloodied for an ordinary birth. Tears on her face, her breath haggard and shallow, she was going to die. Uncle Eddard, no older than he was when he took charge of the Wall, rushed into the room, sword drawn as he saw his sister dying. Making the promise to protect her Aemon Targaryen, whom he would name his bastard Jon Snow.

He saw memories of his brothers and sisters, cousins in truth, as they played. He watched the times he beat Rob, but Lady Stark's stern face and icy blue eyes would be quickly reminded that harsh punishments would be his reward for upstaging the trueborn son. He recalled how he loved his brother and envied him more than anything else.

He recalled going to the Wall for the first time and making the vows. He recalled hearing of his father's death and Rob's own. He recalled spending time with the Freefolk. He recalled falling for Ygritte. He recalled becoming Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. He recalled being killed for saving the Freefolk and aiding them south of the Wall. He recalled being brought back once more. He recalled fighting the Boltons and reclaiming Winterfell. He recalled bowing to Daenerys Targaryen for her dragons to win the Long Night. He recalled fighting the Night King, but his hordes of undead pushed him away when Aemon had the chance to end the fight. He recalled Arya killing the Night King for the first time.

Going down to King's Landing. Daenerys became the Mad Queen as she burned the city to the ground. Killing her. Being thrown in jail. Greyworm wanted Jon to join the Night's Watch, leaving the land once more. Sansa was arguing against it. The North rose for him. With them came the Vale due to Sansa's support and Rob Arryn being bound by blood to support his cousin. The Riverlands joined, as well as Edmur Tully, to support his niece. The Crownlands, led by the Velaryons, support Aemon, for they wanted a dragon on the throne once more, and a dragon willing to sully his honor for the good of the realm was more than honorable in their eyes, especially after the Mad King.

Willas Tyrell, with the same blunt tact as his late grandmother, offered the support of Highgarden and the Reach. Bluntly setting a royal marriage as the price. Claiming Margery, the only survivor of the Great Burn, as the explosion of wildfire in the Sept of Balor was being called, was still a maiden for Renly was a sword sallower, Joffery had other distractions, and Tommen was too young.

The Reach still had over one hundred thousand men to fight, and the Tyrells did not support Daenerys because for one reason or another; with their armies and being the richest family in the seven kingdoms after the fall of the Lannisters, Aemon needed their support if he was to rule after the battle of King's Landing. Similar to how Robert Baratheon was forced to do with Cersei Lannister to help keep the kingdoms in line.

The Martells threatened to leave the seven kingdoms if they were not given a queen. To them, he was a bastard; even if his parents had married, they would never have recognized that Rhaegar annulled his marriage to Elia to marry his mother, Lyanna. Aemon knew that the Dornish survived multiple wars from his family even when they had more dragons than just his one, and knew he would be hard-pressed to take them back to the fold if they rebelled, especially since all the Westeroii forces were far too little to amount to anything.

Sansa, thinking quickly on his behalf, said that Aegon the Dragon had two wives, and so could Aemon. Both parties, looking at one another, agreed, with hesitation, that Reach and Dorne, not liking each other very much due to bad blood, supported Aemon. Tyrion agreed, as well as the new Warden of the West. All the Seven Kingdoms told Greyworm that if he wished for the death of Aemon or his banishment, it was their wrath they would feel.

He remembered the first time he met his late wife, Margery Tyrell, his betrothed at the time. Aemon stood in the gardens of the Red Keep; he never spent time in the gardens and wanted to see them for himself. He had been the King of the seven Kingdoms, several of the free cities, and the Bay of Dragons for a year already, nothing but work plaguing his time.

Margery Tyrell stood amidst the blooming gardens of the Red Keep, her presence exuding grace and warmth. His brown hair cascaded down her back. Her light green gown, with golden stitches, was just low enough on her breasts to accentuate them. She had heard that the King had spent little time with women after his wildling lover, especially since he was a member of the Night's Watch, and no noblewoman in their right mind would spend time with a bastard; she wore the dress to help make sure his eyes were on her breasts.

Her golden-brown locks cascaded down in soft waves, framing a face that could launch a thousand ships. The sunlight filtered through the intricate latticework of her delicate crown, casting a warm, golden glow upon her flawless skin.

Margery's sky-blue eyes sparkled with a mix of intelligence and charm, reflecting the world around her. They were eyes that held secrets and dreams, eyes that could enchant even the most stoic hearts. Her lips painted a subtle shade of rose, curved into a smile that could melt the iciest of souls. With every movement, she exuded grace and poise, her every gesture imbued with confidence and a hint of mischief.

Draped in sumptuous fabrics that seemed to have been spun from moonlight and stardust, Margery's gown clung to her slender figure in all the right places, accentuating her curves and enhancing her allure. Intricate embroidery adorned the fabric, depicting delicate roses in full bloom, a subtle nod to her noble lineage. The gown flowed gracefully as she moved, trailing behind her like a river of silk.

Her eyes sparkled with a playful charm as she looked at the newly crowned King of Westeros, Aemon, who appeared somewhat out of place in the elegant surroundings. He wore blackened clothes, nothing expensive; they looked sickeningly similar to the blackened jerkins of the Night's Watch.

Aemon, his dark gray eyes a blend of uncertainty and awkwardness, shifted uncomfortably under Margery's gaze. He attempted to find the right words, but they seemed to elude him. Clearing his throat, he managed a hesitant smile. "Lady Margery, it's an honor to meet you," he said, his voice tinged with a hint of formality.

Margery, ever perceptive, sensed Jon's unease and decided to put him at ease. "The honor is mine, Your Grace," she replied, her voice melodic and calming. "I must admit, I've heard many tales of your bravery and courage during the Long Night. They say you faced the Night King himself. A true hero of our time."

Aemon shifted his weight from one foot to the other, a gesture that revealed his discomfort. He was unused to courting; Ygritte had just told him she was his due to him stealing her when he had kidnapped her when they first met across the Wall; she was blunt and straightforward; subtlety was not her strength, and she claimed him quickly. It did not help that he had not spent time with his betrothed, Margery, or Arianne. "I... I only did what I had to do," he said, his humility evident. "We all fought together, and it was the unity of the realm that prevailed."

Margery smiled, her eyes softening with genuine admiration. "Modesty is a rare trait in a king," she said. "It speaks volumes of your character."

As they strolled through the gardens, Aemon's eyes fell upon a bust of Winter Roses, their delicate petals frozen, blue as the deep frozen oceans. He couldn't help but be drawn to the sculpture near them, a woman with a crown of roses, his gaze lingering on the intricate details.

Margery noticed his fascination and, following his gaze, spoke softly, her words carrying a touch of melancholy. "Winter Roses, the flowers of Winterfell. They're quite beautiful; this is the first time I have lain my eyes on them. A symbol of love and devotion."

"In Winterfell, I used to tend to the Winter Roses, far before I knew what they meant to my family, as a Stark or a Targaryen." Aemon nodded, his voice barely a whisper. "My parents... my mother loved Winter Roses. My father, Rhaegar, gave them to her."

Margery's eyes softened with understanding. "A love story for the ages," she said, her voice gentle. "It's said that Winter Roses are a reminder of the enduring bond between Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, your parents."

Aemon glanced at Margery, his eyes reflecting a mix of sorrow and pride. "Yes, a bond that changed the fate of the realm," he said, his tone tinged with a sense of reverence. "Love is the death of duty, Maester Aemon told me that. It would seem the case with my parents."

Margery reached out, her hand resting lightly on Jon's arm, offering him comfort in her touch. "Love stories like theirs are rare, Your Grace. It's a testament to the power of love, even in the face of challenges."

For the first time, Jon felt a sense of ease in Margery's presence. Her words resonated with him, and he found himself opening up, his stiff demeanor softening. "Thank you, Lady Margery," he said, his voice genuine. "Your words bring comfort."

Margery smiled, her kindness illuminating her features. "We all carry stories in our hearts, Your Grace," she said. "It's what makes us who we are."

When meeting Arianne, she had snuck into his chamber and somehow passed Aemon's guards; he had yet to establish King's guard since all had perished, and the ones before his reign were proven to be bought out by other lords and ladies.

Aemon stood in his bed-chamber, the dim candlelight casting flickering shadows across the walls. His mind was clouded with confusion and concern as he beheld Arianne Martell, his betrothed, who had seemingly appeared out of thin air past his guards and into the privacy of his chambers.

Arianne Martell, a vision of unmatched allure in the realm of Westeros, stood before him, a look of boarding anger on her face. Her presence commanded attention, her beauty the stuff of legends. Arianne possessed the kind of striking allure that could ensnare even the most indifferent hearts.

Arianne was short and gracefully built, her figure sculpted to perfection, accentuated by her gown that clung to her curves like a second skin. Her skin was bronzed, kissed by the sun of Dorne, smooth as silk, and adorned with a smattering of sun-kissed freckles across her nose and cheeks. Her eyes, a shade of deep, dark hazel, sparkled with intelligence and mischief, framed by long, thick lashes that brushed against her skin whenever she blinked.

Her lips, full and sensuous, carried a natural, inviting smile that hinted at secrets and promises whispered under moonlit Dornish nights. Arianne's hair, a cascading waterfall of glossy black curls, tumbled down her back, often adorned with jewels and flowers, enhancing her captivating charm. When she moved, her hair swayed like silk in the breeze, adding an ethereal quality to her already mesmerizing presence.

Arianne's dress, chosen deliberately to capture attention, was a masterpiece of craftsmanship and bold design. The fabric, a rich, deep crimson, clung to her body, leaving little to the imagination. The neckline plunged daringly, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of her ample bosom, while the slit along the side of the dress rose scandalously high, showcasing her long, toned legs with each graceful step she took. The gown was adorned with intricate embroidery, glistening with gold and silver threads, accentuating her curves and adding a touch of regal elegance to the daring ensemble.

His brow furrowed, Aemon regarded her with a mixture of surprise and wariness. "Lady Arianne, how did you get in here? My guards should have never allowed this."

"In Dorne, we Martells are a principality. I am Princess Arianne, your grace, not Lady," she returned flatly.

"Princess Arianne, forgive me. I spent only a year of my life south of the Neck; I do not know as much about Dorne as I would like," he admitted truly. Arianne had heard the King, an honest man, and from what she saw, he could not lie to save his life; his words now were as true as one's words could be.

Arianne, her eyes ablaze with frustration, crossed her arms, her tone carrying a sharp edge. "Your guards proved to be rather accommodating, I must say," she replied, her voice cool and composed despite her evident displeasure. "I've waited nearly a year for this meeting, Your Grace. A betrothal is not a trivial matter to be ignored, and I demand the respect and attention that it deserves."

Aemon sighed, a heavy weight settling on his shoulders. "I apologize if it seemed that I was avoiding you, Lady Arianne," he said, his voice tinged with regret. "The realm has been in turmoil, and my responsibilities as king have kept me occupied."

Arianne's eyes narrowed, her frustration evident. "Responsibilities, yes. But surely a king can find a moment to meet his intended bride? I have traveled a great distance to be here, and I deserve more than an apology and an excuse."

Aemon ran a hand through his dark hair, his expression troubled. "You're right, Princess Arianne. I should have made time to meet you sooner. It was never my intention to make you feel neglected."

Arianne's demeanor softened slightly, her eyes searching his face for sincerity. "I need more than words, Your Grace," she said, her voice gentler now. "I need to know that you are committed to this union, that our marriage will not be a mere formality."

Aemon met her gaze, his eyes earnest. "I am committed to our marriage, Princess Arianne," he said, his voice steady. "I may be inexperienced in matters of the heart, but I understand the gravity of our union. I will do my best to honor our betrothal and the vows we will take."

Arianne studied him for a moment, her gaze assessing. Finally, she nodded, her expression softening. "Very well, Your Grace. I will hold you to your word. But know that I am not a woman to be ignored or taken lightly. Our union will be a partnership of equals, and I expect to be treated with the respect and consideration that I deserve."

Aemon nodded, his determination clear in his eyes. "You have my word. I will do everything in my power to be the husband you deserve. I will need help since I do not know much of Dornish customs."

Arianne Martell's eyes glimmered with a seductive allure as she moved closer to Aemon. She allowed her voice to lower, her words taking on a sultry tone. "Your Grace, perhaps there are some things about Dorne that I could teach you," she purred, her fingers tracing a tantalizing pattern along his arm. "Our ways are... different from those in the North."

Aemon felt the heat of her presence, her proximity sending a shiver down his spine. He was aware of her feminine wiles, the way she seemed to weave a web of desire around him. Yet, he remained steadfast, his honor and integrity keeping him rooted in place.

"Arianne, I cannot," Aemon said firmly, gently but firmly removing her hand from his arm. "I am an honorable man, and I cannot engage in such actions before our marriage. I will not dishonor our betrothal in this way."

Arianne blinked, surprised. It was evident that she was not accustomed to being turned down, especially not by someone as alluring as Aemon. But instead of anger, a spark of something different flickered in her eyes – a newfound respect, perhaps, or a curiosity piqued by the challenge.

She took a step back, her gaze fixed on Jon's eyes. "You truly are something different, Aemon Targaryen. Perhaps the Night's Watch has whipped you into shape more fiercely than I thought," she said, her voice tinged with a mix of admiration and something else, something akin to intrigue. "It's a rare quality in a man. Most would have yielded to temptation without a second thought."

Aemon met her gaze, his expression unwavering. "I may be a king, but I am also a man of my word. I will not betray our vows before they are made."

Arianne smiled a slow, genuine smile that seemed to reveal a depth of character beyond her seductive facade. "I like a man who can resist," she admitted, her tone suggestive. "It seems I have found a worthy challenge in you, Jon Snow."

With that, she turned away, her walk a graceful sway of hips that seemed to echo her confidence. Aemon watched her go, his thoughts a whirlwind of emotions. He knew that Arianne Martell was not to be taken lightly, that her allure was as dangerous as it was captivating.

The final memory he saw was of years later, after he was married to the two women.

Aemon sat in front of the fireplace, Longclaw, his ancestral Valyrian steel sword, gleaming in his hands as he meticulously cleaned its blade. His eyes were fixed on the flickering flames, his thoughts lost in the depths of his own musings. The warmth of the fire did little to chase away the chill that seemed to permeate his very bones.

Unbeknownst to him, Margery Tyrell and Arianne Martell, his wives, approached him from behind, their footsteps barely making a sound on the soft rugs of the chamber. They exchanged mischievous glances, silently agreeing to tease their husband out of his brooding state.

Margery, with her usual grace, was the first to speak, her voice light and teasing. "Ah, the King of the Seven Kingdoms, deep in thought once again," she quipped, her hand gently resting on Aemon's shoulder. Margery, her eyes sparkling with amusem*nt, spoke first. "My love, are you brooding again?" she asked, her voice a playful melody. "I thought we agreed that there would be no more brooding after our marriage."

Aemon started at her touch, nearly dropping the sword, and turned to look at her with a mix of surprise and amusem*nt. "I do not brood," he protested, though a hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Arianne, equally playful, joined in, leaning in close to Jon on his other side. "He's right, Margery. Aemon doesn't brood. He...contemplates."

Aemon's smile grew, his eyes meeting Arianne's. "Contemplating is a noble pursuit," he replied, his voice filled with warmth.

Margery tilted her head and cast an appreciative gaze at her husband. "It's true, Aemon, you have a way of making even brooding look rather...dashing."

Arianne, her lips curving into a sly smile, chimed in, "Yes, but brooding is quite unbecoming for a king. Perhaps we should find a way to distract you from such dark thoughts."

Aemon looked up, his brows furrowing as he attempted to defend himself as he cleaned his blade. "I don't brood," he protested, his voice earnest. "I'm just... thinking."

Arianne moved to the other side, her touch just as gentle as she brushed a strand of hair away from Aemon's face. "Perhaps we can help you forget whatever troubles your mind," she suggested, her voice low and seductive.

Aemon cleared his throat, his cheeks flushing slightly under the combined scrutiny of his wives. "I appreciate your concern, but I don't need distractions," he said, his attempt at seriousness faltering under their teasing gazes.

Margery leaned in closer, her lips hovering near Aemon's ear. "Are you sure about that, Your Grace?" she whispered, her warm breath sending a shiver down his spine.

Arianne's fingers danced along Aemon's arm, her touch leaving a trail of heat in its wake. "We could make you forget all about your worries," she added, her voice a sultry invitation.

Aemon swallowed hard, his resolve weakening as he felt their proximity, their flirtatious energy enveloping him. "I... um, maybe a small distraction wouldn't hurt," he admitted, his voice betraying his uncertainty.

Margery and Arianne shared a triumphant glance before simultaneously pressing a soft kiss to either side of Jon's neck, their lips warm against his skin. Their laughter mingled with his surprised gasp, and in that moment, Jon found himself swept away by the playful affection of his wives.

The laughter of their children echoed through the chamber, and before Margery, Arianne, and Aemon could continue their playful banter, the door burst open, and their thirteen children tumbled into the room. The children bore a striking resemblance to their Valyrian heritage, with silvery-blonde hair and the legendary purple eyes of the Targaryens. Even if Aemon looked like his father and took after the Starks, Aemon was the only Valyrian-blooded person for miles, and his children had his Valyrian blood strong in their veins.

The sight of their offspring, so full of life and energy, brought smiles to their parents' faces. The children, ranging in age from the eldest to the youngest, raced around the room, their laughter a joyful cacophony that filled the air.

The room was a vibrant scene of family, love, and happiness. Baby dragons, the offspring of Rhaegal, circled above the children, their wings shimmering with different colors and intricate patterns. Each dragon was unique in appearance and personality, a testament to the bond between dragon and rider.

Aemon, his earlier brooding forgotten, watched with a sense of wonder as the children and dragons played together. His own dragon, Rhaegal, hovered protectively near the keep, a watchful guardian to the new generation of dragon riders as Aemon was often stuck inside the castle.

Margery grinned, her eyes twinkling with affection. "My, my, it seems our little ones are having quite the time," she said, her voice filled with amusem*nt.

Arianne's lips curved into a smile as she watched their children, her heart swelling with love. She wished to be angry at them; they had stopped her for the nightly return of taking her husband to bed, but one of the dragons popped by her head and flew back down to the children as they tried to catch one in a game of tag. "We told you not to let them free at this hour of the night," she added, her voice softening at the sight of the tiny creatures that flew around the room, their scales shimmering in a myriad of colors.

The eldest of their children, a tall and elegant girl, six years of age, with a crown of braided hair, stepped forward, her purple eyes almost dark enough to mirror Aemon's own. "Father, Mother, we were training with the dragons," she said, her voice bubbling with excitement. "They're getting stronger every day!"

Margery ruffled the girl's hair affectionately, her smile tender. "I'm sure you all did wonderfully, Alyssa," she said, her gaze sweeping over her children with maternal pride.

Arianne knelt down to the youngest of the brood, a curious little boy with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "And what were you doing with the dragons, Aenys?" she asked, her tone playful.

The boy grinned, his tiny hands gesturing animatedly. "I was playing catch with Ember, Mama! She's the fastest one!"

Aemon couldn't help but chuckle at his son's enthusiasm, his heart swelling with love for his family. "Well, it sounds like you had quite the adventure," he said, his eyes meeting those of his wives, gratitude and love shining in their depths.

Rhaegar, Jon's eldest son and heir, his eldest child with Arianne, now five years of age, approached his father with eager eyes, his youthful energy practically radiating. He tugged at Aemon's sleeve, his voice filled with anticipation. "Kepa, when can I ride my own dragon? Snowfyre is too big to fit in the castle."

Aemon smiled down at his son, his hand ruffling the boy's silvery hair. "One day, Rhaegar, you will," he said reassuringly. "But you need to be patient and learn how to care for them first. It's a big responsibility. They aren't just some horses you could ride; they are fire-made flesh, and they are far stronger and faster. You must understand before you ride them."

Rhaegar nodded, a determined expression on his young face. "I'll be the best dragon rider, just like you, Kepa."

Before Aemon could respond, his daughter Lyanna, the same age as Rhaegar and betrothed to him, his eldest daughter with Margery, chimed in with a pout. "Rhaegar promised we'd go on our first dragon ride together," she protested, her eyes narrowing in accusation.

Rhaegar turned to his betrothed, a sheepish smile on his face. "I did promise, didn't I?"

Lyanna's expression softened as she playfully nudged Rhaegar. "You did. And I've been waiting for it."

Aemon chuckled at their exchange, his affection for his children evident. "Well, it seems we'll need to plan a dragon ride for both of you soon," he said, his tone indulgent. "But you'll have to be patient a little longer."

Aemon would now rest; he would welcome the darkness and see his family once more. He just prayed to whatever god was listening that his family knew that the reason he took so long was to make sure their deaths weren't in vain. He prayed they could forgive him for taking so long.

In the mere seconds following his death, Aemon found himself in a state of bewildering confusion. It was not his first encounter with death; he had faced it bravely before, most notably at the hands of the Night's Watch, only to be resurrected by the mystical powers of Melisandre. However, this time, the experience was vastly different. He had welcomed death and prepared himself for its icy embrace, but what he was feeling now was unlike anything he had ever imagined.

As his consciousness slipped away, Aemon felt his body being consumed by an overwhelming darkness. It was as if he was being swallowed by an abyss, his senses numbed, and his awareness shrouded in an impenetrable void. He was aware of the absence of sensation, his body feeling weightless yet confined as if it was being forced into the fetal position against his will.

Desperation gripped him as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. He attempted to open his eyes, but they remained stubbornly shut as if glued together by some unseen force. Panic welled up within him, and he attempted to draw a breath, but his lungs refused to cooperate. He felt intense pressure, as if an invisible hand was crushing the air out of him, leaving him gasping for something that would not come.

Time lost its meaning in this disorienting void. Seconds stretched into eternity, and Jon's mind grappled with the paradox of existence and non-existence. Memories of his past life flashed before his eyes – the faces of the people he loved, the battles he had fought, the oaths he had sworn. Yet, these memories felt distant, as if they belonged to someone else, a person who no longer existed. It was as if he had only known of it from reading a book with all this knowledge, a book of extreme detail, but he had not experienced the book's event himself.

In the midst of his disorienting and suffocating ordeal, Aemon suddenly experienced a profound shift. The wetness enveloped him, and the cacophony of sounds filled his ears. He could discern the echoing cries, the chatter, and the soft murmurs that surrounded him. It was as if he was caught in a maelstrom of sensations and emotions, and the world outside seemed to be closing in on him, squeezing him from all sides.

The pressure intensified, and he felt himself being forcibly propelled through an unseen passage. In an instant, the oppressive darkness began to recede, giving way to a blinding, radiant light. The intensity of the light was almost unbearable, but amidst the brilliance, Aemon felt an inexplicable sense of peace and serenity. As his awareness expanded, he realized he was no longer trapped in the void; he was being born anew.

The sensation of movement enveloped him as he was propelled forward, emerging from the confines of his previous existence. With each passing moment, the light grew brighter, washing away the remnants of his past life and cleansing him of the darkness that had consumed him moments ago. He felt weightless and pure, unburdened by the complexities of the world he had known. As his eyes struggled to adjust to this newfound brilliance, Aemon's confusion gave way to awe as he saw several people running around a small room.

Amidst the newness of his existence, Aemon felt an overwhelming sense of confusion and bewilderment. His consciousness, once burdened with the memories of his past life, was now that of an innocent infant, unable to comprehend the complexities of the world around him, at least it should have been, but his thoughts were plagued with the life had just left. Was he not the last living person? Were these survivors of the Night King?

He was utterly perplexed. Why was he small? Why was he born once more? Why was he a baby, unable to articulate the questions swirling in his infant mind? The faces around him were unfamiliar, caring, yet unknown. He longed to voice his confusion, to ask why this rebirth had occurred, but all that escaped his tiny mouth were cries – cries that seemed to echo the depths of his confusion and fear.

The adults attending to the birth, seasoned and experienced, continued their work, their faces etched with a mix of concentration and tenderness. Oblivious to Jon's inner turmoil, they checked the newborn baby boy, ensuring his health and safety in those precious first moments of life.

As Aemon's cries filled the air, he felt a profound sense of vulnerability, a realization of his newfound dependence on others. The world, once familiar yet now utterly alien, seemed vast and overwhelming. He was left to grapple with the enigma of his existence in the only way he knew how – through the primal language of cries and tears.

Amidst the cries of the newborn baby, the maester proclaimed, "It's a boy," his voice echoing through the chamber. He carefully handed the baby to the mother, whose dark black locks framed her pale face and steel-grey eyes. She looked young, far too young to be a mother in Aemon's eyes. She was about the age Aemon was when he joined the Wall, and a woman that young birthing a child was more likely to perish due to the birth. The maester, a wise and experienced balding elder of a man, received a warm smile from the mother.

"Thank you, Grand Maester Allar," she said, her voice soft yet filled with gratitude.

As Aemon lay in his mother's arms, he tried to make sense of the world around him. His eyes, still adjusting to the light, scanned the chamber, taking in the intricate tapestries and ornate furnishings. He felt a strange familiarity with his surroundings, a knowing that he was in the Red Keep, but it had been destroyed. The Night King had ridden upon the undead Drogon and laid waste to all of King's Landing; the Red Keep was nothing but ruins.

Grand Maester Allar, a figure of authority and knowledge, approached the woman with a gentle smile. "Congratulations, Princess Lyanna. He's a healthy and strong boy," he said, his voice filled with genuine joy.

'Lyanna! Steel gray eyes like the storms in the North. Black hair in curls. Long Stark face. The woman was more beautiful than most. Lyanna Stark! I am being birthed by my birth mother once more!' he thought to himself.

Aemon's confusion deepened as he realized the inconsistencies in his surroundings. The familiarity he had felt with the Red Keep was shattered by the realization that he should not have been born here. His memories, now fragmented and muddled, clashed with the reality unfolding before him. He was born in the Tower of Joy.

As he lay in Lyanna Stark's arms, he struggled to make sense of the situation. She looked tired, sweaty, and haggard as she breathed with heavy breaths. 'But this can't be right,' he thought, his baby mind unable to articulate the words. He tried to recall the Tower of Joy, the whispers of the past, but the memories slipped away like sand through his fingers.

The name Grand Maester Allar echoed in his ears, but it did not align with the history he remembered. Pycelle was the Grand Maester during Aerys' rule, during the time of Aemon's birth. The pieces of the puzzle refused to fit together, leaving Aemon in a state of profound disorientation.

Lyanna looked down at Aemon, her newborn son, her eyes filled with a mixture of love and wonder. "He's beautiful," she whispered, her fingers gently brushing against Aemon's tiny cheek.

As he stared up at Lyanna's face, he saw a mix of emotions – love, concern, and unspoken sadness. He longed to ask her about the inconsistencies, to understand why his past and present seemed to be entwined in a confusing web of contradictions. But all he could do was gaze at her, his eyes searching for answers that remained out of reach. The woman was shriveled, sick, sweating, tired, and red in the face.

As a man with silver-blonde hair burst into the room, his Valyrian features immediately captured Aemon's attention. High cheekbones, ethereal beauty, and an aura of regality marked him unmistakably as a Targaryen. His body is tall, lean, and strong; he is a warrior, and his body and his movements are proof of it. He was handsome, clean-shaven, and had long hair partially pulled back. His eyes, a shade of deep violet, held a mixture of relief and satisfaction as he inquired, "Lyanna, are you alright?"

Lyanna, still cradling Aemon in her arms, managed a weak but reassuring smile. "I'm fine," she replied, her voice steady despite the ordeal of childbirth, "meet our son."

The Targaryen man's smile widened at the sight of the baby in Lyanna's arms. His eyes, so similar to Aemon's, softened with a mix of paternal pride and affection. Aemon observed the intricate black and red jerkin worn by the man, adorned with the colors of the Targaryen family – a sight that further solidified his realization that he was in the presence of a member of House Targaryen.

Aemon's tiny fingers clenched and unclenched, his infantile mind trying to process the significance of the moment. He didn't yet understand the implications of his parentage, but he could sense the gravity of the situation.

As the Targaryen man approached them, he reached out to gently touch Aemon's cheek. His touch, though unfamiliar, felt strangely comforting. Aemon stared up at him, his wide eyes reflecting the mystery of his own existence and the enigma of the world he had been born into.

Grand Maester Allar, with his quill poised above parchment, addressed Daemon Targaryen, his voice respectful yet inquisitive. "And what shall be the name of your new son, Prince Daemon."

Aemon thought of the prince. Prince Daemon Targaryen, the name Grand Maester Allar, there were three eras in Targaryen history Aemon knew more than any other. The conquest of Dorne by Daeron the Young Dragon, the Blackfyre Rebellions, but more than any other, the Dance of Dragons. He had dreaded it over and over again to ensure he avoided the event before Night King returned. He had made sure the blood of Martells and Tyrells, from his children, married one another to ensure House Targaryen had not divided itself as it did in the Dance. He had read the accounts after the events, during, and before. It took some time, but the name Grand Maester Allar was the second to last Grand Maester at the end of Jaehaerys', the Old King, reign, and he called the prince, Daemon, the King Viserys' brother. This man, his father, was the Rouge Prince.

Daemon Targaryen, his gaze still fixed on the baby in Lyanna's arms, hesitated for a moment before speaking. "His name shall be Prince Aemon Targaryen, after Caraxes' first rider," he declared, his voice carrying the weight of a decision made long before this moment. "

Chapter 2: Old Dragon, New Life

Chapter Text

Red Keep 97 AC

Jaehaerys Targaryen

Jaehaerys I Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, the Conciliator, had been king for nearly fifty years, and it was moments like these that he was most tired. He had survived much, done much, created much, and achieved much, and yet it was always his own flesh and blood that forced him into situations that made him wish to relinquish his crown and go with Vermithor to a distant land, away from it all.

In the annals of Westerosi history, King Jaehaerys I Targaryen stood as a beacon of wisdom and stability. Nearly fifty years had passed since he ascended the Iron Throne, and under his rule, the Seven Kingdoms experienced a period of unprecedented peace and prosperity. Many hailed him as the greatest of Targaryen kings, a title he wore with humility and grace, but he did not fully embrace it because there were only three before him.

Born in the shadow of a weak father, King Aneys, and overshadowed by the conqueror Aegon and the cruel Maegor, Jaehaerys had managed to carve out his legacy. He was not the first Targaryen king, nor the one who forged the realms into one, but he was, undoubtedly, the one who solidified their power and earned the respect of his subjects. His reign was marked by diplomacy and conciliation, earning him the moniker "the Conciliator." He concentrated the Targaryen rule and centralized the powers of the realm towards the Red Keep, the seat of his family. He built the roads that connected the Seven Kingdoms, bringing the Seven Kingdoms from seven separate entities to one empire under Targaryen rule. He also showed future threats that the crown could send soldiers at a faster pace to eliminate said threats.

Jaehaerys I Targaryen, though born into a family of dragons and power, carried the weight of his father's indecisiveness as a heavy burden. Aenys I Targaryen's inability to assert himself, particularly concerning Jaehaerys' elder siblings Aegon and Rhaea, left a bitter taste in the young prince's mouth. He watched with growing disdain as his father vacillated on matters of crucial importance, most notably the delicate issue of his siblings' wedding.

The uncertain stance taken by King Aenys led to unrest, and in 41 AC, the Faith Militant rose in rebellion against the crown. The realm, already teetering on the edge of instability, was further plunged into chaos. During these tumultuous times, Aenys met his end on Dragonstone early the following year. His demise left a power vacuum and a realm in disarray, providing the perfect opportunity for Maegor Targaryen to return from exile.

Jaehaerys I Targaryen harbored a deep-seated hatred for his grand-aunt Visenya and his uncle Maegor, a hatred that stemmed from their treacherous ways and the havoc they wreaked upon the realm. Despite the rightful claim of his elder brother Aegon to the Iron Throne, Maegor, driven by ambition and ruthlessness, seized power immediately upon his return. He beheaded Gawen, the Grand Maester who had affirmed Aegon's rightful claim to the throne, a gruesome act that foreshadowed the dark times ahead. The rebellion against Maegor's rule escalated, culminating in the Battle Beneath the Gods Eye, a clash that would forever alter the course of history.

In the midst of this brutal conflict, Maegor's actions were marked by a chilling disregard for the established order. The battle reached its tragic climax when Maegor confronted Aegon and his dragon, Quicksilver. In a harrowing clash, Maegor's ruthlessness prevailed, leading to the demise of Aegon and the dragon he rode. With this victory, Maegor asserted his dominance and took Jaehaerys, his sister-wife Alysanne, and his mother hostage on Dragonstone.

Maegor, after waking from a coma from the battle, displayed his cruelty by mounting his fearsome dragon Balerion and unleashing destruction upon Rhaenys' Hill. The burning of the Sept of Remembrance served as a symbolic gesture, a stark reminder to the world that Rhaenys' line would not be spared.

The completion of the Red Keep in 45 AC marked a gruesome chapter in the reign of Maegor the Cruel. The grand celebration the king threw turned into a macabre display of his sad*stic nature. Workers and artisans who had contributed to the castle's construction were lured into a false sense of revelry, indulging in wine, sweetmeats, and the company of courtesans from the city's finest brothels. Little did they know that their participation in the feast would lead to their untimely demise.

After three days of seemingly endless festivities, Maegor, in a cruel and calculated move, ordered the massacre of all those in attendance. His motive was clear: to protect the secrets of the castle, he silenced every witness, ensuring that none would reveal the intricacies of the Red Keep's design. The bodies of the victims were callously interred beneath the very foundation they had helped create, their final resting place a grim testament to the depths of Maegor's brutality.

During this dark period, Jaehaerys, with his sister and mother, managed to escape Dragonstone, leaving behind the horrors of their captivity. However, the escape did not come without a devastating cost. Maegor, in his relentless pursuit of power, subjected Jaehaerys' brother to unspeakable torture, ultimately leading to his death. The loss of his sibling filled Jaehaerys' heart with a burning hatred for his cruel uncle. In the depths of his despair, he prayed fervently, hoping that those responsible for the agony inflicted upon his family would suffer eternal torment in the deepest pits of the seven hells. The young prince's resolve grew stronger as he carried the weight of his family's tragedy, vowing to one day bring justice to those who had committed such heinous acts.

He wished to be a great king both to surpass Visneya and Maegor and from pure spite because he wished for the realm to prosper. Under his wise rule, the realm thrived. Jaehaerys understood the complexities of the Seven Kingdoms, navigating the intricate web of noble alliances and regional differences with finesse. He was a just and fair ruler, renowned for his ability to listen to the grievances of his people and address them with a measured hand. His court was a haven of intellect and culture, attracting scholars, artists, and thinkers from all corners of the realm.

In the face of his predecessors' shortcomings, Jaehaerys became a symbol of hope and unity. He mended the wounds left by the divisive rule of Maegor the Cruel, healing the scars of rebellion and unrest from the Faith and the lack of strength from his father. His commitment to justice and fairness earned him the loyalty of his subjects, and his legacy endured long after his passing.

And now, Jaehaerys I Targaryen, weary from the burdens of ruling a realm plagued by strife and treachery, found himself facing yet another challenge within his own family. The marriage alliance he had carefully orchestrated for Daemon, his ambitious grandson, was a decision made with deliberate intent. After the passing of Aemon, Jaehaerys' son and heir, Jaehaerys carefully laid plans for the succession hinged on Baelon, his second eldest living son and heir, and Baelon's own son, Viserys.

Daemon, as the second son of a second son, had no legitimate claim to inherit the throne. However, his insatiable ambition posed a threat to the stability Jaehaerys had fought so hard to maintain. Daemon's impending marriage to Rhea Royce was a calculated move by Jaehaerys, an attempt to curb the young man's ambitions and channel his energies in a direction that would not disrupt the line of succession.

Despite the weariness that weighed heavily upon him, Jaehaerys was resolute in his decision. He knew he could not allow Daemon to use his elder brother Viserys as a pawn in a bid for the throne. The stability of the realm depended on the careful preservation of the Targaryen lineage, and Jaehaerys was determined to safeguard the future of his family and his realm, even if it meant making difficult and heart-wrenching decisions. In the face of his own exhaustion, he remained steadfast, prepared to do whatever was necessary to maintain the fragile peace he had fought so hard to achieve.

Jaehaerys I Targaryen's strategic thinking and keen understanding of the delicate balance of power within the realm were evident in his choice of match for Daemon. The lessons from the past, particularly the bloody reign of Maegor the Cruel, weighed heavily on Jaehaerys' mind. He was determined to prevent history from repeating itself, to ensure that Daemon did not follow the path of his infamous uncle, who had seized the throne through force and violence.

By selecting Rhae Royce as Daemon's bride, Jaehaerys pursued a twofold strategy. Firstly, he chose a woman whom some maesters had speculated was barren, ensuring that Daemon would have no legitimate heirs to bolster any future claims to the throne. Without offspring to legitimize his ambitions, Daemon's potential as a threat to the established Targaryen line was significantly diminished.

Secondly, Jaehaerys leveraged the political alliances within the realm to further strengthen his position. House Royce, being a vassal of House Arryn, was tied to the power and influence of the Arryns. Viserys, Jaehaerys' elder grandson, Viserys, had married into the Arryn family by wedding Aemma Arryn. This union solidified connections between the Targaryens, the Arryns, and, indirectly, House Royce.

By ensuring Daemon's lack of heirs and limiting his political support, Jaehaerys effectively neutralized any potential threat his ambitious grandson might pose in the future. It was a calculated move, born out of a desire to safeguard the realm from internal strife and to maintain the hard-won peace that had eluded Westeros for so long. In these careful maneuvers, Jaehaerys displayed not only his political acumen but also his commitment to securing the stability and unity of the realm he ruled.

Jaehaerys did not agree with his son on this, for the most part. However, Baelon wished to throw a tourney at the beginning of the year to celebrate Daemon's betrothal. It could, in truth, help unify the realm and grow better relations with each of the kingdoms if each of the Houses were invited.

The Tourney of King's Landing in the year 97 AC was destined to be remembered as a grand spectacle, the likes of which the realm had never witnessed before. Baelon Targaryen, the heir to the Iron Throne, had organized the event to celebrate his son Daemon's betrothal to Rhae Royce. It was a union that carried significant political weight, and Baelon, recognizing the importance of the occasion, spared no expense in its commemoration.

Held within the walls of King's Landing, the tourney boasted a scale and extravagance that left the realm in awe. Every corner of the Seven Kingdoms was represented as noble houses from the North to the Reach, and from the Stormlands to Westerlands and Riverlands, even the Ironborn converged upon the capital. The jousting fields were a vibrant tapestry of colors, with knights and lords adorned in their house sigils, competing for honor and glory.

The festivities were lavish beyond measure, with feasts that seemed to stretch on for days and a display of pageantry and chivalry that enchanted the spectators. The sheer magnitude of gold spent on the event drew gasps of disbelief, even from the royal court. The Master of Coin, tasked with managing the realm's finances, shook his head in amazement, lamenting that the funds expended on the tourney could have erected three entire castles.

The tourney was like nothing seen before; all the best knights in the kingdoms came together to compete. Yes, the knights had tourneys in their respective kingdoms where all the houses of the single kingdom came together, with a few knights from other kingdoms as well. But this tourney had all the kingdoms under Targaryen rule come as one; never had all the best knights come to the face like this. The streets of Silk and Steal had never been so full. In fact, the number of participants and people entering the tourney and the city, buying this and that, had been so much that the crown had made back their investment thrice-fold, and no one had ever made money off of a tourney before, especially since the cost for it was so high. Jaehaerys thought it was proof his son Baelon, the orchestrator of all this, may have a bright future on the Iron Throne. Daemon, seeing as the number of knights in the tilts and the caliber of opponents was in his honor, and seeing the knights in the tilts, made sure to enlist.

There was one figure who stood out among the rest - Lyanna Stark, the eldest daughter of Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell. With an ethereal beauty that seemed to capture the very essence of the North, she turned heads wherever she went, her presence commanding attention and admiration.

Never before had he beheld a woman outside of the Valyrian bloodline who possessed such a captivating allure. Her eyes, as gray as the storms that ravaged the northern skies, held a mysterious depth, and her hair, dark as the shadows of the ancient weirwoods, cascaded in loose waves down her back. In the presence of this northern enchantress, even the most composed lords found themselves entranced.

Amidst the fervor of proposals and requests, Lyanna moved through the tourney grounds with a grace that matched her beauty. She smiled politely, her eyes betraying none of the emotions that stirred within the hearts of those who beheld her. From what he gathered, the lady was kind, but from tales from the North, she rode horses and bested even the best of men when she used a blade. They say she acted like a Northern woman through and through, similar to the Mormont n Bear Island, and Jaehaerys had heard many tales of the women who fought in battle and bested men with ease.

It was not just the king who found himself captivated by Lyanna Stark's beauty. Many of the lords in attendance were equally smitten, their hearts stirred by the sight of this northern maiden. As whispers of her loveliness spread through the crowds, infatuations bloomed like wildflowers in spring. Lords and knights, both young and old, approached King Jaehaerys and Lord Rickard Stark, inquiring about the possibility of betrothals to win Lyanna's hand. The future lords of the realm vied for her favor, their aspirations reflected in the gleam of their eyes and the earnestness of their gestures.

As whispers of potential betrothals for Lyanna Stark circulated among the lords, Lord Rickard Stark remained steadfast in his decisions, dismissing each proposal that came his way. However, there was one lord who managed to secure a betrothal, and that was Lord Grover Tully. The match he had arranged between his grandson Elmo Tully and Lyanna Stark seemed to be an astute move, strategically speaking.

In truth, the Tullys had secured an advantageous match. The Riverlands, despite their abundance of powerful lords, lacked the unity and control that the Starks held over the North. The Tullys struggled to consolidate power within their own region. The Tully's vassal lords were strong, and some could potentially, with several marriages into the kingdom, could usurp the Tullys. In contrast, the Starks were known for their centralized authority, ensuring a level of stability and unity that few other houses could boast. If the Starks could aid the Tully in centralizing their powers, it would be a dangerous prospect for those who want to fight the Tully in the future.

The prospect of a union between House Stark and House Tully raised concerns in the mind of King Jaehaerys. Such an alliance would bring together two formidable forces. The thoughts of other major Houses marrying one another and marrying into this already established alliance creating a power block that could potentially rival the authority of the crown. The thought of the North, with its martial prowess, joining forces with the Riverlands, rich in resources and strategic advantages, was enough to unsettle the king.

A young lord from Greywater Watch had run into some problem or other during the beginning of the tilts somewhere in the North. If Jaehaerys recalled correctly, he did not know as much about the North as he would have liked due to them preferring isolation compared to the other kingdoms vying for more connections with House Targaryen. The young lord found himself the target of bullying by the squires of powerful lords attending the tournament: Ser Hightower, Ser Redwyne, and Prince Baelon Targaryen's squires. Distressed and desperate for justice, the young lord's plight resonated with the onlookers.

In response to this injustice, a mysterious figure emerged – the Knight of the Laughing Tree. Clad in mismatched armor and bearing a shield adorned with a laughing weirwood tree sigil, this enigmatic knight entered the tournament lists. With a spirit as fierce as their identity was concealed, the Knight of the Laughing Tree challenged and defeated the three arrogant squires who had tormented the young Lord of Greywater.

The identity of the Knight of the Laughing Tree remained a secret, shrouded in mystery. Some speculated on the true origin of this valiant and masked champion, but their anonymity only added to the mystique of the tale. The knight's actions became a symbol of justice and courage, inspiring hope among the smallfolk and earning the admiration of the nobility. They had ridden on horseback better than any man Jaehaerys had seen before; it was as though the person was half horse themselves. Never had someone ridden so well; the only other person that rode their mount as if they were one, even if the mount was not a horse, to Jaehaerys knowledge, was Aegon the Dragon himself upon, the still yet to be claimed once more, Baelrion the Black Dread. It was with the same skill that the knight fled deep into the King's Wood.

Daemon's desire to face the mysterious Knight of the Laughing Tree burned with a fierce intensity. Eager to confront the valiant figure who had championed the cause of justice, he mounted his horse and galloped into the depths of the King's Wood in pursuit. The forest, ancient and dense, swallowed both the knight and his determined pursuer in its labyrinthine expanse.

As the day wore on, Daemon's search led him deeper into the heart of the woods. The rustle of leaves, the distant calls of birds, and the murmur of a hidden stream became the backdrop to his relentless quest. Hours turned into what felt like an eternity, but his determination did not waver.

When Daemon finally emerged from the depths of the King's Wood, he returned not with the mysterious knight but with a tangible relic of their encounter – the knight's shield. Adorned with the laughing weirwood tree sigil, it became a symbol of both mystery and inspiration, a reminder of the enigmatic figure who had stood against injustice and captured the hearts of the people.

Daemon's victory in the tournament was nothing short of spectacular; his skills in the jousts earned him a well-deserved reputation as a formidable competitor. As tradition dictated, the winner of the tournament was to crown the Queen of Love and Beauty, typically the lady to whom he was betrothed or his future wife, Rhae Royce. However, on this occasion, Daemon chose to defy convention.

Instead of presenting the crown of Winter Roses, a striking deep blue, to his intended bride, Rhae Royce, Daemon veered away from her, his eyes set on a different beauty. His gaze found its mark in the North, where the enchanting Lyanna Stark stood, her aura as captivating as the frozen beauty of winter itself. In a bold and unexpected move, Daemon approached Lyanna and placed the crown upon her head, proclaiming her the Queen of Love and Beauty. The crowd watched in stunned silence, their astonishment giving way to murmurs of speculation.

This act of defiance against tradition and the unexpected choice of Lyanna Stark as the Queen of Love and Beauty created ripples of intrigue and gossip throughout the realm. Daemon's bold declaration of affection for the Northern beauty would be remembered as one of the most important moments in the history of Westerosi tournaments, a tale that would be retold in hushed whispers and romantic ballads for generations to come.

The bold act of Daemon Targaryen, crowning Lyanna Stark as the Queen of Love and Beauty, set off a chain of events that threatened to plunge the realm into chaos. Rickon Stark, the Lord of Winterfell, was consumed by rage over the perceived slight against his house, and House Royce, too, demanded justice for what they saw as a grievous offense. House Tully, whom Lyanna was set to marry for an alliance, whose alliance with House Stark had been shaken, seethed with anger and resentment over the perceived slight.

King Jaehaerys I and Crown Prince Baelon found themselves in an unenviable position trying to maintain peace and order amidst the brewing storm. Their efforts to quell the tensions between the offended parties seemed futile as the realm braced for the inevitable clash.

However, the situation took an unexpected turn when both Lyanna Stark and Daemon Targaryen vanished without a trace. The disappearance of the controversial pair sent shockwaves throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Rumors and speculations ran rampant, and no one knew for certain where they had gone or what fate had befallen them.

The mystery of Lyanna and Daemon's disappearance left the realm in a state of uncertainty and confusion. As whispers of their love story spread, opinions varied widely, with some romanticizing their union and others condemning it as reckless and dangerous.

The speculation surrounding Daemon's involvement in Lyanna Stark's disappearance only intensified the fury of Houses Royce, Tully, and House Stark. With their anger boiling over, they demanded the return of the rogue prince, seeking retribution for the perceived affront to their houses. King Jaehaerys, recognizing the gravity of the situation, issued a decree: his son, Crown Prince Baelon, was to find Daemon and bring him back to face justice.

Mounted upon his formidable dragon, Vhagar, Crown Prince Baelon took to the skies, his eyes scanning the vast expanse of Westeros for any sign of his wayward son. His mission was clear: to locate Daemon and Lyanna and ensure their safe return, sparing the realm from further escalation of tensions and potential conflict.

Meanwhile, Viserys, the elder brother, embarked on his own quest. Determined to assist in the search for Daemon, he rode atop his dragon, Sheep Stealer, a swift and powerful creature capable of covering great distances. Viserys shared his brother's determination to find Daemon and bring him back, hoping to prevent further damage to the fragile peace of the realm.

When Crown Prince Baelon finally found Daemon, his son, a fortnight later, the scene that unfolded was one of unexpected consequence. Deep within the Isle of Faces, amidst the ancient weirwood trees, Daemon and Lyanna had chosen to solemnize their union. They had not only married according to the old gods, the deities revered by the First Men and the North, but had also exchanged vows in the Faith of the Seven, marking a rare dual marriage that cemented their marriage, especially since Daemon and Lyanna already consummated it.

The discovery of Daemon and Lyanna's marriage left King Jaehaerys torn between his duties as a ruler and his personal feelings as a grandfather. He recalled his son, Baelon, who was filled with a mix of anger, disappointment, and perhaps a hint of sympathy for his son's impulsive actions; Baelon had done impulsive things for his own late wife. Daemon was forced back to court and face the crown. Baelon said to Jaehaerys that when he had landed on the island, Daemon had been resting, and Lyanna was awake and close by. When she saw Baelon, she grabbed Dark Sister and prepared to battle the crown prince herself. Daemon had risen from his slumber, but before anyone could deescalate the situation, Lyanna went to attack, and while Baelon was a fair fighter, he was disarmed by the girl a head and a half shorter than he and was at the mercy of Dark Sister near his throat. Daemon had to convince Lyanna to lower the blade; Daemon, being the voice of reason, was a first to the old king, and truth, if he had to be the voice of reason for the pair, Jaehaerys feared for the realm as the two were now one.

The ramifications of this unconventional marriage reverberated through the realm, further straining the delicate balance of power between the noble houses.

Despite the political implications and potential for conflict, Daemon's decision to wed Lyanna was frankly a pain and a political headache for the Old King. As rumors of their unconventional marriage spread, the realm remained on edge, unsure how to react to this audacious defiance of tradition. Once before the court, Daemon and Lyanna spun a tale that, rather than paint Daemon in a crude light, made them both the pariahs and endeared them to the women of the court, a love story that Jaehaerys would bet his very crown that the bards would be singing far after the death of not just his heir but the one to follow him, Viserys, as well.

The truth behind Lyanna Stark's disappearance unveiled a different narrative, one in which Lyanna herself orchestrated her departure with Daemon Targaryen. Fueled by a fierce determination to escape an arranged marriage with Elmo Tully, Lyanna had engaged in secret conversations with Daemon from the very beginning of the tourney. Their clandestine meetings had allowed a bond to form between them, a connection rooted in mutual understanding and a shared desire for freedom.

As the days of the tourney passed, Lyanna and Daemon's resolve solidified. Faced with the prospect of marriages they did not desire, they chose to elope, seeking refuge in each other's arms. Lyanna's persuasive spirit and Daemon's willingness to defy convention led them to make the daring decision to escape together.

King Jaehaerys I Targaryen found himself faced with the daunting task of mending the alliances that had been frayed by the events surrounding Daemon and Lyanna. With the Tully-Stark alliance shattered and tensions high between House Royce and the crown, Jaehaerys knew that he needed to act swiftly and decisively to restore stability to the realm.

In a masterful display of diplomacy, Jaehaerys orchestrated a betrothal between House Royce and a branch house of House Arryn, mending the strained relationship. With the assistance of his grandson Viserys' wife, Aemma Arryn, Jaehaerys was able to facilitate this union, ensuring House Royce's loyalty and support. The union between Royce and Arryn would help solidify Arryn's control of house Royce and, in turn, help ensure the Royces would be loyal to the crown, which had a marriage alliance with their Lord Paramount.

Additionally, Jaehaerys brokered a strategic betrothal between House Tully and House Frey. Recognizing the numerous daughters of House Frey, Jaehaerys saw an opportunity to strengthen the Tullys' position within the Riverlands. By encouraging the Freys, who are tied to the Tullys, to marry into various noble families in the region, Jaehaerys aimed to centralize power under Tully rule, creating a network of alliances that would solidify their influence over the Riverlands, similarly to what would have happened with the aid of the Starks, but far more rapidly. Aegon the Conqueror himself left the Tullys as Lord Paramount to keep the Riverlands divided so it would be easier to rule, but for now, the Tullys needed to be assured that the crown was truly sorry for what had happened.

Jaehaerys I Targaryen recognized the depth of House Stark's anger and the complexity of the situation that Daemon's actions had created. The Starks were a proud and strong-willed house, valuing martial prowess and honor above all else. Jaehaerys understood that in the North, strength was respected, and it was incumbent upon Daemon to prove himself worthy of their respect and trust.

To earn the respect of House Stark, Daemon faced a daunting challenge. He had to demonstrate his strength and skill in combat by facing off against every Northern man who was considered a formidable fighter. This trial was no small feat, as the North was known for their martial prowess and unyielding determination. But Daemon's journey didn't end there; he had to prove himself similarly to every Stark man as well in attendance, a grueling task that tested his mettle and resolve.

How Daemon achieved this feat remained a mystery, whether it was divine intervention, sheer luck, or an unyielding determination to succeed. Regardless of the means, the results spoke for themselves. Daemon emerged victorious, earning the begrudging respect of the Stark family and the Northern lords. His ability to endure and triumph in the face of such daunting challenges demonstrated his strength and resilience, qualities highly valued in the North.

But Daemon needed to be punished before the courts. He had defied the crown, and even if Daemon was a part of the crown that would not be tolerated, it would start a dangerous precedent, and before they knew it, another Maegor may rise. So, Jaehaerys ordered Baelon himself to whip his son on the back two and forty times. Three times the fourteen days he was gone, three times for the three houses he angered the most, Stark, Tully, and Royce.

Jaehaerys had ordered his son to whip Daemon to show the realm that a father of the royal crown would put the crown before their own children. As well as punishing Baelon for being disarmed by a woman, the realm would not take kindly to their future king being disarmed by a girl a head shorter than he; most men would not follow said man into battle. For every whip Daemon felt rip into his back, leaving a raw bleeding line in its wake, Baelon was forced to pain his own son; Jaehaerys could even see the tears fall from his eyes as Baelon did his duty.

It inadvertently was a punishment for Lyanna as well. She had fought through three men to reach her husband before Lord Rickon Stark himself was forced to hold his daughter back for the punishment that needed to be shown.

Daemon did not let out a single cry, not a whimper or yell, merely a grunt every time the whip licked his back. He looked at Lyanna, his eyes clouded by anger and rage, but a smile graced his lips. Jaehaerys could even hear his grandson grunt out that he would happily have done this again if it led to Lyanna once more.

But now, here Jaehaery was in the somber halls of the Red Keep, sitting on the Iron Throne, a colossal amalgamation of swords that represented both power and pain. Its cold, unyielding metal pressed into his flesh, a constant reminder of the weight of his rule. Before him stood Daemon Targaryen, a grieving father who had just lost his wife Lyanna to the unforgiving grip of childbirth fever. The court was silent; the lords and ladies of the realm gathered to bear witness to a somber moment. Jaehaerys wished the girl had lived; she had somehow curbed Dameon's worse impulses, the man had stopped whoring and drinking, and yet she had died not but three days later after birthing her son when the maesters had claimed that she was in perfect health the same day she had birthed the child.

Daemon presented his newborn son, Aemon Targaryen, to the assembled court, the fragile cries of the infant cutting through the heavy silence that enveloped the room. The courtiers, lords, and ladies, who had once been allies or rivals, now stood united in a rare moment of shared sorrow. Lyanna's death had cast a shadow over the entire realm, a reminder of the fragility of life and the inevitability of loss, even within the walls of the Red Keep. Aemon, the newest scion of House Targaryen, was a symbol of hope, a reminder that life persisted even in the face of loss and tragedy.

Jaehaerys, his gaze filled with empathy, looked upon his grandson and great-grandson, recognizing the bittersweet nature of the moment. The court, too, observed in respectful silence, aware of the significance of this occasion. Aemon's birth represented the continuation of the Targaryen legacy, even as the family mourned the loss of a most recent member.

The room, usually bustling with political intrigue and whispered conversations, was now permeated with a solemn stillness. In the face of death and birth, the cyclical nature of life in Westeros played out before them, a reminder of the fragility and resilience of the human spirit.

The death of Lyanna had cast a long shadow over the Red Keep, and Daemon's grief was profound and deeply personal. In the weeks that followed, he became fiercely protective of his newborn son, Aemon. The pain of his loss mingled with the joy of new life, creating a complex mix of emotions that he held close to his heart.

Daemon's decision to keep Aemon secluded was an unconventional choice, even within the walls of the Red Keep. The newborn, a symbol of both hope and sorrow, was shielded from the prying eyes of the court and the whispers of the realm. Only Daemon and the trusted wet nurse were allowed into the chamber where Aemon rested, away from the curious gazes and speculative murmurs of the courtiers.

Even Baelon, Aemon's grandfather and a member of the royal family, had not yet set eyes on the child. The exclusion was intentional, a manifestation of Daemon's need to protect his son from the outside world, shielding him from the complexities of the Targaryen legacy and the political intricacies of the realm.

In this private sanctuary, Daemon found solace, cradling his son and whispering words of love and comfort. Aemon, unaware of the weight of his lineage, slept peacefully in his father's arms, a beacon of innocence in a world marked by power struggles and political maneuvering.

King Jaehaerys, sitting atop the Iron Throne, his expression a blend of curiosity and concern, watched his son and grandson approach. His wife, Alysanne, and his son, Baelon Targaryen, the crown prince, stood nearby, his eyes fixed on his grandson, a mixture of emotions playing on his face. Daemon Targaryen, his face a mix of pride and sadness, approached the Iron Throne, cradling his son Aemon in his arms. Jaehaerys looked to the side and looked at Viserys Targryen, his heir's heir, and Viserys' wife, Aemma Targryen, Aemma holding their newborn daughter Rhaeynra Targaryen in her arms. Like all with the name Targaryen, she had silvery blonde locks and purple eyes; like their kin, she wore colors of red and black. The hushed tones and curious glances followed him as he ascended the steps, his every move scrutinized.

Jaehaerys, his voice calm yet commanding, broke the silence. "Prince Daemon," he said, his eyes meeting his grandson's, "bring the child forward."

Daemon nodded, his grip on Aemon steady yet tender. With measured steps, he approached the Iron Throne and extended his arms, presenting his son to the king and handing him to Alysanne. "His name is Aemon Targaryen," Daemon said, his voice steady. "Lyanna's last gift to me, to us."

The court held its breath, the air heavy with anticipation as King Jaehaerys looked down at the newborn in his arms. Aemon, unaware of the significance of the moment, gazed up with innocent eyes, tiny fingers reaching out toward the queen.

Alyssane's expression softened as she gently cradled the child. Jaehaerys' gaze shift between Aemon and his grieving father. "Aemon," she said, his voice carrying a mixture of solemnity and affection, "may you grow strong and wise, a true dragon of House Targaryen."

"Let all know, Aemon Targaryen, son of Daemon Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, is prince of the blood and a member of the house of the Dragon!" Jaehaerys roared in the throne room; his voice echoed loudly for all to hear.

Jaehaerys looks to the courts and sighs. He must look at the child without the prying eyes of the court, and he had done his duty to show the realm the child and confirm no hostility with Daemon, as well as confirm the child is a prince of the blood, especially due to the unease of how Lyanna and Daemon came together. They had another potential rider.

"Leave us," King Jaehaerys commanded, his voice resonating with authority, and the courtiers quickly filed out, leaving only those of the royal family in the room. Jaehaerys descended the steps of the Iron Throne, his movements deliberate, and walked towards Daemon, his expression a mix of solemnity and concern.

Meanwhile, Viserys, holding his own newborn daughter Rhaenyra, approached Alysanne with Aemon, a tender smile on his lips. "Meet your cousin, Aemon," Viserys said softly, his voice filled with familial warmth. He grabs her little hand gently and waves it towards Aemon, who smiles softly but, unlike Rhaenyra, does not laugh. "Does he even make noise, brother?"

"I suppose not," Daemon said smugly as he returned to his baby son, who wished to stay with his father. "And my sleep is thankful for it."

"On that, I am envious," Aemma said with an exasperated sigh.

"In truth, the only time I heard a peep from him was the night of his birth. Aemon has barely made a sound since; it is far easier to manage. The wet nurse said it was peculiar but not the first time she nursed a calm child, most definitely not to this extreme, however," Daemon returned.

"It seems the gods had graced us with your opposite then," Baelon said, walking towards his son. "If I could sow your mouth shut and cut your pride by half, the realm would thank me for it," Baelon said as he reached for the baby. Daemon hesitated for a second before giving his son over to Baleon. "It would seem I like you more than your father already."

"It would be good for Rhaenyra to have a playmate. There are far too few children in the court these days—too little for Rhaeynra to mingle with," Viserys said. Jaehaerys could see Aemma wished to say something, most likely a protest, but she chose to hold her tongue.

Jaehaerys drew closer, his gaze fixed on the infants. Aemon, cradled in Baelon's arms, looked up with wide, innocent eyes, while Rhaenyra, nestled in her father's embrace, seemed curious about the new face before her.

As Jaehaerys studied young Aemon, he couldn't help but notice the distinctive features that marked him as a Targaryen were absent; he was all Stark. The dark curls, reminiscent of Stark's signature hair, framed the baby's face, cascading in soft, curling waves. It was a trait shared with Lyanna, a reminder of her presence in their bloodline; the Targaryen hair was far more straight.

King Jaehaerys observed the newborn Aemon closely, his eyes keenly discerning the subtle details that made up the child's appearance. The dark, untamed curls atop the baby's head and the amount of hair the babe had was a stark contrast to the usual soft fuzz of newborns, caught his attention first. His gaze then fell upon the child's eyes, deep and mysterious, seemingly belonging to the Starks, but with a hidden secret that only the flicker of candlelight could reveal.

As the light danced in Aemon's eyes, their true color was revealed—indigo, so deep it appeared almost black. It was a hue both rare and captivating, reminiscent of the night sky just before dawn. Jaehaerys found himself captivated by those eyes, a trait he recognized all too well.

In that moment, Jaehaerys saw not only the Stark lineage but also the unmistakable reflection of Daemon as an infant. The resemblance was striking to Daemon as a baby was undeniable, a testament to the powerful thread of Targaryen blood that ran through Aemon's veins. The mingling of the Starks' dark features and the Targaryen legacy seemed to create a unique harmony in the child, a blend of two great houses that had shaped the destiny of Westeros for generations.

"Now, here is my grandson; you have been in this keep for three moons, and two of which you have locked yourself and our latest dragonling in your chambers," Alysanne returned to Daemon.

"Yes, and the skies are empty without my presence in them," Daemon said to his grandmother.

"This morning was a grand one for flight. The last several days have been nothing but clouds and rain, but today, the sun was as bright as ever, and the winds were kind. I do miss riding with the only one in my line who likes to fly as much as I do," Alysanne said.

While nothing too accusing towards Daemon, Alysanne was gentle, and if she made a comment, somehow the words would worm their way into the heart, and the words as gentle as a dove became a strike like a serpent. And even if it was not meant to do harm, it would still make one feel guilty if needed. Daemon was no exception; the boy, not yet a man, had always been closer to Alysanne after the death of his mother, Alyssa. Alyssa had passed when Daemon was but three, so the child never truly knew her; it was Alyssa who took the position of the missing mother.

"I am sorry for it, grandmother," Daemon said, lowering his head; the boy was speaking the truth. Alyssa, his daughter, inherited Alysanne's deep love for the vast skies, and Daemon inherited that same love from Alyssa. The pair of Alysanne and Daemon were found in the skies more often than not. Jaehaerys even recalled Alyssa taking the young baby Daemon upon Meleys through the skies before Daemon could even walk.

"Yes, well, I wish for your presence in the skies tomorrow. Your grandfather is far too busy to spend time with his wonderful and loving wife to get on Vermithor and fly with her," Alyssa said, glancing at her husband. "But if you wish to be in my good graces once more, I wish to spend time with my latest great-grandsire," Jaehaerys said nothing but kept his eyes on the baby.

Aemon was far too quiet for a baby, far too observant. Jaehaerys may not have been the father, but he was a father to thirteen children and thirteen babies. And none were as quiet as he; none were as observant. None followed one's movements, not in curiosity but as if just studying them.

King Jaehaerys and Crown Prince Baelon exchanged a knowing glance, a silent understanding passing between them. With a nod from Jaehaerys, Baelon stepped forward, his voice resonating with authority as he addressed his youngest son. He held on to his grandson before looking back to his sons and clearing his throat.

"A royal father needs a home for his son, a place where his legacy can thrive," Baelon declared, his tone confident.

"What do you mean? I thought the Red Keep was his home," Viserys asked his father, looking from Daemon to the nephew.

"Tire of me already? I thought I had, at least until you were king before you decided to get rid of me," Daemon chuckled smugly.

"We are not getting rid of you that easily, Daemon. I do believe even if we exiled you from King's Landing, you would return upon Caraxes," Alysanne chuckled before taking the small bundle in Baelon's arms and singing a Valyrian lullaby that she would sing for their own children when their but babes.

Baleon rolled his eyes at his son but continued undeterred. "I've spoken with my father, and we've reached an agreement. A new branch of House Targaryen is to be established, one that will carry the weight of our name and honor our legacy."

"He's getting a castle?" Aemma asked, shocked, reading between the lines.

"I am getting a castle," Daemon responded in surprise.

"You are getting a castle," Alysanne smiled, satisfied when looking upon her grandson.

"Originally, you were to rule with Rhae Royce, by her side, over the Royce lands and Runestone, but things have changed," Jaehaerys said stoically. "We wished to foster stronger ties with the realm, and Aemon is proof of that, even if the means were unconventional. The Starks would never rise against us; they have blood ties to the crown, and the Starks are nothing if not loyal to their own. The boy is a member of their pack. Your father spoke on your behalf to give you a keep, and after much deliberation, it would do for us to have a candid branch in the lands of a House most loyal to the crown, the Baratheons of the Stormlands."

Pausing for emphasis, Baelon continued, his words imbued with a sense of purpose. "A castle shall rise in the Dornish marches, strategically positioned along the path leading to the King's Wood and, most importantly, to the King's Landing. This castle, this new seat of our house, shall be named Summerhall."

"With the fall of House Dondarrion," Jaehaerys said, " due to the last remaining member falling to Dark Sister after the you lord wished to fight for Lyanna's hand, there is no one protecting the Dornish marches."

"In his defense, the man did wait until Daemon was tired from fighting every Northman there at the time before wishing to fight and trying to take Lyanna," Viserys said with a soft smile.

"He was a c*nt. Had to wait till I tired myself out before having the balls to fight me himself," Daemon argued.

Baelon continued, his eyes leveling a glare at Deamon, proof that his son's actions angered him and his words were crude at best. "Daemon's actions have removed any existing house along the strip leading to the King's Wood. Now, it falls to us to defend this path. And who better to safeguard this passage than the rider of one of the dragons who has faced the Dornish in the past, defending our realm from their attacks, and the same person who put us in this predicament?"

"Daemon shall take charge of this endeavor," Jaehaerys stated firmly, "both as his future seat and the future seat of his son, Aemon."

The tension in the room escalated as Daemon's realization sunk in, a deep furrow appearing on his brow as he began to protest. "I cannot leave my son," he insisted, his voice carrying a mixture of frustration and desperation. He turned to his father, Baelon, seeking understanding and support. "You know I cannot be apart from him. Aemon needs his father by his side."

Baelon, however, stood firm, his expression resolute. "Daemon, the future lord of Summerhall, must oversee its creation," he stated firmly, his voice brooking no argument. "It's a responsibility that comes with his station. He will stay here alongside the rest of the royal family. Aemon will be well cared for, surrounded by those who love him."

Viserys, ever the voice of reason, stepped in. "Daemon," he said, his tone gentle yet firm, "you are not alone in this. Aemon will have the company of his kin, and you will visit him as often as you can. Summerhall's construction is a significant task that demands your attention. Your son's future and the future of House Targaryen depend on it."

Daemon's frustration boiled over, his voice rising as he argued vehemently against the separation. "I will not be absent from his life," he declared, his eyes ablaze with determination. "I won't let him grow up without his father. He already lost his mother, and I will not leave the boy thinking himself a f*cking orphan for the most important years of his life!"

Baelon's voice grew firmer as the argument continued, his patience wearing thin. "Daemon, you will oversee the construction of Summerhall. This is not a request; it is an order," he said, his tone unyielding.

Daemon's eyes blazed with defiance, his jaw set in stubborn determination. "I won't do it. I won't leave my son," he retorted, his voice resolute. "I'll burn everything to the f*cking ground before I do that!"

Their voices clashed in the air, a battle of wills that seemed unending. The tension between father and son escalated until Baelon, frustrated and angered by Daemon's refusal, stepped closer, their faces inches apart. He locked eyes with his son, his own gaze unwavering. Jaehaerys thought the pair were going to trade blows in the throne room; the only reason that he convinced himself otherwise was because Aemon was still in Baelon's grasp.

Daemon met his father's gaze with unyielding defiance, refusing to back down despite the closeness of their confrontation. His jaw clenched, his eyes ablaze with determination.

But then, something shifted within Daemon. A flicker of realization, a brief moment of hesitation. He glanced away just slightly, his gaze wavering for a fraction of a second. In that moment, he acknowledged the truth – he may be able to best his father in a physical fight, but it was still his father.

Baelon seized the opportunity, pressing his point home. "Daemon, this is not just about you. It's about the future of our house, the legacy we leave behind. You know this. You know your duty."

Daemon's jaw clenched, his fists balled at his sides. He looked away, his eyes fixed on some distant point, his defiance slowly giving way to a begrudging acceptance of his father's words. He looked down for a second longer before turning his heated gaze towards his father once more.

"How long would it take to build the damn thing?" Daemon said, seething.

"A decade, maybe more. If you are quick about it, it may be less. It had better be a seat worthy of your son, boy," Baelon returned to his six and ten-year-old son. "I will not have you tarnish our name, your son's future seat, by cutting corners so that you can return to him. You are a second son of a second son, even if by royal blood you were, up until my brother's death, set to inherit less than nothing. Your brother will inherit the throne after me and his son after him. Being able to make your own legacy despite not being set to inherit the kingdoms is a privilege, not a punishment. Understand?" Baelon said, eyeing his son for defiance.

"Understood," Daemon said, his hands gripping tighter.

Baelon said nothing for some time before rocking the baby back and forth. Baelon and Jaehaerys looked at the baby; he was not lulling to sleep. He made no sound, but his gaze looked to Baelon not as a baby did, in curiosity, but critically, almost as if it was gaging Baelon's worth. Baby Aemon was observing Baelon with a stoic expression, no emotion, purely just staring into the man's very soul. It was, to Jaehaerys, like looking at the face of a fully grown Stark, as calm as the winter storms from the outside, but once inside the storm, only a cold, brutal, slow, and painful death awaited. If nothing else, the boy reminded Jaehaerys of the King's of Winter all those years ago before the Conquest.

"Aemon will remain here, under the care of the royal family," Baelon asserted firmly, his tone brooking no argument. "He will be raised alongside his cousin, surrounded by family, and prepared for the responsibilities that await him."

Daemon attempted to protest further, but before he could voice his objections, Jaehaerys intervened, his eyes stern and voice unyielding. "This is the consequence of your actions," Jaehaerys declared, his words cutting through the air like a blade. "You chose to disregard our counsel regarding your first betrothal, acting against our wishes. Such defiance cannot go unpunished."

Daemon said nothing while looking at the pair. He merely reached for his son before storming off of the throne room once Aemon was in his grasp once more. Baelon was going to follow him, but Jaehaerys stopped him.

"He is grieving the loss of his wife and will give up the time with his son. Give him this time. Allow him to take solace in this moment with Aemon, alone," Alysanne replied to her son. Baelon nodded to his mother.

"Daemon will leave in the morning," Jaehaerys said.

"No, the boy is having his son taken from him, even if not officially. The time for morning has barely started," Alysanne told them. "A month, you will give him a month."

Dragonpit 97

???

In the heart of King's Landing, within the sprawling maze of stone passages and chambers that formed the Dragonpit, a deep snoring echoed. It was an ominous sound that resonated through the labyrinth, a low rumble that shook the very foundations of the ancient structure. The snoring was a sound so profound and powerful that it seemed to reverberate through the earth itself as though a slumbering giant stirred in the depths of the world.

A deep rumble crossed the dark tunnels of the Dragonpit. So deep was the grumble, so deep was the rolling of living thunder that the grounds around the tunnels shook and turned, the grounds cracked and waned.

Its towering walls, adorned with intricate carvings of dragons in flight, loomed over the city of King's Landing. Inside, nearly a dozen adult dragons were confined within massive cages, their majestic wings and sharp claws restrained. These dragons, once the pride of House Targaryen, now resided within the pit, a reminder of the power wielded by the House Targaryen.

Amidst the cacophony of growls, roars, and restless flapping of wings, there was one sound that stood out among the rest – the deep, thunderous snoring of a single creature. This dragon, larger and more ancient than the others, lay in a far corner of the pit, hidden from the sight of most who ventured inside. Its snores were not mere noises of sleep; they were a force of nature, a symphony of sound that filled the air and reverberated off the walls.

As one ventured deeper into the labyrinthine tunnels of the Dragonpit, the snoring grew louder and more intense. The ground trembled with each exhalation, and the very air seemed to vibrate with the dragon's powerful breaths. Those who dared to approach too closely risked their eardrums bursting and their senses overwhelmed by the sheer force of the noise.

As one ventured deeper into the Dragonpit, the intensity of the snoring grew, and with it, the temperature rose. The sleeping sounds, like thunderous roars, resonated through the vast passages, causing the air to shimmer with an almost palpable heat. The closer one got to the slumbering beast, the more oppressive the atmosphere became as if the dragon's very presence was suffocating.

The passages leading to this particular dragon were awe-inspiringly colossal. Wide enough for entire armies to march through, these stone corridors were designed to accommodate the grandeur of dragons. Even the mightiest of creatures, with wingspans that could blot out the sun, had once found these passages spacious enough. But this dragon, ancient and colossal, had outgrown even the grandest of spaces.

Its immense form stretched out within the confines of the passage, its scales glinting in the dim light like polished obsidian. The once generously wide passage, built to house dragons of considerable size, now seemed cramped and confining. The dragon's massive frame filled the corridor from wall to wall, its wings pressed tightly against its sides and its tail coiled in a serpentine fashion. The very stone of the Dragonpit groaned under the weight of the creature as if protesting against the burden it bore.

In this colossal prison, the dragon lay in a state of profound slumber, oblivious to the world outside. Its snores reverberated off the walls, creating a constant, rhythmic percussion that resonated through the Dragonpit like a heartbeat. Those who dared to approach marveled at the sheer magnitude of the beast, dwarfed by its immense size.

From my blood comes the Prince who was promised. And his will be a song of ice and fire.

Suddenly defying its immense age, the dragon's eyes snapped open, revealing orbs as red as blood. These eyes were so large that they were nearly the size of a grown man, and within them, a glint of intelligence and otherworldly knowledge shone.

The dragon's gaze, like that of a reptile, was locked on the surrounding stone confines. The slit pupils dilated and narrowed as it took in its surroundings. The creature's instincts, honed over centuries of existence, kicked into action. It realized that something had changed that the world it had known for so long was no longer the same.

The dragon sensed a disturbance in the core of its being, a flicker of magic intertwined with life, pulsating with an energy that had roused it from its decades-long slumber. The source of this magical awakening was a rider, a newborn whose very essence was intertwined with ancient powers. The confluence of these magics had finally penetrated the dragon's deep sleep, pulling it back into the waking world.

The dragon's awakening had been triggered by a unique and extraordinary event. The rider, born earlier in the year, carried within them a wellspring of potent and ancient magics. These magics, a connection to the very essence of dragons, had finally stirred the slumbering beast from its deep and timeless rest. It was as though the dragon had sensed the presence of a kindred spirit, a connection that transcended mere words and thoughts.

The rider, still a babe in the world, was the vessel for a power that had been dormant for generations. The dragon's awakening was not just a physical phenomenon but a manifestation of the profound bond that existed between them. As the dragon's gaze roved, it seemed to acknowledge the young rider's presence, an unspoken understanding that bound them together in a shared destiny. The Song of Ice and Fire had been born, Aegon's Dream had come at last.

The ancient dragon understood the limitations of his age and the toll that decades of confinement within the Dragonpit had taken on his once-mighty form. He had witnessed the rise and fall of civilizations, the vert flow of magics of fire and blood, and the changing tides of power. He knew that he was weaker now; his muscles atrophied, his scales dulled, and his once-ferocious flames dimmed.

However, the dragon sensed a glimmer of hope in his newfound rider, a beacon of extraordinary magical potential that seemed boundless. The young Targaryen, though just a child in the eyes of the world, possessed a reservoir of magic that surpassed even the most powerful sorcerers of old Valyria. With every beat of his heart, the rider exuded an energy that pulsed through the dragon, knitting his wounds, infusing strength into his tired muscles, and revitalizing his very essence.

In the presence of his bond, even if the newborn was in the Red Keep rather than the Dragonpit, the dragon felt the currents of magic swirl around him, healing and rejuvenation encompassing him. The young rider's powers, as vast as the cosmos, worked their way into the dragon's ancient body, mending the wear and tear of centuries. The dragon grew larger, stronger, and more vibrant with each passing moment. The very essence of the Valyrian bloodline, once dormant within the dragon's veins, now surged with newfound vitality.

The dragon felt the tension of his own muscles and knew that Vhagar, the mount of his first rider's sister, would feel verified that the true leader of the dragons would rise once more. His eyes, once dimmed with age, glowed with renewed vigor and intelligence. The Dragonpit, once a prison, became a crucible of transformation. The dragon, once weakened and diminished, would soon stand tall and proud, his size surpassing that of the mightiest dragons the Valyrians had ever known.

The dragon's roar reverberated through the Dragonpit, a sound that echoed ancient power and an unyielding spirit. It was a terrifying cry, louder than the fury of ten thousand thunderstorms, yet tinged with the weariness of age. The sound was long, stretching out like a groan, carrying the weight of decades of slumber and confinement.

As the dragon's roar filled the air, the ground beneath trembled, the very earth quaking in response to his mighty voice. The Dragonpit, once an impenetrable fortress, shook as if caught in the throes of a great earthquake. Dust and debris rained down from the ceiling, adding to the spectacle of raw, elemental power unleashed.

Despite the laborious nature of his roar, the dragon harbored a quiet confidence deep within his ancient heart. He knew that time was on his side, that with the magics flowing from his bonded rider, he would regain his former strength. In the coming years, he would shed the shackles of his weakened state and emerge anew, a force to be reckoned with.

As the dust settled and the echoes of his roar faded into the distance, the dragon closed his eyes, basking in the anticipation of the future. He knew that his roar, once feeble and labored, would soon regain its former might. And when that day came, the world would tremble once more in the presence of the last of the ancient dragons, reborn and ready to reclaim his rightful place among the king of the Targaryen dragons. He would make sure his future rider's enemies knew fire and blood. For he was Balerion, the Black Dread.

Chapter 3: A Kind Brother

Chapter Text

The Pyke 99 AC

Dagmer Greyjoy

Dagmer Greyjoy, the Lord Reaper of Pyke, was an imposing figure on the Iron Islands. His pale complexion contrasted sharply with his black hair and neat dark beard, giving him a striking appearance. Tall and strong, he commanded attention wherever he went. One distinctive feature was the black patch that covered his left eye, adding an air of mystery to his already enigmatic presence.

Seated upon the Salt Throne, an ancient and revered seat of power on the Iron Islands, Dagmer ruled with authority. The Salt Throne was a formidable sight, crafted from a single block of oily black stone and meticulously carved into the shape of a kraken, the emblem of House Greyjoy. This impressive seat had been the throne of the Kings of the Iron Islands for generations, symbolizing the might and heritage of the Ironborn.

Amidst the raging storm, Dagmer Greyjoy stood tall, undeterred by the howling winds and crashing waves that assaulted the Iron Islands and Pyke. With the thunderous roars and blinding flashes of lightning illuminating his determined face, he rose from his seat, leaving the Salt Throne behind, and made his way to a sturdy table adorned with a detailed map of the Seven Kingdoms.

His fingers traced the intricate lines of the map, following the contours of the North, the Riverlands, the Westerlands, and the Reach. His eyes, filled with a mix of calculation and ambition, studied the territories before him. The storm outside mirrored the turmoil within him as he pondered the vast expanse of Westeros and the intricate web of alliances and rivalries that bound its kingdoms together.

Dagmer Greyjoy's determination to return the Iron Islands to the old ways burned brightly within him, a fierce flame that refused to be extinguished. In his mind, the key to reclaiming the Ironborn's ancient glory lay in challenging the dragons, the symbol of Targaryen power that had reshaped Westeros and tamed the fierce spirit of the Iron Islands.

As the storm battered Pyke, symbolizing the relentless force of nature threatening to erode the Ironborn's homeland, Dagmer refused to succumb to despair. Instead, he channeled his people's indomitable spirit, vowing that they would not fade away quietly into the sea. The shrinking shores of Pyke only fueled his resolve, strengthening his conviction to fight against the encroaching waters and the dragons that symbolized the changing tides of power in Westeros.

Dagmer Greyjoy envisioned a future where the Ironborn would rise once more, reclaiming their independence and embracing the ancient traditions that defined their fierce and seafaring culture. He was prepared to challenge the dragons, even if it meant defying the might of House Targaryen. His determination was unwavering, and he was ready to lead his people in a fierce battle, not just against the dragons, but against the very forces of nature that threatened to consume them.

Dagmer Greyjoy's eyes flickered with intrigue as he read the paper, his fingers tracing the words had to explain to him. The information laid out before him presented a tantalizing opportunity. The Dornish, long known for their defiance against the dragons, were willing to collaborate with the Ironborn. Their offer to provide materials and blueprints for building scorpions, deadly anti-dragon weapons, was a proposition that could not be ignored. The Dornish and the Free Cities, it seemed, harbored no love for the dragons and were willing to assist in opposing them.

The prospect of uniting with the Dornish, their common enemy being the dragons and the Targaryens, appealed to Dagmer's desire to restore the Ironborn's independence. The strategic plan to attack the new Targaryen keep, Sumerhall, from the North, where its defenses were comparatively weaker, added weight to the proposal. The strong series of walls guarding the southern approach, designed to fend off Dornish attacks, left the northern side vulnerable and presented an ideal opportunity for a surprise assault.

Dagmer Greyjoy saw this alliance as a means to strike back at the dragons, to challenge their dominance and restore the Iron Islands to their former glory. With the Dornish support and their shared goal of resisting Targaryen rule, Dagmer envisioned a powerful coalition that could potentially tip the balance of power in Westeros.

Dagmer Greyjoy accepted the Dornish proposal, recognizing the potential strength that could come from such an alliance. With this agreement in place, he now needed to devise a strategy to confront the other armies of the Seven Kingdoms. He pondered the strengths and weaknesses of the various regions.

With the Dornish alliance secured, Dagmer Greyjoy began to formulate a bold and strategic plan to face the other armies of the kingdoms. His eyes narrowed in concentration as he considered the strengths and weaknesses of each region. The Riverlands and the North lacked formidable fleets, making them less immediate threats. The Lannisters, however, possessed a swift and powerful navy, capable of quick responses due to it being the closest. To weaken the Lannisters, Dagmer knew he had to strike at their fleet swiftly and decisively.

Simultaneously, he recognized the need to neutralize another significant naval power – the Redwynes of the Arbor, renowned for their naval prowess and vast fleet. Attacking both the Lannisters and the Redwynes would be a daring move, but it was a gamble Dagmer was willing to take.

Simultaneously, while attacking the fleets of the Lannisters and the Redwynes, part of Dagmer's forces would target the North and the Manderly's fleet. Though they might not be as significant in naval power, weakening the North and disrupting their coastal defenses would further destabilize the region and prevent them from mounting a strong counteroffensive.

The decision to raid Old Town, one of the most significant cities in the Reach, would be for the best, but even he knew that stretching himself too thin was unadvised when the Targaryens had dragons. By setting the entire Reach ablaze and burning their vital wheat fields, Dagmer intended to deal a severe blow to the region's resources. Starving the Reach of its primary food source would create widespread desperation and weaken the kingdoms, making it easier for the Ironborn to assert their dominance.

With the Reach in chaos, the North weakened, and key naval forces neutralized, Dagmer Greyjoy's plan would pave the way for the Ironborn to pillage and plunder vast territories. From the Westerlands to the Crown lands, they would exploit the weakened defenses and strike fear into the hearts of the people, amassing wealth and resources to strengthen their own position.

Dagmer Greyjoy was well aware of the challenges posed by stretching his forces thin across multiple simultaneous attacks. However, he understood the element of surprise and the importance of swift, coordinated strikes. By attacking the Reach, the North, and the coastal territories of the Westerlands and the Crown lands nearly simultaneously, the element of surprise would catch the other kingdoms off guard.

The key to success lay in the speed and efficiency of their assaults. If the attacks were executed swiftly and decisively, the Ironborn could create enough chaos and confusion to retreat before the full strength of the counterattacks could be mobilized. Retreating strategically would allow them to regroup, consolidate their gains, and prepare for the inevitable retaliation with as many scorpions as hey could make.

Dagmer Greyjoy's ambitious plans required a significant naval fleet, and he understood the urgent need for more ships. To achieve this, he faced the daunting task of sourcing ample wood, a precious resource on the Iron Islands. Recognizing the necessity of his endeavor, he would need to order the cutting down of every tree on the islands, sacrificing the natural landscape to fuel his ambition for power and independence.

However, even with the island's resources exhausted, it became apparent that more wood would be needed to meet the demands of shipbuilding. Dagmer considered the possibility of trading with the Free Cities to acquire the necessary wood. The Free Cities could provide a valuable source of timber in exchange for Ironborn goods or services.

Dagmer contemplated seeking the assistance of Braavos, and their own navy as further aid. Though reluctant to part with gold, he understood the importance of borrowing ships from the Braavosi if it meant expediting his plans. Paying the Gold Price was a bitter pill to swallow. However, he recognized necessity of doing so to achieve his goals within the tight timeframe of five years, however unlikely it was to actually meet it.

Under the cover of darkness, with the storm still raging around Pyke, Dagmer assembled his most trusted advisors. Together, they devised a plan that involved coordinating surprise attacks on both the Lannister fleet and the Redwyne fleet. By striking swiftly and catching their enemies off guard, they hoped to cripple two of the most powerful naval forces in the Seven Kingdoms. And then raid the entire kingdom.

In the dimly lit room, the howling storm outside mirrored the turmoil within Dagmer Greyjoy's mind. His determination burned brightly, undeterred by the fierce weather battering Pyke. Surrounded by his advisors, he carefully weighed the options and strategies, his eyes fixed on the maps and plans spread across the table. The candles flickered, casting eerie shadows on the faces of those gathered, but Dagmer's resolve remained unshaken.

As he listened to his advisors, Dagmer's thoughts were consumed by a singular, unwavering goal: to see the dragons fall. His vision was clear, fueled by a deep-seated determination to free the Ironborn from the shadow of the dragons and the Targaryen rule. The storm outside seemed to echo his fury, as if nature itself was conspiring with him in his quest for vengeance and freedom.

"The dragons will drown," he declared, his voice firm and resolute. "What is dead may never die!" The words resonated in the room, echoing the ancient Ironborn mantra as the others roared the same words back.

King's Landing 99 AC

Viserys Targaryen

Viserys doubted he could ever fully apricate the works of Aegon and his sister-wives. Aegon the Conqueror, the first of his name, had established his rule over the Seven Kingdoms, but he sought a seat of power worthy of his newfound dominion. Thus, atop the primitive fort known as the Aegonfort, perched on a rugged hill overlooking the Blackwater Rush, he envisioned a grand structure that would symbolize the strength of his dynasty and the unity of his realm.

In the early days, the Aegonfort served as a modest seat for the Conqueror during his triumphant campaigns. But as the realm settled into the peace of his rule, Aegon's ambitions soared higher. He decreed that the humble fort be torn down, making way for an ambitious project that would immortalize his legacy and house the coveted Iron Throne, the seat of power in the Seven Kingdoms.

With the Conqueror's vision as their guide, craftsmen and laborers toiled relentlessly, their sweat and toil shaping the very stones of the Red Keep. Aegon's dream began to take tangible form, transforming the hilltop into a colossal fortress of pale red stone, a monument to his reign and the Targaryen dynasty. The construction spanned years, spanning the reigns of Aegon the Conqueror and his successor Aenys the Abomination, then Maegor the Cruel, who oversaw the completion of the Red Keep.

The Red Keep, once a mere idea in Aegon's mind, now stood tall and proud, a testament to the vision and determination of its royal architects. Its seven massive drum towers, crowned with iron ramparts, loomed over King's Landing, casting a shadow over the city and the Blackwater Rush below. Within its walls, the Iron Throne found its new home, a symbol of authority that would shape the fate of the realm for generations to come.

As the sun rose from the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over the city of King's Landing, citizens and travelers approached the majestic Red Keep. The sight that greeted them was nothing short of awe-inspiring, a spectacle that seemed to emerge from the annals of ancient legends. Made of pale red stone that seemed to catch fire under the fading sunlight, the Red Keep stood proudly, overlooking the mouth of the Blackwater Rush like a sentinel guarding the secrets of the realm.

The fortress was a formidable structure, its imposing silhouette dominating the skyline of King's Landing. Seven massive drum towers, each one reaching for the heavens, crowned with iron ramparts that gleamed menacingly in the fading light. It was as if the keep itself was a living, breathing entity, a creature of stone and steel, its very presence evoking both fear and respect.

Its walls rose high into the sky, seemingly touching the clouds, while its towers reached for the stars, a testament to the might and ambition of those who had built it. The keep seemed impregnable, a fortress that could withstand any siege, its red walls whispering tales of battles won and lost, of triumphs and tragedies that had shaped the destiny of the realm.

The keep so large the interior was a labyrinthine of corridors and passages. The air was thick with the scent of age-old stone, and every step echoed with the weight dragon king history. The corridors twisted and turned, leading the wayfarer deeper into the heart of the keep, where the secrets of the realm were said to be hidden away.

Prince Viserys Targaryen, a prince of the blood, found himself with a rare moment of leisure on a quiet afternoon. Even if he was not the prince of Dragonstone, nor was he one of the small council, he had much to do because his father, Baelon, would not give him time to rest. The weight of his responsibilities as a member of the illustrious Targaryen family pressed heavily upon his shoulders, yet today, he was determined to embrace the opportunity to bring joy to his loved ones. Among those dear to his heart were his younger brother, Daemon, and his nephew, Aemon.

As he strolled through the corridors of the Red Keep Viserys contemplated ways to bring happiness to his family. His thoughts gravitated towards little Aemon, who was about to celebrate his second birthday in a week's time. The idea of Aemon's innocent laughter and bright eyes filled Viserys' heart with warmth. He yearned to make this special occasion memorable for the child and his father, Daemon, who had been separated from his son for far too long.

Viserys knew the bond between a father and his child was precious and irreplaceable. He sympathized deeply with Daemon, who had been kept away from Aemon due to his duties and responsibilities within the realm. Viserys felt a pang of guilt for the absence of family moments that Daemon had missed, and he resolved to bridge that gap, if only for a short while.

With determination in his eyes, Viserys set out to organize a heartfelt reunion. He arranged for Aemon to meet his father after months of separation, orchestrating a moment that would be etched into their memories forever. Viserys believed that it was his duty, as Daemon's elder brother, to ensure his brother's happiness and to nurture the family bonds that held them together.

With little Aemon cradled gently in his arms, Prince Viserys Targaryen made his way to the Dragonpit, the ancient and awe-inspiring monument that stood as a testament to the Targaryen legacy. As he walked, he couldn't help but steal glances at his precious nephew, whose innocent eyes held a curiosity that mirrored the wonder of the world around him. Aemon's tiny fingers clutched at Viserys' clothing, and the prince couldn't help but smile at the sheer purity of the child's spirit.

As Prince Viserys Targaryen embarked on the journey to the Dragonpit with his young nephew, Aemon, his wife Aemma chose to remain in the familiar confines of the Red Keep. Her decision to stay behind was not made out of indifference but rather out of a deeply rooted desire not to get tangled with the chaos that was her brother-by-law and her cousin. Though her gaze never wavered from her daughter, there was a tension in her demeanor, a silent testament to the unresolved emotions that lingered within the family. Aemma had chosen not to accompany them to the Dragonpit, her desire to avoid any interaction with Daemon palpable.

The Dragonpit stood proudly atop the Hill of Rhaenys in King's Landing, a monumental testament to the awe-inspiring power and majesty of dragons. As Prince Viserys Targaryen entered the colossal structure, he marveled at its grandeur. The Dragonpit was a massive, cavernous building that seemed to stretch endlessly into the sky, its architecture a blend of elegance and imposing strength.

The outer walls of the Dragonpit were adorned with intricate designs and etchings of dragons, their wings outstretched and eyes fierce, capturing the essence of these mythical creatures in vivid detail. The sculptures seemed to come to life as the sunlight filtered through the openings, casting dynamic shadows that danced upon the stone walls. Each dragon depicted was unique, representing different breeds and sizes, showcasing the diversity of the Targaryen dragons.

Inside, the Dragonpit was a labyrinth of tunnels and chambers, echoing with the soft roars and gentle murmurs of the dragons residing within. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and sulfur, a constant reminder of the powerful beings that dwelled there. Massive statues of dragons adorned the inner sanctums, their imposing presence invoking both fear and reverence.

Dragonkeepers, clad in sturdy leather garments and armed with long pikes, moved about the chambers with purpose. They were responsible for the care and management of the dragons, tending to their needs, feeding them, and ensuring their confinement was secure. Some Dragonkeepers were seen delicately inspecting dragon eggs, their careful hands cradling the precious objects that held the promise of future power.

As Viserys walked alongside young Aemon, he explained the significance of the Dragonpit in a playful voice. He shared tales of legendary dragons and their riders, painting a vivid picture of the glorious past of House Targaryen. Aemon's eyes widened with wonder, absorbing the rich history that surrounded him, at least t looked that way to Viserys.

Viserys observed with affectionate amusem*nt as young Aemon's eyes widened in awe at the sight of the dragons. His nephew's fascination was palpable, his gaze tracing the lines of each dragon, marveling at their varying shapes and sizes. The Dragonpit was home to nearly a dozen of these majestic creatures, each one unique in its own right. Some dragons had long, coiling necks, while others stood tall and imposing. Aemon's innocent curiosity was a reminder of the enduring fascination that dragons held for generations of Targaryens.

In a fleeting moment, Viserys thought he saw something peculiar in Aemon's eyes. For an instant, they seemed to cloud over with a swirling white mist, the vibrant dark, near-black, indigo momentarily obscured. It was as if a mysterious veil had descended upon his nephew's gaze. However, the odd occurrence was so brief that Viserys dismissed it as a mere trick of the light, a play of shadows within the depths of the Dragonpit.

Blinking away the uncertainty, Viserys smiled down at Aemon, ruffling his hair affectionately. "Dragons have a way of captivating even the bravest of hearts, don't they?" he remarked, his voice warm with understanding. He decided not to mention the strange moment, choosing instead to focus on the joy of sharing this experience with his nephew.

"Bring me Sheepstealer," Viserys instructed the head Dragonkeeper in High Valryian.

Viserys, feeling a surge of nostalgia, decided to bring out his own dragon, Sheepstealer. Despite the unflattering description of its color as "mud brown," Sheepstealer possessed a unique and rugged beauty. His hide, although not adorned with vibrant hues, bore the marks of battles long fought and challenges overcome. Around his head, Sheepstealer boasted a crown of spikes reminiscent of his cousin Rhaenys' dragon, Meleys, even if only half as many spikes in number.

The dragon's most striking feature was its black teeth, sharp as daggers and hinting at the formidable power concealed within his jaw. With a wingspan that rivaled Silverwing and a length nearing two hundred feet, Sheepstealer was a magnificent beast, just slightly smaller than Vermithor, the mount of his grandfather, King Jaehaerys.

Despite his immense size and fearsome appearance, Sheepstealer was not inherently aggressive towards humans, displaying a surprisingly mild temperament unless provoked. However, when roused, he could be vicious and ill-tempered, a force to be reckoned with. His preferences were as peculiar as his appearance; Sheepstealer had a particular fondness for mutton, a taste that had earned him his distinctive name.

Aemon had asked to be put down; the boy's speech was far more advanced than it should be for his age. Viserys thought he was speaking to a boy four times his age of two, his birthday was a week, and the boy talked almost as if she was a decade old. As the Dragonkeepers carefully approached Sheepstealer, Viserys stood beside his nephew Aemon, watching in awe as the massive dragon stretched its wings and roared, the sound reverberating through the cavernous walls of the Dragonpit. Viserys' heart swelled with pride at the sight of his loyal companion.

With a sense of reverence, Viserys gently placed his hand on Sheepstealer's scaly snout, the dragon nuzzling him in response. It was a moment of connection, a silent understanding that spoke volumes about the bond between dragon and rider.

Viserys and young Aemon gazed up at Sheepstealer, the dragon so immense that it could easily swallow them whole if it so desired. The sheer size of the creature was utterly terrifying, a living embodiment of raw power and primal majesty. His brown scales, though lacking in vibrant colors, possessed a rugged beauty of their own. Each scale seemed to be a testament to decades of life, weathered and scarred, reflecting the dragon's storied existence.

As Viserys and Aemon observed in awe, they noticed the tensing muscles beneath Sheepstealer's coarse hide. His massive frame quivered with restrained strength, a reminder of the tremendous power coiled within his sinewy body. The dragon's eyes, sharp and intelligent, regarded them with a mix of curiosity and recognition. It was a gaze that bore the weight of countless experiences, a silent acknowledgment of the humans before him.

Sheepstealer's large wings, though folded against his sides, still hinted at their tremendous span. Every now and then, they flapped lightly, creating a soft rush of air that stirred the dust on the ground. The movement was graceful despite the dragon's colossal size, a testament to the innate elegance that resided within even the mightiest of creatures.

"Look, Aemon," Viserys said in High Vlaryian with excitement, his voice gentle as he ensured a small, specially crafted saddle was brought forth for his young nephew."We're going to take to the skies on Sheepstealer. Hold on tight, my boy."

With care, Viserys helped Aemon onto Sheepstealer's back, securing him in the saddle and ensuring he was safe and snug. Aemon's eyes widened with a mixture of wonder and trepidation as he clung to the saddle, his tiny fingers gripping the leather straps.

"Are you ready, Aemon?" Viserys asked, his voice filled with reassurance. Aemon nodded, his trust in his uncle unwavering. Viserys mounted Sheepstealer with practiced ease, his years of experience evident in the way he handled the massive dragon. He led his dragon out of the Dragonpit, the sun's rising golden light shown on the dragon and its riders. He patted Sheepstealer's side affectionately, whispering words of encouragement to the majestic creature."Fly, old friend,"Viserys said, his voice barely audible to anyone but the dragon.

With a powerful beat of his wings, Sheepstealer lifted off the ground, the rush of wind accompanying their ascent. Viserys held onto Aemon securely, ensuring the young boy felt no fear, only the exhilarating thrill of flight.

As they soared above the city of King's Landing, Viserys guided Sheepstealer towards the south. They ascended rapidly, leaving the ground far below them. As they soared higher, the buildings of King's Landing dwindled to mere dots, the once bustling city now a miniature replica beneath them. The people, too small to see, appeared like ants scurrying about their daily lives.

Aemon clung to the saddle, his wide eyes filled with a mixture of wonder and excitement. Viserys kept a firm grip on his nephew, ensuring his safety as they glided through the vast expanse of the sky. The wind rushed past them, carrying the scents and sounds of the city far below.

As Viserys and Aemon continued their flight, the sun bathed them in its golden warmth, casting a radiant glow across the vast expanse of clouds below. The sky stretched out endlessly around them, a canvas of blue interrupted only by the occasional wisp of white. They soared towards the Dornish marches, a region of wild beauty and untamed landscapes that lay on the border between the Stormlands and Dorne. The vast Dornish marches stretched out before them like a lush, green tapestry. The sun painted the landscape in hues of gold and amber, casting a warm glow over the marches below.

Beneath them, the hundreds of leagues of the marches unfurled like a patchwork quilt of grassland, moors, and plains, their colors blending seamlessly in the sunlight. In the distance, the imposing peaks of the Red Mountains loomed, their rugged silhouettes adding an air of majesty to the panoramic view. The land below was alive with the vibrant hues of wildflowers and the rich greenery of the grass, a testament to the fertile soil and the resilience of nature in the face of the harsh climate.

As they flew over this breathtaking terrain, Viserys marveled at the beauty of the Dornish marches. The sheer vastness of the landscape was awe-inspiring, and the tranquility of the moment was punctuated only by the sound of the wind rushing past them. Aemon, wide-eyed with wonder, gazed at the unfolding panorama beneath them, his small fingers clutching the saddle in amazement.

As Viserys and Aemon approached the site where Summerhall would be built, they beheld a scene of bustling activity. The once-empty landscape now teemed with workers, their hands toiling tirelessly to bring the vision of Summerhall to life. Twenty towers, tall and imposing, rose gradually from the ground, reaching toward the sky. Among them, a wooden keep stood as a testament to the future stronghold that would grace the land.

The great walls of Summerhall were already taking shape, a magnificent blend of wood and marble. Most of the structure was constructed from sturdy wood, expertly carved, and assembled to form the foundation of the castle. However, the true splendor of Summerhall lay in the large stones of marble, each one bigger than most men, meticulously placed to create the walls and towers. The marble stones, whiter than snow, seemed to glisten in the sunlight, casting a radiant glow across the construction site. While nothing was complete yet, however, Viserys could see the vision. It would be an imposing fort first and a grand palace second, and yet Visersy would not hold against others if they thought the priorities were switched.

Viserys observed the construction site of Summerhall with a mixture of admiration and awe. Hundreds, if not thousands, of men labored tirelessly beneath the sun, their collective efforts shaping the future stronghold of House Targaryen. Ropes and pulleys crisscrossed the area, their intricate mechanisms facilitating the movement of massive stones, each larger than a man, to their designated positions.

The wooden structures, meticulously crafted and strategically placed, served as the backbone of the construction project. They provided a sturdy framework and a guideline, outlining the layout where the colossal marble stones would be meticulously set. Workers moved with precision and coordination, guided by a shared vision of the castle's grandeur. The rhythmic sounds of hammers striking nails and saws cutting through wood filled the air, creating a symphony of construction that resonated across the landscape.

As Sheepstealer circled above, Viserys and Aemon continued to observe the construction below, appreciating the meticulous workmanship and the magnitude of the endeavor. The sight of so many men toiling together, their hands and hearts dedicated to the creation of Summerhall, filled Viserys with a sense of pride for his younger brother's work.

Viserys recalled his father, Baelon, speaking about Daemon's plans. His father couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction as he explained the plans for the fortified walls being constructed throughout the Dornish marches, leading the way to Summerhall. These barriers were not mere obstacles; they were a testament to careful planning and a deep understanding of military tactics. The concept was reminiscent of the Bloody Gate leading to the Vale, a famous or infamous defense structure renowned for its effectiveness.

The idea was simple yet brilliant: each gate leading to Summerhall would progressively become more difficult to breach as one ventured closer to the castle. The Dornish, known for their resilience and tenacity, would find their progress impeded at every step. Even if they managed to overcome one wall, the formidable challenge presented by the next would drain their resources and weaken their forces.

With each fortified barrier, the Dornish army would face an increasingly daunting task. The first gate, being made out of Blackhaeven, since the House Dondarrion had died out due to Daemon fighting for Lyanna's hand. The castle became far more like a large fort and from what Baelon had explained, a small branch house of Daemon's new branch would be sent there to the fort-keep, being named the Dragon's Gate. Each wall between the Dragon's Gate and Summerhall would be heavily manned.

By the time the Dornish reached the walls surrounding Summerhall, they would be exhausted and depleted, their morale worn thin from the arduous journey. The prospect of overcoming several heavily defended gates, each designed to be more impregnable than the last, made the idea of a successful invasion practically insurmountable.

Viserys' sharp eyes caught sight of the immense red dragon, Caraxes, laying near the western side of the Summerhall construction site. He knew instinctively that his brother, Daemon, would not be far off. Caraxes, fiercely protective of his rider, would never stray too far from Daemon, especially in times of potential danger. Daemon, too, would be close to his dragon in case something went astray.

Guiding Sheepstealer with practiced ease, Viserys directed the dragon to land near Caraxes. The ground trembled beneath them as the massive wings of the dragons slowed, finally folding against his side. Once they had landed safely, Viserys carefully helped Aemon off Sheepstealer's back, ensuring his nephew's tiny feet touched the ground securely.

Aemon, wide-eyed and exhilarated from the dragon ride, clung to Viserys for a moment before finding his balance. Viserys steadied him with a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "There now, little one," Viserys said, his voice gentle yet firm. "You did wonderfully." Viserys noticed that Aemon was drawn to Caraxes, not far behind. The dragon long looking to Aemon, turning it's head as if gaging the boy's worth.

Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, was a dragon of terrifying power and presence. His sheer size and menacing aura made him a legendary figure in the annals of Targaryen history. Standing almost as large as Sheepstealer, Caraxes exuded an air of lethality that set him apart. To Viserys, he appeared thrice as deadly, a force of nature that commanded respect and fear in equal measure.

The dragon's scales were a deep, fiery red, shimmering like molten lava in the sunlight. His body, long and sinuous, resembled that of a serpent, making him distinct from many other dragons of his time. Caraxes' eyes were a piercing yellow, gleaming with intelligence and wisdom that spoke of countless battles and experiences.

What truly set Caraxes apart were the unique features that adorned his form. He sported a beard of sharp, horn-like protrusions beneath his jaw, adding to his fearsome appearance. Membranes resembling wings extended from his forearms, allowing him to navigate the skies with unmatched agility. Most notably, his hind legs bore similar wing-like membranes, granting him increased maneuverability and stability in flight. This adaptation made him a formidable opponent, capable of swift and precise movements in the air.

Caraxes roared at Sheepstealer to ensure the new dragon knew this land was the territory of the red dragon, Sheepstealer roared back lower, softer, as if to confirm this and not show a threat. Caraxes' roar was not the typical thunderous bellow associated with dragons; instead, it emerged as a strangled whine, a haunting screech that sent shivers down the spine of anyone who heard it. The sound was a testament to his fierce nature and the ferocity with which he defended his riders and territory.

Caraxes looked to Aemon, and when Viserys was going to take the baby boy from the dragon, Aemon walked closer, far faster than a baby should. Viserys was going to stop the baby before Caraxes growled towards Viserys, Sheepstealer was to intervene, but Viserys stopped his dragon; two dragons fighting a mere dozen yards from himself and a baby was not something they would survive, even if no fire was used. Caraxes looked to Aemon once more, the boy named after his first rider, the boy that was the son of his current. Aemon reached his hand out, and Caraxes looked for a second long before lowering its large head, larger than five times the size of the child, and placed it towards the ground for Aemon to reach.

Aemon put his hands on his snout and giggled as Caraxes purred, something Viserys did not know that Caraxes himself could do. Aemon, who knew High Valryian, far better than a baby should, spoke compliments and endearment towards the dragon. Viserys knew that Daemon, while a brilliant rider and a lover of flight, was not the best at loving his dragon. Aemon nurtured it, loved it, and Caraxes, who, like most dragons, hated the presence of others those of dragon blood if he had a rider already, showed an affection he did not even show to Daemon more often than not.

Viserys heard a chuckle behind him. Viserys turned his attention to the vicinity, scanning the area for any signs of his brother. Just as he suspected, Daemon was approaching, his imposing figure silhouetted against the open sky and construction behind him.

With a warm smile, Viserys greeted his brother as he approached. "Daemon," he said, his voice carrying a mix of relief and camaraderie. "It's good to see you. Aemon and I were just enjoying a flight on Sheepstealer." He gestured towards the young prince, who was now wide-eyed with curiosity, gazing at Caraxes with a sense of wonder and trepidation.

Daemon gives Viserys a hug; Viserys, while welcoming it, was a little surprised by the gesture. Viserys warmly reciprocated his brother's hug, a genuine smile on his face as they embraced. The bond between the Targaryen brothers was as strong as the dragons they rode. As they separated, Daemon chuckled and shook his head in a mix of amusem*nt and frustration.

"Viserys," he began, a twinkle in his eye, "you have no idea how boring it is to be stationed so close to Dorne. They've got their bluster, but when it comes to taking any real action, they're all too scared. It's as if they don't have the balls to make a move. I've spent more time waiting than having a true battle. Cowardly c*nts the lot of them."

Viserys nodded in understanding, smiled widely before letting a chuckle escape his lips, fully aware of the complex dynamics that governed the relationship between the Seven Kingdoms and Dorne. He had heard tales of the Dornish resilience and pride, but their cautious nature had its own unique challenges since it was akin to a viper in the sands, only willing to strike when they knew the strike would true and lethal.

As they conversed, Daemon's attention was drawn to his son, Aemon, who was playing with Caraxes. He observed with a smile as Caraxes seemed to have taken a liking to the young prince. The dragon and the child shared a unique bond.

Viserys smiled as he noticed the genuine warmth in Daemon's eyes as he looked at his son, Aemon. Encouraged by his brother, Daemon approached the young prince with careful steps, a sense of pride and affection evident in his demeanor. Aemon, engrossed in his interaction with Caraxes, remained oblivious to his father's approach, his attention fully captured by the magnificent dragon before him.

Daemon's voice, gentle yet full of pride, cut through the air as he spoke to Aemon, "Caraxes seems to like you, Aemon. Not many can claim such a bond with a dragon." He spoke in High Valryian to see if the rumors he had heard about his son's intelligence were true. Viserys knew that Daemon hated his father for taking him away from his own son but Viserys supposed Daemon would not allow his anger at his father to cloud a time with his son.

Aemon's face lit up with a bright smile, his eyes reflecting the pure joy of the moment. "I like Caraxes too," he replied, his voice filled with innocent enthusiasm. Daemon smiled smugly and turned to his brother. Viserys could see the wheels turning his brother's head, knowing full well Daemon would gloat that his son could speak well for a babe. The young prince reached out his hand, tentatively petting Caraxes' snout under Daemon's guidance. The dragon, normally fierce and untamed, seemed to respond to Aemon's touch with surprising gentleness as if recognizing the innocence and goodness within the young Targaryen.

Daemon looked down at young Aemon, his eyes filled with both affection and curiosity. He hesitated for a moment before asking, "Aemon, do you know who I am?"

Aemon's response was immediate, his voice filled with innocence and trust, towards his father. "You're my Kepa." Aemon said using the Valryian name for father.

Daemon's smile widened at his nephew's response. "Yes, I am," he said, his voice filled with warmth. "And do you know why I am over here, so far away from you, Uncle Viserys, and you?" he asked, his tone gentle.

Aemon nodded, his eyes wide with understanding. "You're making a big castle, Kepa. We're going to live in it," he replied, his voice filled with certainty.

Daemon's heart swelled with pride as he looked at the little prince. "That's right, Aemon," he said, his voice filled with approval. "You are very smart. We are building this castle, Summerhall, for our family. It will be our home, a place where we can be together and safe."

Daemon crouched down, bringing himself to Aemon's eye level. He smiled reassuringly and said, "You know, Aemon, once we move into Summerhall, you can ride Caraxes whenever you want. Just you and me flying on Caraxes from sunrise to sunset."

Aemon's eyes widened with excitement, his imagination undoubtedly running wild with the thrill of dragon rides. "Really, Kepa?" he exclaimed, his voice filled with pure wonder. However, a shadow of concern crossed Aemon's face. "But what if the Dornish come back, Kepa?" he asked, his voice laced with worry. "They might try to fight Summerhall."

Daemon was impressed by his son's astuteness. He turned to Viserys as Viserys mouthed the words 'lessons with the Grand Maester', Daemon nodded now knowing where his son leanred of the Dornish. He placed a hand on Aemon's shoulder, his expression thoughtful. "You're right, Aemon. The Dornish might come back, but you don't need to worry," he said, his tone confident. "I'm building a lot of walls and other things to protect us. Many people will be there to help us guard Summerhall from any threats." He paused, a proud smile on his face. "And, most importantly, we have Caraxes to protect us too. No one is better than Caraxes. He's strong and fierce, just like our family. With him by our side, we'll be safe, Aemon."

Aemon's eyes sparkled with curiosity and enthusiasm as he chimed in, "There are a lot of dragons bigger than Caraxes, Kepa. Sheepstealer is bigger, and so are Dreamfyre, Silverwing, Vermithor, the Cannibal, Meraxes, Vhagar, and Balerion. Grandfather Baelon rides Vhagar. And no one is bigger than Balerion."

Daemon chuckled at his son's knowledge, impressed by the young prince's keen observation. "You're right, Aemon," he said, his voice filled with pride. "Vhagar is indeed bigger, but remember, size isn't everything. What makes a great rider is the bond between dragon and rider, the trust and understanding that we share." He smiled down at his son, his eyes reflecting a mixture of affection and determination. "And you, Aemon, will be a great rider, too. Just like your father, you'll learn to understand your dragon, and to trust each other completely. With time and patience, you'll become the best rider there is, and no one will be better than you."

Aemon's innocent eyes filled with a mixture of hope and sadness as he voiced his desire to be a dragon rider too. "I want to be a dragon rider, Kepa," he said, his voice carrying a tinge of longing.

Daemon's expression softened, and he nodded emphatically. "Of course, you will, Aemon," he assured his son, his voice steady and resolute. "You have dragon blood in your veins, and you're a true Targaryen. You're destined to ride a dragon, just like your father and your uncle."

However, Aemon's tone grew somber as he continued, his small voice laced with hurt. "But Aunt Aemma doesn't ride a dragon," he said, his words heavy with the weight of disappointment. "Her kepa wasn't Targaryen, just like my muna isn't Targaryen." Aemon's face fell, his eyes downcast as he confessed, "I don't look like you or Uncle Viserys."

"You might not look like us, but you are a Targaryen, Aemon. You have my name; you have my blood. You just look like your muna and I am happy for it," Daemon says as he rubs Aemon's hair.

"But Rhaenyra looks like you and Uncle Viserys, and she has a dragon. Syrax is small, but she will be big. Then Rhaenyra would ride her," Aemon argues.

"And you are a Targaryen just like her," Daemon says, smiling. "You will get a dragon, and you and I and Caraxes will fly in the skies all the time," Daemon says, a soft smile on his lips.

"That's not what people say back home," Aemon said.

"What do they say, Tresy," Daemon said. Using the Valryian word for son. His eyes looking into his son's own deep indigo. He would not let anything happen to his boy. Viserys could already see where this was going and did not like the chances of Daemon not climbing on Caraxes and burning half the Red Keep in retaliation.

"People say I won't get a dragon because I'm not a real Targaryen," Aemon clarified.

Viserys coughed, nearly letting out a gasp; he never heard any of this, and if a two-name day boy heard this and understood it, why didn't he or the rest of the family ever hear this? Viserys could see Daemon's eyes darken. Daemon was close to snapping, but the presence of the son he never could spend time with was holding his rage back.

"What else do they say?" Daemon asked.

"They use a word I don't know," Aemon admitted. Daemon looked at his son and asked him to say the word. "They call me a bastard. What's a bastard, Kepa?"

Daemon's jaw clenched in anger, his hands tightening into fists as he turned to Viserys, his concern palpable. Viserys met his brother's gaze, understanding the depth of Daemon's emotions.

Turning back to his son, Daemon's voice was firm, his determination unwavering. "Aemon, listen to me," he said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "You are not a bastard, never listen to anyone who tells you that. You are a true Targaryen, and you will ride a dragon. I promise you that, with every fiber of my being. No one will deny you your rightful destiny, and anyone who dares to insult you, will answer to me."

Caraxes, sensing his rider's fierce resolve and feeling the depth of Daemon's emotion through their bond, let out a powerful bellow and growl, echoing his rider's determination. Caraxes' raised its head to the skies and let out a screechy roar that unnerved all the workers around him. Viserys would find those who made those vial accusations and have their tongues.

Daemon tells Aemon to continue playing with Caraxes and Sheepstealer but to be careful. Viserys watched as Daemon walked away with a sense of concern for his son, the anger in his brother's eyes evident. Daemon's face was a mask of seething rage as he confronted his brother, Viserys.

"Who, in the seven hells, is calling my son a bastard?" he demanded, his voice sharp and biting. His eyes glinted with fury, his concern for his son fueling his anger.

Viserys met his brother's intense gaze and admitted, "Daemon, this is the first I've heard of such accusations." His brows furrowed with worry. "I had no knowledge of this before now."

Daemon's anger burned hot, and he spoke with unwavering resolve. "I'm going back to King's Landing to get answers, Viserys," he declared, his voice firm. "Our family should be protecting Aemon, and it's clear that we're failing if he's hearing such words."

Viserys couldn't help but be concerned for his brother's safety and the potential consequences of his actions. He countered, "And what are you going to do? Cut off the hands or feet of every person in the city to find your answer, Daemon?"

Daemon's expression remained resolute. "If that's what it takes to protect my son and uphold his honor, then I will," he affirmed, his voice filled with determination.

Viserys, deeply concerned for his brother's safety and the potential consequences of Daemon's actions, tried to reason with him. "Daemon, I understand your anger, but let me handle this. I will find out who is responsible and ensure they face the consequences. We cannot afford to act rashly; our family's reputation is at stake."

Daemon, his eyes ablaze with fury, was unyielding. "I will do it myself," he declared, his voice edged with deadly determination. "And when I find whoever is responsible, I will make them pay. I will slice them down the middle, rip out their heart, and feed it to Caraxes."

"Daemon, you cannot let your anger consume you to this extent," Viserys pleaded, his voice filled with urgency. "Our father would never condone such violence. You risk everything, including your own life, by acting so recklessly."

Daemon's gaze hardened, his resolve unshaken. "Not before I have the heads of those responsible for calling my son a bastard," he retorted, his voice cold and unforgiving. "No one will defile my son's honor and escape my wrath. I will do whatever it takes to protect Aemon and our family's legacy."

Viserys, his voice filled with genuine concern, pleaded with his brother once more, "Daemon, please. Let me handle this first. You've just met Aemon, and I don't want the foundation of trust and love you're trying to build with him to be tainted by bloodshed. If I fail to find the responsible parties, I promise you, I will personally inform you and help you root out the issue. But let us not act in haste and risk causing more harm than good."

Daemon hesitated, his eyes flickering between his son and his brother. He saw the sincerity in Viserys' eyes and felt the weight of his words. After a moment of tense silence, Daemon nodded, his expression still firm but slightly softened. "Very well, Viserys. I will trust you to handle this. But remember, if you fail, I will not hesitate to take matters into my own hands. Aemon's honor and our family's legacy are at stake."

Viserys' expression turned serious as he turned his gaze from Aemon back to Daemon. "There's several other matters I need to discuss with you, something of great concern," he said, his voice low and grave. His words hung heavy in the air as he continued, "Balerion, the Black Dread, has been stirred from his slumber. Deep within the Dragonpit, he has grown strong enough to roar. His roar shook the entire city, causing it to quake. This is troubling, especially considering Balerion has not been awake since it returned from its venture to Valyria."

Daemon's anger turned to intrigue. Viserys knew Daemon was cunning enough to know that he would not bring his son to him only for them to meet; there had to be another reason for Viserys to come personally. Daemon's surprise was evident, his eyes widening at the revelation. "Balerion awake?" he muttered, clearly taken aback. "This is interesting news indeed."

Viserys met Daemon's gaze, his expression weighted with significance. "The Dragonkeepers who ventured deep enough to witness Balerion's movements reported something extraordinary," Viserys began, his voice low and serious. "They observed that the dragon is growing, breaking the walls that confine him simply by his sheer size. Moved deeper into the Dragonpit caves. And what's more, the red scars that Balerion gained when he flew off, they are healing."

Daemon's eyes widened in comprehension as he processed the implications of Viserys' words. "But why now?" he asked, his voice filled with curiosity and concern. "What could have caused Balerion to stir once more after all this time?"

"Father has his own ideas but has refused to share them with me. He did say that there may be more magics in the air. He mentioned that mayhap dragons, being made from magic, needed a vast amount of it to heal old wounds, grow larger, and live longer lives."

"What do you think?" Daemon asked. Daemon's eyes looking to Caraxes as he gently pushed Aemon to the floor with his snout, Aemon laughingly standing backup.

"Nothing worth explain as of yet," Viserys replied. Viserys' gaze shifted to Aemon, his young nephew who stood before them, innocent yet powerful, a symbol of the future of House Targaryen. The unspoken answer hung in the air, a testament to the significance of the moment. Viserys continued, his voice carrying a mixture of awe and concern, "The Dragonkeepers have claimed that Balerion has been moving far more frequently in the last two days alone compared to the last two decades. What ever the magics may be, they seem to have awakened the Black Dread once more."

"The Black Dread moving about may be a pain. The smallfolk would give conflicting responses. Half would want him chained for being such a dangerous and powerful dragon. The other half would be celebrating the Conqueror has returning."

Viserys knew he had other things to say but no way of saying the words he wished. Viserys, however, looked thoughtful, his brow furrowed with concern. "Aemon has dreams," he began, his voice laced with a sense of intrigue.

Daemon raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "Dreams? Why do dreams matter?" he asked, genuinely puzzled.

Viserys explained, his tone measured, "These are not ordinary dreams, Daemon. Aemon dreams of being a dragon, burning down armies. He shared one with me, a vivid vision where he, with Vhagar, and another dragon, were burning the largest army ever seen. The banners bore golden lions on red fields and a green hand on a silver field. He described events of the Conquest as if he were there himself."

Daemon's expression shifted from amusem*nt to a mix of awe and realization. "The Feild of Fire," Daemon realizes. He exchanged a meaningful glance with Viserys, understanding the profound implications of Aemon's dreams.

Viserys' expression grew somber as he continued, "On other nights, Aemon claims to be a wolf beyond the Wall, hunting and slaughtering Wildlings and animals. He wakes up with the taste of iron on his lips, the iron taste of blood."

Daemon scoffed, his tone mocking. "And what? You think he's turning into a wolf in his dreams, Viserys? Do you believe in grumpkins and snarks too?" he taunted, his skepticism apparent.

Viserys met his brother's skepticism with a steadfast resolve. "Valyrian magics are real, Daemon. Our family's history is filled with stories of dragons, visions, and prophecies. If Valyrian magic can be real, why can't the magic of the First Men, the Children of the Forest, and other northern magics live as well?" he countered, his tone unwavering.

Daemon paused, his smirk fading as he considered his brother's words. The Targaryen legacy was intertwined with mysticism, dragons, and ancient prophecies. In a world where such extraordinary elements existed, the possibility of other forms of magic and mystery couldn't be dismissed outright.

"I'll endeavor to go beyond the Wall and speak to the Others themselves to get your answers, brother," Daemon said the final word with a over sarcasm and grandeur that showcase his lack of caring of dreams. "I'm more concerned of the little sh*ts calling my son a bastard rather than my son's dreams. He could f*cking be a pretty pink unicorn in them, dreams mean nothing to me, Viserys."

Viserys should have expected that. Viserys took a deep breath, his expression serious as he said, "There's something else I wish to discuss, Daemon."

Daemon, curious yet cautious, asked, "What is it?"

Viserys hesitated for a moment before revealing his intention. "A betrothal," he said, his voice steady.

Daemon's brows furrowed in confusion. "A betrothal? I will not remarry, Viserys. I don't need to marry to gain new heirs. I have an heir, and that's Aemon," he stated firmly.

Viserys nodded, acknowledging his brother's point. "It's not for you, Daemon. It's for Aemon," he clarified. "I've tried to have a child with Aemma, but miscarriages have plagued us. If we do manage to have a baby, there's no guarantee it will be a boy."

Daemon's confusion deepened as he processed Viserys' words. "So you're suggesting a betrothal for Aemon," he said slowly, trying to understand.

Viserys met Daemon's gaze with unwavering determination as he continued, explaining his proposal. "I wish for a betrothal between Aemon and Rhaenyra," he said firmly. "I will be king one day, and if I have no sons, Daemon, you will be my heir. I want our line to continue the royal legacy. By marrying Aemon to Rhaenyra, we not only strengthen her claim but also ensure Aemon's. It secures a strong Targaryen line, preventing any potential divides within our family."

"Was it truly you who came up with this proposition, or was it Aemma?" Daemon asked.

"Aemma does not fully agree with this plan," Viserys explained. "She said something of putting you so squarely in your position as my own heir that if you truly do something horrid there would be no way for me to remove you without scorning both Rhaenyra and Aemon. I'd be stuck with you."

"Wouldn't be the worst thing, I'd imagine," Daemon returned.

"Yes, Daemon. I imagine when the Stranger takes me and brings me to the seven hells, all seven would be of you tied to my hip for eternity," Viserys said rubbing his eyes brows before seeing the faux hurt in Daemon's face and laughing.

Daemon's expression turned thoughtful as he gazed to the skies contemplating something. "It could be worse, in truth," Daemon returned.

Viserys raised his eyebrow in amusem*nt before smirking slightly. "And how could anything be possibly be worse?"

"Being tied to you for eternity. Seven save me, I would need to be around you every day as you try to find stonemasons to rebuild Valyria. I'd have to hear you recite poems and histories far after my ears bleed of over use," Daemon said.

He paused for a moment, ignoring what his brother said, letting the weight of his words settle between them before continuing, "Moreover, this betrothal can secure the loyalty of the North and the Vale to the crown. Forty thousand soldiers from each kingdom were added to the crown forces, both loyal and steadfast. By uniting our houses through marriage and making sure the line is secure, both the North and the Vale will remain loyal to House Targaryen for generations. It will strengthen our rule and secure the realm."

Daemon and Viserys continued their discussion, each trying to secure the best arrangement for their respective child. After some negotiation, Daemon finally agreed to the betrothal but made it clear he wanted everything in writing, ensuring his son's betrothal would be legitimate and beyond question.

Viserys nodded, understanding the importance of the agreement's formalities. "You have my word, Daemon. I will draft the document, and it will be as solid as Valyrian steel," he assured his brother. Daemon still looked slightly skeptical, but he trusted his brother's word. Viserys then smiled, a satisfied expression on his face. "We have all the time needed to draft it," he said cryptically.

Daemon furrowed his brows, confusion evident in his eyes. "What do you mean?" he asked.

Viserys' smile widened as he revealed his plan. "Aemon's birthday is soon, and I wouldn't dream of allowing you to miss another celebration," he said. "I'll stay for two weeks. In that time, I will draft the betrothal agreement, and we can celebrate Aemon's birthday together as a family."

Daemon's expression softened, and a genuine smile crossed his lips. He embraced his brother in a warm hug, appreciating the effort Viserys was making to be a part of their lives. Then, turning his attention to his son, Aemon, he offered to take him for a ride on Caraxes.

During the stay at Summerhall, Viserys found himself immersed in moments of camaraderie with his brother, as if they were young once more. The weight of responsibilities lifted in the presence of shared laughter and shared memories. Viserys cherished these moments, reminiscent of their carefree days as children, where they would jest and jape as if the world beyond the walls of their room did not exist.

In the mornings, they would take Aemon on exhilarating rides atop Caraxes and Sheepstealer, racing and soaring through the skies. The wind in their hair and the rush of adrenaline brought a sense of freedom and joy. Viserys, balancing his duties, also played a part in managing the construction of Summerhall, ensuring that the grand castle continued to rise steadily so that Daemon could spend more time with his son.

Viserys felt a deep satisfaction in being there for his brother, allowing Daemon the precious time he needed with his son. It was during these moments, as he watched Daemon and Aemon bond, that Viserys felt he had succeeded as an elder brother. The sense of unity, the shared laughter, and the joy of family helped bridge the gaps that had formed over the years.

Beyond the Wall 99 AC

???

In the vast, frozen expanse of the North, beyond the towering Wall that separates the Seven Kingdoms from the mysteries of the farthest reaches, lies a realm of unparalleled beauty. Here, nature wears its pristine cloak, untouched by the ravages of time and the struggles of men. Endless expanses of snow stretch out as far as the eye can see, a vast, unbroken blanket of white that glistens under the soft light of the pale winter sun. Each snowflake, a tiny masterpiece, contributes to the overwhelming purity of this land.

Amidst the snow-covered landscape, ancient forests stand tall and proud, their trees reaching towards the heavens like silent sentinels guarding the secrets of the North. These woods, with no end in sight, are shrouded in an eternal stillness, broken only by the occasional whisper of the wind as it dances through the branches laden with snow. The frozen rivers and lakes, their surfaces glimmering like mirrors, wind their way through the heart of the wilderness, reflecting the tranquil beauty of the icy world around them.

In this frozen paradise, a creature of pure grace and power roams—the young dire wolf. Its fur, as white as the snow that blankets the land, allows it to blend seamlessly with its surroundings, rendering it almost invisible to the untrained eye. This magnificent creature moves with a fluidity that defies the heaviness of the snow, its every step leaving barely a trace behind. Its eyes, the color of fresh blood, pierce through the icy stillness, revealing a primal intelligence and a fierce determination.

Yet, despite its formidable presence, the young dire wolf possesses an eerie silence that is nearly unnatural, as if it is a ghost moving through the winter landscape. Its every movement is as quiet as the grave, making it a phantom of the North, a creature born of legends and myths, embodying the untamed essence of the wild.

Amidst the serene backdrop of the snow-covered wilderness, the young dire wolf feasted upon the freshly killed carcass of a large stag. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, and the once-pristine snow beneath the wolf was now stained a deep, vivid red, a stark contrast to the purity of its surroundings.

With primal ferocity, the wolf tore into the stag's flesh, its maw and fur smeared with the rich, crimson hue of the fallen prey. Each bite was accompanied by the sound of crunching bones and ripping sinew, echoing through the otherwise silent landscape. The wolf's powerful jaws and sharp teeth made quick work of the stag's remains, its primal instincts driving it to consume as much as it could before the unforgiving cold of the North claimed its meal.

The contrast between the wolf's pristine white fur and the deep red of the stag's blood created a striking and eerie contrast against the snowy backdrop. It was a scene of raw, untamed nature, where the circle of life played out in all its brutal beauty. The wolf's eyes, still as red as blood, glowed with intensity as it continued its feast, a reminder of the harsh realities of survival in the unforgiving wilderness beyond the Wall.

The young dire wolf, its senses heightened by the feast it had just enjoyed, picked up its ears and narrowed its crimson eyes as it detected the presence of intruders in its domain. Its acute instincts sensed the approach of a group of Wildlings, humans who had live beyond the Wall. Without a sound, the wolf blended into the snow, its white fur allowing it to move with almost supernatural stealth.

Silently, the wolf trailed the humans, keeping a safe distance while staying hidden in the shadows of the ancient trees and snow-covered rocks. With each step, it maintained a watchful gaze, observing the movements of the Wildlings as they led the wolf towards an opening in the wilderness—a vast, snowy expanse that revealed a sprawling camp.

The large opening revealed a sea of tents stretching as far as the eye could see, a makeshift village of Wildlings that seemed to go on endlessly, from one horizon to another. The camp was a hive of activity, with Wildlings bustling about, their voices carrying on the wind, and the smoke of countless fires rising into the crisp, cold air.

The wolf remained hidden, its red eyes fixated on the distant figures. It understood the danger of the situation, aware that these humans could pose a threat. Yet, it also felt a curiosity, an innate fascination with the organized chaos of the Wildling camp. It observed their movements, trying to comprehend the ways of these people who had chosen to live in such harsh and unforgiving lands.

The vast Wildling camp sprawled before the young dire wolf, an overwhelming sight that filled its senses with the sounds of tens of thousands, perhaps even a hundred thousand, people. The air was thick with the scent of burning wood and cooking food, mixed with the pungent aroma of unwashed bodies. The camp was alive with a cacophony of screams and chants, the voices of the Wildlings rising and falling in an eerie harmony that echoed across the snowy expanse.

Its crimson eyes remained fixed on the multitude of people, their faces painted with the harsh lines of survival in the unforgiving North. Despite the chaos around them, the wolf made no sudden movements. Instead, it stood still, its body tense and alert, while it continued to lick its bloody lips, savoring the remnants of its recent meal.

The young dire wolf, amidst the chaotic energy of the Wildling camp, tried to touch the bond it once shared with its former bonded. The connection between them was a thread of ancient magic, a tie that transcended lifetimes. In their previous existence, the wolf and its bonded had been inseparable, their destinies intertwined by a force stronger than any they had ever known.

The memories flooded back, vivid and poignant. The wolf remembered the warmth of the fire, the crackling flames casting dancing shadows across the snow-covered ground. Its bonded, a skilled warrior, would sit by the fire, cleaning his sword Long Claw with meticulous care. The wolf would lie by his side, their silent companionship speaking volumes in the quietude of the night.

In those moments, the wolf's bonded was more than just a man; he was a leader, a protector, and a friend. Together, they had shared the company of silver-haired children, his bonded's litter, whose laughter filled the air as they played with young dragons. The wolf recalled the bond between the children and their dragons, a connection as ancient as time itself, a reminder of the magical legacy that lived on in the blood of their family.

But despite the familiarity of these memories, there was a pang of sorrow in the wolf's heart. Its bonded, reborn into a new life, was not yet strong enough to warg, to bridge the gap between their souls in the way they once had. The wolf longed for the days when they could communicate without words, when their thoughts and emotions could flow freely between them.

The dire wolf's memories stirred, recalling moments when its bonded had dealt with Wildlings before. In those days, he had faced an army as vast as the one before them now, a sea of humanity stretching across the icy landscape. With unmatched skill and determination, he had led his forces into battle, vanquishing the enemy and, against all odds, forging a fragile peace with the Wildlings.

Now, faced with a new and even larger army of Wildlings, the dire wolf understood the magnitude of the challenge ahead. The bond between them was not just a connection of loyalty and companionship; it was a pact forged in the crucible of battle and diplomacy. The wolf sensed the urgency of the situation, knowing that only its bonded could bring this vast horde to heel.

With a patience that belied its wild nature, the wolf resolved to press its bonded, to wait for the moment when he would be ready to confront the looming threat. It would watch over him, ensuring he knew the gravity of the situation. Winter was coming, a harsh and unforgiving season that would test the resilience of both man and beast. The dire wolf remained steadfast, a silent guardian in the shadows, ready to support its bonded when the time came to face the approaching storm and restore peace to the North. Winter was coming, and his bonded would fight it with fire and blood.

Chapter 4: A Long Stormy Night

Chapter Text

Red Keep 100 AC

Aemma Arryn

Amidst the velvety blackness of the night, King's Landing lay shrouded in an eerie silence, interrupted only by the relentless drumming of raindrops upon the cobblestone streets. The Red Keep, standing tall and proud atop Aegon's Hill, loomed like a shadowy sentinel against the ink-dark sky. Its formidable towers, adorned with crimson banners that hung limp and drenched, were barely visible through the torrential downpour that veiled the city in a watery haze.

The rain fell in sheets, driven horizontally by the fierce gusts of wind that howled like ravenous wolves, snaking through every crevice and alleyway, seeking refuge from the storm. Each raindrop felt like a needle's prick, stinging any exposed skin with a relentless intensity. The air was thick with the scent of wet earth, mingling with the distant tang of salt from the nearby Blackwater Bay.

Amidst the cacophony of rain, thunder roared overhead, a harsh and guttural sound that reverberated through the night, shaking the very foundations of the Red Keep. Lightning slashed across the heavens in jagged, blinding streaks, illuminating the city for a brief, electrifying moment. In those fleeting instances, the Red Keep emerged from the obsidian darkness, its stone walls glistening with a slick sheen, a monument to power and grandeur amidst the tempest.

The combination of thunder and lightning painted a stark contrast against the obsidian backdrop, casting eerie shadows that danced along the castle's walls, like ghostly apparitions seeking solace from the relentless storm. The occasional flicker of torchlight within the castle windows revealed the silhouettes of guards, their figures distorted and elongated by the flickering flames, casting eerie and distorted shapes upon the wet stone.

The tempest raged on, the rain continuing its assault, each drop a testament to the unyielding force of nature. The Red Keep, standing resolute amidst the chaos, bore witness to the wrath of the storm, its ancient stones weathering the onslaught with a silent, unyielding dignity. In the heart of the night, King's Landing lay nearly deserted, its denizens seeking shelter from the deluge, leaving the Red Keep to endure the fury of the elements alone.

In the dim glow of flickering candles, their warm, orange light casting dancing shadows upon the walls, Aemma Arryn sat in the quiet solitude of a dark room within the Red Keep. The soft patter of rain against the windowpane echoed through the chamber, creating a soothing backdrop to her solitary task. Aemma, the wife of Prince Viserys Targaryen, was an elegant figure in the subdued illumination, her hands deftly moving amidst the dimness.

Perched upon a rocking chair, its creaks harmonizing with the distant thunder, Aemma focused her attention on the prayer wheel before her. It was an unfamiliar endeavor for her, crafting a talisman rooted in the beliefs of the Old Gods, a religion she did not herself adhere to. Yet, determination gleamed in her eyes as she meticulously worked on the intricate creation.

With practiced precision, due to making small dolls as a child, she added sticks and twigs, each carefully selected for their shape and size. Her fingers moved with purpose, tying and wrapping the components together with twine and rope, forming the prayer wheel with a delicate yet firm touch. Despite her lack of familiarity with the ancient rituals, her dedication to the task was unwavering.

The room was filled with the earthy aroma of the materials she used, the scent of nature mingling with the subtle fragrance of wax from the candles. Aemma's brow furrowed in concentration as she continued her work, her thoughts focused on the person for whom she was crafting this peculiar artifact. She knew the significance it held for them, the comfort and solace it could provide in times of need.

Her features were a flawless tapestry of the famed dragonlords of old – hair spun of spun silver, cascading like moonlight, and eyes the color of amethysts, bearing the enigmatic wisdom of centuries past. Though her lineage bore the name Arryn, her visage bore the unmistakable mark of the dragonlords, a living relic of Valyria's ancient bloodline.Aemma had not rested since the storm started the night before. She looked tired, her skin clammy, her hair shriveled and stringy, her Valrian looks could only do so much to keep her beautiful while so worried.

In the midst of her task, Aemma Arryn's hands trembled slightly, betraying the calm facade she wore. The rhythmic pattern of her work on the prayer wheel was disrupted by the storm of thoughts that raged within her. Her worry, like a persistent shadow, clung to her every action, threatening to consume her.

As she meticulously crafted the talisman, her mind was consumed by fears, chief among them her concerns for her husband, Viserys Targaryen. Aemma's heart swelled with unease at the mere thought of her nephew, Aemon Targaryen, heir to Summerhall through his father, Daemon. Aemon's presence in her life was a constant reminder of the precariousness of their situation.

Aemma had never been able to warm to Aemon, a sentiment born out of prejudice and fear. She despised Daemon, with a passion that bordered on loathing. Daemon's striking resemblance to Maegor the Cruel, filled her with dread. He was ambitious; he was a warrior who rode a fierce dragon and was willing to slaughter anyone for his means. More importantly, both Maegor and Daemon had elder brothers in higher positions on the Iron Throne and, with one act, could usurp better positions from those who were born to it. In her eyes, Daemon was a dangerous echo of a dark past, a harbinger of chaos and betrayal.

Her mind conjured nightmarish visions where Daemon's ambition knew no bounds. She saw him plotting and scheming, a usurper in the making, willing to do anything to secure his position, even if it meant harming his own family. The vivid images that haunted her dreams were a gruesome tapestry of death and betrayal, with Daemon at the center, his hands stained red with the blood of kin.

Aemma's fears painted a bleak future—one where Daemon's thirst for power led him down a path of violence. She saw him plotting the demise of her beloved husband, Viserys, the man she had pledged her life to. Her heart ached with the intensity of her dread, her worry etched deep into the lines of her face.

Rhaenyra was not spared from her fears. Aemma envisioned a heart-wrenching scenario where Daemon, having secured his place as Baelon's heir, turned his ambitions towards Rhaenyra, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. The thought of Rhaenyra, strong and determined, falling victim to such betrayal was almost too much for Aemma to bear.

In the depths of her anxiety, Aemma saw herself as the last piece in this grim puzzle, the one with the least importance in the line of royal succession. In her fevered nightmares, she stood defenseless against Daemon's insatiable hunger for power, her own life hanging by a thread.

Daemon Targaryen, a figure of both disdain and concern in her eyes, haunted her thoughts. The mere mention of his name felt like a bitter taste on her tongue. She had never voiced her curses aloud, yet her resentment was an open secret known to those who observed the icy distance between them. Aemma's heart bore the weight of her unspoken curses, a burden she carried in silence.

Her husband, Viserys, stood at the heart of her concerns. Aemma admired Viserys' kindness, his gentle nature a stark contrast to the ruthlessness she perceived in Daemon. Their differences were vast, yet an inexplicable bond bound them together. It was a bond she both cherished and feared, for it left her questioning Daemon's intentions.

Viserys' soft spot for Daemon troubled Aemma. She watched as her husband's kindness and trust extended towards his nephew, even in the face of her silent warnings. Their mutual care for each other was a perplexing paradox, a testament to the complexity of familial ties within the Targaryen dynasty. Aemma wondered if Daemon's apparent affection for Viserys was genuine, or if it was a facade, a means to an end in his pursuit of the Iron Throne.

As her fingers deftly worked, weaving the twine around the prayer wheel, Aemma's mind swirled with doubts. She questioned the authenticity of Daemon's loyalty, suspecting that his desire for power might eclipse his love for his kin. The throne, a symbol of authority and dominion, held a seductive allure, one that could turn even the most steadfast bonds to ashes.

The rhythmic patter of rain on the windowpane merged with the distant roll of thunder, creating a symphony of nature's fury outside. The room was plunged into momentary darkness as the thunder roared overhead, its echoes reverberating through the stone walls of the Red Keep. Just as the tempest reached its crescendo, a sharp knock resonated through the chamber, causing Aemma to startle. Startled, Aemma's eyes darted towards the entrance, her hands instinctively tightening their grip on the prayer wheel.

"Enter," she called, her voice steady despite the undercurrent of anxiety that still gripped her.

The door creaked open, revealing the imposing figure of Lord Commander Ryam Redwyne, a stalwart member of the Kingsguard. His tall frame stood proudly, the weight of years etched in the lines of his weathered face. Pale blue eyes, tinged with a hint of sadness, regarded Aemma with a quiet reverence. Despite his age, there was a certain grace in his movements, a testament to the enduring strength of both body and spirit.

Aemma's gaze met Ryam's, finding solace in the steadiness of his presence. She knew him to be a man of honor, respected by many for his unwavering dedication to his duty. In his weathered countenance, some saw a rugged handsomeness, an elegance that belied the passage of time.

"Lord Commander Ryam," Aemma greeted him, her tone respectful. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit on such a stormy night?"

Ryam Redwyne inclined his head respectfully, his white hair catching the faint glow of the candles. "Your Grace," he began, his voice steady and measured. "I am currently relieved of my duties watching over the King. With the respite, I wished to check upon Prince Aemon given his condition, and I thought it prudent to see how he fares."

Aemma's gaze shifted towards the bed to her right, where Prince Aemon lay, his fevered slumber evident in the restless way he tossed and turned beneath the blankets. Concern furrowed her brow, and she gestured for Lord Commander Redwyne to approach. "He has taken a turn for a worse," she said, her voice filled with worry. "The maesters are doing what they can, but his fever persists."

Lord Commander Ryam's gaze softened with empathy as he observed the ailing prince. "I shall pray for his swift recovery, Your Grace," he offered, his voice carrying a sincere note of concern. "Is there anything else I can do to assist?"

Aemma hesitated for a moment, her eyes flickering with a mix of gratitude and uncertainty. "Stay with him," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "Keep watch over him, Ser Ryam. I fear the night has only begun, and the storm outside is a reflection of the battles we face within these walls." The room seemed to close in around them, the air heavy with the weight of uncertainty. Aemma's eyes glistened with unshed tears as she spoke, her voice quivering with a mix of fear and determination. "The maester believes it's the pox," she whispered, her words hanging in the air like a haunting refrain. "He says if Aemon survives this night, he might pull through, but it will be a long and arduous battle."

Ser Ryam's jaw tightened, his eyes reflecting the anguish that mirrored Aemma's own. The harsh reality of the situation settled over them like a suffocating shroud. They listened in heartbreaking silence as Aemon's labored breathing cut through the stillness, each ragged inhale a painful reminder of the prince's struggle.

The room was filled with the sound of Aemon's coughs, the desperate gasps for air, and the pitiful whimpering that escaped his parched lips. His restless movements accentuated his suffering, his body wracked with fever as he tossed and turned in a fevered delirium. The heat emanating from him was palpable, his skin hot to the touch, a stark contrast to the chill that gripped the stormy night outside.

Aemma's hands tightened around the prayer wheel, her fingers digging into the wooden surface as if seeking solace in its rough texture. She dared not look at Ser Ryam, not wanting to expose the vulnerability that threatened to engulf her. Instead, she focused on Aemon, her heart aching for the young prince, robbed of his vitality by the cruel grasp of illness.

Beside her, Ser Ryam stood as a silent pillar of strength, his presence a reassurance in the face of despair. His gaze remained fixed on Aemon, his expression a mixture of sorrow and resolve. The Lord Commander, a seasoned warrior, understood the fragility of life and the unpredictable nature of fate. Yet, he stood unwavering, a guardian steadfast in his vigil.

Ser Ryam's gaze softened as he watched the suffering child, his memories offering a bittersweet respite from the present anguish. A small, melancholic smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Aemon, he is a sharp one, that young prince," he murmured, his voice carrying a mix of admiration and sadness. "Cunning, too—more so than most children his age, or even older."

Aemma's eyes flickered briefly toward Ser Ryam, acknowledging his words but unable to find comfort in them. Her attention returned to Aemon, his labored breathing a painful reminder of his fragile state. The room seemed to close in around them, suffocating in its helplessness.

"He's always been a somber child," Aemma said softly, her voice heavy with concern. "Brooding, lonesome, as if he carries the weight of the world upon his tiny shoulders. Even in moments of mischief, there's a sadness in his eyes." Her words hung in the air, echoing the ache in her heart for the lonely little prince. She continued, her tone tinged with frustration, "And Rhaenyra... she's obsessed with him. Always trying to include him in her escapades, dragging him into misadventures, despite his quiet nature. It's as if she's determined to pull him out of his melancholy, even if it means getting them both into trouble." As Aemma spoke, Aemon's wheezing intensified, a pitiful sound that twisted her insides. She reached out to brush a strand of sweat-soaked hair from his forehead, her touch gentle yet laden with worry. "I fear for him," she admitted, her voice breaking with emotion.

Aemon's dark hair clung to his forehead and cheeks, damp with sweat and tangled in disarray. Aemma's delicate fingers brushed against his skin as she tried to gently push the strands away from his face, her touch tender and soothing despite the gravity of the situation. The howling winds outside the Red Keep intensified, their mournful cries echoing the wolves of Aemon's mother's House, a haunting serenade to the stormy night. Amidst the cacophony of the raging tempest, Aemma's voice cut through the tumult as she shared a flicker of hope amidst the despair.

"I once saw him spend time with the bards," she said, her voice barely audible above the storm's fury. "He loved their songs. He wanted to learn to sing and play instruments." A hint of a smile touched her lips, remembering the spark of joy that had once illuminated Aemon's eyes. "Aemon said something about a grand singer named Rhaegar," she continued, her voice carrying the weight of the past. "Aemon admired him greatly. He aspired to be as skilled as Rhaegar in the art of music. It seemed the very mention of Rhaegar's name lit a fire within him." Aemma turned to Ser Ryam, her eyes searching his for any recognition of the name. "Do you know this Rhaegar?" she asked, her voice tinged with curiosity. The Lord Commander's brow furrowed in concentration, his memory sifting through the annals of his experiences.

"I do not," Ser Ryam admitted, his voice steady amidst the storm. "The name is unfamiliar to me. Perhaps he was a passing bard, a traveler who left his mark on young Aemon's heart with his melodies."

Aemma's eyes shifted from Aemon to Ser Ryam, her brow furrowing in concern. The revelation piqued her curiosity and stirred a sense of foreboding in her heart. She nodded, silently urging him to continue, her gaze fixed intently on the Lord Commander.

Ser Ryam's expression turned grave as he continued, his voice lowered as if to keep their conversation from prying ears. "Two weeks past, in the early hours of the morning, I sensed a presence behind me as I made my way to the training yards. It was before the sun had graced the sky, earlier than most men rise to hone their skills. I could not discern who it was, but I sensed their presence keenly. It was no mere coincidence. Someone was following me with purpose, and I intended to find out who."

It did not take long for Aemma to put the peices together. "It was Prince Aemon who had been shadowing you?" she echoed, her voice laced with disbelief. "But why would he...?"

Ser Ryam nodded in confirmation, his gaze still reflecting the mix of astonishment and pride he had felt during that encounter. "Indeed, Your Grace. It was the young prince himself," he replied. "He had been observing me training and, much to my surprise, mimicking my movements."

Aemma's curiosity deepened. "Mimicking your movements?" she repeated, seeking further clarification.

The Lord Commander's face softened with a small smile. "Yes," he continued, his tone filled with admiration. "When I discovered him, I asked him what he was doing, and he replied, 'Observing.' But it was clear that he wasn't merely observing, he was mimicking. And he was doing a magnificent job of it.

Aemma listened in quiet awe as Ser Ryam divulged his secret, his early morning lessons with the young prince hidden from the rest of the royal family. Her eyes softened with gratitude, touched by the depth of the Lord Commander's commitment to Aemon's well-being. "You've been advising him in secret?" she repeated, her voice a hushed whisper.

Ser Ryam inclined his head respectfully, a silent acknowledgment of the trust placed upon him. "It is my duty and my honor to advise and aid the royal family, Your Grace," he said, his voice carrying the weight of his solemn vow.

"Why would a three-year-old be up so early?" Aemma mused aloud, her voice colored with both curiosity and concern. She listened intently as Ser Ryam spoke, his words carrying a weight of worry and sorrow.

Ser Ryam sighed, his gaze fixed on the ailing prince. "Nightmares often plague Aemon's sleep," he confessed, his voice heavy with compassion. "He dreams of dark and unsettling things— being a dire wolf in the distant North, visions of being a living dragon, and, more distressing, of dead creatures with piercing blue eyes that freeze a beating heart. The dreams haunt him, rarely granting him a peaceful night's rest."

Aemma's heart clenched in dread as Aemon's coughing intensified, the boy's wheezes and gasps echoing through the room like a haunting melody of distress. Her concern deepened with every ragged breath he took, the sound a stark reminder of his fragile state. The weight of her worry became unbearable, and she knew she had to act swiftly.

"Ser Ryam, fetch a maester immediately!" Aemma's voice, usually composed and regal, cracked with urgency. Her eyes were wide with fear as she met the gaze of the Lord Commander, her unspoken plea for help reflected in her eyes.

Ser Ryam's face mirrored her distress, and without a moment's hesitation, he nodded in understanding. With a determined resolve, he rushed out of the room, his armor clinking softly with every hurried step he took. He made his way through the dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep, his sole focus on finding the maester who could provide the desperately needed aid for young Prince Aemon.

Amidst the suffocating worry that enveloped her, Aemma Arryn found herself turning to the gods in her desperation. Her voice trembled as she uttered her fervent prayers to the Seven Faces of God, her words filled with both desperation and newfound resolve.

"Father, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Warrior, Smith, and Stranger," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the sounds of the storm outside. "I beseech you, in this darkest hour, spare young Aemon. If you grant him life, I pledge my love to him, as a mother loves her child. I will raise him as my own, nurture him, and cherish him. I beg your forgiveness for my past resentments. I ask forgiveness for hating Aemon due to being Daemon's child. If you allow him to live, I promise to love him, just as Lyanna Stark would have loved her son, had she not met her tragic end."

Aemma's prayers continued a solemn entreaty to each of the Seven Faces of God, her voice carrying her hopes and her fears to the heavens above.

In the midst of the escalating storm and Aemon's worsening condition, Aemma's hands moved with gentle urgency. With a heart heavy with worry, she dampened cloths in a basin of cool water, placing them on the young prince's fevered forehead, hoping to bring him some relief from the relentless heat that consumed him. Her touch was soft, her movements careful, as if she could will away the sickness through the simple act of her caring hands.

As Aemon whimpered and wheezed, his breathing labored, Aemma sought solace in the calming hymns she softly hummed, their melodies meant to soothe not only the suffering child but also her own frayed nerves. She brushed his sweat-soaked hair back from his forehead, her voice a gentle lullaby amidst the chaos of the storm outside.

"Hush now, my sweet boy," she murmured, her voice a tender whisper. "The storm will pass, as will this darkness. The gods are watching over you, little one. You are not alone."

She continued her soft hymns, her voice lilting through the air, a thread of comfort amidst the tempest. With every note, she willed a sense of calm into the room, hoping that her love and care would reach Aemon, even in his fevered state. Her eyes, filled with maternal concern, never left his face, her heart aching for the suffering he endured.

"To the Father," she began, her tone steady, "grant Aemon strength and wisdom, that he may weather the storms that life may bring. To the Mother, grant him love and protection, surround him with warmth and nurture his spirit. To the Maiden, bestow upon him innocence and purity, guiding his steps in a world often marred by darkness. To the Crone, grant him knowledge and foresight, that he may navigate the complexities of life with wisdom beyond his years. To the Warrior, lend him your courage and resilience, so he may face his trials with unyielding determination. To the Smith, grant him resilience and fortitude, shaping him into a force of unwavering strength. And to the Stranger," she paused, her voice breaking, "I beg you, do not claim Aemon's life prematurely. Let him live, let him thrive, and I promise to cherish him as my own."

Aemma's heart ached with the weight of her promises, her faith, and desperation interwoven in her supplication. She remained on her knees, her head bowed, her eyes closed, as she waited for some sign, some reassurance from the gods that her pleas had been heard.

The storm outside seemed to echo the tumult within her, the winds howling like lost souls, the rain battering against the windows as if seeking entry. In the midst of the tempest, Aemma's prayers remained a beacon of hope, a fragile light in the face of darkness.

As she concluded her entreaty, her final words were whispered, a desperate plea to the Stranger, the enigmatic deity associated with death. "Stranger, I beseech you," she murmured, her voice barely audible over the storm's cacophony, "spare this innocent soul. Let him live, let him grow, and let him know the love of a mother's heart."

Baelon Targaryen

The grandeur of the Red Keep seemed to shrink in the face of the roaring storm outside. Baelon Targaryen, a figure of regal poise, sat before the crackling fireplace, his eyes fixed on the dancing flames that cast flickering shadows across the room. The tapestries of Targaryen banners adorned the walls, their vibrant colors contrasting sharply with the darkness beyond the windows. Silks and golden ornaments adorned the opulent chamber, a testament to the wealth and power of House Targaryen.

In the midst of the storm's fury, Baelon remained silent, his thoughts hidden behind the veil of his inscrutable expression. The orange hue of the flames cast a warm glow upon his face, emphasizing the lines of age and wisdom etched into his features. His eyes, usually sharp and observant, held a distant, contemplative gaze as he stared into the heart of the fire.

The crackling of the logs was the only sound that permeated the room, a stark contrast to the chaos that raged beyond the walls of the Red Keep. Baelon's silence was profound, his mind seemingly lost in the depths of his own thoughts. The flickering flames reflected in his eyes seemed to hold a story of their own, a tale of ancient lineage, of dragons, and of a dynasty marked by both glory and tragedy.

Baelon Targaryen, in the quiet moments between thunderclaps, contemplated the challenges that faced his family, the burden of legacy weighing heavily upon his shoulders. The room, bathed in the warm glow of the fire, held an air of solemnity,

A heavy silence hung between him and the crackling fire, a silence pregnant with unspoken fears and the weight of the family's precarious situation. Baelon had wished to watch over his sick grandson, Aemon, but he trusted in Aemma's unwavering dedication. His faith in her was unshakable, and he knew she would do everything in her power to ease the young prince's suffering.

Baelon's eyes remained fixed on the flames as a soft knock echoed through the room. The Kingsguard stationed by the door spoke, his voice respectful and measured. "Prince Viserys has arrived, Your Grace."

"Let him in," Baelon responded, his voice calm but tinged with weariness.

The door opened, and Prince Viserys entered, his shoulders slumped under the weight of his worries. He sighed heavily before taking a seat in a chair near his father, their shared silence stretching between them like an unspoken understanding. The flickering flames illuminated their faces, casting a warm, amber glow upon their features.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The crackling of the fire was the only sound that filled the room, its comforting embrace juxtaposed against the heaviness of the atmosphere. The silence between father and son was a reflection of the unspeakable fears that gripped their hearts, the unspoken prayers for Aemon's recovery, and the shared burden of their family's struggles.

Baelon's eyes softened with relief as he turned his gaze toward his son, his voice carrying a weight of concern. "How is Aemon faring?" he inquired, his words measured yet filled with paternal worry.

Viserys met his father's gaze, the lines of fatigue etched deep into his face. He took a deep breath, his voice steady with a hint of exhaustion. "The maester believes he has survived the worst of it; chances are he will survive," Viserys replied, his words laced with a mix of relief and lingering anxiety. "He's a strong lad, much like his mother. Or is he more like as stubborn as his father?" Viserys chuckled at the end.

Baelon let out a sigh of relief, his gratitude toward the gods palpable. "Thank the gods," he murmured, his eyes momentarily closing in a silent prayer of thanks.

Viserys continued, his expression softening with a hint of admiration. "Aemma has been relentless in her vigil. She refuses to leave his side, even for a moment," he said, his voice carrying a note of amazement. "I've tried to convince her to rest, but she won't listen. Her determination is... remarkable."

Baelon let out a chuckle, the sound rich with both amusem*nt and affection. "Targaryen women," he said with a wry smile, his eyes glinting with pride. "Dangerously determined, fiery, and passionate. Aemma may not bear our name, but she certainly possesses the spirit of a Targaryen and her mother's Targaryen looks and grit. She takes after her mother in more ways than one."

In that moment, amidst the flickering flames and the echoes of the storm outside, Baelon found solace in the strength of the women who stood by his family's side. With newfound gratitude, Baelon looked back into the flames, a silent acknowledgment of the fierce resilience that bound their family together, transcending bloodlines and titles.

A deafening roar of the dragon reverberated through the city of King's Landing like a wrathful symphony of doom. Its sheer power shook the foundations of the Red Keep, rattling the stones and causing the ancient fortress to tremble in response. The sound eclipsed the thunderclaps in the skies, drowning out even the fiercest of storms.

The dragon's roar tore through the night with a deafening ferocity, a sound so loud that it seemed to reach into the very depths of the earth. It was a primal bellow, a raw, thunderous symphony of power that dwarfed even the mightiest of thunderclaps. The sound was not just heard; it was felt, a visceral force that resonated through the air and ground alike.

The roar reverberated with a depth and harshness that defied the natural order, a resonance that sent shivers down the spines of all who heard it. It was a sound that reached into the marrow of bones, vibrating with an intensity that rattled windows and echoed off the city walls. Each reverberation was a physical assault, a reminder of the awe-inspiring, terrifying might of the creature from which it emanated.

For a seemingly endless minute, the roar echoed, a sound both primal and terrifying, cutting through the night like a blade of chaos. The very air quivered with its intensity, and the people of King's Landing, from the lowliest commoner to the highest noble, felt a chill crawl down their spines. It was a sound that struck at the core of their primal fears, a reminder of a power beyond their comprehension.

Inside the Red Keep, the occupants were momentarily paralyzed by the sheer force of the dragon's roar. Baelon and Viserys exchanged wide-eyed glances, their expressions mirroring the shock and dread that gripped them. The normalcy of their world had been shattered by the unearthly sound, leaving them in a state of stunned silence.

In the wake of the monstrous roar, an eerie hush fell over the city, broken only by the fading echoes of the dragon's cry. The night, once filled with the sounds of the storm and the distant hustle and bustle of the city, now felt eerily still, as if the world itself held its breath, waiting for whatever horror might come next.

Never before had a dragon's roar carried such sheer power, such a bone-chilling intensity. It defied all expectations, striking a chord of fear in the hearts of those who bore witness to its terrible might. In that moment, the world seemed to hold its breath, awed and terrified by the unearthly sound that echoed through the night, leaving an indelible mark on the minds of all who heard it.

Baelon and Viserys as they exchanged worried glances. The city might have endured the roar without physical destruction, but the impact it left on their minds was profound. Viserys, his voice laced with trepidation, questioned his father about the source of such a fearsome sound.

"It's a dragon," Baelon replied, his tone grave. He smiled at the end. "I believed you have flown one enough to know the sound well enough."

"But what dragon possesses a roar that can shake King's Landing to its core?" Viserys pressed, his voice filled with a mix of awe and fear.

Baelon hesitated for a moment, his expression troubled, before uttering four words that hung heavily in the air. "Baelrion the Black Dread."

"But Balerion should not have regained enough of his strength to roar as he just did," Viserys said, his voice barely above a whisper as if speaking the words aloud might conjure the mythical creature from the depths of the past. "He may be healing, but no creature of magic or otherwise should be able to heal from wounds as grave, red, raw, and deep as the ones he sustained from Valyria. For gods ' sake, he fought the great wyrms in the fourteen flames. By all rights, he should be dead, not roaring with enough strength to curse the f*cking skies!" he screamed in whispers.

Baelon nodded grimly. "Indeed, he is. But perhaps... something has stirred. Something that echoes the might of that ancient beast."

Viserys had his own thoughts on the Dread, on the notion that the greatest of calamities now rose once more. His thoughts were more theories and crumpled up and thrown together in a ball, but he knew his father, Baelon, theorized something; no, his father knew something. "You said that the magic in the world must have stirred; you said this a moon before I flew with Aemon to see Daemon. But what could possibly have happened that stirred the Black Dread?"

Baelon's voice, low and contemplative, filled the room as he voiced his thoughts aloud, his words carrying the weight of ancient wisdom. "What event of great significance could have roused Balerion the Black Dread from his eternal slumber?" he mused, his gaze fixed on an unseen horizon. "Something of great import must be unfolding in our realm. I suppose I must ask my grandson once he heals from his illness." He said seriously as if never for once revealing the implications.

Viserys, his brows furrowing in confusion, tried to wrap his mind around the possibility that such an ancient and powerful creature could be stirred by events in their time. "But Aemon... It can't be him," Viserys said, his voice marked by disbelief. "He's just a child, and ailing at that. How could he be of such importance to a dragon of old?"

Baelon met his son's gaze, his eyes reflecting a mixture of resolve and understanding. "Aemon might be young, but his blood runs ancient and powerful. He is the only Targaryen without a dragon, and perhaps Balerion sensed the unfulfilled bond, the absence of a rider for the last of our kin." Baelon's weary sigh carried the weight of years as he chuckled softly at the irony of fate. "Daemon would be ecstatic," he said, his voice tinged with a mixture of amusem*nt and melancholy. "His relentless spirit, living on in his son. Aemon, the first rider of Balerion in decades. It's a legacy that would make him proud, I'm sure."

Viserys nodded, his mind conjuring the image of his brother Daemon, the Rogue Prince, riding proudly on his dragon Caraxes. He could almost hear Daemon's boisterous laughter echoing across the skies as he proclaimed the rebirth of Aegon the Conqueror in his son. The thought was both exhilarating and daunting, a reminder of the weight of history and the expectations that came with it.

"In Daemon's eyes, Aemon would be Aegon the Conqueror reborn," Viserys mused, his voice filled with both reverence and trepidation.

Baelon's eyes softened with a bittersweet smile as he spoke of Aemon's love for flying. "He does love it," he said, his voice carrying a touch of pride. "I've taken him upon Vhagar more times than I can count. There's a spark in his eyes, a sense of freedom, when he soars above the clouds. He's a natural, much like his father, just like Alyssa."

Viserys chuckled, his laughter filled with fond memories. "Aemon, along with Rhaenyra, would pester me endlessly to take them for rides on Sheepstealer," he said, a note of affection coloring his words. "Their enthusiasm was infectious. They'd spend hours in the sky, exploring the realm from above. We won't keep them out of the skies for long. Especially when Syrax is big enough for Rhaenyra to fly."

Baelon nodded in understanding, his mind drifting to a different time, a time when Daemon's laughter and Aemon's joyous cries filled the skies. "I can imagine Daemon and Aemon, flying Caraxes and Balerion high over Summerhall," he said, his voice tinged with both nostalgia and sadness. "Two generations of Targaryens, bound by blood and dragonfire, soaring together above the world they sought to conquer. It would be a sight to behold."

"Having Caraxes and Balerion at Summerhall would indeed be a formidable defense against Dornish invasions," Viserys conceded, his thoughts aligning with the strategic advantage of such a move.

Baelon, however, remained cautious, his brow furrowing in concern. "But if Daemon were to instigate another conflict with Dorne intentionally, it could lead to unnecessary bloodshed and unrest," he warned, his voice carrying the weight of experience. "We must be wary of Daemon's ambitions and the lengths he might go to prove his strength."

Viserys sighed, acknowledging the truth in his father's words. "I don't believe Daemon would endanger Aemon deliberately," he said, trying to find reassurance in his own conviction. "He's headstrong, but he loves his son deeply. He wouldn't put Aemon in harm's way intentionally."

Baelon's gaze held a mixture of concern and understanding. "I fear Daemon might see it differently," he said quietly. "He might view it as a chance to prove his strength, to shield Aemon from future threats by taking preemptive action. His intentions might be rooted in protection, but the consequences could be dire." Baelon's weary expression deepened at the mention of Daemon's inevitable reaction, his tired eyes reflecting a mix of resignation and concern. "Once Daemon learns of Aemon's condition, his illness, there will indeed be hell to pay," he agreed, his voice carrying the weight of the impending storm. "His wrath knows no bounds, and the fury of a dragonrider is not to be underestimated."

Viserys chuckled softly, the sound tinged with irony. "Knowing Daemon, he might just decide to burn down half the Dornish armies in his impatience to vent his anger," he said, a rueful smile playing on his lips. "Waiting to destroy something until he returns to King's Landing? That might be a test of Daemon's patience that even the gods would pity."

Baelon's expression darkened further at the news, his eyes narrowing with a mix of anger and sorrow. "On the idea of Daemon burning Dornish armies we are already too late," he said grimly, his voice heavy with regret.

"What did he do?" Viserys asks as he turns from the fire towards his father.

"Three moons ago a messenger was sent from Dorne towards Summerhall, but it appears that both sides lacked even tempers," he said, his voice laced with a somber tone. "Daemon's response was... severe. He sent back the head of the messenger with his own... gruesome message of retribution." Viserys raised his eyebrow towards his father to continue. "He cut of the man's balls, stuffed it into his mouth and sent the head back to Sunspear."

Viserys felt a knot tighten in his stomach, a mix of horror and disbelief washing over him at the gruesome tale his father recounted. "Gods," he whispered, his voice barely audible, his mind struggling to grasp the depths of Daemon's wrath.

Baelon's face remained grim, his eyes reflecting the gravity of the situation. "The tension between Daemon and the Dornish has reached a point of no return," he said, his voice filled with a somber resignation. "This act... it's beyond brutal. Daemon's fury knows no bounds, and it seems he's determined to make sure the entire realm knows it."

Viserys's exasperation deepened at the gruesome tale of Daemon's wrath, and in his frustration, he uttered a curse, invoking the gods' names in vain. He quickly crossed himself, seeking forgiveness for his outburst before turning back to Baelon. "And then?" he asked, his voice laden with both dread and morbid curiosity.

Baelon's expression darkened further as he continued the grim narrative. "Dorne sent two thousand men into the Dornish marches, hoping to retaliate. But they could not breach the Dragon's Gate," he said, his voice carrying the weight of the conflict. "In his fury, Daemon mounted Caraxes and descended upon them like a storm unleashed. The sky was ablaze with dragonfire, and the Dornish army was reduced to ashes, a grim testament to the power of a dragonrider's rage."

Viserys let out a weary sigh, his shoulders slumping with the burden of his family's turmoil. "Daemon craves a challenge, something to distract him from the worry of being away from Aemon. He craves a chance to prove his skill both with a blade and on dragon's back," he said, his voice filled with a mix of frustration and resignation. "He always has, and it seems that trait has only grown stronger with time."

Baelon nodded in agreement, his eyes reflecting a mixture of understanding and vexation. "Aye, he does. And at times, he can be more of a pain than I ever anticipated when he was just a baby," Baelon admitted with a wry smile, his laughter carrying a hint of irony. "You know, when you were a baby, you were far more chaotic and challenging to raise than he ever was."

Viserys raised an eyebrow, a surprised expression crossing his face. "Me? More challenging than Daemon?" he asked, his tone filled with disbelief.

Baelon chuckled, a weary yet fond glint in his eyes. "Yes, you," he replied, his voice carrying a note of nostalgia. "Daemon might be a handful, but you, my dear son, were a whirlwind. I used to say that you had the spirit of a dragon even as a babe, and it seems that fire has transferred to your younger brother as you both grew older."

Viserys couldn't help but smile at his father's words, a mixture of pride and amusem*nt washing over him. In that moment, amidst the chaos of their family's struggles, the shared laughter became a bittersweet reminder of the bond they shared, a testament to the strength of their family ties that even the challenges they faced couldn't sever.

Baelon's voice softened as he reminisced about a long-past memory, a tale of youthful exuberance and innocence that painted a nostalgic smile on his face. "Do you remember that time, Viserys, when you led baby Daemon to the Dragonpit?" he asked, his eyes glinting with affection. "You were just children. You led Daemon to the Dragonpit, convinced that it would bring you good luck and help you become dragon riders."

Viserys nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting in a fond smile at the recollection. "Yes, I remember," he said, his voice carrying the warmth of cherished memories. "We had to put mud in our hair, hoping no one would recognize us as Targaryens. We sneaked through Flea Bottom, thinking we were the cleverest little dragons in the realm."

Baelon chuckled, the sound a melody of parental amusem*nt. "Your mother and I turned the Red Keep upside-down looking for you two," he said, his eyes sparkling with the remnants of worry and amusem*nt. "You had us worried sick, but you were determined to chase your dreams, even at such a young age. We searched the Red Keep from top to bottom, but there was no sign of you. It was a servant girl who saw two small boys fleeing toward the Dragonpit. Alyssa, despite being pregnant, mounted a horse and rode like the wind. By the time I reached the stables, she was already galloping toward the Dragonpit, determined to find her adventurous sons." Baelon's laughter rumbled through the room as he recounted the sight that met Alyssa when she arrived at the Dragonpit. "Oh, Alyssa was furious," he said, his voice filled with amusem*nt. "There you were, kicking and screaming, determined to have a dragon of your own, while a Dragonkeeper, three times the size of an average man and twice as wide, carried you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes."

Viserys grinned sheepishly at the memory. "I was quite stubborn, even back then," he admitted, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "I refused to leave until I had a dragon to call my own."

Baelon chuckled, his eyes twinkling with affection. "And there was little Daemon, calm and collected, walking beside the dragonkeeper as if it were the most natural thing in the world," he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

Viserys laughed along with his father, appreciating the humor in the situation. "Yes, baby Daemon was always the more sensible one," he said, his tone playful. "He didn't seem to mind being carried away from the Dragonpit without a fuss."

Baelon nodded, his expression fond. "Your mother had her hands full that day, that's for certain," he said, his voice filled with both amusem*nt and affection. "But in the end, she managed to retrieve her adventurous sons and bring them back safely to the Red Keep." Baelon's chuckle resonated with a mix of amusem*nt and understanding. "It seems the roles have reversed, haven't they?" he said, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Now you're the calm one, and Daemon... well, Daemon certainly knows how to keep us on our toes."

Viserys let out a soft sigh, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames. "I wonder," he said, his voice laced with both curiosity and concern. "Do you think Aemon will be like Daemon? Will he be as headstrong and daring when he is older? The boy seems to be far more lonesome and melancholic than Daemon ever was."

"Do you mean do I think Aemon will be as much of a pain in my ass?" Baelon asked. Viserys chuckles in response. Baelon considered the question for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "Aemon will be his own person, with his own strengths and challenges," he replied, his voice gentle yet firm. "But I have no doubt he will be a controversial figure, just like many Targaryens before him." Viserys nodded, his eyes reflecting a mixture of apprehension and determination. "Every good Targaryen and every bad one was controversial in their own way," he said, his words carrying the weight of centuries of history. "It's a legacy we cannot escape, but one we must navigate with wisdom and care."

As the thunderstorm continued its fierce onslaught outside, the fires in the room cast their warm, flickering light, and Baelon and Viserys gazed into the flames, lost in their thoughts. The howling winds and the relentless rain served as a backdrop to their quiet contemplation, a reminder of the tempestuous nature of the world beyond. Just as the tempest reached its peak, a sharp knock on the door echoed through the room.

"Enter," Baelon replied. A Kingsguard stood before them, its white cloak pristine and clean.

"Your Grace, Prince Aemon has awakened. The maester says the fever has broken. He's going to live through the night."

A collective sigh of relief escaped Baelon and Viserys as the news of Aemon's recovery washed over them like a wave of comfort. The storm outside raged on, the thunderclaps and howling winds underscoring the intensity of the moment, but within the confines of the chamber, there was a newfound sense of calm.

"Thank the gods," Baelon whispered, his voice carrying a weight of gratitude. Viserys echoed his father's sentiment, his eyes glinting with relief. The shadow of worry that had hung over them began to lift, replaced by a glimmer of hope for the future.

"Thank you for bringing us the news. Please convey our gratitude to the maester for his efforts," Viserys replied to the kingsguard.

The Kingsguard, his expression solemn, observed the scene before him, the profound relief evident in the faces of the Targaryen royals. "Prince Aemon has proven to be as resilient as his lineage suggests," he said, his voice steady. "He will be a great source of strength for your house, my princes."

Baelon nodded, his eyes reflecting a mixture of pride and gratitude. "Indeed, he will," he said, his voice filled with conviction.

The deafening roar of the dragon shattered the newfound calm within the room, its intensity far surpassing the fury of the thunderstorm outside. The ground trembled beneath them, and the very air quivered with the raw power of the creature. Baelon, Viserys, and the Kingsguard instinctively covered their ears, attempting to shield themselves from the overwhelming noise that reverberated through the Red Keep.

The sound was not just heard; it was felt, a visceral force that sent shockwaves through the ancient stones of the fortress. The vibrations traveled through the very core of the Red Keep, causing the walls to tremble and the air to hum with energy. The dragon's roar, lower and more resonant than the thunderstorms, carried a weight of authority that seemed to demand attention from every corner of the castle.

Before the door could close and the kingsguard could be dismissed the roar from earlier returned once more. The sudden roar of the dragon reverberated through the chamber, shattering the newfound calm like a thunderbolt. The sound was deafening, overpowering even the raging storm outside. The very air quivered with the intensity of the roar, and the walls of the Red Keep seemed to tremble in response.

The resounding roar of Balerion, the Black Dread, echoed through the Red Keep, its power so immense that it seemed to shake the very foundations of the ancient fortress. Baelon, Viserys, and the Kingsguard instinctively covered their ears, the intensity of the sound piercing through their senses. The thunderous roar reverberated with a depth and strength that surpassed even the fiercest storms, a primal force that left them in awe.

Baelon's eyes widened in astonishment as he felt the Red Keep vibrate ever so slightly under the weight of Balerion's roar, from the Dragonpit. There was something different in the tone, a quality that suggested not anger or aggression, but something akin to joy. It was a paradoxical notion, the idea of a dragon expressing happiness, yet Baelon couldn't shake the feeling that Balerion's roar held a sense of contentment as if the ancient creature found solace in Aemon's surival.

Viserys exchanged a wide-eyed glance with his father, his expression a mirror of Baelon's astonishment. The sheer power of the dragon's roar left them speechless, its intensity a reminder of the raw might that resided within the dragons of old.

Chapter 5: Aemon the Prodigy

Chapter Text

Red Keep 100 AC

Aemon Targaryen/Jon Snow

In the heart of King's Landing, where the chaos of the city meets the serenity of royalty, stands the Red Keep, standing imposing as it is magnificent. Hewn from the ancient stone quarries that line the Blackwater Rush, the Red Keep stood proud and menacing against the dusky sky, its towering spires reaching for the heavens like the jagged claws of some ancient and vengeful beast. From the vantage point of the dragon's back, the castle's grandeur was unparalleled, an architectural marvel that whispered tales of power and betrayal through its every stone. The pale red stones, weathered by a century's of history, exude a peculiar warmth under the golden sun of the Crownlands, casting a bloody glow upon the surrounding lands.

The Red Keep is a testament to the artistry of ancient masons, its walls as solid and unyielding as the resolve of the kings who once ruled from its halls. Towering spires and turrets claw at the sky, reaching heights that seem to pierce the very heavens. Seven massive drum towers, each crowned with iron ramparts, stand sentinel around the castle, their dark silhouettes etched against the backdrop of the endless blue sky.

As one approaches the Red Keep from the bustling city below, the sight is awe-inspiring. The castle seems to emerge from the very rock upon which it was built, a crimson sentinel overlooking the mouth of the Blackwater Rush. The shimmering waters of the Rush, reflecting the sunlight like a thousand shards of molten gold, lap gently against the castle's foundations, creating a melodic symphony that echoes through its halls.

Inside, the Red Keep is a labyrinthine maze of corridors, chambers, and courtyards, each more opulent than the last. Grand halls adorned with tapestries that depict the epic tales of Westerosi history, vast chambers where the rulers of the realm hold court, and ornate bedrooms fit for royalty are all part of this sprawling citadel. The air is heavy with the scent of incense and the distant waft of exotic perfumes, mingling with the subtle aroma of polished wood and ancient stone.

In the skies above King's Landing, the Targaryen banners dance like fiery dragons on the wind. Each banner is a masterpiece of craftsmanship, displaying the three-headed dragon sigil of House Targaryen in vivid shades of red, black, and gold. The dragon's heads rear back, their eyes fierce and unyielding, as if they are ready to breathe fire and unleash their wrath upon any who dare challenge the might of the ancient dynasty. Against the backdrop of the azure sky, these banners flutter proudly, their presence a constant reminder of the Targaryen legacy that looms over the city like a mythical guardian.

Outside the towering walls of the Red Keep, King's Landing sprawls in all its chaotic splendor. The city is a pulsating, living entity, a labyrinthine maze of narrow, winding streets and crowded marketplaces. Buildings of varying heights jostle for space, their facades a patchwork of colors, from the elegant whites and golds of the wealthy merchant houses to the weathered grays and browns of the commoners' dwellings.

The air is thick with the scent of spices, the tang of fish from the bustling harbor, and the acrid aroma of smoke rising from countless hearths. Street vendors peddle their wares, their voices rising above the constant hum of the crowd. Merchants display exotic goods from distant lands, their stalls adorned with silks of a thousand hues, intricately crafted jewelry, and mysterious artifacts that spark the curiosity of passersby.

Amidst the chaos, a tapestry of colors unfolds. Nobles draped in sumptuous silks and velvets glide past beggars clad in tattered rags. Children play in the dusty alleys, their laughter mingling with the cries of street performers and the melodies of musicians strumming lutes and pipes. The city pulses with life, its heartbeat echoing through the cobblestone streets, creating a vibrant, intoxicating rhythm that lures both the hopeful and the desperate.

Aemon Targaryen had woken up early, as he always did for sleep never came to him easily. Targaryens, once more renowned for their silver hair and violet eyes, traits not obvious in his person. Despite his tender age, Aemon was burdened by the knowledge and maturity of Jon Snow. He recalled the feeling of cold steel in his hands, the weight of leadership on his shoulders, and the bitter taste of betrayal. The transition from a seasoned warrior to a helpless infant was a tormenting experience for him.

From the moment he could understand the world around him, Aemon knew he was different. He felt a profound sense of loss and longing, a desire to return to the life he once knew. at least to the loved ones he once had. He despised the vulnerability of childhood, the inability to express his thoughts clearly, and the frustration of being treated like an innocent babe. The memories of battles fought and friendships forged haunted his dreams, reminding him of a past that seemed unreachable, and yet his past was this world's future. That meant that the Long Night was the future of this land once more, and Aemon would not go along with that.

Aemon's earlier days were filled with a peculiar blend of frustration and determination. He detested the limitations imposed by his young age, craving for the freedom that came with maturity. His tiny body felt like a prison, trapping the knowledge and experience of an older man within its confines. Aemon hated nothing more than a baby, for unlike the first time in the distant future, he was a true babe then, but now, as a grown man of about three decades in the body of a baby, he found it restricting.

The thoughts of what could happen plagued him, from what he understood he was in the past, decades before the Dance of Dragons. Daemon Targaryen never had a child named Aemon, and never before had Lyanna Stark lived before and married into the Targaryen family save for his own previous life. His mere existence changed the game because if he, as a Targaryen, bounded with another dragon, then that would be one less dragon on either side of the future war or another dragon added to whatever side he so chose. The timing was horrible; he was a month younger than Rhaenyra Targaryen and was doomed to be a member of the Dance of Dragons.

Which side would he join, the Blacks or the Greens? By rights, Rhaenyra should be queen; the oaths were made to follow her. But if the Blacks win, with his aid, the Velaryons would claim the Iron Throne, and there was no proof of the rumor that if Rhaenyra had sat it, her children would be Targaryen by name. But more importantly, her children were bastards, and while he was a bastard for most of his life, their blood was only a fourth Valryrian blood; Rhaenyra was only three-fourths Valryian herself, and her former lover, father to the children, was most definitely not Valryian, and if succeeded, they may even further dull the blood. With less Valryian blood then, there was even less of a chance to win the Long Night since there was a lesser chance for Targaryens to claim dragons.

With the greens, a horrible president would be established, and a brother could usurp the throne unpunished. Then that would mean the Dance of Dragons would be as frequent as the Blackyre Rebellions had become in his time. With Targaryens at each other's neck, they would not be able to unify themselves, let alone the realms of man against the Long Night.

In truth, Aemon was glad the Dance of Dragons ended the way it did. Aegon the Usurper lost everything was horribly burnt; his line was extinguished as the cost of his victory. He may have outlasted his sister, but on a technicality, Rhaeynra had won, and in turn, her line continued on to lead to Rhaegar Targaryen. Her line with Daemon was the one that lived, and their children were more Valryian in blood than Rhaenyra herself. That may have been just enough Valyrian blood for it to continue mingling with non-Valryian blood over the hundred or so years since the Dance and given Daenerys and himself enough blood to claim their mounts and win the Long Night, at least the first one.

He needed to ensure that whoever wins, there is more Valryian blood into the fold to keep dragons with house Targaryen and give the future a chance to win the Long Night. But if he made certain choices, would his brothers and sisters live? Would Rob? Sansa? Arya? Bran? Rickon? Would any of the figures that give him the chance be alive? Would Margaery and Arianne?

Merely a month after his death, Aemon began to think of what could be done. Yes, he had won the Long Night, but was it indeed a victory if, in the end, the Night King succeeded and no living graced the world, even if the Night King himself died as well?

As the days turned into months, Aemon's silent rebellion against his fate manifested in small, defiant acts. Before he had even reached his first birthday, he defied the norms of infant behavior. With unsteady steps, he wandered through the halls of the Red Keep, his destination clear in his mind – the library.

Aemon's determination knew no bounds. He might have been a mere babe in the eyes of the world, but his intellect and memories of his previous life propelled him forward. His hands, still chubby and uncoordinated, grasped at the books on the library shelves. With great effort, he managed to pull out a heavy tome, heavy for a baby, its pages yellowed with age and knowledge.

As the chaos of the Red Keep ensued, with servants and guards frantically searching for the missing prince, Aemon sat amidst the dusty tomes, absorbing the wisdom of ages past. He read about the Long Night, the terrifying period when darkness fell across the world, and the Others emerged from the far North, bringing death and destruction in their wake.

Aemon's brows furrowed in concentration as he pored over prophecies and ancient texts, deciphering the cryptic warnings of the Long Night to come. It was Grand Maester Allar who found him, and the glare he received for distributing the prince from his reading was one he would not soon forget.

The maester brought him before the family and spoke about what he saw. Initially, the royal family dismissed the thoughts of a baby not even a year old able to read complex text that even some learned men struggled with. That was until Aemon spoke his first words, responding to the question the King asked the master about what book Aemon was supposedly reading. "Long Night. Long, bad, black, winter," he had said, and all heads turned to the baby in Queen Alysanne's arms. "Maester stopped me. I want to read," he responded even further. Not perfect speech, it was quick and blunt, for he may turn far too many heads, but enough broken speech for all to know he was no ordinary child. Aemon was confined to a baby's body, but he would not confine himself to the only thing he could use: his mind.

King Jaehaerys looked on in suspension, his eyes widening for a second before telling the maester that he would begin teaching Aemon immediately. Queen Alysanne argued against it, saying a child should have their childhood, but her husband would not waver. Jaehaerys, for a reason, neither Aemon nor the rest of the family, save for Baelon, wished to nurture this mind. And the following day, Grand Maester Allar did as he was bid.

Aemon's thirst for knowledge was insatiable. He studied the art of diplomacy, and honed his skills in swordsmanship, seeking any advantage against the darkness that loomed on the horizon. His tiny hands traced the symbols of ancient spells, his young voice whispering incantations that had long been forgotten.

Grand Maester Allar said the boy went through the material quicker than lightning. Aemon had never forgotten how to read or write, and knew most of his histories, even if parts of his memory were clearer than others on the subject. In his past life the maesters taught him High Valryian; his northern accent made it sound strange to most who understood. But in this life, he was not able to develop the northern speech. The Grand Maester would shout with glee that Aemon was a prodigy among prodigies, that never before had a child gone through books and teachings so easily.

And with that Aemon time learning and reading, Aemon realized something, something that he had overlooked. It was not Westeros who fought the most or the hardest during the Long Night. Westeros was war-torn for years before the Long Night began. It was Essos' armies that gave them a chance in the first bout. And it may give them another chance to do the same.

He asked the maester to teach him other tongues besides the common tongue and High Valryian. He wished to learn the dialects of the Free Cities, the language of Quarth, and the Dothraki, the language in Asshai, and everything there was in Essos, for he knew that it might do him good to broker some peace with them and establish a precedent for the future to follow to face off against the Long Night. The Master decided to start him with some of the dialects of the Free cities due to them being offshoots of High Valryian.In the years that followed, Aemon's extraordinary abilities did not go unnoticed. The maesters recognized his unique gifts, guiding him in his studies and readings.

Daemon Targaryen wished to return to Aemon several times, but not once was he allowed. Jaehaerys and Baelon stress the importance of establishing the new branch house in the Dornish marches and the need for Caraxes to be there. Prince Baelon even threatened to come and put his son in his place if needed.

During the life as a baby, Aemon had known much death. Lyanna Stark had died, bringing him in for the second time. His Aunt Gael, the last daughter of King Jaehaerys loyal to the crown, died drowned in the Blackwater a year ago, and Alysanne Targaryen, the Good Queen, passed just over a moon ago.

In the early morning light, the training yard of the Red Keep was alive with the sounds of clashing swords and armored footsteps. Aemon Targaryen, his tiny frame adorned in scaled-down armor, walked on resolute beside Ser Harrold Westerling, a seasoned member of the Kingsguard. The boy's eyes, far older than his years, met Ser Harrold's stern gaze with determination. The knight had his reservations about a three-year-old prince taking up a sword.

"Your Grace, I must commend your determination. It's rare to see such spirit in one so young. But, perhaps it's a bit early for such training," Ser Harrold said, his voice laced with concern as he tried to dissuade the young prince. "You're too young, Your Grace," Ser Harrold said, his voice firm but not unkind. "Fighting is not a game for children."

Aemon's gaze remained unwavering. "I understand, Ser Harrold," he replied, his tone surprisingly steady for a three-year-old. "But I want to learn. I want to fight."

"Your Grace, it is not yet time," Ser Harrold said, his voice firm but gentle. "You are still very young. There's no rush to learn the ways of the sword."

Aemon's expression remained determined as he looked up at the knight. "I want to learn," he said, his voice surprisingly steady for a child his age.

Ser Harrold raised an eyebrow, impressed by the young prince's determination. "It's commendable that you're eager, Your Grace, but even the bravest knights start their training when they are older. Your safety is paramount."

Aemon, undeterred, squared his shoulders and spoke with a confidence that belied his age. "Maegor the Cruel began his training at my age. I can do it, too."

Ser Harrold sighed softly, his gaze softening with concern. "Comparing yourself to Maegor is unwise, Your Grace," he said gently. "Maegor was a tyrant, a cruel and ruthless ruler. His actions led to much suffering in the realm. You should strive to be the opposite of him, just and merciful."

As Aemon and Ser Harrold prepared to continue their debate, the distant murmur of voices reached their ears. The pair exchanged a knowing glance as they recognized the whispers that accompanied the young prince's arrival.

A group of courtiers, gathered by the training yard, just bit away from the pair, they couldn't help but comment on Aemon's unusual appearance. "Look at him," one whispered to another, "he doesn't look like a Targaryen at all. Are we sure he's truly Prince Daemon's son?"

Another voice chimed in, questioning Aemon's legitimacy. "He spends all his time in the library, reading dusty old books," a lady murmured, her tone dripping with condescension. "It's not what his father is fond of. He looks and acts little like him."

The whispers grew bolder, fueled by rumors and envy. A brave soul among them even dared to utter insults about Aemon's mother. "My lord husband named his mother a 'Northern whor*,'" a woman sneered, "and him, a 'bastard' born of such a union. It's an embarrassment to the Targaryen name."

Aemon's jaw clenched, and he could feel Ser Harrold's concern growing. The young prince had endured such whispers for years, knowing that his appearance and his penchant for the library set him apart from the typical Targaryen prince. His memories of Jon Snow, a trueborn Targaryen in both lives, but in neither did he look the part, weighed heavily on his heart. While his hands gripped his sword, not once did his face show his inner anger.

Yet, despite the cruel words spoken behind his back, no one dared to confront Aemon directly. He was, after all, the son of prince Daemon, and he bore the Targaryen name, a name that commanded a certain level of respect and fear. And no man would dare anger the Rouge Prince himself, and that was without the consideration of Caraxes.

As the whispers of the crowd reached the ears of Prince Aemon and Ser Harrold in the training yard, the atmosphere grew tense. Aemon's small frame stiffened, his grip on the wooden training sword tightening as he tried to ignore the cruel words that floated in the air.

Ser Harrold glanced down at the young prince, his expression stern. "Pay them no mind, Your Grace," he said, his voice low and steady. "Words from petty minds hold no weight. Your heritage is your own, and the strength within you speaks louder than any rumors."

With a determined glint in his eyes, Aemon turned to Ser Harrold. "Let them talk," he said, his voice firm. "I will prove my worth with my actions, not with words. I am a Targaryen of the Red Keep, and I will rise above their doubts."

Aemon clutched the training sword tightly, his small hands wrapped around the hilt. It was a sword made especially for someone of his size, not as grand as those wielded by knights in their prime, but it felt right in his grasp. He turned to Ser Harrold Westerling determination in his young eyes. Beneath it all, he needed to be strong if he was to start preparing for the Long Night. It may be far away, but if he is strong now, he could speed up events to unify Westeros, bring Dorne into the picture, and be a better realm for the Long Night to come.

Ser Harrold hesitated for a moment, his gaze meeting Aemon's resolute eyes. "Your determination is admirable, Your Grace, but I am a knight, not a teacher. Training a young prince is a task that requires patience and expertise, qualities I may lack. At least let me get the Master of Arms."

Aemon nodded in understanding, his gaze unwavering. "I know, Ser Harrold, but there's a reason I want you to train me."

Ser Harrold furrowed his brow, curious about Aemon's reasoning. "And what might that reason be, Your Grace?"

Aemon's voice held a note of conviction as he explained, "The Master at Arms is skilled, I have no doubt, but he is not a Kingsguard like you. I want to be trained by someone who understands the importance of duty, loyalty, and honor. You've sworn an oath to protect the King and the royal family. I want to learn from someone who embodies those principles."

Ser Harrold nodded in understanding, acknowledging Aemon's reasoning. He sighed for a second before going to the side and grabbing a training sword himself. " I may not be a master at teaching, but I will do my best. Be warned, I may be as bad at this as a fish is walking."

"I doubt that," Aemon returned.

As Aemon and Ser Harrold squared off in the training yard, the older knight observed the young prince's stance carefully. He was prepared to point out a flaw, something to correct and improve upon. However, as he looked closer, he realized that there was something oddly deliberate about the way Aemon held his training sword. It was a stance so perfect that Ser Harrold couldn't help but be impressed, even though he couldn't put his finger on why.

But as he observed Aemon's stance, a strange realization dawned on him. The prince's posture was somehow perfect, his form impeccable. Ser Harrold's experienced eye scanned for flaws, but he found none, except for one subtle detail that gave him pause.

Aemon's stance held a lone, almost imperceptible flaw. It was a flaw that only a true expert of the blade would recognize, one that was deliberately made to deceive less experienced fighters. Ser Harrold's brows furrowed as he considered the possibility that a master swordsman had trained the young prince.

Aemon's flaw was a baited trap, an intentional weakness designed to entice an opponent to strike. The apparent vulnerability would tempt a less experienced fighter and would move to exploit it. But in doing so, they would fall into Aemon's carefully laid trap, exposing themselves to a devastating counterattack.

Ser Harrold couldn't help but be impressed, though he remained unaware of Aemon's unique background and memories. Aemon's stance spoke of a deep understanding of the art of combat, one that surpassed his tender years.

In the training yard, the clash of steel echoed through the air as Ser Harrold, with his longsword in hand, lunged forward in a swift, calculated motion. His eyes were sharp, his movements precise, aiming to catch the young prince off guard. However, Aemon, displaying uncanny grace and agility, sidestepped Ser Harrold's strike with a fluid motion that seemed almost effortless.

Aemon's training sword moved with blinding speed, a dance of steel and finesse. With a series of deft moves, he skillfully parried Ser Harrold's attacks, his blade glinting in the sunlight as it intercepted each strike. He was careful never to block the strike; no, Ser Harrold would overpower him easily; Aemon was just out of his infancy, after all. With each strike Ser Harrold made, he sidestepped and used his blade to graze the blade and not to deflect the blade but to show that many strikes could be made once Aemon was inside the knight's guard.

With a masterful twist of his wrist, Aemon's training sword found its mark, the tip of the blade resting gently against Ser Harrold's stomach. The older knight, recognizing his defeat, lowered his sword, conceding the victory to the young prince. Aemon's eyes, though young, gleamed with determination and fierce intelligence, a testament to his prowess on the battlefield.

The training yard fell into a hushed silence as the onlookers absorbed the sight before them. The courtiers, knights, and servants watched in awe, witnessing a display of skill that seemed beyond the capabilities of a mere child. Whispers of amazement and respect filled the air, mingling with the fading echoes of clashing steel.

As Aemon stood in the midst of the training yard, his young eyes gazing into the distance, he recalled the memories of his past life as Jon Snow. The weight of his former identity pressed upon him, reminding him of the responsibilities he had once borne.

He remembered the days when Winterfell had welcomed Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, into its halls. Jon Snow, understanding the imminent threat of the Long Night, had sought out Jaime for guidance. Under the golden-haired knight's tutelage, Jon had undergone rigorous training, enduring long hours of practice and honing his skills with a sword. The harsh winter winds of the North had bitten at his skin as he trained relentlessly, each swing of the heavy sword preparing him for the darkness that loomed ahead.

Jaime had shared the knowledge passed down by legendary knights of the Kingsguard, including scrolls and books authored by the famed Arthur Dayne. Jon had absorbed every word, internalizing the techniques and wisdom of those who had come before him. He had trained with swords that were deliberately weighted five times heavier than they should be, pushing his body and mind to their limits.

After his training with Jaime, Jon Snow further honed his skills under the guidance of Arya Stark, his adopted sister and fellow warrior. Together, they had sparred countless times, not only before the Long Night but after as well, their blades clashing in a dance of skill and determination. As Jon's abilities grew, he earned a reputation as the finest swordsman of House Targaryen, a title once held by his father, Rhaegar Targaryen, Aemon the Dragonknight, and Daemon the Rouge Prince.

In his current life as Aemon Targaryen, the memories of Jon Snow served as a foundation, a source of knowledge and expertise that propelled him forward. As he stood in the training yard, his small form wielding the sword with grace and precision, he channeled the legacy of his past self, embracing the skills he had acquired through hard-fought battles and relentless training.

The clash of swords continued a dance of skill and determination between the young prince and the seasoned Kingsguard, Ser Harrold Westerling. The sun cast long shadows as they moved, the blades flashing in the sunlight with every strike and parry.

Aemon's short stature and speed proved to be his greatest assets in the sparring matches. With agility that belied his age, he darted and weaved, narrowly avoiding Ser Harrold's powerful strikes. The knight's blows were mighty, too forceful for the young prince to block directly. Instead, Aemon relied on his quick reflexes and ability to evade, slipping through the openings in Ser Harrold's defense.

Time and again, Aemon exploited the moments when Ser Harrold's strikes left him momentarily off balance. With a swift sidestep or a well-timed duck, Aemon maneuvered himself into the knight's guard, his smaller blade finding its way to vital points with precision. It was a tactic he had learned from his own experiences, a technique he had once fallen victim to when sparring with Arya Stark.

Each time he slipped through Ser Harrold's defenses and landed a strike, he proved that he was more than just a child. He was a skilled warrior, a force to be reckoned with, his victories echoing the techniques he had learned from his past life as Jon Snow.

The training yard bore witness to Aemon's triumphs; his victories, which accounted for nearly half of the spares in total, were celebrated not with boastful words but with the quiet satisfaction of a battle well fought. And with each win, he grew more confident, his movements becoming more fluid, his strikes more precise.

Ser Harrold Westerling, a towering figure in his gleaming armor, faced off against the young prince Aemon Targaryen. Ser Harrold's strikes were like thunder, powerful and forceful enough that any grown man unfortunate enough to be hit would meet their end swiftly.

Aemon, despite his tender years, moved with remarkable speed and precision. His swordplay was fluid, each movement deliberate and calculated. His small stature worked to his advantage, allowing him to dart and weave around Ser Harrold's blows like a shadow, avoiding the full brunt of the knight's immense strength. To Ser Harrold, Aemon seemed like a mere annoyance, a persistent mosquito buzzing around him. He thought that if the mosquito bit, the sting would be bothersome now but lead to trouble later if the mosquito had an illness that could be transferred.

The young prince was patient, biding his time as he danced around Ser Harrold. He maneuvered skillfully, staying just out of reach, waiting for the knight to tire, knowing that in his weariness, Ser Harrold's defenses would falter.

Ser Harrold swung his sword with unrelenting force, his blows coming down like a hammer. Aemon parried, dodged, and countered, his movements graceful yet purposeful. With each exchange, he probed, seeking the weak points in Ser Harrold's defense.

Minutes turned into what felt like hours as the fight wore on. Ser Harrold's breathing grew heavier, his armor weighing him down, and his strikes became less precise. Aemon sensed the opportunity he had been waiting for. With lightning speed, he exploited Ser Harrold's momentary lapse in focus, sidestepping a particularly powerful swing and slipping into the knight's blind spot.

Aemon struck true. His training sword found its mark, landing a precise blow on the exposed joint of Ser Harrold's armor. The impact, while not as lethal as a real sword, was enough to register victory. Ser Harrold grunted, acknowledging the defeat.

Ser Harrold Westerling squared off against Aemon Targaryen once more. The older knight's demeanor held a playful edge as he addressed the young prince, his tone teasing yet tinged with genuine camaraderie.

"It's about time I put in more effort, Your Grace," Ser Harrold remarked with a wry smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You're hurting my pride as a knight. Perhaps I should remind you that you're still just a child."

Aemon met Ser Harrold's jest with a determined glint in his eyes, his grip on the training sword tightening. He was well aware of the knight's intention to push him, to test his limits, and ensure he didn't grow overly confident. The young prince's pride, already steeled by his victories, was a double-edged sword, a source of strength and a potential vulnerability.

As the bout commenced, it became evident that Ser Harrold was in control. He no longer treated him as a babe of three but now as something a kin to a squire. Aemon was going to get his ass handed to him on a silver platter, and he was glad for it. Honestly if a kingsgaurd, while going serious, lost a child then Aemon would have to question their worth as a kinsguard.

His strikes were deliberate and calculated, each blow aimed with precision. Aemon, despite his agile movements and quick reflexes, found himself on the defensive. The older knight's experience and strength seemed insurmountable, his blows forcing Aemon to step back, to parry and block, his arms straining under the impact.

The training yard fell into a hushed tension as the spectators watched the battle unfold. Aemon's determination shone bright, but Ser Harrold's skill and power were undeniable. With each clash of their swords, it became clear that the young prince was facing a formidable opponent and the boy whose skill could best some squires, would get beaten soundly by a knight. The sound truth was that the boy's body was not yet the level of his enate tallent.

Aemon fought valiantly, his brow furrowed in concentration, but he struggled to match Ser Harrold's relentless onslaught. The knight's strikes came faster, his footwork impeccable, and Aemon found himself gradually being pushed backward across the yard.

Ser Harrold's movements were fluid, a dance of practiced grace and strength. He deftly maneuvered around Aemon's defenses, exploiting every opening, every hesitation. Aemon's breath came in labored gasps, his arms growing heavy, but he refused to yield. He knew that this fight was more than just a sparring match; it was a test of his resilience, a lesson in humility.

Aemon on the defensive, desperately trying to parry Ser Harrold's relentless onslaught. The young prince's arms grew heavy under the weight of the blows, and his breaths came in ragged gasps as he struggled to keep up with the seasoned knight. With each strike, Ser Harrold pushed Aemon further back, steadily gaining ground and wearing down the young prince's defenses.

Ser Harrold's strikes came at him like a storm, a barrage of steel that left little room for the young prince to respond. The older knight's aggression was unyielding, his attacks repetitive yet unpredictable, leaving Aemon struggling to find an opening.

The young prince fought with all his might, his training sword parrying and blocking as best he could. But Ser Harrold's strikes were too fast, too powerful. Aemon felt the impact of each blow reverberated through his arms, the strain of defending against such an onslaught taking its toll.

Despite his efforts, Aemon could not find a way to counter Ser Harrold's relentless assault. The older knight's skill and experience were evident, his aggressive style leaving no room for the young prince to maneuver or launch a meaningful counterattack. Aemon's world became a whirlwind of flashing steel and pounding footsteps, his focus narrowing down to the immediate need to defend himself against the overwhelming force of Ser Harrold's strikes.

As the fight wore on, Aemon's movements grew more sluggish, his arms heavy with fatigue. Ser Harrold pressed on, his strikes unyielding, his determination unwavering. It became clear to everyone watching that even some seasoned squires might not have endured as long as Aemon did against such a formidable opponent, the boy was three.

In the end, Aemon's defense faltered. Ser Harrold's blade found an opening, and with a swift strike, he disarmed the young prince, sending the training sword clattering to the ground. Aemon stumbled backward, his breaths coming in ragged gasps, his face flushed with exertion and frustration. Ser Harrold stood tall, his chest heaving, his victory absolute.

Aemon had grown too confident; the knight had been taking it easy on him like any grown man would on a child. He could see what moves Ser Harrold was going to take, but Aemon was too slow and too weak to do anything about it.

The training yard fell silent, the onlookers in awe of the display of skill they had witnessed. As he picked up his training sword, his gaze remained fixed on Ser Harrold, a mix of determination and respect in his eyes.

Ser Harrold did not feel pride in his victory; Aemon was but a child. He would not take pride in beating a three-year-old babe in a fight. The child was like a living shadow, everywhere and yet nowhere. Aemon was just out of reach, and the knight found it irritating. Ser Harrold had seen it as a lose-lose, lose to a child or beat a child, and he liked neither of them. But the people in attendance knew the truth; while Aemon had lost, he had done so with far more difficulty than any child of his age should. Ser Harrold, more so than any other person, wondered how the child would be in a few year's time.

Aemon stood there, his chest rising and falling with exertion, a quiet determination in his eyes. No one made a sound until clapping could be heard; everyone turned to the balcony, looking over the training yard, and saw crown prince Baelon clapping for his grandchild.

"I was wondering if Daemon and Lyanna transferred any of their skill with a blade to their child," he said loudly.

The clapping continued as another added soon after, then another. After some time, the entire training yard was in a cheer. Aemon said nothing but lowered his head in acknowledgment before walking off the field.

The word of what happened spread like wildfire, and the entire keep heard of the incident within the hour. Aemon had fought better than most men and fought Ser Harrold and gained many victories out of the dozen spars on that day.

Aemon knew his plan, knew how he would act if he were to prepare the realm for the Long Night to come. Rhaegar Targaryen was seen as arguably one of the best princes in the Targaryen line. He could sing, he was cunning and witty, and he was one of the best swordsmen to have ever been. He fought valiantly; he fought bravely and honorably, and he died. And yet, after his death, the only person to have bad words of him after his death was Robert Baratheon. Only the person who had killed him had bad things to say. Even people who should have hated him on principle alone due to fighting against him in Robert's Rebellion had nothing bad to say but rather did not admit the good qualities he had.

In this life, if he is to fight off against the Long Night, he would need to be the best prince he can be, like his father, and ensure he did not make the one mistake that crippled the Targaryens, enrage a lord paramount. But even that was under many exceptions that led to the rebellion winning. Things such as the powers of house Westeros slowly being returned to the Lords paramount, especially after Tywin Lannister became hand for the first time under Aerys. Tyrion, his hand after he became King in his past life, had urged him to learn from the past or doom his house to repeat the mistakes; he said that time was like a wheel and everything will always come full circle once more.

He would keep the powers in the hands of House Targaryen; he would be the perfect prince. He would not allow the strength to be brought to Lords paramount and leave house Targaryen to their mercy and bargen to keep the crown like Rhaegar was going to do at the tourney of Harrenhall with the alliance of Stark, Tully, Arryn, and Baratheon before Rhaegar and Lyanna disappeared angering the alliance he wished to gain the support of to overthrow his father, Aerys.

One thing that would give house Tarargyen the chance to retain their centralized power would be keeping the dragons. The only way that would work is if they avoid the Dance of Dragons, which is impossible if Aemma dies still without giving Viserys a male heir. Also becuase he was but a child and could not convince Viserys not to pick Alicent Hightower to wife because he did not know when her seduction began or where they were when it happened. And frankly, Aemon would not put it past Corlys to take the chance to convince his daughter Laena to do a similar thing if the two wed, and considering the fact that that she was the only other true contender for the position besides Alicent, it was not a good idea since the new divided house Targaryen would still be dragon riders but now with the help of the Velaryon fleet at the beginning of the fighting, not something Aemon would entertain. If Viserys marries another house, they risk another lord paramount, supporting the opposing side of Rhaenyra and having an entire lord paramount and their vassal lords against her that might have been on her side in the initial history was not the best scenario.

With Viserys marrying Alicent, they have only one Reach house supporting them rather than nearly a hundred thousand troops. Viserys would marry Alicent; she would have her children, and Rhaenyra would face them. Rhaeynra had the most dragons at the beginning of the fighting, and if Aemon supported her, there was a larger chance more dragons survived, especially since he had a general idea of the battles in the Dance of Dragons, even if now, for some gods' forsaken reason, his memory was slowly growing more clouded of the specific details.

The war was coming either way. But for now, Aemon would prepare not only for the dance to come but also for the night that follows later.

Driftmark 100 AC

Baelon Targaryen

Baelon Targaryen, the valiant heir to the throne of Dragonstone flew upon his dragon's back. With silver hair cascading down his shoulders and violet eyes that mirrored the depths of the sea. But it was not just his looks that set him apart; it was his courage and adventurous spirit that made him a legend. Baelon the Brave, they call him, but for now, this was to be the bravest thing he had done yet, righting a wrong and reconciling the breach in the house of the dragon.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the skies with hues of orange and purple, Baelon mounted the mighty dragon Vhagar. With wings that spanned the heavens, Vhagar was a symbol of power and majesty. Together, they soared over the Red Keep, leaving behind a trail of awe-struck onlookers. The wind whipped through Baelon's hair as he guided Vhagar westward towards the tranquil waters of Blackwater Bay.

Their destination was Driftmark, the ancestral seat of House Velaryon. The island, with its dark stone keep, stood proudly amidst the waters, a testament to centuries of Velaryon history. As Baelon and Vhagar descended upon the island, the people of Driftmark marveled at the sight of the prince and his dragon.

Driftmark, an island shrouded in mist and storms, laid to the west of Dragonstone in the heart of Blackwater Bay. The castle, though grim-looking, held an air of ancient beauty, its dark, salt-stained walls bearing witness to centuries of history. Despite its seemingly inhospitable appearance, Driftmark bore the mark of dragonkind upon its stones. While it shared the same dark, rugged characteristics as Dragonstone, the designs etched into its walls set it apart. No dragons were etched and engrained into the side of the castle, and years of storms had made the walls encrusted with some barnacles and were weathered by storms. As Baelon and Vhagar approached, the imposing silhouette of the castle emerged from the fog, its towers reaching for the heavens amidst the surrounding gloom.

Within the castle keep, made of the same dark stones that characterized the outer walls, the tapestries and banners of House Velaryon proudly hung, displaying the sigil that defined their identity—a silver seahorse on a sea green background. These symbols of the house's maritime heritage fluttered gently in the sea breeze, reminding all who beheld them of the Velaryons' mastery over the waves and their allegiance to the Targaryen dynasty.

Upon landing, Prince Baelon was greeted by the lords and ladies of House Velaryon, their silver seahorse sigil proudly displayed on sea green banners and tapestries that adorned the keep's walls. The castle itself, despite its appearance, held an undeniable allure, steeped in the legacy of the seafaring Velaryons.

Inside the keep, Baelon found himself surrounded by the rich tapestries depicting the adventures of House Velaryon, their seafaring prowess, and their loyalty to House Targaryen. The silver seahorse was emblazoned on every piece of fabric, a testament to their ancestral connection to the sea.

As Baelon was led into the opulent chamber, to a large chamber to met the head of the house. Tapestries adorned the walls glittered under the warm glow of chandeliers. In the midst of this comely room, almost pretentiousness, stood Corlys Velaryon, his eyes sharp and shrewd, his voice as smooth as the waves on a calm day. The room they were in was a testament to Corlys's wealth and accomplishments, adorned with silks, tapestries, gold, jewels, and trophies from his grand adventures.

"Prince Baelon," Corlys said, his voice smooth as silk, "it is an honor to host you in our humble abode. Your arrival graces us with the presence of Dragonstone's noble heir. Please, make yourself comfortable." Baelon fought the urge to chuckle at words so perfect they seemed rehearsed, considering the act that both Corlys and his wife hated Baelon, he would not have put it past them to do so to ensure they did not disrespect him out right.

Baelon, feigning gratitude, replied with a polite smile, "Thank you, Lord Corlys. Your hospitality is truly appreciated. I have heard much about your daring exploits and remarkable voyages, but never had I had the chance to see the trophies of them in person. Your fame has always preceded you."

Corlys, his eyes glinting with hidden motives, nodded graciously. "Ah, the tales do tend to exaggerate, my prince. But I am humbled by your kind words. Tell me, what brings you to Driftmark? I assume it is not merely the pleasure of my company that graces us today."

As they exchanged pleasantries, the heavy door creaked open, revealing Princess Rhaeyns, her smile as radiant as a summer sunrise, yet every soul in the room could sense the insincerity that hid behind it. She approached Baelon, curtsying gracefully.

"Uncle Baelon, how wonderful to see you," she said, her voice sweet but her eyes betraying her true feelings, at least it only revealed themselves to those who spent most of their days in King's Landing like Baelon did, it seemed to him that Rhaenys was slightly out of practice.

Baelon bowed slightly, maintaining his composure. "Neice! Princess Rhaeyns, the pleasure is mine. I am grateful for your warm welcome."

Corlys, ever the diplomat, interjected smoothly, "We were just discussing the fascinating history of Driftmark and some of the trophies from the voyages. I'm sure you would find it quite intriguing, Prince Baelon."

Baelon nodded, playing along. "Indeed, I've heard much about the storied past of House Velaryon. I would be honored to learn more."

Despite the polite exchange, an undercurrent of tension hung in the air, palpable to all present. The strained smiles and forced pleasantries masked the deeper animosity between the princess, her husband, and Baelon. It was a delicate dance of words and gestures, each participant carefully choosing their steps to avoid stepping on the other's toes.

"Now, your grace, I believe that you did not come here soely for the details of another man's exploits," Lord Corlys supplied after gesture to seat.

Baelon met Corlys's gaze with determination, his eyes reflecting the seriousness of his intent. "Lord Velaryon, the division between our houses has persisted for far too long," he began, his voice steady. "While the realm perceives an illusion of unity, we both know the truth. Two vital branches of the house of the dragon remain apart, and this disunity does not sit well with King Jaehaerys nor myself."

"House Vaelryon is and shall always be loyal to the crown, your grace," Lord Corlys explained.

Baelon's voice softened as he addressed the elephant in the room, acknowledging the longstanding resentment that had festered between their families. "I am aware of the history, Lord Velaryon. The decision to name me Prince of Dragonstone instead of my dear niece Rhaenys has caused bitterness and resentment within House Targaryen and House Velaryon. I understand the pain it has caused Princess Rhaenys and her family, and for that, I am truly sorry."

"My dislike for the decisions made does not extend to my cousins, uncle. You had no choice in the matter," her eyes narrowing and her lips thinning. Baelon almost believed her. "It was the King's decision. Our forefathers chose men heirs over their daughters; if that were not the case, King Jaehaerys would have never been King, and it would be his elder sister and former wife to Prince Aegon the Uncrowned, princess Rhaena, who would have been made queen."

He met Rhaeyns's gaze, his eyes sincere. "But I am not my forefathers, and I am not my sons or my grandsires. I am Baelon, and I am here to bridge the gap that has divided our houses for too long. I wish for a future where our families can stand together, where the wounds of the past can heal, and where our children can grow up knowing the strength that comes from unity. Aegon the Conquerors themselves had a Velaryon mother and it was with both our houses that this empire was built." He paused, a deep sigh escaping his lips as he continued, "I made a promise to my late mother, a promise I intend to keep. House Velaryon and House Targaryen should not remain estranged. We are kin, bound by blood, and it is our duty to strengthen that bond, not weaken it."

Baelon's words hung heavy in the air, a challenge and a plea wrapped into one. He glanced at Princess Rhaeyns, his eyes softening with empathy, knowing the difficult position his words put her in. Rhaeyns, though she maintained her composure, couldn't hide the flicker of unease in her eyes.

Corlys, ever the astute diplomat, studied his wife for a moment before turning his attention back to Baelon. His expression was thoughtful, as if weighing the implications of the prince's words. And he knew what Baelon was suggesting without the words being said out right. "A betrothal," he mused, his voice low. "It is a significant proposition, Prince Baelon. Such a union would indeed bind our houses. But, forgive my bluntness, why should we agree to this? What assurance do we have that this union will not further deepen the rift between our families? After the las time the union was made it was not respected enough," he said accusingly.

"I recommend holding your tongue, Corlys," Baelon said with a glare. "You're wife may be my niece but that does not make you Targaryen. You will not speak to me as if you are my equal."

Corlys looked forward to the prince for some time before nodding his head. "My apologies, your grace. I forget myself."

Baelon met Corlys's gaze squarely, his resolve unwavering. "That being said, I understand your concerns, Lord Velaryon. I am willing to offer any assurances necessary to make this betrothal a reality. Our union would not only strengthen House Targaryen but also enrich House Velaryon. I am prepared to negotiate terms that would be beneficial for both our houses and the realm."

"And the union would be?" Lord Corlys asked.

Baelon took a deep breath, his eyes unwavering as he presented his proposal. "Lord Velaryon, to signify our commitment to bridging the gap between our houses, I propose a marriage between Laena Velaryon, your esteemed daughter, and my grandson, Aemon Targaryen." He spoke with conviction, outlining the qualities that made Aemon a worthy match. "Aemon is a prodigy, not only in the arts of the sword but also in the realm of knowledge. He is well-versed in both the book and the blade, showing exceptional prowess in his training. Just three weeks ago, he was honored with the position of squire to Ser Harrold Westerling, a renowned knight of the realm, a testament to his skill and potential." Baelon's eyes glinted with pride as he continued, "The maesters sing praises of his quick mind, and Aemon has already mastered High Valyrian and the common tongue. The Grand Maester himself has taken it upon him to teach Aemon the other dialects spoken in the Free Cities, further broadening his horizons."

"I highly doubt all that," Rhaenys countered. She looked at her husband. "He's three."

"I have heard otherwise for the last number of weeks," Lord Corlys offered.

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in the room. "A union between Laena and Aemon would not only join our houses in marriage but also bring together two remarkable individuals, fostering understanding, collaboration, and harmony between our families. It would not only honor our ancestors but also pave the way for a future where the divisions of the past are nothing but distant memories."

"I appreciate the offer, and I understand the value of unity between our houses. However, I must ask, what would House Velaryon gain from this union? A marriage to a second son of House Targaryen, even a promising one, does not guarantee any significant inheritance, especially when it comes to the Iron Throne. The chances of Aemon ascending to such a position would be quite slim."

"Daemon Targaryen had been investing his efforts in building a castle in the Dornish marches. While the location might seem unconventional, it holds strategic significance. Dorne has often been a region of contention, and having a strong presence there, especially one with Targaryen blood, could prove invaluable in the future. And this position could prove valuable in a future Dornish war if it should come, a chance for Daemon's new house to gain far more wealth and honor. Daemon envisioned this castle as a bastion, a place where the influence of House Targaryen could thrive. A keep heavily fortified. He used Moat Callin, a fort in the North to defend against the South in the days before Aegon the Conquer, as a main component to build upon for the keep."

Corlys raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued, a false act of ignorance of what was happening. Few were supposed to know of what Daemon was doing with Summerhall but every lord in the Seven Kingdoms knew, especially after Daemon cut the balls of the messenger and sent it back in the mouth of the messenger's severed head to Sunspear. "Dornish marches, you say? That's a bold move. But why there?"

Baelon's eyes gleamed with determination. "The Dornish marches, despite their challenges, provide a unique advantage. They are difficult to navigate and offer natural defenses against potential adversaries. Daemon's vision is to establish a stronghold that can withstand Dornish attacks, a bastion where the Targaryen legacy can thrive. Aemon is being groomed to not only inherit this keep but also to defend it, ensuring the safety of those within its walls, including your daughter, Laena."

Corlys's expression softened, his concerns momentarily alleviated, yet still present. "It's a dangerous endeavor, Prince Baelon. Dorne is not known for its passivity, and my daughter's safety is paramount to me. How can you guarantee her protection in such a precarious location?"

Baelon met Corlys's gaze with earnestness. "I assure you, Lord Velaryon, every precaution will be taken to fortify the keep and safeguard its inhabitants. Skilled builders and engineers are overseeing its construction, and trusted knights will be stationed there to ensure its defense. Additionally, Aemon will be trained not just in the ways of the sword, but also in strategic leadership, making him more than capable of protecting his home and those residing within it. Moreover, Laena will not be alone in this venture. She will have the support of House Targaryen and House Velaryon, ensuring that she is never left to face the challenges of the Dornish marches alone. We will stand united, facing whatever threats come our way, just as our ancestors did in days of old."

"I do not think my daughter would do well in a castle that has to be besieged and destroyed every third day, uncle," Rhaenys countered.

He continued, his voice filled with conviction, "This castle, conceived with ambition and vision, will be a testament to House Targaryen's endurance and strength. King Jaehaerys and I have committed a substantial sum of money to this endeavor. We aim to make this keep grander than Highgarden itself, a symbol of our house's lasting power and influence, even beyond the walls of the Red Keep." Baelon's eyes glimmered with determination. "Aemon, as the heir to this castle, will not only inherit titles and lands but a legacy of ambition and greatness. House Velaryon would be an integral part of this legacy, linked by blood and shared dreams of a future where our families thrive together. Not to mention you will be gaining an army."

"Excuse me, uncle?" Princess Rhaenys asked.

Prince Baelon looked to Corlys and asked him to explain since the pair both knew Corlys had been thinking about it since Baelon mentioned Aemon's name. "Prince Aemon's ties to the North give him any where between thirty thousand to fifty thousand men at his call if he so needs. Starks are nothing if not loyal and that will extend especially to those of their blood. If Aemon called the North would follow."

"And even your house is the wealthiest in the realm, you do not have the largest armies in it. You are no lord paramount to call forth you banners and raise ten thousand men, let alone four times that number. Having a Velaryon married to Aemon gives your house a chance to be connected to the North if you so need that army." Baelon continued. "The North also has it's own fleet, something that may add to your own."

"I would hardly call what the Manderlys have a fleet," Corlys scoffed.

"With your help, they could be. Two entire fleets and at least of thirty thousand men, on top of which, a prince as your daughters husband and a seat more beautiful than anything made since Valyria itself. This is what Aemon has to offer for House Velaryon."

"He is still less than likely to be a member of the main house of Targaryen. If Viserys has a son, then house Velaryon would not be tied to him, but rather Daemon," Rhaenys countered.

"And if Viserys does not have a son, then Daemon is his heir, and Aemon is his own. Either way, you have a husband for your wife who is either on the small council to help house Velaryon's interests or potentially a King of the Seven Kingdoms." He paused, allowing his words to sink in before adding, "Aemon is a boy of exceptional talents and potential. Even if he does not ascend to the Iron Throne, his skills in diplomacy, warfare, and governance will undoubtedly make him a prominent figure in the realm. There is little doubt in my mind even if the boy is young, he will have a seat on the small council. The alliances he forges, the wisdom he imparts, and the respect he earns will be invaluable assets to House Velaryon. A union with such a promising individual would bring honor, stability, and prosperity to your house."

Baelon observed the subtle exchange between Rhaenys and Corlys, detecting a flicker of apprehension in their eyes. Yet, he sensed a glimmer of hope, a willingness to bridge the gap and embrace the potential for unity.

When Corlys finally spoke, his words carried the weight of his decision. "Very well, Prince Baelon. I agree to the proposal of marriage between Laena Velaryon and your grandson, Aemon Targaryen. Let us formalize this arrangement on paper, signed and confirmed, to ensure the commitment between our houses is upheld."

A sense of relief washed over Baelon, and he nodded respectfully. "Thank you, Lord Velaryon. Your willingness to forge this alliance means a great deal to both our houses and the realm."

With a sense of purpose, they set forth to put their agreement in writing, the scratching of quills on parchment echoing through the chamber. The document was carefully drafted, outlining the terms and conditions of the betrothal between Laena Velaryon and Aemon Targaryen. Each word was chosen meticulously, sealing the fate of their houses and the promise of a united future.

Once the document was completed, Corlys extended his hand, a gesture of mutual respect and understanding. "May this union bring prosperity and harmony to our houses. Let our shared history be a guide, reminding us of the strength that comes from unity. "

Baelon clasped Corlys's hand firmly, a genuine smile gracing his lips. "Indeed, Lord Velaryon. May our alliance stand as a beacon of hope and cooperation, a testament to the enduring power of kinship."

"Aemon Targaryen and Laena Velaryon, a union just as the one that sired the conquerors themselves," Rhaenys smiled falsely.

Baelon did not care however, he had done what had promised his mother, and laid the foundation to bridge the house of the dragon for another generation. He ensured his grandson had the support of the most powerful man in the entire world after King Jaehaerys himself. He could already see Aemon riding Balerion heading the Velaryon fleet into battle, manned by forty thousand Northmen, that was a glorious sight indeed. A sight that made a grandfather proud.

Chapter 6: Grand Council

Chapter Text

Harrenhal 101 AC

Aemon Targaryen/ Jon Snow

As the first century of the Targaryen dynasty came to a close, the health of the Old King, Jaehaerys, was failing. Baelon Targaryen, the previous prince of Dragonstone, had passed on due to a burst belly earlier in the year, mere days after being named Hand of the King, replaced swiftly by the cunning Lord Otto Hightower, as Aemon knew would happen. And now they are to prepare for the Grand Council in the ruins of Harrenhal in an hour.

House Targaryen now sat at the height of its strength, according to Aemon's histories, but he would not allow it to stay the same for the future he set to create; he would not allow this moment to be the highest strength the house ever was, they would grow. With house Targaryen, there were eleven adult dragons under its yoke. No power in the world could stand against it.

King Jaehaerys reigned with nearly sixty years of peace and prosperity after the tyrannical reign of Maegor the Cruel. He had survived many trials and tribulations and sadly survived all but three of his thirteen children, two renouncing their father and leaving the Seven Kingdoms, one of which was even a whor* in Lys. The last was a son who became a maester and sworn off the crown. But with both his eldest son, Aemon, dead and his following heir, Baelon, died of a burst belly, leaving his succession in doubt.

As Aemon knew it would be, in the year 101 AC, Jaehaerys called forth a Grand Council to proclaim an heir. Aemon noticed that even before the council, the precedent was already set. Jaehaerys had a daughter before his eldest son, Aemon, and still, it was Aemon who was named prince of Dragonstone. Even before that, Jaehaerys had an elder sister, a living elder sister, before he claimed the Iron Throne, meaning that unofficially, a male would always inherit before a female of the royal family.

Approaching Harrenhal for the first time was a breathtaking experience that left Aemon in awe of its sheer splendor, under the mask of a terrifying black castle-fort. As Aemon drew nearer to the castle, the enormity of the structure became apparent, dominating the landscape with an imposing presence. The castle stood proudly on the north shore of the Gods Eye, a colossal fortress that is the epitome of both power and ambition. Better yet, the melted stone walls, like candle wax, were a testament to the one truth in the world Aegon the Dragon wished to teach the realm of man: do not anger the dragons of House Targaryen.

The first thing that captured Aemon's attention were the five towering spires that seemed to touch the sky, their tops disappearing into the clouds. These dizzying towers were surrounded by monstrous curtain walls, creating a sight that evoked both wonder and intimidation. The walls themselves were incredibly thick, hinting at the castle's formidable strength and the history it has witnessed. And yet it could not save the people inside from burning alive from Baelrion's flames. Now, as the walls were molten, rock ran down like wax from candles, andAemon only wondered how dangerous the Black Dread truly was.

As Aemon ventured inside, he found that Harrenhal's interior was equally awe-inspiring. The rooms, though built for humans, seem designed on a scale that is more suited for giants. The castle boasted the largest throne room in all of Westeros, a vast space that dwarfed even the renowned throne room of the Red Keep.

The sheer size of Harrenhal was difficult to comprehend; it covers three times the ground of Winterfell. Aemon thought that the building was so immense that comparisons hardly do justice. The stables alone can accommodate a staggering thousand horses. The godswood spanned twenty acres, providing a sanctuary of nature amidst the imposing stone walls.

Its kitchens rival the Great Hall of Winterfell itself. The mere thought of the bustling activity within these vast kitchens gave Aemon an idea of how much wealth went into financing a fraction of the keep alone. And why most Houses who claimed Harrenhal were doomed to poverty or death.

As the news of Baelon Targaryen's passing spread through the kingdoms, a heavy atmosphere settled over the Red Keep. Aemon Targaryen's memories of Jon Snow, felt a profound sense of loss for the only grandfather he knew in either lives. Baelon, his grandfather and the man he had known as a loving and indulgent figure, was gone. Baelon had been more than just a family member; he was a source of boundless affection. The loss of his grandfather triggered many dreams of those who had died in the life of Jon Snow.

Aemon allowed his mind to drift back to the days when Baelon the Brave was very much alive. Riding high upon the back of Vhagar, Aemon had felt the rush of wind and the exhilaration of flight as his grandfather allowed him to ride with him. Baelon had taken him on hunts, teaching him the ways of the wilderness, and together, they had tracked and captured Aemon's first stag.

Aemon recalled the sensation of sitting atop a horse, the very same mount as Baelon, as they thundered through the dense woods, hooves pounding against the earth, the wind whipping past them. It was in those moments that Aemon felt a deep connection to his grandfather, the only grandfather he knew in either life.

Baelon Targaryen, the doting grandfather, had showered Aemon with love and indulgence. As his only grandson, Aemon was the apple of Baelon's eye, and the old dragonrider spared no effort in spoiling the young prince. Sweets and treats were just the beginning; Baelon's affection knew no bounds, and he took immense pleasure in bringing joy to Aemon's life.

With the passing of Baelon Targaryen, the Red Keep, no, the entire realm was cast into a whirlwind of political upheaval and uncertainty. In the wake of his passing, two formidable figures emerged, each vying for the position of heir to the late dragon rider. Corlys Velaryon and Rhaenys Targaryen wasted no time seizing the opportunity to challenge the potential heirship of Jaehaerys Targaryen, mostly on behalf of Laenor Velaryon.

Viserys Targaryen, Aemon's uncle, was among the first to assert his claim to the Iron Throne. He argued that, as Baelon's heir, the late prince's position should now transfer to him. Viserys had his own vision for the future of the Seven Kingdoms and believed himself to be the rightful heir, given his close lineage to the recently deceased Baelon.

Rhaenys Targaryen, on the other hand, presented a different argument. She asserted that she was the heir of the late Aemon Targaryen, the eldest son of King Jaehaerys, and that her claim had been usurped when Jaehaerys bestowed the position upon Baelon, her uncle. Her case was built on the lineage of blood, her royal heritage tracing back to the direct line of succession from Aemon.

The dispute over the Targaryen and the matter of who would ascend to the Iron Throne became the topic of great importance. The realm watched with bated breath as the royal family grappled with the complexities of tradition, lineage, and ambition, and the eventual outcome of this power struggle would shape the future of Westeros in ways yet to be seen.

In the Seven Kingdoms, words echoed with over a dozen succession claims, but amidst the chaos, only two were seriously considered: Viserys Targaryen and Rhaenys Targaryen, or rather Rhaenys' son Laenor Vaelryon in her stead. Surprisingly, Daemon Targaryen, a renowned warrior and dragon rider, did not put forth his own claim, nor did Aemon. Instead, they supported Viserys, throwing their influence behind the candidacy of Daemon's brother.

Amidst the more recognized claims, there were other contenders who threw their hats into the ring. Laenor took precedence over either his mother or his sister, but Laena Velaryon, the child of Rhaenys Targaryen, was a potential heir whose claim followed her mother's in importance. Rhaenys and Laena's legitimacy for a claim was questioned and debated. Archmaester Vaegon, the last living son of Jaehaerys, was presented as a contender, some claiming his birthright based on his royal lineage, even if, as a maester, he swore it off.

Additionally, rumors came forth, with individuals from distant lands asserting their supposed connections to House Targaryen. Some claimed to be the offspring of Jaehaery's living daughters residing in Bravos and Lys, though these claims remained unverified. For some reason in particular when Volantis was mentioned Jaehaerys outright claimed it impossible saying the men were too old. Aemon was confused said nothing.

One contender even asserted himself as the bastard of Maegor the Cruel, a bold claim. The claimant brought his own mother, who claimed to be a servant of the Red Keep at the time and had been raped by Maegor. All lords believed that she was raped, but none believed she had gotten pregnant due to the fact that Maegor was known to have struggled with having children, even with six wives. Another individual, daring to make an even bolder assertion, claimed to be Jaehaerys's own illegitimate child.

Jaehaerys Targaryen, wise and foresighted, had anticipated the immense gathering and prepared accordingly. He knew that space was paramount, recognizing that accommodating the multitude of lords, knights, squires, grooms, cooks, and serving men that accompanied each lord would be a monumental task. The sheer scale of the assembly was staggering, with a need for space that could house at least a few hundred lords and their vast retinues.

Jaehaerys anticipated at least five hundred lords. One thousand came in attendance with their followers. The lord of Casterly Rock brought with him three hundred men. Not to be outdone, the Lord of Highgarden brought five hundred. While not yet in the part of the Seven Kingdoms, Aemon even noticed Dornish houses in attendance to observe proceedings, each one eyeing him and his father, Daemon, angrily.

It took half a year for the lords to assemble, each arrival adding to the growing number of people gathered within the crumbling walls of Harrenhal. Even the vast ruins strained to contain the sheer number of men in attendance. The air buzzed with anticipation and tension, the weight of the impending decisions bearing down on the shoulders of those present.

The lords, draped in their sigils and colors, arrived with their knights and warriors, their banners snapping in the wind as they claimed their positions within the assembly. The knights, in polished armor, stood tall and resolute, their squires attending to their every need. Grooms tended to the horses, ensuring their charges were well-cared for, while cooks and serving men prepared meals to sustain the multitude.

The High Septon came and brought a sense of solemnity to the gathering. Coming from the holy city of Oldtown, he was there to bless the assembly, invoking the gods' favor for the decisions that were to be made within the council chambers.

Merchants, recognizing the economic opportunities that the gathering presented, flocked to Harrenhal by the hundreds. Their stalls and carts filled with exotic goods and essential supplies lined the outskirts of the castle, creating a makeshift market where lords and attendees could barter and trade. The air was rich with the scents of spices, leather, and freshly baked bread, enticing both nobles and commoners alike.

Hedge knights and free riders, armed and eager for employment, gathered in hopes of finding lords willing to pay for their swords. With the promise of gold and glory, they mingled with the powerful lords, hoping to be chosen to serve in the conflicts that often arose from such monumental gatherings.

Amidst the sea of people, women and young girls arrived with the hope of securing powerful and advantageous marriages. They presented themselves in their finest garments, seeking to catch the eye of lords and heirs in search of suitable partners. The air was filled with the sound of laughter and flirtation as romantic alliances were forged amid the political maneuvering.

Bards and actors, recognizing the grandeur of the occasion, came to entertain the assembled masses. Their performances, ranging from epic ballads to humorous plays, provided moments of respite from the weighty discussions within Harrenhal's halls. The notes of harps and the echoes of laughter filled the air, offering brief respites from the gravity of the council sessions.

Outside the ancient castle, an entire city of tents sprang up, creating a vibrant and colorful settlement that extended far beyond the castle walls. The tent city buzzed with activity, serving as a microcosm of the realm itself, representing the diverse tapestry of Westerosi society that had gathered for the historic event.

After considering all contenders, it was brought down to merely Viserys and Laenor; each had one argument in their favor. The principle of primogeniture favored Rhaenys and her son Laenor, while the principles of proximity and gender favored Viserys.

Aemon recalled his father, Daemon, flying from castle to castle in the name of Viserys to gain support and help gain more votes for his brother's accession. One thing that happened that changed drastically, even before the vote was cast, was that House Stark supported Viserys. In the previous histories, from what he could recall, House Stark and, in turn, the majority of the North favored Laenor due to primogeniture and the fact that women were seen more as equals in the North and more liberated in restrictions. But this time, their support to Viserys was due to Daemon flying to the North himself and explaining something that even Aemon did not know about. He could not recall every detail; his memories of his past life and the Dance of Dragons had been failing him as of late, and every time he tried to write down what he did recall, he would forget everything until he gave up and recalled bits and pieces once more.

House Baratheon and most of the Stormlands were clearly in favor of Rhaenys and her son. House Arryn and most of the Vale on the side of Viserys. The River lords were divided but mostly on the side of Rhaenys merely due to Daemon's support of his brother and due to the Riverlands thinking Daemon stole his mother, Lyanna Stark, from Elmo Tully. The rest of the lords Aemon did not know which side they would take, but he knew the end result, even if his memories were falling him in larger portions of his previous life.

But here he was, standing by his father, Daemon, on the side of his uncle Viserys, a man not yet five and twenty years of age, waiting for the verdict that all in the Seven Kingdoms secretly knew would be. Aemon did not move, he did not blink. To many, it looked like he did not even breathe; he stood like the Winter Kings of old, unfeeling, stoic, and strong. The Northern Lords liked that very much, especially since Aemon looked all Stark, save for his indigo eyes almost as black as night. While looking like a Stark in front of the masses, it was clear that he was the only member of House Targaryen lacking the Valyrian coloring.

Rhaenyra was playing around with her hands, not able to stand still, standing to the side of her mother, Aemma, and father, Viserys. Rhaenrya had tried to get Aemon to play with her, but Aemma told her daughter if she did not behave, she would be grounded until they returned home to the Red Keep.

Rhaenys and Corlys stood on the opposing side as Laenor, far shorter in stature due to being four, just like Aemon and Rhaenyra, stood before his parents. Laena, of the same age as the three, stood closer to her father due to Laena not being the main candidate being brought forward as heir.

Aemon stood as a silent observer, his eyes fixed upon Jaehaerys Targaryen, the Old King, who sat upon his golden throne. The room was filled with thousands of lords, and their attendants multiplied that number. To Aemon, it looked like a sea of people, an overwhelming tide of humanity, all gazing intently at the figure of the Old King.

Jaehaerys' face, weathered by years and experience, held an expression of solemnity. As the votes were counted and the anticipation reached its peak, Aemon could feel the collective gaze of the assembly upon the Old King. Every eye was trained on him, every voice hushed in anticipation of the decision that would shape the course of history.

The hushed murmurs of the assembly fell silent as the maesters carried a large golden chest to the front of the room. Each footfall resonated in the vast hall, the sound reverberating through the grandeur of Harrenhal. The lords and ladies turned their attention to the unfolding scene, their eyes fixed upon the approaching maesters.

The maesters stopped before the Old King, Jaehaerys. They waited with patient deference as the elderly king lowered himself closer to the golden chest, his movements deliberate and steady despite the weight of his years. With a practiced hand, Jaehaerys opened the crate, revealing the precious contents within.

From his side, the king extracted a scroll, its parchment aged and weathered by time, even if it was supposed to be fresh and new. The room seemed to hold its breath as Jaehaerys slowly unfurled the scroll, his eyes scanning the words with practiced ease. His voice, though frail, carried a resonance that defied his old age. In a tone that echoed with authority, he declared the fate of the realm.

"In the name of the gods and by the authority vested in me as king of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and protector of the realm," Jaehaerys began, his voice firm, "I declare before the lords paramount and lords vassal of the Seven Kingdoms that Prince Viserys Targaryen be made Prince of Dragonstone and heir of the Iron Throne!"

The proclamation echoed through the vast hall of Harrenhal, and as the words settled, a thunderous round of applause and cheers erupted from the assembled lords of the Seven Kingdoms. The hall was filled with the sound of celebration, the air charged with the energy of excitement and approval.

Viserys Targaryen, the newly declared Prince of Dragonstone and heir of the Iron Throne stood tall amidst the acclaim of the realm. His eyes met those of his wife, Aemma, a woman of grace and strength, and their daughter, Rhaenyra, a glimpse of the future of House Targaryen. Viserys's smile was both proud and tender as he gazed at his family, his heart swelling with a mixture of joy and gratitude.

Aemma tightened her grip on her husband's hand, her fingers entwining with his. Viserys brought her hand up to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss upon her skin, a gesture of love and devotion that spoke volumes.

Viserys turned to his brother and nodded, thankful, knowing fully well that his brother rode Caraxes from dusk to dawn, from kingdom to kingdom, to gain him crucial votes. Aemon turned back to the Old King; he looked old, tired, and weak. Aemon noticed that while the lords roared in glee for Viserys, Jaehaerys sighed in satisfaction as if he knew he would die tomorrow and welcome death. Aemon did not think the man would survive another day, let alone another two years, as he believed was the case in his last life.

Aemon did not wish to attend the feasts or any of the celebrations. He merely went on, with Ser Harrold following, to the training yard. The two spared for hours. The knight asked if he wished to join his family, but his squire said that it was not his own celebration to have. Ser Harrold said that being Daemon's heir and son, it would make Aemon third in line for the throne, after his father, and Daemon after Viserys. Aemon replied that if that is true, then wasting time celebrating would not be wise when he could spend time training to be worth the position. It was hours later, when the boy nearly fell from exhaustion, that he went off to bed. But his night would be just as chaotic as his day.

It was that night when Aemon slept that he found himself ensnared in the clutches of a restless night. In the darkness, his slumber was plagued by disquiet, and his once peaceful repose transformed into a tumultuous ordeal.

Tossing and turning in the expansive chambers that felt far too large for him, Aemon's brow furrowed with distress. His sleep had become a battlefield of the mind. Beads of sweat glistened upon his skin, his breathing heavy and labored as he grappled with unseen demons that haunted his subconscious.

Laying upon the edge of his bed, Aemon groaned, his dreams pressing upon him like a leaden shroud. In the quiet of the night, he was ensnared in a struggle, caught between the waking world and the realm of his nightmares. Tears, unbidden, traced a path down his cheeks.

In the depths of the night, he found himself haunted by visions of his wives, Margaery Tyrell and Arianne Martell, their once warm and loving gazes replaced by eyes as cold and blue as ice. Their skin, once smooth and vibrant, was now torn and mangled, a gruesome distortion that sent shivers down his spine.

He held his children close, their innocent laughter echoing in the darkness. But as he looked upon their faces, their features contorted into grotesque masks of horror. Their eyes glowed with an otherworldly hue, a chilling shade of blue that pierced through the depths of his soul. They let out a deathly screech, a sound that echoed with despair, a lamentation of a world ravaged by the unforgiving wrath of winter.

The dreamscape twisted further, plunging him into a realm of eternal winter storms. The howling winds and relentless snowfall blotted out the sun, casting the world into an endless night. In this desolate landscape, he encountered the walking dead, their eyes ablaze with the same icy hue that had haunted his family. Others marched in relentless pursuit, their presence casting a shadow of dread across the barren lands.

Blue eyes, as cold and lifeless as the heart of winter, surrounded him, their gaze devoid of warmth or humanity. Aemon stood alone amidst the frozen wasteland, a solitary figure facing the onslaught of the relentless army of the dead. The dreamscape seemed to stretch on into infinity, an endless nightmare from which there was no escape.

Aemon woke abruptly, his body jolting upright with a loud gasp that shattered the silence of the night. Beads of sweat dripped down his face, his skin clammy and pale from the intensity of his dreams. He staggered off the bed, his legs weak and unsteady, collapsing onto the cold stone floor of his chamber. With trembling hands, he reached under the bed, pulling out the chamber pot just in time to vomit into it, his body convulsing with each retch.

Gasping for air, he clutched his chest, the pain searing through him like a dagger. His heart pounded in his ears, a relentless drumbeat that seemed to echo the terror of his nightmares. Tears welled in his eyes as he struggled to catch his breath, his body wracked with a combination of fear and physical anguish.

Through blurry eyes, he glanced out of the window, finding solace in the sight of the moonlit night. The world outside was still and serene, untouched by the torment that gripped his soul. Yet, despite the tranquility of the night, Aemon knew sleep would elude him. The horrors of his dreams clung to his consciousness, refusing to release their hold.

As the first hints of dawn painted the sky, he made a silent decision to seek solace in the familiar routine of training. The castle slumbering, and the training yard would be empty, a sanctuary where he could confront the turmoil that had seized his thoughts.

Dressing himself, Aemon made his way through the dimly lit corridors. The knowledge of a secret passage passed down to him through the stories of his past life by Arya, served as his guide, and he snuck around the kingsguard stationed at his door. It was a route that Arya had observed during her own time in the castle with Tywin Lannister during the War of the Five Kings.

As he emerged into the training yard, the first rays of the rising sun had yet to bathed the area in a soft, golden light. The crisp morning air greeted him, and the familiar scent of earth and steel was a balm to his troubled spirit. Here, in the empty yard, he could channel the restlessness and disquiet that had been stirred within him.

Aemon drew his training sword, the familiar weight in his hand grounding him in the present. The early hours of the day were his alone, a time when the world was still and undisturbed. With each practiced movement and each clash of blades, he allowed the rhythm of training to soothe the turbulence within his soul.

The training yard became a sanctuary, a place where he could confront the demons of the night and find respite in the focused discipline of combat. The training dummies and sparring partners, silent witnesses to his determination, stood as a testament to the strength that resided within him.

Aemon Targaryen unleashed his fury upon the wooden practice dummy. Each strike was fueled by the tumultuous emotions that raged within him – grief, fear, anger, and despair. The faces of his wives, his children, and all those he had lost haunted his thoughts, driving him to strike harder and harder, seeking an outlet for the overwhelming pain that gripped his soul.

The rhythmic thud of wood against wood echoed through the training yard, each blow a release of the pent-up anguish that tormented him. Skill and finesse were abandoned in favor of raw, unbridled aggression. With every strike, he sought to drown out the voices in his mind, the memories that clawed at his sanity, threatening to consume him whole.

His movements became chaotic, the controlled discipline of his training devolving into a frenzied assault. The once-sturdy dummy groaned under the relentless onslaught, its wooden frame bearing the brunt of Aemon's inner turmoil. Sweat soaked his brow, and his breaths came in ragged gasps as he continued his assault, lost in a maelstrom of emotions.

Time seemed to blur as he beat upon the dummy, unaware of the hours slipping away. The training yard became a battleground, a sanctuary where he could unleash the storm within him. Each strike was a scream into the void, a desperate attempt to exorcise the demons that haunted his mind.

Eventually, exhaustion caught up with him, and he stumbled back, his chest heaving, his muscles aching from the exertion. The dummy stood battered and broken, a testament to the intensity of his emotions. Aemon's hands trembled as he lowered his training sword, his knuckles raw and bloodied from the onslaught.

"If you are training, you are doing a piss poor job of it," Aemon heard, knowing the voice. Aemon caught his breath before turning to his father, Daemon. "Is this the famous Targaryen prodigy I've heard tales of? Doesn't seem like the stuff of legends, Tresy"

Aemon met his father's gaze, a mix of frustration and determination in his eyes. "I couldn't sleep, Kepa," he confessed, his voice carrying the weight of his restless night.

Daemon's chuckle softened into a sympathetic smile as he approached the training swords, selecting one with a practiced hand. "Ah, the old enemy, sleepless nights," he said, his tone understanding. "When I found my mind too cluttered with thoughts, I would come here," he gestured to the training yard, "and spar. There's a clarity in the clash of blades, a focus that drowns out all other noise. It may help clear your thoughts, too.

Aemon regarded his father, a flicker of interest in his eyes. He took a moment to absorb Daemon's words. With a nod, Daemon and Aemon assumed a ready stance. The tension that had gripped him seemed to ease slightly as he prepared for the spar, his mind momentarily diverted from the haunting memories that had plagued his dreams.

As the clash of swords resonated through the training yard, Aemon felt a mixture of exhilaration and contentment. His father, Daemon Targaryen, fought with a seasoned grace. Aemon, despite his youth and physical limitations, moved with a speed and agility that surprised Daemon; the boy fought better than most squires. He anticipated his father's strikes, countering with swift and well-timed moves that showcased his growing skill.

Daemon's eyes gleamed with pride as he watched his son hold his ground. Despite Aemon's smaller stature and youthful exuberance, there was a determination in his eyes that spoke of a warrior's spirit. The boy was smaller, weaker, slower, but in a decade, he could see his son being something worth fighting in tourneys. The spar became a dance, a silent conversation between father and son, spoken through the language of swords.

For Aemon, training with his father was a privilege he had never imagined. In his previous life as Jon Snow, he had yearned for a connection like this, the opportunity to learn from his father figure. Now, in this new existence as Aemon Targaryen, he relished the chance to spar with his own father. The image of Ned Stark training Robb Stark lingered in his mind, a bittersweet reminder of the fatherly guidance he had missed. Ned Stark never did the same for him, and the few times he was going to, Lady Stark came up with an excuse to take her husband away, to deny Jon Snow in spite.

Yet, in the present, Aemon found solace and joy in the shared moments with Daemon. He imagined the future, a time when he would grow stronger, his skills honed through these spars, and he could face his father on equal footing. The anticipation of that day fueled his determination, propelling him forward in the spar.

Daemon's smile was one of genuine pride, seeing his son's natural ability with the sword. The way Aemon moved, the precision in his strikes, and the grace in his footwork were nothing short of spectacular for a child. Despite Aemon's youth, he held his own, meeting every strike with determination and resolve.

Jon Snow, revered as the best swordsman in the North during his time, was undoubtedly skilled, but he acknowledged that there were others who had surpassed him due to Jon Snow spending time in the North where he stayed the best and did not face men of his equal or better. Names like Jaime Lannister, Arthur Dayne, Aemon the Dragon Knight, Daemon the Rogue Prince, Rhaegar the Last Dragon, and Duncan the Tall echoed through history as legendary swordsmen, each possessing unique skills that set them apart.

Neither of them paid heed to the growing crowd in the training yard. The spectators, drawn in by the spectacle of a father and son sparring, watched in awe as Aemon held his own against his father, delivering a few well-placed strikes that showcased his emerging skill.

Aemon, despite the fact that he had not yet bested his father, found satisfaction in the few strikes he managed to land. He knew that his father, unlike Ser Harrold, was not surprised by his skill; he may not have been in the Red Keep, but he kept many tabs on his son, especially when they failed to tell him his son almost died due to the pox.

Daemon's eyes, sharp and perceptive, caught the momentary lapse in his son's defense. With lightning speed, he capitalized on the opening, smacking the flat of his training sword against Aemon's shoulder. The impact resonated through the young prince's body, a stark reminder of the vulnerability that even the most skilled fighters occasionally faced. Then quickly fainted for a strike on the left before disarming Aemon, who wished to block the attack.

Daemon's smile, wide and unrestrained, revealed a sense of pride and amusem*nt. He playfully teased his son, recognizing the distinct style that Aemon had adopted in his combat techniques. "You fight like a northerner, Aemon," Daemon remarked his tone light but discerning.

"Well, I must thank my northern blood for that, then," he responded with a roll of his eyes. Daemon chuckled slightly.

"The blood of the dragon runs thick, boy. While you might look more northern, it would not do well for you to make the same mistakes as them. I beat nearly a hundred of them to ensure my marriage to your mother was uncontested; I know how to beat them, and so do many others," Daemon advised as he got closer to his son, the boy barely reaching Daemon's waste.

"I don't know if you noticed, but the blood of the dragon runs thin enough in me for me to not even look like you," Aemon said.

"No, you do not," Daemon said, smiling. "You might not have my hair, but you have my face, and I think I look rather handsome." Daemon then asked Aemon to show him his arm and check if his shoulder was fine from the strike with the flat of the blade.

"I could have beaten you," Aemon said with a smile, both of them knowing that was not the case. Daemon smiled even further as he began moving his hand through Aemon's black locks to mess up their hair.

"Not any time soon," Daemon continued. "All punches, kicks, and brawls—brutal and direct. It's a style that catches many off guard, especially if you are older. But be careful. The best fighters would exploit those tendencies and leave you bloody." Daemon's eyes softened with a mixture of pride and affection as he watched his son's skillful maneuvers. A small smile played on his lips, and then, with a glint of reminiscence in his eyes, he spoke, "You fight like your mother, Aemon."

Aemon, his young features etched with surprise, looked up at his father. People rarely spoke good things about Lyanna Stark in court. And most of the time Lyanna was pregnant, she had stayed on Dragonstone with Daemon, from what Viserys explained to Aemon. No one in the Targaryen family knew Lyanna Stark well enough to tell Aemon any stories of her, and in the life of Jon Snow, Ned Stark died before telling Jon that Lyanna was his mother to even begin with.

"Mother knew how to use a sword?" he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

Daemon chuckled, a fond and proud glimmer in his eyes. "Of course she did," he replied, his voice carrying a note of admiration. "In fact, right after your mother and I got married, she fought my father when he came to look for the pair of us after the tourney we had met at. And do you know what happened?" he asked, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. Aemon's curiosity piqued, and he leaned in closer, waiting for his father to continue. "She beat him. Disarmed him faster than a heartbeat," Daemon said with a grin, his tone carrying a mix of amusem*nt and respect.

"That's incredible," he said, his voice filled with admiration.

Daemon nodded, his smile widening at his son's reaction. "Your mother was remarkable, Aemon," he said, his voice filled with warmth. "Just like you."

Aemon, intrigued by the mention of his mother, hesitated for a moment before mustering the courage to ask, "Kepa, can you tell me more about Mother? I want to know about her."

Daemon's expression softened, and he met his son's gaze with a mixture of fondness and sadness. "Your mother, Lyanna, was a force of nature," he began, a wistful smile playing on his lips. "She had a spirit that was as wild and untamed as the wind." Aemon listened intently, captivated by his father's words. Daemon's smile widened, and he said, "They used to say she was half horse. No man or woman could ride as fast as her, and when she was on a horse, it was like she became one with the animal. She rode with a grace and fearlessness that left everyone in awe."

Aemon's confusion from earlier dissipated, replaced by a sense of awe and reverence for the mother he had never truly known. He pictured her in his mind, a vision of a woman with windswept hair, riding freely on the back of a galloping horse, and he couldn't help but smile at the thought.

"She sounds incredible," Aemon said, his voice filled with genuine admiration.

Daemon nodded, his eyes distant as he reminisced about the woman he had loved. "She was, Aemon," he replied, his voice tinged with both pride and longing. "She was incredible in every way. And you have her spirit within you."

The pair looked at one another; Daemon brought his son into an embrace as he affectionately ruffled the boy's hair, the same way he used to do with Lyanna. For the rest of the day, the pair spared, doing nothing but spending time with one another, something rare once Daemon left for Summerhall once more.

Aemon had wished to be better than he was in his life time to not make the mistakes once more. He needed to be perfect. The perfect man of honor like his father Eddard Stark. The perfect fighter, like Ser Arthur Dayne. The perfect dragon rider, like his father, Daemon Targaryen. The perfect Targaryen, like Aegon the Conqueror. The perfect prince, like his father, Rhaegar Targaryen. He had to make no mistakes when fighting the Night King; his last mistake cost the world, killing the Night King before. He would ensure House Targaryen fights off against the Long Night and achieves a perfect victory against it, for if they don't, Aemon himself was not sure there would be a third time. But for now, he would just be Aemon, son of Daemon. And for the first time in this lifetime, he didn't see Eddard Stark's face when the word father came to his mind.

Jaehaerys Targaryen

In his private chamber within the ancient walls of Harrenhal, Jaehaerys Targaryen, the Old King, sat in a moment of quiet solitude. The grand celebrations for the newly declared heir, Viserys, echoed outside, but within the confines of his chamber, the old monarch was removed from the jubilation that filled the air. The Grand Council, had concluded three days prior, and the weight of the decisions made still hung heavily upon his shoulders.

Jaehaerys had made his mark on history, his wisdom and leadership guiding the realm through a pivotal moment. But now, he found himself alone, the once vibrant energy that had fueled his reign slowly waning. The celebrations, filled with revelry and cheer, were a stark contrast to the quietude of the room.

Age had taken its toll on the Old King. The exertion of the council and the subsequent festivities had drained him, leaving him weary and weakened. His once-strong frame now seemed fragile, the passage of time etched upon his face. The absence of his sister-wife Alysanne, who had passed away a year ago, weighed heavily on his heart, casting a shadow over his solitude. With her gone, he lacked the familiar presence that had once provided him comfort and solace.

As the sounds of revelry drifted in from outside, Jaehaerys reflected on the legacy he had crafted, the decisions he had made, and the sacrifices he had endured. The burden of leadership, the responsibilities of ruling a realm, had demanded much from him, and he had given his all in service to his people.

In the stillness of his chamber, Jaehaerys Targaryen, the Old King, found himself consumed by thoughts of the Grand Council. The events that had transpired, the claims and ambitions that had surfaced, weighed heavily on his mind. His gaze turned inward, contemplating the complexities of the realm he had ruled for decades.

Viserys Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon had been expected claimants. Their claims were rooted in lineage and history, the familiar struggle for power within the noble houses of Westeros. However, the unexpected surge of contenders, particularly those claiming to be his daughter's bastards, had stirred a deep anger within Jaehaerys.

One claim, in particular, had cut him to the core — the audacious assertion of being Jaehaerys' own bastard. The very idea of betraying his beloved late wife, Alysanne, struck a chord of fury within the Old King. His love for her had been unwavering, and the thought of impregnating another woman while she was alive was beyond the realm of possibility.

The anger simmered within Jaehaerys, a burning ember of indignation at the audacity of the claimant. The very notion of such a betrayal to Alysanne's memory gnawed at his heart. The temptation to punish the liar, to have him captured and thrown into a cell for his deceit, clawed at the edges of Jaehaerys' thoughts.

In that moment of contemplation, a mix of emotions warred within the Old King — a potent blend of anger, grief, and protective devotion to the legacy he had shared with Alysanne. The decisions made during the Grand Council had far-reaching consequences, and Jaehaerys, in his solitude, grappled with the burden of leadership and the challenges that lay ahead.

In the wake of the Grand Council's decisions, a new law had been established, a decree that would shape the future of House Targaryen and the governance of the Seven Kingdoms. The edict stood firm: a male heir would always take precedence before any females within the family. A law that dictated the line of succession, ensuring that the leadership of the realm would forever be in the hands of a man of House Targaryen. The male line was now designated as the primary channel through which power would pass.

For House Targaryen, it meant that the leadership of the Seven Kingdoms would always be vested in a male member of the family, ensuring the continuation of the dynasty through the male line. The law served as a safeguard, a measure to prevent disputes and uncertainties surrounding succession, providing clarity and stability to the realm's governance.

The weight of the crown, the burden of leadership, and the toll of decades of politics, debates, and lawmaking had worn him down. It had been nearly sixty years since he ascended the throne, and in that time, he had witnessed the realm change, seen alliances forged and broken, and weathered the storms of governance.

His journey had not been without its sorrows. The losses he had endured were etched into the lines on his face and the depths of his weary eyes. His brothers, once his companions and confidants, had been cruelly taken from him by his own uncle's treachery. His daughters, the flesh of his flesh, had grown distant, their hearts hardened by the intrigues of court and the demands of royal duty. Even his beloved wife, Alysanne, had departed from this world, leaving him in a solitude that weighed heavily upon his aging shoulders.

The passing of his youngest daughter had been a bitter blow. Each loss had taken a piece of his heart, leaving him feeling increasingly isolated and alone. The court, once vibrant with life and laughter, now felt empty, the echoes of past joys fading into the recesses of memory. He yearned for freedom. He wished for release. He yearned for the Stranger to take him away.

As he sat in his chamber, thoughts of his family, both the living and the departed, filled his mind. The ache of loneliness gnawed at him, reminding him of the sacrifices he had made in service to the realm. His legacy was secure, but the cost had been immeasurable. They claim him the best king in history, and yet he was a terrible father. Especially to his living daughters in Volantis, they were too young to be alone in a city.

The weight of Jaehaerys Targaryen's kingship had exacted a heavy toll on his personal life, fracturing the bonds with his family in the process. As a father, he had been absent, preoccupied by the demands of his reign. His grandson Daemon had grown fiercely independent, a rogue whose spirit refused to be tamed by the constraints of royalty. The distance between them had grown, and the chasm seemed insurmountable.

His granddaughter Rhaenys, a woman of fire and determination, harbored a deep-seated resentment. She had been passed over as heir not once but twice, a bitter pill to swallow. The sting of being overlooked by her younger cousin, Viserys, weighed heavily on her heart, breeding a sense of betrayal that would fester over the years. The fractures in their relationship ran deep, the wounds of perceived injustice leaving scars that marred the fabric of their familial ties.

Jaehaerys found himself faced with the daunting task of training Viserys. The prospect of rebuilding the family bonds he had neglected for decades now seemed an elusive dream. Instead of fostering connections with his grandson, he was burdened by the responsibility of molding Viserys into a future king. The time he longed to spend building bridges and nurturing relationships was overshadowed by the weighty obligation to prepare the young prince for the throne.

Jaehaerys Targaryen found himself surrounded by a new generation, his great-grandchildren, who represented the future of House Targaryen. Yet, the gulf between the elderly king and these young souls seemed insurmountable. They were spirited, headstrong, and full of life, qualities that clashed with the weariness and wisdom of the aging monarch.

Laena, the headstrong granddaughter, mirrored the resentful spirit of her mother, Rhaenys. The deep-rooted animosity between mother and daughter seemed to have passed down, making it difficult for Jaehaerys to connect with the fiery young girl. Laenor, her brother, was more approachable, yet his eagerness was driven by the ambition of his parents to secure his position as Prince of Dragonstone, a responsibility that weighed heavily upon the young boy's shoulders. His fear of disappointing Jaehaerys and the weight of living up to the legendary figure made their interactions strained.

Rhaenyra, with her devious and mischievous nature, was a handful, a cute but challenging little girl who kept the atmosphere around her charged with energy. Her antics and boundless curiosity added a touch of chaos to the royal court, a stark contrast to the measured composure of the aging king.

As for Aemon, Jaehaerys knew little of the young boy. His presence in the family seemed almost like a mystery, a figure hovering at the periphery of the royal circle. The king found himself yearning for a connection with his great-grandchildren, hoping to impart the wisdom of his years to the future leaders of House Targaryen.

He had heard whispers and murmurs about Aemon, the son of his distant grandson, Daemon Targaryen. The young boy seemed to embody the very essence of a perfect prince, a paragon of virtue and talent that had captured the admiration of those who spoke of him. Despite the whispers that reached Jaehaerys' ears, he had never spoken to the boy before, their paths seldom crossing due to Aemon's busy schedule and the demands of his duties.

Aemon was a dedicated scholar, spending countless hours within the hallowed halls of the libraries, his thirst for knowledge insatiable. His intellect was matched only by his linguistic prowess, effortlessly conversing in the common tongue, High Valyrian, and several other languages that graced the pages of ancient tomes. The young prince's dedication to learning mirrored the Old King's own passion for knowledge, creating a subtle connection between them, even in their silence.

Aemon had become a squire to a member of the kingsguard, honing his skills in the arts of combat and chivalry. The boy's melodious voice could make songs that enchanted those who heard him. Aemon's multifaceted abilities made him a beloved figure among the court.

The echoes of Aemon's accomplishments stirred a sense of pride within Jaehaerys. The boy's remarkable talents and noble demeanor painted a portrait of the perfect prince. Just as many had claimed Jaehaerys to be the ideal king, Aemon embodied the virtues and abilities that were often attributed to the Old King himself. How Daemon could be, Aemon's father was a miracle of the gods.

As the echoes of his wife's voice resonated in his mind, chiding him for his neglect, Jaehaerys felt a renewed sense of purpose. The whispers of his conscience compelled him to bridge the gap that had existed between him and Daemon's son, Aemon. Determination filled his heart as he resolved to rectify the distance that had grown between them.

Summoning his resolve, Jaehaerys sought out Lord Commander Ryam Redwyne, the stalwart leader of the Kingsguard, and conveyed his intentions. His voice carried the weight of his decision as he instructed the Lord Commander, "Ser Ryam, I wish to see my grandson, Aemon. Bring him to my chambers. It is high time we had a conversation."

The Lord Commander, respectful of the king's wishes, nodded solemnly, recognizing the significance of the moment. "As you command, Your Grace. I will bring Prince Aemon to you immediately."

The knock on the door, heralding Ser Ryam Redwyne's arrival, was a welcome interruption. The Lord Commander's report that Prince Aemon had been brought to the king's chambers prompted Jaehaerys to invite his grandson inside.

Aemon entered with a stoic demeanor, his countenance seemingly emotionless, a mask that hid the complexities of the young prince's thoughts and feelings. Jaehaerys couldn't help but recall the whispers he had heard about the boy's solitary existence at the courts of King's Landing. Aemon's preference for solitude, the hours spent engrossed in reading, drawing, and honing his musical talents, had painted a picture of a young soul lost in introspection.

The shadows that clung to Aemon's features, the unspoken sadness etched upon his face, had not gone unnoticed by the king. Rumors had suggested that the death of Aemon's mother, being linked to his birth, cast a long shadow of sorrow over the boy's life. Jaehaerys couldn't help but agree with the sentiment.

Aemon bowed with impeccable grace and respect, acknowledging his great-grandfather, the king. Jaehaerys observed the young prince's flawless poise and inwardly noted the confidence that seemed to radiate from him. The king mused that most others of Aemon's age often stumbled and stuttered in the presence of the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.

"Aemon," Jaehaerys began, his voice steady yet gentle, "there's no need for such formality, my boy. You need not bow before me. I am your great-grandfather, first and foremost. We are family." Aemon straightened, his face showing the faintest hint of surprise at the king's words. His rigid posture softened slightly as he looked at Jaehaerys, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. "I did summon you here," Jaehaerys continued, his smile warm and reassuring. "But you need not be so formal. I wanted to speak to you, not as a king to his subject, but as a family member. Please, have a seat." With a subtle nod of understanding, Aemon lowered himself into a nearby chair, his gaze never leaving the king. Jaehaerys took a moment to study the young prince before him. "I've heard great things about you, Aemon," Jaehaerys said, breaking the silence that hung between them. Aemon inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the king's words with a hint of gratitude in his eyes. Jaehaerys continued, his tone soft and understanding. Jaehaerys' eyes fell upon the heavy tome cradled in Aemon's arms, noticing the strain on the young prince's face as he struggled to carry it. Curiosity piqued, the king gestured towards the book. "That seems like quite the weight you're carrying there, Aemon. What have you got in your hands?" Jaehaerys inquired, his tone laced with genuine interest.

Aemon carefully placed the book on a nearby table before responding, his eyes alight with a spark of enthusiasm. "It's a rare manuscript, Your Grace," he explained, his voice tinged with excitement. "A tome in ancient Valyrian lore, filled with knowledge about dragon-riding techniques and lost magical arts. Harrenhal's library is as big as the Citadel's, and many lords come and go through it. I was fortunate enough to find this particular book before another lord could claim it. It's one of a kind."

Jaehaerys couldn't help but smile at the young prince's passion for learning, recognizing a kindred spirit in his great-grandson. "A valuable find indeed," the king remarked, his eyes glinting with appreciation. "Continue your pursuit of knowledge, Aemon. The thirst for learning is a noble endeavor, one that I wholeheartedly encourage. If there are any books or topics you seek, do not hesitate to ask. Harrenhal's library is at your disposal."

Jaehaerys' eyes scanned the title of the ancient tome,The Great Empire of the Dawn: Dragonlords of Ancient Asshai, his fingers gently tracing the letters on the cover. The book, with its weathered black leather and pages that seemed to shimmer like gold, held the weight of centuries within its confines. He marveled at the knowledge contained within, recognizing the depth of its contents.

"That sounds like a rather difficult read, Aemon," Jaehaerys remarked, his tone laced with admiration. "I can imagine it must be a challenging text even for seasoned scholars. Do you understand it?"

Aemon met the king's gaze, his eyes reflecting a depth of understanding that surpassed his years. "Yes, Your Grace," he replied, his voice unwavering. "The book is from an ancient man who had learned many legends and truths and compiled it into one work. The book delves into the origins of a people who once inhabited the lands that eventually became Asshai by the Shadow. It suggests that this ancient civilization, predating even the Valyrians, possessed the knowledge of dragon-riding. It is believed that they tamed dragons and, in some mysterious way, passed down this profound wisdom to the Valyrians."

Jaehaerys' keen eyes narrowed further, his curiosity piqued by Aemon's revelations. "Continue, Aemon," he urged. The young prince hesitated for a moment before gathering his thoughts and continuing, his words carefully chosen.

Jaehaerys noticed the boy spoke well, as if he were an adult instead of a child. "The book suggests that there are ancient mysteries in our world, mysteries that predate the rise of Valyria," Aemon began, his voice steady. "It hints at House Dayne's sword, Dawn, which is said to be thousands of years old and unbreakable. The book implies that there might be a connection to the knowledge possessed by these long-lost civilizations. House Dayne's Valyrian features, despite lacking Valyrian blood, raising questions about their ancestry and the source of their unique traits." Aemon's eyes met Jaehaerys', a glimmer of something akin to revelation in his gaze. "Furthermore," he continued, his tone lowering slightly, "the book delves into the ancient legends of dragons and dragon slayers in Westeros, legends that existed long before our family arrived on these shores. It even speaks of Azor Ahai who is prophesied to be reborn to save the world."

At the mention of Azor Ahai, Jaehaerys' eyes widened with intrigue. The legendary hero, central to the prophecies of R'hllor, had long been a subject of fascination for Jaehaerys after learning of Aegon's Dream. Jaehaerys leaned forward, his expression intense. He found it interesting that the children would even think about reading about anything like that rather than just plays with friends and squires or, in Aemon's case, get thrown into misadventures alongside Rhaenyra. "Tell me more about what the book says regarding Azor Ahai, Aemon."

Jaehaerys listened intently as Aemon delved into the prophecy of Azor Ahai, the hero destined to combat a great darkness that would envelop the world. The young prince's words were laced with a sense of gravitas as he continued to unravel the ancient lore contained within the book.

"A day of great darkness," Aemon began, "falls upon the world, and Azor Ahai is the chosen hero to stand against it. The hero is to be reborn and fated to vanquish this encroaching darkness. Following a long summer, an evil, cold shadow descends, and Azor Ahai, wielding Lightbringer, must rise to confront it. If he fails, the world's fate is sealed with his own. The book says that Valyrians call Azor Ahai by a different name."

"What name does the book give to Azor Ahai among the Valyrians?" Jaehaerys inquired, his voice reflecting a kind, curiosity.

Aemon's response carried an air of solemnity. "The book speaks of the Valyrians referring to Azor Ahai as 'the Prince who is Promised.'"

Jaehaerys regarded his great-grandson with a mixture of curiosity and concern as he probed further into the circ*mstances surrounding the ancient book. "Did you come across this book intentionally, Aemon?" he inquired, seeking to understand the young prince's motives.

Aemon's response was unwavering. "Yes, Your Grace, I did."

The mention of the Long Night seemed to send a shiver down Jaehaerys' spine, a topic that had long been a source of apprehension and dread within the realm. His voice, laden with worry, betrayed his concern as he asked, "And why this particular interest in the Long Night, Aemon?"

Aemon said nothing for some time, and Jaehaerys thought he would need to cox the answer from his great-grandson. Aemon hesitated, his gaze fixed on the floor for a moment before he met Jaehaerys' eyes. "I've been having terrible dreams," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Dreams of a night with no stars, a winter with no end. The darkness, it feels... real. I needed to understand, to know if there is truth in these dreams, and if they mean something."

Jaehaerys' expression grew solemn as he absorbed Aemon's revelation. The dreams described were eerily reminiscent of the horrors of the Long Night. He considered his next words carefully, recognizing the weight of the young prince's fears and the need for reassurance.

As Aemon recounted his dreams, his voice trembled with the weight of the haunting visions that plagued his nights. The solemnity in his expression deepened, his eyes reflecting the horror of the scenes he described.

"I see a living death," Aemon began, his voice low and haunting. "A winter that does not end, a winter that freezes even fire. Eyes bluer than the ice itself, creatures of ice, Others, riding giant ice spiders that feast on the flesh of the living." His words hung heavy in the air, painting a vivid picture of the nightmares that tormented him. His voice grew quieter as if he could hardly bear to speak the next part. "Children dying in their mother's arms. Fathers having to kill their own children rather than see them starve," he continued each word carrying the weight of unimaginable sorrow.

A heavy silence settled over the room, broken only by the echoes of Aemon's chilling description. Jaehaerys felt a knot tighten in his chest. The room seemed to grow colder as if the specter of winter itself had crept into their midst.

Jaehaerys looked to his grandson and knew now that it was not the truth of his mother dying and bringing him to the world that made the boy sad but nightmares. Nightmares of something to come. The boy knew a truth that men ten times his age would weep for. Jaehaerys said nothing to the boy. But he strained himself to get up and hugged the boy; Aemon was crying into his chest. For now, Jaehaerys felt like a grandfather trying to shield his grandsire from the nightmares, telling him it would be all right. But Jaehaerys knew the truth; he knew Aegon's dream, and he knew that Winter was coming.

Chapter 7: A Dragon's Legacy

Chapter Text

Red Keep 101 AC

Aemon Targaryen / Jon Snow

In the following months, a bond formed between Aemon and Jaehaerys, rooted in shared knowledge and a mutual understanding of the looming darkness that haunted the young prince's dreams. Jaehaerys continued to summon Aemon frequently, their meetings becoming a regular occurrence.

Despite his initial hesitations, Aemon found solace in Jaehaerys' unwavering belief in his visions, even if he did not know why the King believed them at all. The King's trust in him was a source of strength, reminding Aemon that he was not alone despite the ominous dreams that plagued his nights.

Together, they delved deeper into the ancient tome, learning of the Long Night and the prophecies that foretold its return. The book's pages unraveling past secrets to prepare for an uncertain future.

Aemon and Jaehaerys found solace in simpler moments, the pair often engaged in intense matches of Cyvasse. Amidst the clashing of pieces and the shifting tides of the board, they found respite from the weight of their shared burden, allowing them to enjoy the moments.

Aemon embraced the intricacies of Cyvasse, a game he had rarely encountered in his past life as Jon Snow. The game was a novelty in the North, unfamiliar to the stoic and traditional-minded Northerners. Tyrion Lannister had once suggested he learn the game, but it was only in his current life as Aemon Targaryen that he truly delved into it.

Playing against Jaehaerys proved to be a challenging yet enriching experience for the young prince. Though he was soundly defeated in each match. With every move, he absorbed the nuances of strategy and adaptation, refining his skills with each defeat.

The game forced Aemon to think on his feet, anticipate his opponent's moves, and devise creative solutions to the ever-changing challenges presented on the board. Each loss became a valuable lesson, teaching him the importance of adaptability and resilience. Aemon made it a point to avoid repeating the same mistake twice, his determination driving him to improve and hone his abilities.

As the days passed, their bond deepened, creating a foundation of trust and mutual respect. Aemon, once burdened by the isolation of his visions, now had an ally in his great-grandfather. The presence of Aemon Targaryen at King Jaehaerys' side did not go unnoticed within the hallowed halls of the Red Keep. The young prince followed wherever the Old King ventured, becoming a familiar pair in the castle courts.

When Jaehaerys took on the responsibility of instructing Viserys in the art of ruling the Seven Kingdoms, Aemon was a constant companion, absorbing the lessons of governance and leadership alongside his elder relative.

One decision, in particular, stirred conversations in every corner of the Red Keep—the appointment of Aemon as the King's cupbearer. This seemingly small role granted Aemon access to the innermost circles of power, making him a regular presence in the crucial small council meetings. As he served the King, Aemon became privy to discussions of policy, diplomacy, and matters of state, immersing himself in the intricate web of politics and governance.

The courtiers, ever watchful, noted the significance of Aemon's position. The young prince's proximity to the heart of power did not go unnoticed, sparking intrigue and speculation among the nobles and advisors. Whispers filled the corridors of the Red Keep as the court wondered about the implications of this newfound role given to the 'Black Prince'.

As the small council meeting commenced, Aemon Targaryen, serving as the King's cupbearer, found himself amidst the prominent figures who held the fate of the Seven Kingdoms in their hands. The room was adorned with a distinguished assembly of advisors and officials, each with their unique responsibilities. At the head of the table sat the Old King Jaehaerys, his presence commanding respect and authority. The council members gathered around, each holding a circular stone-like gem made to look like a dragon's eye. They placed their respective hems on a small divot on the table to signify they were in attendance for the meeting.

To Jaehaerys' right sat Lord Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King. The recently appointed Grand Maester Runciter was on his left, whose keen intellect and knowledge were highly valued in the council's deliberations. Across the table, Lord Lyman Beesbury, the Master of Coin, scrutinized ledgers and financial reports, his mind sharp as he calculated the kingdom's wealth and expenditures.

The absence of a Master of Laws was evident; the position was left vacant due to recent events. In the interim, the responsibility fell upon crown Prince Viserys Targaryen. Viserys took his place within the council, fulfilling his dual roles as both a member and the prince of Dragonstone.

Corlys Velaryon, the Master of Ships, sat tall and vigilant. Ser Ryam Redwyne, the esteemed Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, exuded an aura of loyalty and duty, embodying the chivalric ideals of the realm.

Amidst this assembly of influential figures, Aemon Targaryen moved gracefully, serving as the cupbearer, a role that granted him proximity to the council's inner workings. He moved from lord to lord; his movements measured and respectful as he filled their cups with wine, his eyes absorbing the subtle nuances of the discussions that unfolded before him.

Aemon prepared to pour wine into the King's cup, his movements practiced and fluid, but Jaehaerys raised a hand, his eyes meeting Aemon's with a knowing gaze. "Water," the King requested, his voice steady and calm. "This meeting may stretch long, and a clear mind is essential."

With a nod of understanding, Aemon replaced the wine jug with a pitcher of water, his gaze respectful as he fulfilled the King's request. The clear liquid cascaded into the cup, filling it to the brim before Aemon withdrew.

Meanwhile, Lord Beesbury, the Master of Coin, seized the council's attention with a grave expression on his features. His voice, measured and deliberate, cut through the quiet murmurs that had settled within the chamber. "Your Grace," he began, addressing the King directly, "I must bring to your attention a matter of great concern. House Reyne and House Tarbeck have taken substantial loans from the Westerlands and, nearing the sum of one million Gold Dragons when combined. They request a loan from the crown."

Lord Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, interjected with a furrowed brow. "One million Gold Dragons? How could they have accrued such a debt?" he inquired, his eyes narrowing as he contemplated the implications of this staggering sum.

Lord Beesbury's response was laden with gravity, emphasizing the weight of the situation. "The reasons behind these loans remain unknown, Your Grace. However, we must address this matter promptly. Such a significant debt could have far-reaching consequences for the stability of the Westerlands due to the number of Houses connected through both of the houses through marriage, none of which are able to take on the burden of alleviating a fraction of the debt Houses Reyen and Tarbeck have let alone the entire sum."

Lord Otto Hightower's voice cut through the air, firm and resolute within the small council chambers. "If House Reyne and House Tarbeck find themselves in debt, it is their responsibility to rectify their financial troubles. The crown cannot be burdened with the consequences of their reckless decisions."

Prince Viserys responded with empathy; his words tinged with compassion for the people of the realm. "Our duty as the crown, Lord Otto, is not just to sit atop a throne but to nurture the well-being of our kingdoms and their inhabitants. We cannot ignore the struggles of our vassals; it is our responsibility to aid them, even in times of financial hardship. A prosperous realm is built on the prosperity of its great and small houses."

Maester Runciter, the new Grand Maester, interjected with a thoughtful inquiry, his eyes sharp with intellect. "Lord Beesbury, have representatives from either House Reyne or House Tarbeck approached the crown to discuss their plans for repayment? Is there any indication that they can fulfill their obligations in due time?"

Lord Beesbury's response was laden with concern, his expression grim. "No, Grand Maester, neither House has sent representatives or shown any signs of being able to repay the crown. The situation appears dire for both families. Their current circ*mstances do not bode well for settling these substantial debts in the foreseeable future."

Lord Otto, always pragmatic, scoffed at the notion of granting loans without proper assurances. "Petitioning for a loan without a clear plan for repayment, let alone with interest, is nothing short of foolishness," he declared, his voice carrying a note of frustration. "We cannot be expected to hand out coin without evidence that it will be repaid. The crown's treasury must not be treated as an open vault for those who cannot manage their own finances."

As the council members delved deeper into the intricacies of the situation, Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Master of Ships, raised a pertinent question. "Is there a reason why both Houses, hailing from the Westerlands, sought loans from the crown at the same time?" he inquired, his sharp eyes scanning the faces of his colleagues for any hints of underlying motives.

In response, Maester Runciter provided the insight; his voice carried the weight of experience as he shared the tale. "Lady Ellyn Reyne, daughter of the head of House Reyne, was originally intended to marry into House Lannister," he began, his words painting a vivid picture of the Westerlands' complex social dynamics. "This match was orchestrated in part to alleviate some of the Reyne debt owed to House Lannister." The maester continued, his tone somber, recounting the events that had transpired in recent years. "Tragically, the Lannister she was supposed to marry met his fate at the Dornish marches, leaving Lady Ellyn's prospects uncertain. Undeterred, she attempted to secure alliances with several other Lannisters through less conventional means, but her efforts were met with failure."

"You mean she tried to seduce some other Lannisters? That must have been entertaining to watch," Viserys chuckled slightly. Aemon felt bad for his uncle. Viserys, outside of Aemon himself, was the youngest in the room and did not know that there were times for slight jests, but now was not one of those times.

The maester's narrative continued, painting a vivid picture of the complex dynamics at play. "Four years ago, House Lannister orchestrated a marriage between Lady Ellyn Reyne and Walderan Tarbeck. Both houses aimed to assist each other in resolving their financial burdens through this alliance. However, it appears that their combined efforts have not yielded the expected results, leaving both families ensnared in a web of debt."

A sense of dissonance washed over him as Aemon pondered the council's discussion and the events and alliances surrounding House Reyne and House Tarbeck. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss, that the narrative being presented didn't align with the historical context he carried from his past life as Jon Snow. The mention of House Reyne and House Tarbeck stirred a sense of familiarity within him, and his memories from his previous life as Jon Snow began to stir. While many details surrounding the Dance of Dragons and the preceding events had grown hazy, Aemon's recollections remained clear on certain matters.

Aemon's thoughts whirred as he considered the information laid before the small council. Once sharp and clear, his memories now danced on the edge of uncertainty. The events leading up to the Dance of Dragons were like pieces of a puzzle fading from his mind. The names Reyne and Tarbeck were not unfamiliar to him, but the context in which they now appeared eluded his grasp.

The information being presented clashed sharply with his understanding of history. He knew, with a deep-rooted certainty, that at this point in time, House Reyne, in particular, was far from being mired in debt. Their wealth was legendary, at least for this time it should be, rivaled only by House Lannister, owing to the rich gold mines beneath their ancestral castle that went dry only a few decades before the birth of Jon Snow.

As the council spoke of debts and financial woes, Aemon's mind drew upon the events that were meant to unfold decades later, events that would shape House Reyne's fate and catapult Tywin Lannister into prominence. The scenario described in the council chamber was eerily similar to the circ*mstances that would ultimately lead to Tywin Lannister's infamous eradication of House Reyne and House Tarbeck, solidifying his family's dominance in the Westerlands.

In the midst of the council's fervent debate, Prince Viserys Targaryen, displaying his characteristic compassion, interjected, "I believe it would be wise to offer the loan to Houses Reyne and Tarbeck. The crown has a duty to assist its vassals in times of need."

Lord Otto Hightower, ever the pragmatic hand of the King, courteously disagreed. "Your grace, I understand your sentiment, but it is not practical to provide financial aid without a clear plan for repayment. We must exercise caution in our decisions. Especially when both houses are already in debt and own money already from others in the Westerland."

Master of Ships, Lord Corlys Velaryon, added his perspective, "I concur with Lord Otto. While the crown must support its subjects, we cannot afford to squander resources without assurance of their return."

The council chamber buzzed with dissenting voices until King Jaehaerys, the voice of authority, intervened. His gaze shifted to Aemon, who had been silently pondering the matter. "Aemon," Jaehaerys said, his tone carrying a sense of anticipation, "what are your thoughts on this matter?"Lord Otto attempted to dismiss Aemon's input, dismissing him as a child, but Jaehaerys silenced him with a raised hand. "Let the prince speak," he commanded.

Taking a moment to collect his thoughts, Aemon carefully considered his words. "Your grace, I believe we can offer aid to Houses Reyne and Tarbeck, but it should be contingent upon receiving letters from them outlining a clear plan for repayment. If they can provide evidence of their ability to return the money, then providing assistance would not be a waste. We must ensure that the crown's resources are utilized wisely and effectively."

King Jaehaerys, a smile playing upon his lips, nodded in agreement with Aemon's proposal. Aemon knew the answer was simple enough: only help them if they proved they could pay it back. It was the answer Jaehaerys was going to say, but they waited for Aemon to say it, and Aemon knew that.

Jaehaerys' smile was a soft whisper of a line; age had restricted the smile that most Taragryens' had, which somehow looked more genuine than any other smile in the world, and yet, to some, a Targaryen smile looked thrice as forced as it should be. "We shall proceed with Prince Aemon's plan. Letters from Houses Reyne and Tarbeck outlining their repayment strategies will be the prerequisite for any financial assistance."

As the council prepared to conclude, Lord Corlys Velaryon, Master of Ships, brought forth another matter of concern. "Your grace," he began, "House Greyjoy has been expanding its fleet and demonstrating increased activity. It is a development that warrants our attention."

Lord Otto Hightower, with his characteristic bluntness in the small council, dismissed the concern. "Lord Corlys, your fleet is the largest in the realm. There should be no apprehension about a bit of competition from the Iron Islands. If need be, your forces are more than capable of crushing any threat they pose. And increasing the fleet's strength is an option if all else fails."

Several council members nodded in agreement with Ser Otto's assertion, emphasizing the might of House Velaryon's naval power. Prince Viserys, however, offered a different perspective. "Increasing our own fleets might be perceived as aggression by the Iron Islands. We must be cautious not to escalate tensions unnecessarily." Jaehaerys said nothing but looked to his grandson; he nodded with a sigh but ordered Lord Corlys to keep an eye on the Iron Islands, discreetly if possible. Jaehaerys did not wish to be the one to provoke action, but he was prepared to end the confrontation.

The maester cleared his throat, drawing the council's attention. "Your grace," he began, "I have received a letter from the Night's Watch. They report a significant surge in wildling activity over the past few years, with the intensity doubling in the last several months. Encounters with wildlings have become a frequent occurrence, with battles involving as many as a hundred wildlings at a time."

Lord Otto Hightower couldn't conceal his skepticism. "The Night's Watch is meant to guard us from wildlings. These curiosities beyond the Wall have no bearing on the safety of the Seven Kingdoms."

Aemon said nothing, but he kept watch as he kept the wine by his side to refill the cups of the lords once they emptied. His body was ready, but his mind was on the Freefolk; they should not be active now. There were no invasions from beyond the Wall between Bael the Bard and Raymun Redbeard; at least, he didn't recall any ones of note. He thought of all the memories that seemed to fail him more frequently the longer he lived. He could recall one of King Jaehaerys' daughters, the fourteen-year-old Princess Saera Targaryen, who wanted to be a queen. She proposed several suitors, amongst them the King Beyond the Wall, to make it possible, but there were none at the time.

The more he thought of this Saera Targaryen, the more his mind began to hurt as if the memories faded far more violently than they should. Before, when his memories of his life failed him, he reached for them, but they would run through his fingers when he tried to catch them; they would escape him as if he were trying to grab smoke. This time, however, the smoke was fire, and every time he reached for it, his hands would burn rather harshly, like a dragon had been breathing upon them.

Aemon remained silent, but his thoughtful expression caught King Jaehaerys's attention. "Prince Aemon," Jaehaerys prompted, "what are your thoughts on this matter?"

Aemon hesitated for a moment before responding, "In the books, wildlings wouldn't move with such coordination unless someone was leading them."

Lord Corlys leaned in, his curiosity evident. "Who could lead the wildlings?" he inquired.

"A King Beyond the Wall," Aemon answered promptly, his words hanging in the air, suggesting a potential threat looming beyond the Wall.

"The Night's Watch has not indicated that there currently is any King Beyond the Wall. Wildling movements do not necessarily mean that a King has risen," the maester spoke. "As it is, the Night's Watch could handle the situation, and if not, the northern lords have acted as a fail-safe and second defense against the wildings for thousands of years; they can do so once more."

King Jaehaerys, clearly recognizing the potential threat of the Night's Watch and the urgency of reinforcing it, continued the discussion. "How fares the Night's Watch?" he inquired.

Before responding, the maester consulted his notes, "Currently, the Night's Watch has just over five thousand members. It stands at half its strength during the reign of Aegon the Conqueror. Of the nineteen castles, only seventeen have been manned throughout our history, and currently, only eight are currently up and functioning."

Jaehaerys exchanged a subtle glance with Prince Aemon, both silently acknowledging the significance of the Night's Watch in the face of potential challenges, particularly with the looming threat of the Long Night. Aemon's dreams have grown harsher over the moons, and every time he rose from his nightmares, he would speak to King Jaehaerys about them the following day when they met.

Taking decisive action, Jaehaerys declared, "Empty the Red Keep's dungeons. Send as many prisoners as the Night's Watch can accommodate. We shall strongly suggest that the other kingdoms do the same. The Night's Watch must be bolstered, prepared for whatever may come."

Aemon could see that Lord Otto did not wish to linger on the topic of directly or indirectly helping the North. It was known as an unofficial understanding of the small council that Lord Otto disliked the North for two reasons. One, the North worshiped the Old Gods, and as Hightower had close ties to the Faith and the Starry Sept, it meant the Hightowers were extremely closely allied with the New Gods and, in turn, not perfectly happy with the Old Gods. The second reason is Daemon Targaryen. The two rarely speak due to Aemon's father not having much free time away from the building of Summerhall; the few times they did cross paths were not the best of moments, and Daemon, through Aemon and Lyanna, had close ties to the North, meaning Daemon had no less than forty thousand soldiers at his beck and call if he were to act correctly. Otto Hightower did not like the fact that a branch House of Targaryen may have an entire kingdom loyal to it.

Lord Otto Hightower spoke up next, diverting the council's attention. "Your grace," he began, "news has arrived that your daughters are set to return from their stay in Volantis."

Aemon couldn't help but note the peculiarity of this information. In the histories he carried within him, none of Jaehaerys' daughters stayed together in a single city, and certainly, none had returned to their father. Still, he kept his observations to himself, curious about how this chapter would unfold.

"Princesses Viserra, Aerea, Rhaella, Daenerys, Saera, and Maegella are expected to be brought back within the next month or so, more than likely at the turn of the new year," Ser Otto announced, his voice carrying the weight of the imminent reunion between the king and his daughters.

As the names of Jaehaerys's daughters were listed, Aemon couldn't help but feel a sense of confusion and disbelief settling within him. The information Lord Otto presented contradicted the memories that lingered in his mind. Jaehaerys should not have any living daughters in the Seven Kingdoms, no living legitimate daughters; some claim to be his bastards, but Aemon did not believe it.

According to the memories he carried as Jon Snow, Daenerys should have perished at a young age. Viserra, the most beautiful of Jaehaerys's daughters, should have met her end by being thrown off a horse. Saera, the cunning princess, some said she was as smart as her brother, who eventually became a maester, and should have disappeared after being sent to the Faith. Maegella should have embraced a life within the Faith after being almost forced by her parents, who claimed the gods gave them many daughters and that they must give back to the gods as thanks. Aemon recalled, as Jon Snow, Tyrion believed it was done to get in good favor with the Faith due to the horrible relations that Meagor had made due to burning down the sept that the Dragonpit was built.

Aemon, grappling with the inconsistencies, silently mulled over the discrepancies between the historical events he remembered and the unfolding reality before him. The names of Aerea and Rhella further added to the perplexity, as they were the twin daughters of Aegon the Uncrowned, not Jaehaerys. This was six daughters who should not be alive while Aemon was breathing; either they should be dead or no longer in the royal fold.

Viserys, noticing Aemon's confusion, chuckled before offering an explanation. "I have forgotten, Aemon, that you and Rhaenyra have not met my young aunts." He glanced at Aemon with a knowing smile, acknowledging the bewilderment in his nephew's expression.

King Jaehaerys, noticing the need for clarification, took a moment to elucidate. "When my daughters were born, they were not in the best of health due to mine and... Alyssane's age. We sent them to Volantis, where the healing experts dedicated themselves to their care until they were fully cured. They heard tell of the afflictions plaguing my daughters and claimed they had a way to heal them."

Lord Otto, who had been listening attentively, added, "The princesses are now cured and will return within the month." The air in the room seemed to lighten as the confusion lifted, and the council continued its discussions, leaving Aemon to absorb the unexpected turn of events. The existence of six princesses not accounted for during the Dance of Dragons, alongside the movement of Freefolk and Greyjoys, were not issues during the histories he knew; at least, he did not believe so. Things were changing, and Aemon did not know if the information he once knew was going to be of any help to sail through the tides of the storms to come.

Jaehaerys Targaryen

Jaehaerys heard the knock at the door; after Alysanne had passed away, he was a light sleeper, and the lightest of noises awakened from his slumber. Jaehaerys sat up in his bed, blinking away the remnants of sleep as the door creaked open. The golden glow of the candlelight flickered as the Kingsguard entered, and the familiar silhouette of his great-grandson Aemon appeared behind them.

"Your Grace," the Kingsguard spoke with a formal nod, "Prince Aemon insists on seeing you urgently."

Jaehaerys, a mix of curiosity and concern etched on his aged face, motioned for Aemon to enter as he allowed the Kingsguard to close the door and stay outside, leaving the two members of the royal family to be in the room. "Aemon, what brings you here in the dead of night?" The elderly king gestured to a chair, inviting Aemon to sit. "What troubles you, my boy?" Jaehaerys inquired, studying the young prince's face for any signs of distress. Jaehaerys, deeply concerned, approached Aemon with a measured gaze.

"The dreams were worse than before," was all Aemon returned.

"The Long Night... again?" he whispered, a heavyweight in his voice. "Tell me everything, Aemon. What do you see?"

Aemon took a deep breath, his eyes reflecting the weight of the visions. "The bones of dragons," he began, "a dragon falling from the skies, only to rise again, but as a creature of death, a soldier in the army of the dead. It was pale white, fires as blue as sapphires, and burned only like the cold could burn."

Jaehaerys clenched his fists. "Go on," he urged.

Aemon continued, "I see a green dragon fight a red dragon; the red dragon would win but at the cost of its wings, ever to fly again. I see a black dragon and a red dragon locked in combat. The red dragon wins this as well. The black dragon weakens the red, and their offspring suffer, generation after generation. The red dragons never grow as strong as they once were."

Jaehaerys' brows furrowed deeply. "Green and black? But there are no other living houses of dragon riders, even if so in Valyria there were not and house words, sigils, or coats of arms, one did not define the families by sigil. So there were never any green dragons nor black dragons to begin with. What else do these visions reveal?" Jaehaerys, though visibly angered, forced himself to maintain composure. Does their family lose their dragons? That is impossible. The green dragons cripple their house. They could no longer fly after the greens. Do the greens take away our ability to fly? Do they remove our dragons? No, this black dragon may weaken their House; this black dragon weakens the dragons, leaving them vulnerable. "Continue, Aemon," he urged, his voice strained.

Aemon took a moment before continuing, "The stag kills the silver dragon, and then the little dragons of the silver dragon, but a young golden lion kills the old mad dragon that ruled a red castle."

Jaehaerys' face tightened further. "And what happens next?" he questioned, though a sense of dread crept into his voice.

"An old golden lion crowns the stag," Aemon continued, "and the stag marries the old lion's beautiful golden daughter. However, the golden lioness only gives birth to lions, no stags."

The old king's eyes flared with a mixture of rage and realization. "Baratheon, Lannister," he muttered under his breath, connecting the symbols to the noble houses. He took some happiness that the Baratheon in question had been cuckolded. "A union, a crown, but no stags... The alliance will lead to the end of the dragons."

Jaehaerys could hear Vermithor roar angrily in the distance, the anger based on Jaehaerys' emotions. The roar was a threat to all those near the large dragon. Jaehaerys, his patience tested, asked in a tense tone, "What else do you see, Aemon?" Aemon continued his tale, and Jaehaerys had to register the information once more. Jaehaerys listened intently, the gravity of Aemon's dreams weighing heavily on his mind. "A lion, flayed man, and Twin Towers... and a powerful wolf beheaded?" he probed, seeking further clarification.

"Yes," Aemon affirmed, "a powerful old lion helps a flayed man and Twin Towers to kill off a powerful wolf, and they behead him. After that, the flayed man rules over Winterfell, and the dead move towards the Wall more quickly and determinedly, as if the wolves are no longer there to protect the lands."

The old king clenched his jaw, absorbing the chilling imagery. "Winterfell, the North... the Wall," he muttered, attempting to piece together the puzzle of Aemon's dreams. "The Starks betrayed. And the dead advancing without opposition."

Aemon's voice trembled slightly as he added, "It's as if... as if the fall of the North accelerates the march of the dead."

Jaehaerys, his mind burdened with the weight of Aemon's visions, sighed heavily. "The House of the Dragon... we've been lax, spreading too thin," he muttered as if contemplating the consequences of their actions.

He looked to the boy, far smarter than a boy his age had any right to be; he looked to the future of their house. If Viserys had no sons, Daemon would rule, and after him would be Aemon. Aemon could sit on the Iron Throne, and while the thought of Daemon being another Meagor was not appealing, looking to Aemon, he could see a younger version of himself, cunning and loyal to the house. Mayhaps he could bestow upon the boy all that he knows so that if Aemon sits on the throne, the boy would already be as wise as the Old King with none of the mistakes, an idea Jaehaerys was very fond of. The North was strong and would support Aemon; if Aemon were to get a strong enough dragon, some of the other kingdoms would fall in line.

Jaehaerys would ensure Viserys was as ready as possible, but he could also plant the seeds for the future after Viserys as well. He may have been bad to his family and children, but Jahaerys would not fail their house and the future as he did his children. He thought of his youngest daughters, all six of whom were born on the same day, a surprise, to say the least. Their father was old and would not be able to raise them, not that he was good at it. It would be to Viserys and Aemma that his children would have, not parents, and through Aemon, they might have a strong family head. Jaehaerys had many things to ready before he died, whenever that might be. He looked to Aemon. Viserys may be the next step, but Aemon may be the running leap that follows.

Jaehaerys pondered the weight of his own words before suggesting, Jaehaerys made a decision. "Come, Aemon. There's something I need to show you." With the kingsguard, Ser Ryam Redwyne and Ser Harrold Westerling, accompanying them, they ventured through the silent corridors of the Red Keep, shrouded in the pre-dawn darkness.

King Jahaerys reached the stables and ordered a wheelhouse to be ready for him and Aemon; they would be going to the Dragonpit. The people read the wheelhouse with no questions. Jaehaerys and Aemon waited as they looked at the horses, and Jaehaerys could see that they were drawn to the boy in a way that he recalled Daemon speaking the horses did with Lyanna. The horses seemed to move in their stables, trying to inch closer to the boy as he petted and brushed the hair on the check of a newlyborn mare.

Jaehaerys wondered if the boy would also inherit the late princess's skill on horseback, that, with Daemon's skill with a sword and lance, would make Aemon the victor of many tourneys, but Jaehaerys knew in his heart that in the case of Aemon that it would on the battlefield that Aemon would shine. He would pray for the boy to avoid war in his life, but the gods were cruel; they do not answer prayers, they are cruel, and if they weren't, they wouldn't be gods. Once the wheelhouse was ready, they entered and left the Red Keep.

The wheelhouse rumbled through the damp streets of King's Landing, the sounds of hooves and creaking wheels reverberating in the quiet morning air. Jaehaerys, accompanied by Aemon, observed the city coming to life as the sun's first rays cast a soft glow on the wet cobblestone streets. Vendors and merchants began to set up their stalls, and the air carried the mingling scents of fresh bread, grilled meats, and various goods.

Jaehaerys reflected on how infrequently he had ventured beyond the walls of the Red Keep in recent years, the weight of the crown keeping him bound to his seat of power. The city's grand structures and bustling activity reminded him that life continued beyond the walls of his fortress.

He noticed Aemon's gaze fixated on the people outside, their daily routines unfolding like a tapestry of ordinary lives. Jaehaerys smiled, appreciating the curiosity and wonder in his great-grandson's eyes as he observed the ebb and flow of the city waking up.

The wheelhouse gradually approached the grand structure of the Dragonpit, a place of both historical significance and present-day importance. The looming structure came into view. As they arrived, Jaehaerys prepared to unveil a piece of their legacy to Aemon within the hallowed halls of the Dragonpit.

Its immense dome, charred and blackened from the fires of dragon breath, reached into the sky, dominating the skyline of King's Landing. Jaehaerys could no longer recall the sept that once stood on Rhaenys' Hill, the hill that the Dragonpit now sat upon.

As they entered, the distinct scent of dragons and the lingering aroma of sulfur permeated the air. The Dragonpit was a place of awe and reverence, where the great beasts had once roosted and soared through the skies of Westeros.

The Dragonkeepers, a group descended from bastard lines of House Targaryen, bustled about their duties. They were responsible for the care and protection of the dragons, and their presence added to the mystique of the Dragonpit. The head of the Dragonkeepers, an older man with a crown of silver hair and deep purple eyes, approached with a respectful bow.

Speaking in High Valyrian, he inquired whether King Jaehaerys had come to assist young Prince Aemon in the quest to find a dragon to ride. Jaehaerys, not answering directly, requested to be led to Vermithor. The Dragonkeepers nodded in acknowledgment and guided the king and his great-grandson deeper into the heart of the Dragonpit.

The deep caves of the Dragonpit were an otherworldly realm, a subterranean labyrinth created by the dragons themselves. As they ventured further, the extremely large passageways became darker, the flickering light from torches casting eerie shadows on the rough-hewn walls. Heavy with the scent of sulfur and dragon musk, the air hung thick and oppressive.

The heat intensified the deeper they delved as if the very heart of a dragon's flame resided within the bowels of the earth. Beads of sweat formed on the brows of those not of Valyrian blood, the discomfort growing with each step. The stagnant and humid air clung to their skin as they navigated the labyrinthine tunnels.

Yet, undeterred, Jaehaerys pressed on, his familiarity with the Dragonpit evident in the way he navigated the passages. The Dragonkeepers, accustomed to this environment, led the way with a mix of reverence and practicality. The distant rumblings and occasional shifts in the cavern signaled the presence of the great dragons that lay within.

The journey through the depths continued, guided by torchlight, until the group arrived at a cavern where Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, rested. The massive dragon, its scales reflecting the torchlight like burnished metal, stirred as they approached, acknowledging the presence of its Targaryen rider.

Vermithor's mighty form dominated the cavern. His bronze scales gleamed in the dim light, casting a warm, amber-hued glow across the cave. The great tan wings, folded against his massive body, hinted at the tremendous span that could unleash a tempest with every beat.

As Jaehaerys approached, Vermithor's molten bronze eyes fixated on his rider. The dragon's eyes looked like molten bronze, its pupils, each resembling a harp string, thin and predatory, betrayed a predatory intelligence that belied his immense size.

The four horns on Vermithor's head were prominent, three jutting from each cheek like formidable adornments and one rising proudly from the top of his head. A grand frill adorned the upper part of his neck, adding to the dragon's regal and fearsome appearance.

Vermithor, though now dormant, exuded an aura of untamed might. Jaehaerys ordered everyone but Aemon to leave the cave, as he wished to speak to his great-grandsire and spend time with his old dragon. He placed his hand on the large snout of the dragon as Vermithor let out a small trill and shook his large neck and head with delight.

The cavern echoed with a deep, resonant trill as Vermithor acknowledged Jaehaerys' touch. The dragon's immense head, larger than the wheelhouse that carried them, turned slightly toward his former rider. Jaehaerys, standing by the mighty dragon's side, could feel the warmth radiating from the bronze scales beneath his hand.

As Jaehaerys spoke to the dragon, a quiet understanding passed between them, a bond that had withstood the test of time. The others, not of Valyrian blood, were left outside the cavern, the oppressive heat and sulfur-filled air seemingly dissuading them from venturing deeper into the dragon's lair.

As the others respectfully withdrew from the cave, leaving Jaehaerys and Aemon in the presence of Vermithor, the dragon's massive form remained at rest, his eyes fixed on his former rider. The cavernous space seemed to shrink in the shadow of the mighty creature.

Jaehaerys, standing beside Vermithor, felt the vibrations of the dragon's trill resonating through the air. It was a familiar, comforting sound. Jaehraerys truly felt bad for no longer being able to ride with Vermithor as he did in his youth.

As Jaehaerys encouraged Aemon to approach Vermithor, a sudden and thunderous roar erupted from the depths of the Dragonpit. The deafening sound reverberated through the grand caves, shaking the very foundations of the ancient structure. The roar echoed outwards, reaching beyond the Dragonpit's confines to resonate throughout the city of King's Landing.

The powerful roar caused a cascade of rocks and stones descended from the cave ceiling, a consequence of the sheer force unleashed by the mighty dragon's vocal display. Dust and debris filled the air, momentarily obscuring the dim light that managed to penetrate the deep cavern.

The ferocity of the dragon's roar resonated through the cavern, transcending the boundaries of sound to become an overwhelming force that dominated the very air within the Dragonpit. It was a symphony of power, a declaration of dominance that seemed to pierce through the very stone and echo in the depths of the cave.

For Jaehaerys and Aemon, the intensity of the roar was more than their senses could endure. It was a volcano made alive, a disaster made into sound. The sheer volume and depth of the sound brought them to their knees, hands instinctively covering their ears in a futile attempt to shield themselves from the reverberations that seemed to penetrate their eardrums and their very souls.

As the cavernous space echoed with the continued roar, Jaehaerys and Aemon found themselves in a state of profound vulnerability, overpowered by the ancient force that lingered within depths of the Dragonpit.

The roar seemed to stretch for an eternity, causing discomfort and disorientation. Vermithor himself, despite his earlier trill of recognition, now appeared momentarily cowed by the immense power unleashed. The dragon's eyes reflected a glint of fear acknowledging the the greater roar The Bronze Fury, the dragon many other dragons feared, would not roar back at this grand eruption of a dragon roar.

After what felt like an eternity, the deafening roar began to wane, gradually losing its intensity until the cavernous space was filled with a lingering echo. The oppressive sound finally subsided, leaving behind a cavern fraught with tension and uncertainty. The Kingsguard hastily ran to the entrance, ready to intervene, but Jaehaerys signaled for them to stand down. Aemon assisted the Old King back to his feet.

Jaehaerys and Aemon exchanged uneasy glances, both aware of the unspoken truth that reverberated within the Dragonpit. Vermithor, the mighty Bronze Furry, had roared in submission and deference to a power greater than his own.

With a deep breath, Jaehaerys turned his gaze to Vermithor, the Bronze Furry, who now stood in a subdued posture. The dragon's eyes, once ablaze with fire and defiance, now held a glint of recognition tinged with a subtle acknowledgment of his place in the hierarchy of dragonkind.

Jaehaerys understood the unspoken hierarchy among dragons, the unyielding pecking order that governed their interactions. Vermithor, despite his formidable size and power, was not impervious to the awe-inspiring roar. The timing of the roar, just as Aemon reached out to touch Vermithor, seemed almost orchestrated to Jaehaerys.

As Jaehaerys steadied himself, he cast a solemn glance at Aemon. The dragon, whichever one had roared, seemed to react to Aemon's proximity to Vermithor in a way that spoke of territorial dominance.

The timing of the roar struck Jaehaerys as more than coincidental. The unknown dragon's protective and possessive nature toward Aemon was apparent, perhaps indicating a unique connection forming between the young Targaryen and it. The dragons, sentient creatures with their own instincts and relationships, were not immune to complex emotions and alliances.

The revelation sent a chill down Jaehaerys' spine, an unsettling realization that a dragon that had yet to even meet the boy had expressed a desire for the presence of Aemon. The young prince, with his eyes briefly transformed by an otherworldly mist, conveyed the message with an eerie calmness that belied the gravity of the situation. The mist that momentarily enshrouded Aemon's eyes hinted at a communion with a force beyond the understanding of men.

Jaehaerys, his voice slightly raised to overcome the echoing roar of the dragon, spoke to Vermithor. "Apologies for neglecting you, old friend," he said, his hand gently caressing the dragon's scaled snout. "I've been engrossed in matters that demanded my attention. But you are no less significant to me."

Vermithor, in response, emitted a low rumble that almost sounded like an understanding growl. However, before their interaction could deepen, the cavern once again reverberated with the resounding roar of the dragon once more; it would not be ignored. The sheer force of the sound sent tremors through the Dragonpit, causing both Jaehaerys and Vermithor to react.

The ground trembled beneath their feet as the force of the dragon's roar seemed to awaken ancient echoes within the cavernous depths. Stones and debris dislodged from the ceiling, adding a chaotic symphony of clatters and crashes to the already tumultuous atmosphere. Jaehaerys, Aemon, and even Vermithor were forced to their knees once more, the sheer power of the dragons' renewed rage overwhelming their senses.

Once the roars died once more Vermithor gained the tnetion of the atargaryens before him. Vermithor's made a nudging gesture toward Aemon. Jaehaerys observed Aemon with a mix of confusion and concern, unsure of what had just transpired. The momentary change in Aemon's eyes had been fleeting, and the return to normalcy happened so swiftly that it left Jaehaerys questioning the reality of the occurrence.

"The dragon wants me to come to him," Aemon said far too calmly for Jaehaerys' liking.

"It wants you?" Jaehaerys questioned, seeking confirmation. Aemon nodded in response.

"I felt a connection, a summons, as if it reached out to me," Aemon explained, his voice carrying a weight that hinted at the gravity of the situation. The Bronze Furry moved slightly to the right; Jaehaerys looked to the dragon as Vermithor nudged his head slightly towards something behind the large bronze body.

The narrow crack in the cave wall, revealed by Vermithor's subtle movement, beckoned Jaehaerys and Aemon to explore the hidden depths of the Dragonpit. Jaehaerys regarded his ancient dragon companion with a silent understanding. Dragons, likewise and ancient beings, often had their reasons and desires that transcended the comprehension of mere mortals.

Jaehaerys understood Vermithor's silent message. The enormous bronze dragon, wise and ancient, had likely decided that some matters were best discussed away from the prying ears of even other dragons. The crack in the wall indicated a hidden passage that led to a more secluded part of the Dragonpit's caverns.

Motioning for Aemon to follow, Jaehaerys moved toward the concealed entrance. The air inside the Dragonpit grew even denser as they ventured deeper into the labyrinthine passages. The occasional glow of dragonfire in the distance illuminated the rough-hewn walls, revealing the marks of countless claws and the remnants of ages past.

As they walked through the narrow passages, the low rumble of dragons and the distant echoes of their movements created an eerie symphony. The darkness pressed in around them, but Jaehaerys, familiar with the Dragonpit's twists and turns, led the way with a confidence born of years spent in the company of dragons.

The narrow passageway guided them through winding tunnels, and as they approached a larger cavern, Vermithor's lair, the heat became nearly oppressive. As Jaehaerys and Aemon ventured deeper into the Dragonpit's cavernous depths, the air became thick with the scent of sulfur, the heat intensifying as they moved away from the entrance. The flickering light of Jaehaerys' torch cast dancing shadows on the walls, revealing glimpses of ancient carvings and claw marks from dragons long gone. The heat grew worse, the heat stronger and hotter than fire; steam arose from the stones as some began to melt, not from fire but from the hot, unmoving air.

Jaehaerys noticed Aemon's calm demeanor in the face of the heightened temperature and the overpowering scent. It was as if the young prince was attuned to the dragon's realm, an innate connection that went beyond mere familial ties. His dark clothes made Aemon look like a living shadow as only the flickers of the orange flame illuminated the pale face of the Stark-looking Targaryen. Jaehaerys watched as, just every so often, the dark eyes flickered indigo due to the light of the flames.

The pair came across chambers housing smaller dragons, their scales glistening in the ambient light. Some were asleep, their rhythmic breathing resonating through the caverns, while others regarded the visitors with watchful eyes. The Dragonpit, a repository of Targaryen power and magic, seemed to pulse with a life of its own.

As they continued their exploration, Aemon's demeanor shifted. Though still maintaining his composure, the boy displayed a heightened awareness as if attuned to the unseen forces that permeated the Dragonpit. Jaehaerys watched Aemon closely, wondering if the mysterious episode earlier had left an indelible mark on his great-grandson.

Eventually, they reached a larger cavern, where the ceiling soared high above them. In the center stood a pool of reflective water, its surface mirroring the dragons above. This serene enclave within the heart of the Dragonpit felt almost otherworldly.

The flickering torch illuminated the ancient passageways as Jaehaerys and Aemon delved further into the Dragonpit's depths. The air grew thicker with the pungent scent of sulfur, a fragrance that, to many, might be overpowering, but Aemon seemed unaffected, navigating the winding caverns with an ease that belied his young age.

As they moved deeper, the ambient glow of torchlight revealed intricate carvings on the cave walls—ancient depictions of dragons in flight, Targaryen sigils, and scenes from battles long past. The etchings seemed to come alive in the dancing light, telling a silent tale of the Targaryen legacy intertwined with dragons.

The dragon roars' echoes continued reverberating, creating an almost primal symphony that echoed through the subterranean realm. Jaehaerys, though accustomed to the grandeur of dragons, felt a renewed sense of awe in the heart of this hidden sanctuary.

The passageways led to a vast cavern, the ceiling lost in the shadows above. The vastness of the cavern unfolded before Jaehaerys and Aemon like an underground cathedral dedicated to the might of dragons. The irregular ceiling, adorned with mineral formations that sparkled in the torchlight, seemed to stretch into infinite darkness. It was a hidden world beneath the bustling streets of King's Landing, a place where dragons once roamed freely, echoing their power and majesty. The vastness and size of the opening are big enough to house the Red Keep itself twice, both in area and in height.

As they ventured further, the sounds of dripping water and the distant echoes of dragon roars merged into a symphony of the subterranean. Stalactites hung from the ceiling like ancient chandeliers, their pointed formations seemingly frozen in time. Shadows danced along the cavern walls, and the air held a tangible weight, carrying with it the history of a bygone era.

The cracks in the ceiling allowed slivers of sunlight to pierce the darkness, creating beams that revealed motes of dust suspended in the air. These celestial rays touched upon the natural formations below, highlighting the contours of the cavern floor.

The deep growl echoed through the expansive cavern, resonating like distant thunder. Jaehaerys and Aemon stood still, their gazes fixed on the shadows that concealed the source of the ominous sound. The intermittent tremors beneath their feet heightened the tension in the air, heralding the approach of something massive and formidable. Each step the creature made shook the ground and made the foundations of the Dragonpit waver and shake.

As the seconds ticked away, the silhouette of a colossal figure emerged from the darkness. A pair of glowing eyes, fierce and fiery, pierced through the obscurity. The ground quivered with each ponderous step, and the cavern seemed to shrink in the imposing presence of the unknown creature.

Jaehaerys tightened his grip on the torch, its wavering light casting eerie shadows on the cavern walls. Aemon, beside him, displayed a quiet composure that belied his youth. The young prince's eyes, perhaps touched by visions or an innate connection to the mystical, held a depth of understanding.

The colossal figure materialized into view—an immense dragon, its scales obsidian black, reflecting the flickering torchlight like a starlit sky. The creature's wings were folded majestically against its powerful form, and tendrils of smoke lazily rose from its nostrils.

The shadows of the cavern seemed to come alive as the dragon emerged from the darkness. His colossal form, a living embodiment of fire and shadow, filled the cavern with an imposing presence. Each step of the ancient dragon reverberated through the underground expanse, sending shockwaves that made the very ground tremble.

The few rays of light that managed to penetrate the cracks in the ceiling reflected off dragon's obsidian scales, creating an eerie play of light and shadow. His eyes, pools of molten red, glowed with an otherworldly intensity, fixated on Jaehaerys and Aemon as they stood in the vastness of the Dragonpit.

The heat radiating from the dragon was intense, as if the dragon embodied the very essence of fire itself. The air shimmered around him due to the heat, creating a distorted mirage that added to the surreal atmosphere of the cavern. Jaehaerys, despite his Targaryen lineage and affinity with dragons, couldn't help but feel a twinge of awe and trepidation in the presence of such a legendary creature.

Aemon, ever calm, whispered, "Balerion..."

The Black Dread, the mightiest of dragons, stood before them, a living embodiment of ancient power. Its eyes, reminiscent of burning blood embers, fixated on the intruders with an intelligence that surpassed the mere instinct of a beast.

Balerion's formidable features spoke of his ancient lineage and the power he held. The obsidian scales that adorned his massive form seemed impervious to the passage of time, a testament to the dragon's resilience and enduring strength. As the dark scales caught the scarce rays of sunlight, they shimmered with a lustrous sheen, revealing the underlying majesty of the legendary creature.

The colossal wings, folded against Balerion's sides, added to the impression of sheer dominance. The intricate patterns of his horns, ranging from the large ones atop his head to the smaller ones adorning his chin and cheeks, spoke of a creature that had witnessed countless years of Westerosii history unfold. These horns, big enough to be noticeable from below, straightened and pulled back, each one black as night. They had smaller horns on their chin, cheeks, lower jaw, and in rows over their brow. Whether twisted or straight, each horn contributed to the dragon's imposing appearance, creating an aura of ancient power.

Balerion's teeth, like shards of midnight, were formidable weapons that could rend armor and crush bone with ease. They jutted from his immense jaws, a fearsome display of natural weaponry that had instilled terror in the hearts of enemies during the dragon's prime. The teeth are longer than spears, each taller than a man's entire body twice.

Balerion's feet were large enough that any dragon less than a hundred feet in length would have been crushed underfoot, a single step, the entire foot stomping dragon as the whole, not a portion, but the complete creature. Jaehaerys could see entire keeps and castles crumbling under its foot. Balerion was far too large, and unlike Vhagar, his weight and size did not strain its body and mere existence like most older creatures who grew too old for their bones did; it did not groan and take heavy, slow steps. Balerion was fierce once more; it was as bold and wrothful as the young, freshly hatched dragons that had yet to learn to fly or breathe fire.

The dragon had grown, Balerion was larger than the last time any man had lain eyes on him. But to Jaehaerys, it made no sense; from what he gathered, the younger dragons had been shrinking, the younger dragons were not as big as the predecessors at the same age. Vhagar had the freedom, food, and space to fly and grow, yet Balerion now was of a size that Jaehaerys doubted the Conqueror himself would have imagined. Balerion was now of equal size to the more powerful dragons of the more powerful Valaryian families of the ancient empire. Last checked, Balerion stretched over four hundred feet and could eat a mammoth whole in a single bite; now, he was at least twice that size now. Vhagar was nearing Balerion and she was only passing three hundred feet in length, a hundred feet shy of what Balerion was when anyone last saw him. Balerion had doubled in size since his last rider.

The Black Dread's growth, an unsettling realization for Jaehaerys, exceeded any reasonable expectation. Balerion's immense form stretched nearly eight hundred feet, making him a behemoth that defied the natural constraints of dragon size. Though folded against his sides, the dragon's wings hinted at a span that could cast shadows over entire armies. So large was the dragon that if one compared the dragon to a human and then Jaehaerys and Aemon to ants, it was a watered-down estimation.

Balerion's obsidian scales, once symbols of ancient power, now radiated an ominous darkness that seemed to absorb the very essence of light. It was as though it's very presence changed the truth of how light affect his scales. His eyes, molten red orbs ablaze with fury, fixated on Jaehaerys and Aemon. The anger that burned within those eyes was not the weariness of age but the primal rage of a dragon ready to unleash havoc upon any who dared challenge its supremacy.

The cavern, now suffused with the oppressive heat of dragonfire and the stench of sulfur, transformed into a fearsome arena where the Black Dread's wrath held sway. The air itself quivered with trepidation, and the ground beneath their feet seemed to resonate with the power of Balerion's colossal presence.

The obsidian scales that adorned Balerion's mighty form seemed to have regained a luster of unparalleled magnificence. Each scale reflected the scarce rays of sunlight, creating an otherworldly glow that accentuated the dragon's sheer grandeur. The horns, once weathered by the ages, now gleamed with an intimidating sharpness, a testament to the rejuvenation that had taken place.

Balerion's eyes, pools of molten rage, burned with an intensity that surpassed anything Jaehaerys had witnessed in his long years. The anger radiating from the Black Dread was palpable, as if the dragon harbored an indomitable spirit that defied the constraints of time.

Jaehaerys, despite his deep connection with dragons, felt a sense of unease in the presence of Balerion's newfound power. The dragon's resurgence had shattered the preconceived notions of aging and decline, replacing them with an ominous aura of strength and fury.

Balerion's massive head, adorned with ominous horns and crowned with teeth like blackened spires, descended to a level where it towered over Aemon. The eyes, pools of molten red, bore into the young prince, and at that moment, Aemon seemed to be under the scrutinizing gaze of an ancient force. The sheer proximity to the Black Dread, with eyes twice the size of a man's body, instilled a sense of awe and trepidation.

As Balerion drew nearer, his cavernous maw opened, revealing teeth that defied the conventional bounds of size. Each obsidian fang, as long as a dozen feet, lay bare and ready to rend flesh from bone. The dragon's growl, a thunderous symphony that echoed through the Dragonpit, reverberated against the cavern walls, creating an atmosphere pregnant with the impending threat of raw, unbridled power.

To Jaehaerys, Aemon seemed entranced by the grandeur of the colossal dragon, and stood in silent reverence, absorbing the magnitude of the ancient creature before him. Jaehaerys, too, felt the weight of the moment, realizing that Balerion's proximity demanded both awe and respect. The Black Dread's teeth, sharp and imposing, were a stark reminder of the primal nature of dragons, a force that transcended the familiarity of men.

As Aemon cautiously approached the colossal head of Balerion, the dragon regarded him with a mix of curiosity and latent power. Jaehaerys observed with a mixture of fascination and concern. Aemon, undeterred by the immense danger that lurked within the proximity of the Black Dread, took deliberate steps, ensuring that every movement was measured and purposeful.

The young prince, his hand encased in a black glove, moved slowly, revealing his bare hand as he extended it towards Balerion's colossal head. The dragon, its molten red eyes fixed on Aemon, continued to emit a deep growl that reverberated through the cavernous space. The tension in the air was palpable, a delicate balance between the primal instincts of a dragon and the calculated demeanor of a Targaryen.

Balerion, with a primal intensity in his gaze, lowered his immense head, bringing his nose closer to Aemon's outstretched hand. The dragon's nostrils flared as he sniffed the air, processing the scent of the Targaryen blood that coursed through Aemon's veins. The cavernous space seemed to hold its breath as the ancient dragon and the young prince engaged in this silent exchange.

The deep growl persisted, resonating through the Dragonpit, a testament to the dragon's inherent wariness and territorial nature. Yet, as Aemon stood his ground, offering his hand for the ancient beast to acknowledge, there was a subtle shift in Balerion's demeanor. The growl, while lingering, became less menacing, hinting at a gradual acceptance or recognition of the Targaryen kinship.

As Aemon pressed his hand onto the immense snout of Balerion, the Black Dread, the dragon's primal growl gradually subsided. Once filled with the ominous echoes of the dragon's dominance, the cavern now carried an air of subdued acceptance. Balerion's colossal head, with scales as black as night, shifted slightly to allow the touch of the young Targaryen.

Aemon, undeterred and resolute, felt the smooth, warm texture of the dragon's scales beneath his fingertips. The connection between the Targaryen prince and the ancient beast, momentarily suspended in tension, now took on a different quality. Balerion, whose menacing demeanor had softened, emitted a low, rumbling breath—a sign that transcended mere acknowledgment and approached the realm of a silent pact.

Jaehaerys, his wise gaze shifting between Aemon and Balerion, absorbed the significance of the moment. The slivers of a bound have been set. Jaehaerys watched the interaction with keen interest before speaking.

"Balerion is the only living creature to recall Valyria, its greatness, and its flaws," Jaehaerys spoke. "When you look to Balerion, to any of the dragons, what do you see?" Jaehaerys asked.

"A large flying lizard," Aemon responded quickly. Jaehaerys looked at the child with a raised eyebrow. "A largeuglyflying lizard," he corrected.

"Not literally, Aemon. When you look to the dragons, what is the first word that comes to mind?"

He listened intently as Aemon, with the weight of his Targaryen heritage on his shoulders, expressed his understanding of the dragons. The king looked at the young prince as he kept his hand on the dragon that conquered kingdoms, the dragon that forged the Iron Throne.

Aemon hesitated for a while, his eyes contemplating the colossal form of Balerion. Finally, he spoke, his words carrying the depth of a profound realization. "I see a partner. I see our family."

Jaehaerys, intrigued, urged Aemon to elaborate. "What do you mean, Aemon? How are dragons our family?"

Aemon's eyes, reflecting the flickering torchlight in the cavern, turned from the dragon to his great-grandfather. "Dragons made the Valyrian Empire. Dragons made the Targaryens kings. They are the other half of our House, as much a part of House Targaryen as we are. We might rule the people, but dragons burn the armies. The other families had larger armies when we settled in Westeros. The dragons fought, killed, and died for us. They are loyal to us. Dragons are our family."

Jaehaerys, his eyes reflecting the flickering torchlight in the cavern, chuckled in response to Aemon's profound realization. He then continued, his voice carrying the weight of wisdom and experience. "You are different, Aemon," Jaehaerys remarked, his gaze shifting between the young prince and the ancient dragon. "Different from the rest of our family, different from the rest of the world." He paused, considering his next words carefully. "Most people would say dragons are the Targaryen's weapon. In truth, they are fire-made flesh. And no one can control fire entirely. Fire can keep you warm on cold nights and help forge weapons, shields, and armor. But it can also burn. Left unchecked, it becomes a wildfire, consuming forests and cities alike. Fire is life and death. We can not control dragons, and no matter what the people think, a Targaryen can control a dragon just as much as we can control the weather. A Targaryen must know this if they are to be a dragonrider, if they wish to be a king."

Jaehaerys reached for something on his silken belt and holster: a dagger. He had fingered the handle many times, times of thought and brooding, as his wife called it. He touched the dagger and rubbed the ruby encrusted where the blade touched the handle itself.

Jaehaerys, with the Valyrian steel dagger in hand, held Aemon's gaze as he began to share the weight of a long-held secret. The flickering torchlight danced across the blade, enhancing the air of secrecy in the cavern. As Jaehaerys presented the dagger to Aemon, the flickering torchlight danced along the finely made Valyrian steel, casting an ethereal gleam on the blade. The hilt, crafted from dragon bone and adorned with dragon glass, added an otherworldly touch to the weapon. A large red ruby nestled at the convergence of the blade and handle, its crimson hue capturing the essence of dragonfire.

"Aemon," Jaehaerys said in a hushed tone, his eyes intent on the dagger as Balerion's gaze fixated upon the blade, an ancient acknowledgment. "I need you to listen carefully." With a pause, Jaehaerys continued, "This dagger belonged to Aegon the Conqueror. It has been passed from king to heir, generation after generation. And with it, a secret known only to the kings and heirs of House Targaryen. You will not repeat what I am to say to you until you can pass this to your own heir; this is to be only for your ears, your children's, and their children's after them."

As the torchlight flickered, Jaehaerys' eyes bore into Aemon's, and the weight of the secret revealed wasreflected in his stern gaze. "Long ago," Jaehaerys began in a measured tone, "you wondered why I trusted your words about the dreams of the Long Night. The reason is simple, Aemon. You are not the first in our family to be visited by such visions." His voice carried a somber gravity, "Dragons may have made us kings, but dreams have guided us through survival, through challenges that even dragons couldn't conquer. A Targaryen with dreams is more crucial to our House than one with a dragon." Jaehaerys took a moment, allowing the words to settle. "Daenys the Dreamer, a Targaryen long before your time, had a vision. A dream that foretold the Doom of Valyria. Our House listened, and we moved away. Valyria fell, but House Targaryen survived. Dreams have shaped our fate, Aemon, just as they shape yours now."

"What are you saying?"

The old king placed the dagger on the torch, letting the Valyrian steel ripple and shimmer as the fires heated the blade. The fires of the torch heating the dagger, the dark ripples glowing brightly as the secret hidden in the blade began to show itself. As the Valyrian steel dagger glowed in the fiery light, the inscription revealed itself, shimmering on the blade like the echoes of a prophecy. Jaehaerys, with solemn purpose, showed the blade to Aemon, urging him to read the High Valyrian words etched into its steel.

"From my blood, come The Prince That Was Promised, and his will be the Song of Ice and Fire," Aemon recited the ancient prophecy.

Jaehaerys, his eyes fixed on the young Targaryen, continued with a revelation that transcended the dagger's inscription. "There's something else that I need to tell you. It might be difficult for you to understand, but you must hear it." Aemon nodded, and Jaehaerys continued. "Our histories tell us that Aegon looked across the Blackwater from Dragonstone, seeing a rich land ripe for conquest. But ambition alone did not drive him. It was a dream," Jaehaerys explained, his voice carrying the echoes of ancient prophecy. "Aegon foresaw the end of the world of men, a terrible winter gusting out of the distant North, absolute darkness riding on those winds. Whatever dwells within will destroy the world of the living. When this Great Winter comes, Aemon," Jaehaerys continued, "all of Westeros must stand against it. And if the world of men is to survive, a Targaryen must be seated on the Iron Throne. A king or queen strong enough to unite the realm against the cold and the dark. Aegon called his dream 'The Song of Ice and Fire.' This secret has been passed from king to heir since Aegon's time. Now, you must promise to carry it and protect it."

Balerion looked to the pair and then returned to Aegon's dagger. Balerion knew the words of the prophecy; on this, Jaehaerys had no doubt. Balerion would fight for Aegon's dream, and a part of Jaehaerys found it right that Aegon's dragon would be the mount for the boy who dreams the same dreams as the man who had changed the fate of the continent and their house.

Jaehaerys continued his revelation, weaving the tapestry of Targaryen history with threads of prophecy and dreams. He spoke of Daenys, who foresaw the end of Valyria, her Dragon Dreams marking a turning point for their family. Just a century before Aegon's Conquest, Daenys' visions set the stage for the arrival of dragons in Westeros.

"Now, nearly a hundred years later, after the Conquest, you have dreams that further detail Aegon's," Jaehaerys told Aemon, emphasizing the continuity of these prophetic dreams within their bloodline. The old king didn't believe in coincidences, and the recurrence of Dragon Dreams within their family carried a profound significance.

Jaehaerys delved into the history of the secret, revealing that, although tradition dictated passing it from king to heir, his father had broken that tradition. Instead of entrusting the secret to him directly, Jaehaerys' father had confided in his mother. Had his mother not known, the vital knowledge of Aegon's Dream might have perished with his father long before Jaehaerys ascended to the throne. The fragility of such secrets, the delicate balance between revelation and obscurity, lingered in the air as Jaehaerys shared this family history with Aemon.

Aemon, with a thoughtful expression, repeated the crucial words, "Only a Targaryen must be seated on the Iron Throne." It dawned on him—the reason for Jaehaerys' decisions regarding the succession. His realization painted a picture of the intricate dance of politics and prophecy that shaped the Targaryen legacy. "You wanted Viserys to be your heir because Laenor was a Velaryon," Aemon declared, connecting the dots. He saw the broader design behind the familial choices. The knowledge of the impending threat of the Long Night and the need for a Targaryen ruler to combat it became clearer.

Jaehaerys spoke with a weight of regret in his voice, "My greatest mistake was not sharing this secret with my wife. Tradition dictated that it passes from king to heir, but the deaths of my sons should have made me realize how fragile such a tradition can be. My own father died before passing the information to me directly. That's why, Aemon, I'm sharing it with you now. You, more than anyone else, need to know what our family will be up against if we are not careful." Jaehaerys, his gaze filled with intensity, continued, "Aegon called his dream 'The Song of Ice and Fire,' and as you are the son of House Targaryen and House Stark, a son of ice and a song of fire, I believe you are destined to be the bridge between these two great houses, ensuring our family's future, and a stepping stone to what is to come. Keep this secret safe, share it with those you deem fit, and make sure it is never forgotten. Protect our family, Aemon."'

Aemon, standing in the grand cavern with Balerion's roar echoing through the Dragonpit, pledged to the king, "I promise."

Balerion roared loud, loud, and deep, Balerion was not fire-made flesh; he was a volcano made flesh instead. As the echoes of Balerion's roar reverberated, it was a momentous oath made in the depths of the Dragonpit, sealing the bond between generations and setting Aemon on a path intertwined with the fate of House Targaryen.

Chapter 8: Return of the Six Dragons

Chapter Text

Red Keep 102 AC

Jaehaerys Targaryen

Jaehaerys continued to mentor Aemon diligently over the next month, recognizing the importance of cultivating his physical strength and intellectual prowess. Language was a crucial aspect of rulership, and Jaehaerys, being a wise and seasoned king, wanted Aemon to be well-versed in various tongues. Jaehaerys believed that a ruler, especially one carrying the weight of the Song of Ice and Fire, needed to be adept in politics, strategy, and communication.

To achieve this, Jaehaerys arranged for fluent speakers and writers of different languages to be brought to the Red Keep. Aemon was immersed in studying these languages, expanding his linguistic abilities under the guidance of skilled tutors. Jaehaerys knew Aemon had been studying with the maester with the begging of certain tongues, but Jaehaerys wished to know, before his death, that things would be set right or at least that Aemon was able to right his wrongs for the old man. Whether it was the Common Tongue, High Valyrian, the Old Tongue, or other languages spoken across the vast expanse of Westeros, Essos, and beyond, Aemon delved into the intricacies of communication.

In addition to the intellectual pursuits, Jaehaerys emphasized physical training for Aemon. Aemon was already squiring for Ser Harrold Westerling, ensuring Aemon developed martial skills, Aemon spent more time with the blade than he did with paper and quill. This holistic approach aimed to mold Aemon into a ruler who could navigate the complexities of politics, diplomacy, and warfare. The training grounds echoed with the clash of steel, and reports suggested that Aemon exhibited remarkable skill with a blade. Some even went so far as to predict that, with his burgeoning swordsmanship, Aemon could stand toe-to-toe with renowned fighters like the Sword of the Morning from House Dayne. Jaehaerys knew they were most flatterings, but Aemon was gifted with the blade more than his mind, which was telling. Some claimed the boy seemed to have a way with the blade that spoke of far more years of experience than the five-name day boy should have had; the squires stood no chance.

Amidst Aemon's diverse education, Jaehaerys observed his great-grandson's foray into the world of music and instruments. Aemon's inclination toward musical arts manifested in his participation with bards and bands. The boy exhibited a notable talent for various instruments, but the harp truly showcased his prodigious abilities, his melodic voice finding its perfect counterpart.

Yet, beneath the musical brilliance, a palpable sense of melancholy lingered around Aemon. The haunting strains of his melodies seemed to echo the unseen depths of his emotions. Jaehaerys recognized the lonesomeness that gripped the young Targaryen, a profound solitude that transcended the vibrancy of his pursuits.

Perhaps Aemon found solace and expression in the music, a medium that allowed him to articulate the depths of his feelings. Jaehaerys sought to understand the source of this underlying sadness and provide the support needed to alleviate it.

Jaehaerys, despite the joy brought by Aemon's presence and the shared moments of education, couldn't shake the underlying irritation fueled by the troubles stirred by Aemon's father, Daemon. Summerhall, a project that should have been progressing ahead of schedule, faced setbacks due to mounting tensions with the Dornish. Once swift and promising, the construction crawled at a pace typical of most castles.

The rising tensions with Dorne, orchestrated or exacerbated by Daemon, posed a looming challenge. The ambitious construction, meant to be a hallmark of the Targaryen legacy, was now progressing at a pace more characteristic of standard castle builds. Daemon's confrontations with the Dornish posed a significant challenge, creating ripples of discord that threatened to amplify over time. While Jaehaerys relished the opportunity to guide Aemon's education and witness the blossoming talents of his great-grandson, the looming shadow of political tensions, exacerbated by Daemon's actions, cast a pall over the Red Keep. Jaehaerys, aware of the potential ramifications for the Seven Kingdoms, foresaw the issues persisting into Viserys' reign.

Many concerns occupied Jaehaerys' mind; the wildlings beyond the Wall loomed as a persistent challenge. The wildlings seemed to keep growing in number, and due to the Night's Watch only having a few thousand, many did not suspect they could face off the tens of thousands, or in some claims, hundred thousand wildlings marching South. But they did confirm that there was a new King Beyond the Wall, a giant of a man, supposedly having reddish copper hair and deep blue eyes like the Others; they called him Torrhen Wolfsbane of the Thenn.

The imperative to bolster the Night's Watch with as many prisoners as possible weighed heavily on the king; he had sent many from the Red Keep and suggested, more like unofficially ordered, that the prisoners sent to death be castrated, Jaehaerys doubted most of the keeps did the last part due to them being sent off and not being something they needed to worry about any longer and sent to the Wall. The recent influx of recruits, many of them former criminals, sparked rebellions within the ranks of the Night's Watch, three and counting. The increased numbers, while beneficial in theory to face off the Wildlings, brought with them the grim reality of internal strife, making the Wall a crucible of tension and conflict.

The Starks, Wardens of the North, found themselves compelled to deal out justice with the swift swing of their blades, beheading Night's Watch deserters to maintain order on the Wall. Jaehaerys grappled with the consequences of his directive, wrestling with the challenge of reinforcing the Night's Watch without inadvertently fostering discord within its ranks.

Jaehaerys toyed with the idea of sending Aemon North for a fostering; the Starks had been asking for such, and Aemon would do well to gain the Northern pragmatism and sense of duty. Not all Starks were honorable in the history of the North, but the Starks were as loyal as the wolves of their sigil; never has there been a Stark who has forgotten an oath, and with the Starks, the North follows. Brewing more loyalty for Aemon in the North had merit.

Meanwhile, the Ironborn's burgeoning naval activity stirred different concerns. Though their actions had not yet manifested overt hostility, the growing fleet presented a potential threat that Jaehaerys could not afford to dismiss lightly. Their fleet had now become contented for Corlys Velaryon's; while not as strong, they were now at least something the Lord of the Tides had to be wary of. While it took Corlys most of his life to build his family to the ability to forge the fleet, the Iron Islands had many houses, and each had the goal of making the entire Iron Islands stronger.

As the impending return of Jaehaerys' daughters from Volantis loomed closer, the king grappled with the poignant awareness of his limitations. The passing years had etched their toll on him, rendering him too frail and weathered to actively participate in the upbringing of his children. Alysanne's unexpected pregnancy had been a revelation, each subsequent surprise compounding the astonishment. The birth of not one but six daughters stretched the boundaries of expectation.

Jaehaerys, reflective and contemplative, harbored a sense of regret for being unable to play a more active role in his daughters' lives. The storm at sea, delaying their return by a week, only accentuated the temporal constraints. Yet, in Aemon, the king saw a glimmer of hope. The Stark ethos, grounded in the concept of a familial pack akin to the wolves of the North, resonated with the young prince. Jaehaerys clung to the belief that Aemon's influence would foster the strength and resilience needed for his daughters to blossom into formidable princesses of the realm.

Jaehaerys reclined on the ornate chair in his bedroom, the carved wood adorned with dragons seemingly frozen in the act of flight. He had called one of the kingsgaurd to get Viserys for the pair to speak. The candlelight flickered, casting an ethereal glow across the room. As he summoned Viserys, the fireplace at the far corner of the room, a room larger than most apartments in the city of King's Landing, flickered and left the room warm. Even if the cold and snow were not there yet, as the Starks said, winter was coming, and Jaehaerys feared that he could no longer last another one as his bones were very brittle, weak, and easy to chill.

Viserys Targaryen, the uncle of Aemon and father to Rhaenyra, entered the room with regality. The Kingsguard had conveyed the urgency of the king's request, leading him to the private quarters where Jaehaerys awaited.

"Your Grace," Viserys intoned with a respectful nod, his silver hair reflecting the glimmer of the candlelight. Jaehaerys reciprocated the gesture, welcoming his grandson.

"Viserys," Jaehaerys replied, the lines on his aged face softening with a smile. "How fares Rhaenyra? I trust her studies with the Septa Myrcella proceed as planned?"

A faint chuckle escaped Viserys' lips. "Oh, she's thriving, driving young Aemon to the edge of his wits. The Septa holds a firm hand in her lessons, and Rhaenyra makes Aemon a willing companion in her studies; even if Aemon despises the lessons, he would never disobey Rhaenyra."

Jaehaerys shared in the amusem*nt. "Ah, the women of our family know very well how to get what they wish from Targaryen men. It would seem she is already practicing the age-old art. Alysanne did much the same with me. It's good to see them grow and learn together. They are the future of our house."

Viserys nodded in agreement, but his expression hinted at a more serious matter. "Grandfather, I know you didn't summon me to discuss Rhaenyra's exploits. What weighs on your mind, your grace?"

Viserys' keen observation didn't escape Jaehaerys. Leaning forward, the king acknowledged the shift in conversation. "True, I have another matter to discuss. It concerns Aemon, and I believe it's a topic that warrants your insight. He's been troubled by dreams, visions of the Long Night, of dragons and stags, wolves and lions. The intricacies of these dreams seem to point to something more profound than mere imagination."

Jaehaerys had told Viserys the truth of their family, the truth of the Song of Ice and Fire, mere days after the Grand Council, mostly in fear that he may not be healthy enough to make a journey back to the Red Keep. Viserys leaned in, intrigued. "The Long Night? Dragons and stags, wolves and lions? What does it mean?"

Jaehaerys sighed before delving into Aemon's dreams, recounting the vivid imagery and the weight it bore. "It's a prophecy, a vision that foretells a greater conflict. Aemon and I believe these dreams are a glimpse into a future we must prepare for, a Song of Ice and Fire. The dragons, the Targaryens, are integral to facing the impending darkness. From what I gather, the boy's dreams are of conflicts to come, most of which result in our victory, but those victories defeat us in the end."

Viserys listened intently, his expression shifting from curiosity to concern. "What must we do?"

Jaehaerys leaned back, his gaze fixed on a distant point. "We must strengthen our bonds, fortify the blood of House Targaryen. Aemon must carry this burden and protect the knowledge. I've entrusted him with our family's destiny. I need your support, Viserys. Together, we can guide our house through the trials that await." Jaehaerys then pointed to several books on the corner of the bed and several on the far table. "Aemon has an affliction; once he tries to place the dreams and knowledge on paper, the memories fade from him as if he is trying to grasp smoke with his bare hands. I spent time with the boy and wrote down every dream the boy had, every memory of what was to come, and some things we had to prepare for. At least, there were a few things Aemon was able to recall enough for us to put on paper. However, according to Aemon, these dreams, unlike Aegon's own, could be altered and drastically affected. He has had many dreams and many conflicts with one another. In truth, I doubt half of the dreams would come to pass because the other half conflicted with Aemon's dream before the more recent revelations."

"If Aemon knows the Song of Ice and Fire before Daemon, what does that mean? Do you want me to cast Daemon aside in favor of his son? Daemon is my heir." Viserys asked.

Jaehaerys, his gaze steady, responds to Viserys, "Daemon may be your heir by birthright, but Aemon carries the weight of destiny. The dreams he has, the Song of Ice and Fire, are a burden that transcends mere lineage. Our family's survival may depend on Aemon's understanding and leadership. Daemon is a Targaryen, but Aemon might be the key to ensuring the continuity of our house in the face of the coming darkness."

"Aegon the Dragon was strong; he fought for the throne. Daemon could fight for it as well. He could crush any opposition to our family. He has proven to be a strong leader in the conflicts against Dorne," Viserys argued.

"The same conflicts that he started?" Jaehaerys continued, his tone heavy with a sense of responsibility, "Daemon has his strengths, but the crown requires more than just strength. If the crown were at war, then yes, he may be a great king, but peace time king? No. They need wisdom, compassion, and an understanding of the intricacies of ruling. Aemon, with his dreams and visions, carries a burden that is both a gift and a curse. He sees beyond the present into the challenges that may shroud our future. Daemon might wear the crown, but Aemon will be responsible for safeguarding the realm."

Viserys, torn between familial ties and the greater responsibility, furrowed his brow. "But Daemon is my brother, my blood. How can I set aside my own kin?"

Jaehaerys, with a compassionate gaze, responded, "It's not about setting aside, Viserys. It's about making the best choice for the realm. Aemon, with his insights, is uniquely positioned to guide us through the times to come. The crown isn't just for the strong; it's for those who understand its weight and can carry it with grace. I need you to consider this carefully for the sake of our house and the future of the Seven Kingdoms." Jaehaerys sighed, acknowledging the challenges ahead. "The path to a better future is seldom easy. I trust your judgment, Viserys. Let us ensure that the right ears hear the Song of Ice and Fire for the good of all."

"Daemon is my brother. I can't simply cast him aside. He's part of our blood, our house. If it comes to Aemon or Daemon..." Viserys asserted, his voice wavering.

Jaehaerys nodded solemnly, acknowledging the familial bond that Viserys held dear. "Viserys, I understand the weight of your decision. But consider this - Aemon has the strength of character, the keen mind, the visions, and the heritage to guide us through the challenges ahead."

Viserys' eyes reflected the internal struggle he faced. "I won't deny Daemon his right, grandfather. But I see your point. Aemon might indeed be better suited for the trials that await us. How can we ensure a smooth transition without causing a rift in our house?"

Jaehaerys leaned forward, placing a reassuring hand on Viserys' shoulder. "We tread carefully, Viserys. We guide Aemon's growth and prepare him for the upcoming responsibilities. We don't need to cast shadows on Daemon; we need to illuminate Aemon's path. The realm must see the worthiness of the one who will carry the Song of Ice and Fire."

"Daemon could lead," Viserys argued.

Jaehaerys continues, "Daemon is a warrior, Viserys, a man of action. But ruling requires more than a strong sword arm. He's not suited for the subtleties of rule, the delicate dance of politics. It demands wisdom, vision, and a connection to the people. Aemon is different; he possesses a depth that goes beyond the battlefield. He might be the bridge between our family and the challenges that await us."

Viserys, still grappling with conflicting loyalties, admits, "I want Daemon to have a chance. He deserves it. I will honor my brother. My father taught me how important it is that after we lose the dragons, our riches, and honor, it is family that is all we have left."

Jaehaerys acknowledged, "And he will have his place, but we must consider what's best for the realm and our legacy. Aemon's understanding of the Song of Ice and Fire could be the key to facing the threats looming. This is not about denying Daemon; it's about ensuring the survival of our house. This is about ensuring the survival of our family. This is about the family. It's the family name that lives on. It's all that lives on. Not Daemon's personal glory, not your honor, but family."

Viserys, deep in thought, finally speaks, "I want the Targaryen name to endure, but I also want my brother to have a role. I won't forsake Daemon."

Jaehaerys, understanding Viserys' sentiment, nods, "We don't have to forsake anyone. Aemon can carry the knowledge and the vision, but Daemon can play a crucial role. Perhaps as a commander, a protector of the realm, or even leading the Kingsguard. We need unity, not division."

Viserys looks relieved at the compromise. "As long as Daemon has a meaningful role, I can accept that. But Aemon should know the burden he carries."

Jaehaerys agrees, "Aemon is aware, but he needs your guidance. Teach him what you can, and together, we can forge a future that honors our family and secures the realm." Jaehaerys emphasized the strategic advantage Aemon holds, "The North will stand behind him. He will have a dragon that's unmatched, a symbol of Targaryen might. He has the Conqueror's dragon, bigger than what it was during the conquest. He has an army bigger than the conqueror had when he set out for the conquest. Dark Sister would pass to him through Daemon. These are tools that can unite the realm. But he also needs the knowledge and the vision to wield them wisely. Aemon is learning the lessons that history has taught us, the languages of power, strategy, and governance. I see the potential for a king who can lead through force and wisdom."

Viserys, with a furrowed brow, expresses his concern more explicitly, "The boy looks like a Stark. Grandfather, the people need to see Aemon as a Targaryen, a true dragon's blood. The realm will remain divided if they doubt him and question his legitimacy. Aemon must be seen as the legitimate heir, and whether we like it or not, these rumors are poisoning that perception."

Jaehaerys nodded along. "Perception is a powerful force, Viserys. We must address these rumors swiftly. I will not allow the legitimacy of my great-grandson to be questioned."

"They have been circulating for years," Viserys returned.

"And every time I heard these words, I have the tongues of the perpetrators removed. Questioning the legitimacy of the blood of a dragon is a grand offense; without proof or evidence, it is treachery at worse and pathetic at best."

"We can not stop rumors, no matter how many tongues we remove," Viserys told his elder.

"No, we can not, but it deters the people from speaking of it outright, which gives Aemon room to prove their claims wrong."

"The word 'bastard' would not leave the boy," Viserys sympathized. "The gravest sin the boy committed yet was that he has none of our looks; the people will latch on to this no matter what he does."

Jaehaerys acknowledges Viserys' concerns. "People often fear what is different. Aemon may not look like the traditional image of a Targaryen, but he carries the blood of dragons within him. Appearance can be deceiving. Aemon does not have the Valyrian looks, but that doesn't diminish his blood. His lineage is unquestionable, and with time, the people will come to see his worth. Aemon has the spirit and the potential to lead." He continues, "As for the court and their whispers, we cannot control what people say. But actions speak louder than words. Aemon's accomplishments and wisdom will shape the narrative. The strength of his character will win over doubters."

Viserys looked to the side of the table to see a vase of wine and some golden cups. Viserys rises up from his seat, walks towards the cups, and realizes a sigh. "I suppose if I have a son, it makes this entire conversation mute either way," Viserys says as he pours himself some wine.

Jaehaerys continues, "Even if you have a son, Viserys, Aemon's role remains crucial. Aemon's connection to Balerion and the Song of Ice and Fire prophecy is a force that could shape the destiny of our house. He can be a beacon, a leader, regardless of whether he sits on the Iron Throne."

Viserys, considering these words, replies, "But if I have a son, won't he be the natural heir, the one the lords will rally behind?"

Jaehaerys nods, "True, a son would be the more immediate heir by tradition, but Aemon possesses a unique strength. The North, with its loyalty to him, adds a significant weight to his influence. Even without the crown, Aemon can be a force, rallying the realms against the impending threats we've seen in his dreams."

King's Landing 102 AC

Rhaella Targaryen

Princess Rhaella Targaryen stood at the bow of the ship, her silver-gold hair billowing in the sea breeze like a banner of House Targaryen. The rhythmic creaking of the ship and the distant cries of seagulls created a symphony that accompanied the approaching silhouette of King's Landing. The Red Keep, perched atop Aegon's High Hill, loomed larger with each passing moment. The salty tang of the sea air touched Rhaella's lips as she raised her gaze to the horizon. The morning sun, a fiery orb climbing the canvas of the sky, cast a warm glow over the city below.

Her sisters, a bevy of Targaryen beauty, stood beside her. Viserra, with the strength of a warrior; Aerea, the quiet observer; Saera, ever the painfully trouble and self-centered sister she was, was, surprisingly, reading a book; Daenerys, bearing the weight of untold preplanned future adventures once they landed; and Maegelle, with the innocence and gentleness. Rhaella observed them, a silent exchange of glances passing between the princesses as they anticipated the city's embrace.

The ship glided through the waters, the hull creaking in response to the waves' gentle dance. Rhaella's violet eyes remained fixed on the Red Keep, the seat of power that held the stories of her House within its stone walls. The city sprawled beneath it, a living organism breathing with the ebb and flow of life.

A soft spray of seawater kissed Rhaella's face, a reminder of the journey that had brought them to this moment. She wiped a droplet from her cheek, her thoughts drifting to the challenges and intrigues that awaited within the city's labyrinthine alleys and courtly chambers.

The sisters exchanged knowing looks, a silent understanding passing among them. King's Landing, with its whispers and shadows, was both a promise and a peril. The ship drew nearer to the bustling port, and Rhaella felt anticipation settle in the pit of her stomach. The Red Keep loomed like a sentinel, its secrets waiting to be uncovered, and the Targaryen princesses stood together, ready to face the currents of fate that awaited them in the heart of the realm.

Young Rhaella Targaryen, a mere six years old, stood on the deck of the ship, her small frame barely reaching the wooden railing. The distant roars of dragons above stirred a sense of excitement in her, and she craned her neck to catch a glimpse of the majestic creatures soaring through the sky.

Rhaella observed her sisters, each adorned in garments befitting the sultry climate of their origin, the warmer Volantis. The attire, light and free-flowing, spoke of a culture far removed from the impending formality of Westeros. Rhaella loved the bright, vivid colors and the way the fabric billowed around her as she moved.

Yet, as the ship drew closer to King's Landing, the young princess pondered the disparity between their Volantene attire's exotic allure and the Westerosi court's expected norms. Whispers of the conservative fashions in the capital reached her ears, tales of women swathed in layers of cloth, every inch concealed from prying eyes. Rhaella's imagination wandered, contemplating the mystery of how one could navigate the world with every contour hidden beneath fabric.

She turned her gaze to her sisters, a mischievous glint in her violet eyes. Rhaella, even at her tender age, possessed a precocious spirit. The challenge of convincing her sisters to adapt to Westeros' more conservative clothing excited her. With a furrowed brow, she wondered aloud, "How do women in King's Landing dance and play when they are covered head to toe? Can they even breathe under all that cloth?"

The wind tousled the silvery-gold strands of hair that cascaded down the backs of the Targaryen princesses, their distinctive features marking them as the blood of the dragon. Each sister bore a different hue of fabric, a colorful tapestry that mirrored the diverse personalities within the royal family.

Viserra, draped in regal red, exuded an air of fiery determination; Aerea, adorned in light blue, seemed to carry the tranquility of distant skies; Rhaella, herself wrapped in sea green, embodied the depths of the ocean's mysteries. Daenerys, the eldest, donned bright golden fabrics that reflected the radiance of her bearing. Saera, clad in deep purple, wore the color of royalty, and Maegelle, the youngest, wore deep blue fabrics that mirrored the depths of the night sky.

The princesses, their eyes shining with a mix of excitement and nerves, exchanged chatter that danced with anticipation. The prospect of meeting their father, the venerable King Jaehaerys, added a layer of solemnity to the air. Rhaella listened to her sisters' words, their voices a harmonious blend of excitement and trepidation.

The tales of King Jaehaerys, old enough to be a great-grandfather, lingered in the air. Rhaella couldn't help but wonder about the stories etched into the lines of his weathered face and the weight of the crown that rested upon his brow. As the ship continued its approach, the Red Keep drawing ever nearer, the princesses' eyes remained fixed on the horizon. The echoes of dragon roars accompanied their thoughts, a symphony of anticipation that heralded their arrival in the heart of the Seven Kingdoms.

Princess Rhaella Targaryen's gaze lifted to the heavens, where the six dragons soared in majestic formation. Born in tandem with the princesses six years prior, these formidable creatures had grown alongside the royal siblings.

The dragons, nearing a formidable fifty feet in size, danced in the skies above the ship, their massive wings cutting through the air with a resonant whoosh. The sunlight caught the scales of Viserra's dragon, Vēttir, in a deep maroon-red hue, a reflection of its fiery mistress. Aerea's dragon, Dȳñes, shimmered in silver-platinum brilliance, embodying the tranquility of the clear Valyrian sky.

Rhaella's dragon, Perzys, bathed in the warm tones of sunset orange, its scales reflecting the hues of the departing day. Daenerys' dragon, Averilla, displayed a rich palette of deep purple and grape colors, a regal counterpart to the adventurous eldest princess. Maegelle's dragon, Jēdar, adorned in light blue and sapphire, mirrored the innocence and vibrancy of the gentle Targaryen.

Rhaella's eyes settled on Saera dragon, Sōna, a creature of ethereal beauty with scales in shades of white and pale, arguably the most beautiful of the dragons. But she would not be one of the few who argued in favor of Saera's mount. No, to Rhaella, her dragon, Perzys, was more beautiful than any other because it flew in the sky like a living sunset, the living, moving sunrise that graced the skies no matter the time of day.

As the ship docked in King's Landing, a hushed anticipation rippled through the crowds gathered at the port. The spectacle of six dragons soaring overhead had already stirred the city, and now the people waited eagerly for the Targaryen princesses to disembark. It was Daenerys, the eldest, who stepped forth first.

Rhaella, with wide violet eyes, observed her sister's confident stride. Many of the guards and soldiers on the ship disembarked and helped guide the princess of the ship and toward the land. Daenerys possessed an insatiable curiosity and an unwavering fearlessness that endeared her to those who knew her. The crowds, their faces a mosaic of curiosity and reverence, strained to catch a glimpse of the princess as she made her way onto the port.

A detachment of several kingsguard, their pristine white cloaks billowing in the wind, formed a protective barrier around Daenerys. The authority of the Kingsguard was unmistakable, and with a subtle gesture, they directed the city guard to maintain order among the onlookers. The crowds pushed back slightly, murmuring in excitement as the princess prepared to meet the rest of the royal family.

Rhaella, walking off the ship second as her sisters followed, observed the unfolding scene with a mixture of curiosity and anticipation. Rhaella's violet eyes lingered on the elderly man standing beside the Kingsguard, his silvery hair cascading like a waterfall around his lined face. The crown of gold atop his head marked him as none other than King Jaehaerys, the patriarch of House Targaryen. His gaze, though age-veiled, still held a regal strength that spoke of a lifetime's worth of experiences.

By the king's side stood a twenty-year-old man, the Valyrian features mirrored in his features, marking him as a scion of House Targaryen. Next to him stood a woman of the same age, her presence radiating an air of elegance that befitted her royal lineage. Between the two, a girl around Rhaella's age completed the tableau, a reflection of the royal family's enduring legacy.

However, the boy to the right of the old king captured Rhaella's attention. Unlike the silver-haired Targaryens, his features defied the standard Valyrian look. His black and curly hair fell around his neck, a stark contrast to the flowing locks of his relatives. His eyes, not the customary purple, appeared almost black at first glance. Yet, as the sunlight caught them, Rhaella discerned a depth of dark purple that seemed to absorb all surrounding light.

While the Targaryen family exuded an air of joy and expectation, the boy stood apart. His countenance held a seriousness that bordered on solemnity, an almost brooding demeanor that raised questions in Rhaella's young mind. The contrast between the regal clothing of his kin and the black attire that draped him further emphasized the divergence in his presence.

The girls bowed low, their movements a choreography of respect and acknowledgment for the royalty before them. The old king, Jaehaerys, spoke first, his words carrying the weight of both authority and a touch of nervousness that belied his age.

"Rise, my daughters," he said, his voice a timeworn melody. "I am King Jaehaerys, your father. I am pleased to welcome you to King's Landing and to the embrace of your family." There was a momentary pause, a hint of hesitation in the king's demeanor. He continued, "This is your family. The man beside me is your nephew. He is Viserys, the heir to the Iron Throne and Prince of Dragonstone." The girls exchanged glances, absorbing information. Jaehaerys gestured towards the woman standing next to Viserys. "This is Viserys's wife, Aemma Arryn." The woman offered a warm smile and a silent welcome to the newcomers. "And this," the king pointed to the girl around Rhaella's age, "is Rhaenyra, Viserys' daughter." A smile played on Jaehaerys's lips as he turned to the boy with black hair. "And lastly, this is Aemon. His father, Prince Daemon, is not currently in King's Landing."

Rhaella waited for Daenerys to go first. In her introduction, their teachers explained that they would need to introduce themselves to their family in order of eldest or youngest. Daenerys stepped forward, her silver-gold hair cascading around her shoulders. Her violet eyes sparkled with the joy of a happy child, and her introduction burst forth with an infectious enthusiasm.

Daenerys, the eldest, stepped forward with an exuberant smile, her silver-gold hair gleaming in the sunlight. "I am Daenerys, Your Grace, the eldest of your daughters. I love dragons and stories, and I'm not scared of anything! I can't wait to explore King's Landing! It's going to be so much fun! My dragon's the purple one. Her name is Averilla." Rhaella felt embarrassed for her eldest sister; she was trying so hard, too hard, but Daenerys could never get embarrassed, her greatest gift and biggest curse. Daenerys eyes sparkled with curiosity, and her fearless spirit resonated in each word, a melody of joy.

Following Daenerys, Maegelle approached with a gentle grace. Her demeanor was quiet and reserved, but her eyes held a warmth that spoke of a kind and caring soul. Maegelle followed, a quiet presence in the wake of Daenerys's enthusiasm. Her voice was gentle, a soft murmur that carried a touch of innocence. "I'm Maegelle, Your Grace," she said softly, her silver hair framing a face that held a quiet serenity. Her eyes, wide and filled with wonder, revealed a soul attuned to the subtleties of the world. "I like flowers and books; I like listening to stories. It's a pleasure to meet you. I hope I can be a good daughter and make you proud."

Rhaella stepped forward, she herself a whirlwind of energy. Her movements were animated, and she met her father's gaze with bright sea-green eyes. "I'm Rhaella, Your Grace! I love climbing trees and finding hidden places. Maybe we can go on an adventure together sometime!" she declared with boldness, her voice carrying the vivacity of a spirited adventurer. Her eyes gleamed with mischief, a glimpse into a soul unafraid of the unknown.

Aerea, the shy and timid sister, approached with hesitancy in her steps, dress swaying with the movement. Her voice, though soft, held a sincerity that touched the heart. Her bow was almost apologetic, and when she spoke, her words were a soft whisper on the breeze. "I-I'm Aerea," she stammered. "It's... it's nice to meet you, your grace, " she said in a hushed tone, casting her eyes downward. "I like animals and quiet places. I hope we can get along well."

Saera made sure she did everything perfectly; she bowed perfectly, lowered her eyes just enough to show respect, and made and curtsied as well as any lady could dare to perform. Rhaella, the courageous and strong-willed sister, stood tall as she faced King Jaehaerys. "I'm Rhaella," she announced, her voice carrying a boldness that defied her young age. "I want to be a strong Targaryen princess and make you proud, Father," she declared, her violet eyes locking onto King Jaehaerys's with unwavering determination.

Last but not least, Viserra, the vain and prideful one, sauntered forward. Her head held high; she executed an elegant bow. "I am Viserra," she announced with a certain regal flair. "Your last daughter, Father. I like being the best at everything. And dragons, of course. I am beautiful, and I am the best dragon rider, and..." Saera swiftly hit her sister in the back of her head to shut her up. "I'm honored to meet you, Father." Her words dripped with confidence, and her posture exuded an air of superiority.

King Jaehaerys, observing the diverse personalities of his daughters, found a small smile playing on his lips. The courtyard, bathed in the golden glow of the sun, bore witness to the spectrum of Targaryen's spirit embodied in the laughter, shyness, boldness, and pride of his six young princesses.

As the Targaryen entourage gathered together, they were ushered into an opulent wheelhouse, a luxurious conveyance fit for royalty. Rhaella's keen eyes took in the extravagant surroundings, noting that it was more than spacious enough to accommodate the almost dozen Targaryens within. The air inside the wheelhouse was laced with a mix of familial anticipation and the heady scent of richness.

As the wheelhouse set into motion, Rhaella found herself contemplating the enigma that was Aemon. Amidst the silver-haired and violet-eyed Targaryens, Aemon stood out like a shadow. His dark, curly hair and eyes harbored a deep, almost black shade of purple andhinted at a lineage not purely Valyrian.

Rhaella's young mind whirred with curiosity. Her gaze drifted towards Aemon, who sat apart from the rest, his serious countenance a stark contrast to the chatter of the Targaryen king. She pondered his lineage, piecing together the realization that Aemon's mother must not have been of Valyrian descent.

The wheelhouse rolled through the bustling streets of King's Landing. The rattle of wheels on cobblestone streets was a backdrop to the unspoken questions lingering within the ornate carriage. Rhaella, nestled within the opulence of the wheelhouse, observed the dynamics unfolding among her Targaryen kin. Rhaenyra, Viserys' spirited daughter, seemed a tempest of passion, her words flowing fast and fervent, punctuating the air even when she attempted to lower her voice. Aemon, on the other hand, remained a quiet presence, a soft smile gracing his lips. Despite Rhaenyra's animated discourse, Aemon's calm demeanor held an unspoken authority.

Rhaenyra's passionate outbursts, however, threatened to escalate, prompting Rhaella to notice Aemon's intervention. The quiet boy, without uttering a word, subtly prevented Rhaenyra from nearly colliding with Aerea, a silent guardian in the midst of the animated conversation.

In another corner of the wheelhouse, Rhaella's attention shifted to Viserys and King Jaehaerys. Viserys, engrossed in discussions about ships, boats, and matters in the North, held the old king's attention. Rhaella discerned Aemon's attentiveness, the boy's ears tuned to the exchanges between his uncle and great-grandfather.

As the wheelhouse rumbled through the bustling streets of King's Landing, Rhaella's gaze was drawn to the window, her violet eyes wide with wonder. Beside her, Viserra, with an air of regal confidence, peered out at the city, her eyes assessing the surroundings. Aerea, the timid one, observed with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension, while Rhaella's lively spirit seemed eager to embrace the vibrant chaos beyond the glass.

The city unfolded before them like a living tapestry. The streets were alive with a myriad of people, each with their own story etched into the rhythm of King's Landing. Market stalls bustled with merchants hawking their wares, the air heavy with the scent of spices and fresh produce. Children darted through the streets playing games, their laughter echoing in the narrow alleyways.

The noise of the city was a symphony of voices, the clamor of hooves on cobblestone, and the distant calls of street vendors. Faces of all kinds passed by the window – merchants, beggars, knights, and nobles, each weaving their own narrative into the intricate fabric of King's Landing. Rhaella's gaze lingered on the people; the unfamiliarity of it all left her both exhilarated and apprehensive.

As the wheelhouse neared the Red Keep, Rhaella and her sisters pressed closer to the windows, their faces reflecting a mixture of astonishment and awe. The Red Keep, an imposing fortress made of pale red stone, loomed before them, its seven massive drum towers reaching towards the heavens. The castle's perch overlooking the mouth of the Blackwater Rush added to its commanding presence.

The Targaryen guards, clad in black armor, patrolled the grounds, a visual testament to the legacy that the family held within the castle's walls. Rhaella's violet eyes widened as she took in the intricate details of the Red Keep's architecture. Massive curtain walls, adorned with nests and crenelations for archers, stood as formidable sentinels against the skyline.

Thick stone parapets, some four feet high, lined the outer edge of the wall ramparts, offering protection to those who patrolled the heights. Bronze gates and portcullises, etched with the history of the realm, punctuated the walls, with narrow postern doors nearby for discreet entrances and exits.

The castle's great corner forts added to the grandeur, while the immense barbican, with its cobbled square, served as a gateway to the heart of the Red Keep. Rhaella's young mind raced, trying to comprehend the sheer magnitude of the structure, the culmination of years of Targaryen history embedded within its walls.

The serpentine steps, winding their way upwards, caught Rhaella's attention. The climb seemed strenuous, a physical manifestation of the challenges that lay ahead. As the wheelhouse approached the entrance, Rhaella knew that Saera couldn't help but marvel at the secrets hidden below the surface. Saera may have been a pain more often than not, but her sister's mind was sharper than Valiryan Steel's. Maegor's Holdfast, the small council chambers, the Tower of the Hand, the lower bailey, a small sunken courtyard, and the infamous black cells were all part of the mysterious tapestry that lay beneath the surface of the Red Keep.

The Red Keep, a fortress of power and intrigue, stood as a silent witness to the eons of history that unfolded within its walls. As the wheelhouse came to a halt, Rhaella and her sisters, their hearts pulsating with anticipation, were the threads of their family's destinywoven into the very stone of the Red Keep.

King Jaehaerys stepped out of the wheelhouse, the weight of his responsibilities etched across his features. The servant approached with the news of Lord Otto Hightower summoning a meeting of the small council, and the king, in a moment of resignation, sighed with an air of exhaustion. He spoke to the servant, "I'll be there in a moment."

Turning to his daughters, King Jaehaerys offered an apologetic smile, a weariness evident in his eyes. "My apologies, my daughters. Duty calls, and I must attend to matters of the realm. But fear not; we shall have time together later in the day."

Rhaella noticed a subtle shift in Daenerys, the eldest sister's vibrant energy dimming slightly. The young princess struggled to conceal her disappointment, her emotions transparent even in the face of royal decorum. Daenerys was always too obvious and could never hide emotions; she was not a very good liar either.

"We understand, Your Grace," Saera stepped in before Daenerys could draw any more attention to herself.

With a paternal tone, King Jaehaerys continued, "Princess Aemma and Princess Rhaenyra will guide you through the Red Keep and help you settle. Enjoy your time exploring the castle. I will see you all later." The king's gaze lingered on Daenerys, a silent reassurance before he turned to address Viserys and Aemon. "Viserys, Aemon, come with me. We have council matters to attend to." With those words, the king led Viserys and Aemon towards the council room, leaving behind the Targaryen princesses to navigate the Red Keep's intricate corridors under Aemma and Rhaenyra's guidance.

The corridors of the Red Keep echoed with the soft footsteps of Princess Aemma and Princess Rhaenyra guiding the younger Targaryen princesses. The air was thick with the hushed whispers of servants who bowed and lowered their heads at the passing royals. The Targaryen princesses, accustomed to such displays of deference, moved through the Red Keep with an air of regal grace.

Amidst the meandering journey, Daenerys, ever the blunt and curious one, couldn't resist her questioning nature. She turned to Princess Aemma, her voice carrying a candid curiosity. "Are you a Targaryen, Princess Aemma? Your name doesn't sound Valyrian."

A sharp inhale escaped Rhaella as she prepared to reprimand her sister, but Aemma, displaying patience born of years spent in the Red Keep, responded with a serene demeanor. "No, my dear. My mother was Daella Targaryen, one of your elder sisters," she explained, her violet eyes meeting Aerea's gaze. Aemma went on to clarify, "Though my last name is Arryn, and I might hail from the Vale, I have the blood of the dragon. I look Valyrian, and I've spent more time around Targaryens than I ever did with the Arryns." Her words held a gentle reassurance, a bridge between the realms of lineage and belonging. As Aemma spoke, Rhaella relaxed, realizing there was no need for her initial impulse to intervene.

Aerea whispered to herself and made a comment that Aemon was the opposite of Aemma. Aemma has the looks of a Targaryen but not the name, and Aemon has the name of Targaryen but not the looks of one.

In the midst of their exploration through the Red Keep, Daenerys, true to her character, voiced her observations with blunt honesty and agreed with their sister, not that anyone outside of Rhaella and Daenerys heard her say anything in the first place. "Aemon doesn't look like us at all," she pointed out, her words cutting through the air like a dagger.

Maegelle, ever calm and composed, interjected with a gentle inquiry, "What do you mean, Daenerys?"

Princess Aemma, with her silvery hair and purple eyes, took a moment to explain. "Aemon is a Targaryen, but he carries the coloring of his mother's family, the Starks of Winterfell. Dark hair and dark eyes. It's always winter and always cold and harsh; the boy even has the cold look of one, always serious and brooding." Aemma spoke with a soft smile. "Rare thing to see Aemon laugh."

Viserra, her vanity bruised for being related to someone who doesn't look even an ounce Valyrian, couldn't resist making a comment, her words dripping with egotism. Viserra, ever one to prioritize appearances and lineage, voiced her concern. "How can he be a Targaryen if he doesn't look like the rest of us? His hair and eyes are all wrong," she remarked, her tone edged with arrogance.

Rhaenyra, fiercely defensive of Aemon, shot back at Viserra. "Don't be stupid, Viserra! Aemon does look like his father, Daemon. He has the Valyrian face, just different hair and eye color. His hair and eyes might be different, but he is still a Targaryen."

Viserra, undeterred, scoffed, "He doesn't look like a Targaryen. How can he be one of us?"

Rhaenyra argued, her words sharp with conviction. "You're being stupid, Viserra."

The tension hung thick in the air, a silent battle of words between pride and family ties. Princess Aemma, ever the diplomat, intervened. "Enough, Rhaenyra. Apologize to Viserra." Rhaenyra, with reluctance in her voice, muttered an apology, though it was evident that the words carried little sincerity.

As the discussion shifted from family dynamics to the majestic creatures that accompanied the Targaryen princesses, Aerea, in her shy and timid manner, sought to redirect the conversation. Aerea, sensing the need to shift the conversation, ventured a timid question to Rhaenyra, "Um, Rhaenyra, do you... do you have a dragon?"

Rhaenyra's demeanor transformed instantly, a spark of pride replacing the previous tension. "Yes, I do! Syrax is her name," she declared, enthusiasm shining through. "Her scales are a brilliant yellow, and she's massive, formidable. She is beautiful and gentle and nice and kind! Though not as fearsome or experienced as Caraxes, Balerion, or Vermithor, she's a force to be reckoned with."

"Vēttir," Viserra announced with a regal flourish, "is a deep maroon-red. His wings stretch wide, and his roar can be heard for miles."

Aerea, ever the shy one, whispered, "Dȳñes is silver-platinum, shimmering like moonlight on water. She's gentle, like a silver breeze."

Rhaella, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, described Perzys. "His scales are a warm sunset-orange as if he carries the hues of a summer evening."

Daenerys, the eldest, spoke of Averilla, her dragon with deep purple and grape-colored scales. "She's bold and fierce, a true warrior in the sky. She's like a purple comet streaking through the sky."

Maegelle, the gentle one, contributed, "Jēdar is light blue and sapphire, like the clear skies on a calm day. He's my silent companion."

Saera, eyes fixed on her dragon, Sōna, spoke with quiet pride, "Sōna is white and pale, like winter's touch. She's elegant, like a snowfall in the night."

In the quietude of the Red Keep, the Targaryen princesses found a moment of camaraderie. They gathered, their voices blending in a symphony of youthful excitement. The prospect of riding their dragons, though not yet realized, fueled their imaginations.

"I can't wait to fly with Vēttir," Viserra declared a glint of anticipation in her eyes. "We could have races and maybe even explore beyond King's Landing."

Rhaella, ever the adventurous one, suggested, "Perzys and I could lead the way! Imagine the wind in our hair and the thrill of the open sky."

Daenerys, with a contagious energy, exclaimed, "Averilla and I will be right there with you! We could soar over the mountains and valleys, feeling the freedom of the skies."

Maegelle, the gentle soul, shared, "Jēdar and I could enjoy the tranquility of the air. Maybe we could find a peaceful spot to watch the world from above."

Saera, with her bold spirit, envisioned, "Sōna and I could dive and swoop through the clouds. It'll be like dancing with the wind."

In the quiet corners of the Red Keep, Rhaenyra shared a glimpse of her longing. "I rarely get to go to the Dragonpit," she confessed, her voice carrying a note of melancholy. "Father is always in meetings with King Jaehaerys, and Mother doesn't have a dragon. Uncle Daemon is busy building Summerhall with Caraxes, so we never fly together."

Saera, ever the inquisitive one, looked at Rhaenyra with confusion. "Why don't you fly with Aemon, then?"

A shadow passed over Rhaenyra's face, and she sighed before admitting, "Aemon doesn't have a dragon."

Viserra, quick to mock, laughed and scoffed, "How can he be a Targaryen without the looks or the dragon? It's preposterous."

Princess Aemma, perceptive to her daughter's temperament, shot Rhaenyra a meaningful look, a silent reminder to maintain decorum. Rhaenyra, visibly angered by Viserra's comment, glared in response.

Rhaella, sensing the tension, decided to interject. "There are many free dragons," she pointed out calmly. "If Aemon gets one of them, it could be older, stronger, and bigger than your dragon, Vēttir. Not everyone can hatch dragon eggs at birth, but that means they have the opportunity to get larger and more powerful dragons if they are available."

The procession of Targaryen princesses, guided by Princess Aemma and Rhaenyra, made their way through the grand corridors of the Red Keep to their respective rooms. Each girl was bestowed with her own spacious chamber, adorned with opulent furnishings and draped in fabrics of rich red hues. Golden decorations glistened, casting a warm glow that added to the regal ambiance.

Rhaella observed that the rooms assigned to Viserra, Aerea, Rhaella, Daenerys, Rhaella herself, and Maegelle were strategically close to one another. The proximity hinted at a deliberate arrangement, fostering a sense of familial closeness within the sprawling halls of the Red Keep.

Throughout the day, the princesses engaged in the delicate dance of getting to know one another. Rhaella, with her bold spirit, sought to unravel the threads of each girl's story. Rhaenyra, it seemed, harbored a distaste for Septa Myrcella and her lessons, a sentiment that led her to seek solace in the company of her cousin, Aemon.

The family gathered for dinner in a spacious chamber of the Red Keep, the flickering light of candles casting shadows that danced upon the walls. A feast awaited them, a lavish spread of meats, fruits, and various delicacies. The air was filled with the sounds of laughter and the clinking of goblets as they raised a toast to the reunion of the Targaryen princesses.

King Jaehaerys, a figure of regal authority, presided over the gathering. The atmosphere was one of familial warmth, a respite from the weighty matters of the realm. Tonight was not a feast for the realm but a more intimate affair, a dinner with his daughters and the members of his family. Viserys had convinced Jaehaerys to orchestrate a feast for the return of the princess that would take place in aa week's time. The news of an impending feast added an air of anticipation to the night, but for now, this was an intimate dinner with his daughters, Viserys, Aemma, Rhaenyra, and Aemon.

Rhaenyra, with her spirited nature, managed to draw a rare smile from Aemon as she regaled him with a joke. Viserys, ever the proud husband, complimented Aemma on her grace and elegance. The Red Keep's halls echoed with the sounds of camaraderie, a brief respite from the political intricacies that awaited.

King Jaehaerys, amidst the feast, turned to Aemon, seeking his thoughts on a matter related to the North and wildlings. The small council's affairs were a constant undercurrent in the royal family's life, a reminder of the responsibilities that came with their name.

As Jaehaerys engaged with his daughters, asking about their rooms and their comfort, Danaerys responded with genuine enthusiasm. "We're really happy, Father. It's been a good day."

Rhaella, ever perceptive, noticed the subtle nuances in Jaehaerys' demeanor. While he cared for all his daughters, there was a particular closeness with Aemon, an unspoken connection that went beyond familial ties.

The feast carried on, the air thick with the scent of roasted meats and the clinking of goblets against fine china. Amidst the lively chatter, a revelation emerged that caught Rhaella off guard, disrupting the rhythm of the celebration.

Viserys, with a tone of both pride and amusem*nt, recounted Aemon's exploits during a spar. The shock rippled through Rhaella as she heard that Aemon, at the tender age of five, had broken the arm of a thirteen-year-old squire and bested seven others on his own. The discrepancy in age and strength was staggering, and Rhaella found herself grappling with the incongruity of such a feat.

Her gaze turned to Aemon, seated with a quiet demeanor. Viserys, intrigued, questioned the motive behind Aemon's prowess. Aemon, in a voice that belied his youth, revealed that the squires had called him something that stirred his anger, a name muttered behind his back. They spoke of him as if he were not a Targaryen prince but rather a Nothern bastard.

Aemma, ever the inquisitive one, sought to unveil the truth. "What did they call you, Aemon?"

Aemon's response hung heavy in the air, a revelation that pierced the merriment of the feast. "The bastard Black Prince," he uttered, his words echoing through the hall.

Rhaella's eyes shifted to her sister Viserra, who had earlier scoffed at Aemon's supposed lack of Targaryen looks. At that moment, an unspoken understanding passed between the Targaryen sisters. The weight of Aemon's chosen moniker resonated, a testament to the impact of words and the resilience that dwelled within the young Black Prince.

The sisters knew they would never mock Aemon for his lack of Valyrian looks again, Viserra more so due to fear of ending up like the squires than full loyalty. The feast continued, but the revelation lingered, casting shadows that danced along the stone walls, a reminder that even within the hallowed halls of power, vulnerability, and strength coexisted in intricate harmony.

Chapter 9: South of the Wall

Chapter Text

Red Keep 102 AC

Jon Snow/ Aemon Targaryen

The sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows on the ground beneath the great oak. The atmosphere in the godswood was serene, and the surrounding trees muffled the distant sounds of the city.

Aemon, engrossed in his playing of the harp as he hummed a song, sat with his back against the ancient oak. The book in his hands seemed to transport him to another world, away from the political intrigues and responsibilities of the Red Keep. The smokeberry vines created a natural canopy above him, providing a cool shade that contrasted with the warmth of the sunlight.

The sounds of the city are muffled by the surrounding trees, providing Aemon with a rare moment of tranquility. As he delves into his book, the rustle of the leaves and the occasional bird's song become his companions.

The boy's thoughts drifted between the strings of the harp as he played the dreams that had haunted him. He recalled, in his life as Jon Snow, Lord Reed, the one time he was able to meet the man, telling him that because Rhaegar could not write a song for Lyanna due to their respective marriage and betrothal being a secret, Rhaegar would sing Jenny of Oldstones to Lyanna. The song of a woman and man of different places and walks of life, falling in love when they should not have, and their eventual death. The song of a man who was promised to another woman falling in love with someone he had no right falling in love with. Eventually, both stories ended in tragedy, and Aemon thought it was fitting.

Aemon played the tune of Jenny of Oldstones but did not sing the words, the soft hums carrying the depth of sorrows and the soft melody of suffering. The godswood, with its ancient aura, seemed like a sanctuary where he could reflect on the weight of his visions and the destiny that awaited House Targaryen. Ser Harrold, ever vigilant, stood at a respectful distance, allowing Aemon the space to gather his thoughts beneath the branches of the oak.

As the smokeberry vines swayed in response to the gentle breeze, Aemon's mind wandered to the faces and voices that had once been a part of his life as Jon Snow. Margaery Tyrell and Arianne Martell, his wives in another lifetime, seemed to materialize in the shadows cast by the great oak. The ghosts of his sisters, Arya and Sansa, and his brothers, Robb, Bran, and Rickon, hovered in the periphery of his thoughts.

The harp's mournful tune served as a conduit for Aemon's grief, a way to express the accumulated pain and loss over the years. Each chord resonated with the weight of his experiences, becoming a cathartic release in the quiet sanctuary of the godswood.

The red dragon's breath flowers below the oak seemed to flicker in sympathy with Aemon's emotions, casting a somber hue over the scene. The godswood, usually a place of solace, now bore witness to the bittersweet strains of a song that carried the echoes of lives lived and lost.

As Aemon played, the godswood held its breath, enveloped in the elegy of a melody that bridged the gap between the past and the present, between the realms of the living and the departed.

Aemon continued to strum the harp's strings, the melancholic melody lingering in the air, when the subtle sound of a twig snapping interrupted the solitary ambiance of the godswood. Turning his gaze, Aemon discovered a small girl standing amidst the shadows, her presence almost ethereal against the backdrop of the great oak.

The girl, dressed in a simple green gown, had an air of innocence about her. Aemon studied her features, sensing a familiarity that eluded his grasp. The reddish copper hue of her hair and the depth of her dark honey eyes hinted at a connection, a memory buried in the recesses of his mind.

As the girl realized she had been noticed, a hint of concern and fear flickered across her expression. Swiftly, she executed a perfect bow and curtsy, a gesture that belied her tender age. When she straightened up, she met Aemon's gaze and offered an apology.

"Forgive me," she said hesitantly as she struggled to bring her eyes back to Aemon's own. "I am looking for the library. Do you, by chance, know where it is?"

Aemon, recognizing that the girl had wandered into the wrong wing of the castle, couldn't help but feel a sense of responsibility. With a gentle smile, he responded, "You're in the wrong place. The library is in the other wing, opposite of the heart tree you found me in."

A flush of embarrassment painted the girl's cheeks as she shared her tale. "I was told to stay in my room," the girl admitted, "but I grew bored and wanted to find a book to read. The Red Keep is so vast, and I quickly got lost."

Curiosity sparkled in Aemon's eyes as he inquired, "Why didn't you ask a servant to fetch a book for you?"

The girl's response held a note of innocence. "I am new here, and the servants don't know what I like yet."

Aemon nodded understandingly. "It's easy to lose your way in the Red Keep, especially with so many people coming and going. A lady should never wander alone, even in these halls. Come, Ser Harrold, and I will show you to the library."

The girl followed Aemon's gaze and gestured motion to see that Ser Harrold had walked close enough for the pair to now see him. The man had given Aemon enough space to play undisturbed and to ensure that others saw him first and knew a royal was in attendance, somehow the girl continued without noticing him before Aemon.

The girl's eyes widened in shock as she pointed to Ser Harrold, exclaiming, "He's a Kingsguard! That is Ser Harrold." Her manners all but forgotten.

Aemon, amused by the girl's surprise, glanced at Ser Harrold and then back at her. With a playful smirk, he turned to the Kingsguard and asked, "Is that true? You never told me you were a Kingsguard."

Ser Harrold chuckled, enjoying the banter between the two. The girl, still processing the revelation, insisted, "Kingsguards only follow royalty." She kept her eyes on Aemon, trying to discern who he was, but due to

Aemon's lack of silvery hair must have been difficult. Here, he thought that being the only Targaryen with black hair in their histories would have marked him as different and stand out, in odd ways due to his hair being common for most people but due to the rarity of his family's silvery hair, it made Aemon's black seem all the more queer and unique.

Aemon, maintaining his playful demeanor, lowered his head respectfully and introduced himself, "Aemon Targaryen, son of Prince Daemon Targaryen." Aemon, his princely demeanor shining through, watched as the girl curtsied lower than necessary, clearly terrified by her unintentional lapse in manners. With a slight tilt of his head, he allowed a brief pause before acknowledging her introduction.

"I am the Lady Alicent Hightower, my prince, daughter of the Hand of the king, Lord Otto Hightower."

Aemon, his face momentarily betraying the anger that rarely surfaced, observed Alicent Hightower as she curtsied. The girl seemed terrified, unaware of the storm of emotions within the young Targaryen prince. His features returned to their usual composed state, concealing the turbulence beneath. He took a moment before finally breaking the silence. Before she could higher herself, Aemon returned to his soft brooding face. The slight change of brooding to anger, to brooding again, would have escaped unnoticed by any who saw, save for the few who knew Aemon best.

Aemon repeated her name in his head half a dozen times. The familiarity echoing in the chambers of his memory. "You've recently come to the Red Keep, haven't you?"

Alicent, her cheeks still flushed with embarrassment, nodded. "Yes, Your Grace. My father, Lord Hightower, was appointed to the small council."

Aemon, after the girl introduced herself as Alicent Hightower, maintained a stoic expression for a moment. He was well aware of the Hightower family's standing, and the history he carried from his previous life as Jon Snow only added depth to his understanding.

Finally, he broke the silence with a polite nod and a small smile. "Alicent Hightower," he acknowledged her introduction once more. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I must admit, you are the first person who comes to me at the heart tree and does not notice the Kingsguard as a way of who I am. I have been told I am Ser Harrold's shadow-made flesh, and those words are common knowledge in the Reed Keep. When you see either the king or Ser Harrold, I am more than likely at their side. No need for such formality; we're just two young souls in the Red Keep." He looked at her extremely low curtsy.

Alicent, now slightly reassured by Aemon's friendly demeanor, raised her gaze but remained cautious. "Your Grace, I apologize for any disrespect. I didn't mean to overstep my bounds." Alicent relieved that Aemon's demeanor had shifted to a more welcoming one, managed a small smile.

Aemon's thoughts, now back on the present, offered a reassuring smile. "No need for apologies. The Red Keep can be a labyrinth, even for those familiar with its halls. If you need assistance or company, feel free to ask. It can be quite lonely wandering these corridors alone."

Alicent, ever observant, perked up at the sight of the harp, her curiosity piqued. "Your Grace, I heard your singing and followed the melody, hoping to find someone to help me. I am sorry for intruding."

"There is nothing to forgive, my lady," Aemon thought of the song. "I once heard of a man who wrote the song, Rhaegar, the glorious singer." Aemon's eyes clouded over as he thought of the father he never knew. "I heard he would sing the song at court, and so great was his voice that even the most hardened of hearts would break, and even the most seasoned of warriors wept. As haunting as a ghost and as beautiful as winter roses, they called it."

"Did you ever hear him, Rhaegar, sing, my prince?" Alicent asked. Aemon knew fully well that Alicent had never heard of a bard named Rhaegar but she did not wish to seem that lacking in knowledge in front of her prince.

Aemon said nothing as he fingered the frame of the harp. He had asked for this to be made from his own description. As Jon Snow, he had wasted many coins and spoken to many who had met his father, Rhaegar, to remake the harp just as his father's had been. Once he got it right, he tried to learn to play the damn things; for years, he tried, and it was only a few moons before he fought the Night King for the last time that he learned the song. It had become all the more haunting when there was no one left to hear him sing. He sang from winter to summer and winter again in that he and Jenny were the same.

"No, I-I was never able to hear it myself," Aemon said as he looked to the tree. "He died just before I was born."

Alicent complimented him, her eyes sparkling with sincerity. "It was beautiful, Your Grace. Your voice, the instrument—it was all truly enchanting. But the song, it was so... sad."

Aemon, lost in thought, absentmindedly uttered a piece of wisdom passed down from his father, Eddard Stark. "My father used to say anything that comes before the word 'but' is horsesh*t."

Alicent, her eyes widening in mild shock, quickly covered it up with a polite smile, pretending not to hear the unconventional remark. "Ah, yes. Wise words indeed." Alicent's curiosity sparked, and she inquired, "What's the story behind the song? If you don't mind me asking."

Aemon, considering her question, decided to share a glimpse of the story behind the melancholic melody. " It tells the tale of a village woman named Jenny who fell in love with a prince. The pair married, but years later, tragedy struck, and the royal family that embraced her died in a tragic fire. Now, she is all that remains of the people who love her. She danced with her ghosts, those she had lost, and those who loved her most. It's a haunting song, a reminder that even in loss, there's beauty to be found."

Alicent, captivated by the tale, nodded thoughtfully. "It sounds like a tragic but beautiful story. The best stories often are."

Aemon, his demeanor shifting to a more reassuring one, smiled. "It's my favorite song." Aemon thought out loud before recalling Alicent wished to go to the library, and Aemon cursed with Ned Stark's honor, would help a lady in need, even if she is Alicent Hightower, the mother of Aegon the Usurper. "The Red Keep can be a labyrinth. Let me help you find your way to the library. It's not far from here."

Alicent's fear subsided slightly as Aemon extended a hand, inviting her to join him. "I would appreciate that, Your Grace."

Aemon, with a polite smile, offered to lead Alicent to the library. As they strolled through the corridors of the Red Keep, Alicent looped her arm through Aemon's, and Ser Harrold walked discreetly behind them, maintaining a vigilant watch.

As Aemon led Ser Harrold and Lady Alicent through the halls of the Red Keep, the echoes of hushed whispers and sidelong glances followed them like ghostly shadows. Unbeknownst to Alicent, who was happily engaged in conversation with Aemon, the court's disapproval murmured around them.

Whispers swirled like the whispers of leaves in the godswood. "The Black Prince," they said with a derisive tone, masking their disdain with subtlety. "A Stark in Targaryen clothing," some muttered, mocking Aemon's appearance that deviated from the typical Targaryen look. "A bastard," a more audacious voice hissed, casting doubts on Aemon's legitimacy.

Aemon, well-accustomed to such comments, paid them little heed, but the words gnawed at the edges of his consciousness. Some even mocked Aemon's clothing; he wore black clothing, the color of his family, but the clothes were not expensive; even the lowest of lords had more intricate clothing than the royal one he should be wearing. He held his composure, not allowing the negativity to show on his face.

Meanwhile, Lady Alicent, wrapped in the charm of Aemon's company, remained blissfully unaware of the undercurrents of criticism surrounding them. She laughed at Aemon's stories, her eyes reflecting admiration for the prince and the tales he shared.

Alicent's eyes widened with fascination as they walked through the corridors of the Red Keep, her gaze flitting between the grand tapestries and polished suits of armor. She turned to Aemon with an excited gleam in her eyes.

Prince Aemon noticed as Lady Alicent walked around, looking at the tapestries and the banners. Lady Alicent, from what Aemon gathered, had been stuck in her chambers and not let out to see the Red Keep; this may have been her first time seeing it. "Prince Aemon, this place is more magnificent than any tale I've ever heard! The stories of the Red Keep don't do it justice."

Aemon, for a sliver of a second, could see Sansa in Alicent's place, the wonder of seeing new things in the Red Keep. There is a thirst for looking to the corners and speaking to new people, the proper lady. "It has a way of growing on you," Aemon admitted.

She looked at the harp still in Aemon's hands. "Do you often sing there, in the heart tree?" she asked him curiously.

Aemon thought of the tranquil tree before nodding quietly. Aemon had stayed mostly quiet for their conversation; Alicent spoke the most while Ameon merely replied. Aemon would allow the girl to carry the conversation; it reminded him so much of Margery.

Ameon then realized why she seemed familiar: Alicent was a Hightower, and Margery's mother was a Hightower. They shared facial features shared the same nose, coppery hair, the same facial features, same nose, and cheekbones. They were extraordinarily beautiful and their beauty was only matched by their wit and cunning. Alicent and Margery were far more similar than Aemon would ever care to admit.

Aemon recalled what Alicent had asked and cursed himself for being lost in thought before returning to the conversation. "Sometimes. It's a quiet place, away from the noise of the court."

Alicent looked to the Kingsguard as he walked close behind the pair. Aemon said nothing as they walked and saw a painting of Aegon the Dragon himself, standing next to his sister-wives, Visenya and Rhaenys. Alicent looked at the painting as well before continuing. "I've always found solace in books. My father says they hold the key to understanding the world. Do you enjoy reading?"

"I do," Aemon said, nodding slowly.

Alicent grew excited. Aemon could understand why few children their age enjoyed reading, especially boys, as they like fighting and training with swords. Aemon could see that Alicent was happy to find someone of the same mindset as her, even if she did not know the boy her age had the memories of a grown man. "Perhaps we can share our favorite books sometimes! I'm eager to explore the vastness of the Red Keep's library. Do you have any recommendations?"

"Histories and tales of dragons have always captured my interest, tales of the North as well," Aemon admitted.

Alicent somehow grew more excited. However, she recomposed herself; while Alicent had been carrying the conversation and seemed happy, she was respectful and had perfect manners for a young lady dealing with royalty. "Dragons! They're such majestic creatures. I've read about their roles in Westerosi history." Alicent grew thoughtful. She looked at the paintings of dragons and realized something. "Your grace, you father, he rides Caraxes. Do you have a dragon of your own?

Aemon smirked as he thought of Balerion. He had yet to ride the dragon, not making the bond official, but similar to Rhaegal, when he was Jon Snow, he knew something was growing. He only wished he could be with Ghost and his dragon at the same time. Loyal to the very end. "I have yet to claim one."

Alicent turned from the direction they were walking to look at Aemon, her smile infectious, and for a time, Aemon forgot she was the mother of the Usurper, the king similar to Robert Baratheon, a lustful drunk who took something from a proper Targaryen. "Well, when you do, I hope it's the most splendid dragon in the realm." She stopped for a second before turning to look at the people still whispering around them. "I've heard people talk about your looks, the way you don't fit the typical Targaryen mold. Does that bother you?

Aemon says nothing for some time as he looks at the flickering candles of the corridor; even if the sun was out, the corridors were quite dark in some places. "I'm used to it. What people say matters little.

Alicent looked at Aemon, staring deep into the dark eyes, and Aemon could tell that for a second, Aemon's dark eyes were purple in the sun lights due to the way Alicent looked even more drawn into them. "If I may, my prince. It shouldn't matter at all. You're a prince of House Targaryen, and that's what truly matters." She smiled affectionately as if trying to cast out the solemn, brooding boy before her. "Besides, the court's whispers will not mean anything when you get your dragon."

As the pair continued on, Aemon, for a split second, was able to notice a red streak running through the hall. It was too late, and the red comet slammed into Aemon's stomach. As he toppled over, the red streak was now lying atop him. Alicent gasped as she watched her prince collapse. Ser Harrold was going to move forward before noticing the red streak. As Aemon's eyes focused on the aggressor, he realized it was his cousin, Rhaenyra Targaryen. Her silver hair was draped over her shoulders, but much of the hair was out of place. Her purple eyes focused on Aemon's own, near-black, purple eyes. Alicent had quickly stepped back as Princess Rhaenyra collided with Prince Aemon. Aemon grunted as they both toppled to the ground, the unexpected impact taking him by surprise. Rhaenyra, however, seemed unfazed and grinned down at Aemon.

Rhaenyra's smile was contagious as it nearly split her face open; she giggled as she looked at Aemon below her. "Hi, Aemon! I couldn't stand that boring lesson with Septa Myrcella any longer. So, I decided to explore. And look, I found you!"

Aemon said nothing, his brooding face keeping a stoic eye on his cousin. Aemon looked at Rhaenyra and her infectious smile before raising an eyebrow at her. "Rhaenyra, you know you're not supposed to be running through the halls, especially during lessons."

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes at her stoic cousin. Aemon and Rhaenyra were as thick as thieves, but Aemon was the more mature of the pair, as most of the Red Keep knew. Without Aemon to bail Rhaenyra from trouble, she would have been grounded and placed to do chores until she was wed. Aemon continued speaking, breathless. "Septa Myrcella is no fun. She only talks about the Seven and their endless rules. I wanted to find you. Aemon, you won't believe what Septa Myrcella has us doing in class! It's the most boring lesson in all of history."

Aemon took a deep breath and tried to get air back in his lungs; Rhaenyra had taken most of it, and her straddling his stomach did not allow more air to enter. "Rhaenyra, you should be in your lessons. Your father would not be pleased."

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes once more at her killjoy of a brooding cousin. "Father doesn't need to know. Besides, I've been practicing the harp, not that you'd care. Still not any good at it, though."

Aemon's stoic feature let a small smile that only Rhaenyra knew to bring out. "Well, you better not let him catch you skipping lessons.

Rhaenyra's smile returned with thrice the joy as she looked down at her cousin. "That's why I'm here with you. If he asks, we were studying together."

"Oh, fantastic. I'm now an accomplice to your mischief," he sighed tiredly. Rhaenyra jumped off Aemon, pulling him up. Ser Harrold looks on, seemingly unfazed by the sudden collision.

Alicent looked to the prince as he rose to his feet and dusted himself off. "Are you alright, Prince Aemon?"

Aemon sighed before turning back to Lady Alicent. "I'm fine. Rhaenyra has a way of making dramatic entrances."

Aemon observed the encounter between Rhaenyra and Alicent with a watchful eye. As the two young girls stood in the hallway, Aemon felt the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders. Rhaenyra, despite being of similar age to Alicent, seemed to carry herself with an air of unrestrained freedom. Aemon couldn't help but smile at the contrast between the two girls.

Alicent, raised in the noble halls of House Hightower, maintained impeccable manners. She curtsied with grace, her movements refined and practiced. Aemon noticed the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes as she exchanged glances with Rhaenyra.

On the other hand, Rhaenyra, with her fiery Targaryen spirit, seemed unencumbered by the strict codes of courtly behavior. Her greeting was genuine and unfiltered, a stark departure from the formalities Alicent was accustomed to. Aemon intervened gently, nudging Rhaenyra to conduct herself appropriately.

"Rhaenyra, this is Lady Alicent Hightower. She's new to the Red Keep and could use a friend," Aemon said, casting a reassuring glance at Alicent. "And Lady Alicent, this is my cousin, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen."

Rhaenyra grinned, her eyes shining with curiosity. "Hi! You can call me Rhaenyra. There's no need for all that Lady and Princess stuff."

Alicent, caught off guard by Rhaenyra's casual approach, couldn't help but smile at the younger Targaryen's infectious energy. She responded with a more relaxed demeanor, "It's a pleasure, Rhaenyra. Your cousin was just about to show me the library."Rhaenyra's eyes darted to Alicent, sizing her up before turning back to Aemon.

Rhaenyra turned to Aemon with a grunt from his boring interests. "The library? Aemon, you're such a bore. We should be out exploring the city, or better yet, flying on dragons!"

Aemon looked to Rhaenyra and took note of the lack of Kingsguard. Rhaenyra had ditched the white shadow more than enough times to make it a sport, and Aemon knew that if she did not leave the Kingsguard behind, the man would be a dead giveaway that she was not where she was supposed to be at her lessons with the Septa. Aemon took a few seconds longer to realize that Rhaenyra should most definitely not be alone because she was supposed to be alongside their aunts. Aemon's observant eyes didn't miss the subtle signs of embarrassment on Rhaenyra's face as he connected the dots. He realized that Rhaenyra had abandoned her duties with their aunts, the newly arrived princesses. The two of them had been tasked with helping the young princesses adjust to the Red Keep, easing their transition into their roles as members of House Targaryen.

Aemon raised an eyebrow at Rhaenyra, a silent question in his gaze. Rhaenyra, caught in her transgression, shifted uncomfortably, her cheeks tinged with a faint blush. Aemon, however, couldn't suppress a small grin. He knew that Rhaenyra's free spirit often clashed with the rigid expectations of courtly life.

"You were supposed to be with our aunts and the Septa, weren't you?" Aemon teased gently, already aware of the answer.

Rhaenyra sighed, a mixture of guilt and reluctance in her expression. "Well, yes. But I thought without me being around you, you would be lost in brooding and suffering a painful death without my presence, and, you know, I wanted you to lose your solemn face. The princesses have each other. They don't need me as much."

Aemon chuckled, understanding his cousin's compassionate nature or, at least, her using it as an excuse. "Rhaenyra, they're our family too. They need to know that we're here for them."

Rhaenyra nodded, her initial shyness transforming into determination. "You're right. I'll make it up to them. But let's not tell them about this, okay?"

Aemon's tone softened as he spoke about their newly arrived aunts, princesses Viserra, Aerea, Rhaella, Daenerys, Saera, and Maegelle. He explained how they had spent most of their time in Volantis and were now thrust into a completely new environment, surrounded by unfamiliar faces. Aemon emphasized the importance of making them feel welcome and helping them adjust to this new chapter of their lives.

"Rhaenyra, imagine if you were in their place," Aemon said, his voice carrying a gentle yet earnest quality. "How would you feel if, in a new and daunting place, the one person you could try to trust left you alone with strangers? They're family, just like you and me. They need us."

Rhaenyra, her eyes cast downward, absorbed the weight of Aemon's words. His analogy struck a chord, prompting her to reflect on the situation from a perspective she hadn't considered before. A sense of guilt crept into her expression as she realized the impact of her actions on their aunts.

"I didn't think about it that way," Rhaenyra admitted, her voice filled with genuine remorse. "I just wanted to get out of the boring Septa's lesson; Septa Myrcella is boring. But you're right, like always. Your boring, and no fun."

Aemon placed a reassuring hand on Rhaenyra's shoulder, offering both understanding and support. "It's not too late to make it right. Let's find our aunts and make sure they know they're not alone after I lead Lady Alicent to the library."

Alicent spoke up with a polite yet genuine expression."You know, Prince Aemon, I wouldn't mind attending the lessons with Lady Rhaenyra and the Septa," Alicent said, her tone carrying a sense of openness. "It might be better to meet new people and make friends than staying alone with a book, no matter how much I love reading."

Aemon considered Alicent's words, recognizing the validity of her sentiment. He appreciated her willingness to embrace the opportunity to socialize and make connections within the Red Keep. A small smile crept onto Aemon's face as he nodded in agreement.

"Very well, Lady Alicent. Let's continue to the lessons then," Aemon replied, adjusting their course to align with the path that would lead them to the Septa and Rhaenyra.

Aemon continued to walk alongside Rhaenyra and Alicent, allowing their conversation to flow around him. Rhaenyra, with her passionate demeanor, spoke animatedly about various topics, while Alicent, perhaps mindful of the royal presence, remained somewhat reserved. Aemon listened attentively but stayed mostly quiet, his thoughts occasionally wandering.

As they strolled through the corridors, Alicent, noticing Aemon's subdued demeanor, asked with a gentle tone, "Prince Aemon, are you okay?"

Rhaenyra, chiming in with a teasing smile, added, "Oh, he's always like that. Brooding, you know. But don't worry, I have enough smiles for both of us."

Aemon smirked slightly at Rhaenyra's comment, appreciating her attempt to lighten the mood. "You're quite the optimist, Rhaenyra," he remarked, acknowledging her ability to bring energy to the conversation.

As Aemon, Rhaenyra, and Alicent reached the far side of the Red Keep, they encountered the sight of the Septa instructing six young girls with silvery-white hair. The girls, approximately six years of age, were adorned in dresses of red and black, the distinctive colors of House Targaryen. Each of them seemed engrossed in the lesson, listening attentively as the Septa guided them in the art of sewing.

The room echoed with the cheerful laughter and smiles of the young girls as they worked diligently on their needlework. Delicate hands skillfully created intricate designs on the cloth they were sewing. Upon closer inspection, the designs revealed themselves to be depictions of dragons and the sigil of House Targaryen, showcasing the early introduction of these young princesses to the symbols and pride of their noble house.

Aemon, noticing Rhaenyra's attempt to slip away, subtly blocked her path with a playful smirk. "Where do you think you're going, Rhaenyra? I thought you were going to help our aunts with their lessons," he teased, glancing at the six silver-haired girls engrossed in their sowing.

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes and pouted. "Fine, fine. I'll stay, but only because you're making me," she retorted, giving Aemon a mock glare. The Septa, Myrcella, soon caught sight of the trio—Aemon, Rhaenyra, and Alicent—drawing her attention away from the lesson with the young Targaryen princesses.

Septa Myrcella's expression shifted from contentment to disapproval as she noticed Rhaenyra attempting to evade her lessons. An authoritative glare was directed at the wayward princess, who fidgeted uncomfortably under the stern gaze of her tutor.

Acknowledging the presence of Prince Aemon, Septa Myrcella gracefully curtsied in a display of respect, recognizing the significance of addressing a member of the royal family. The six silvery-haired girls, Aemon's aunts, who had rarely encountered their nephew, followed suit with a mixture of bows and curtsies, their actions revealing a sense of formality instilled by the Septa.

As Aemon observed Septa Myrcella with her distinctive Lannister features—green eyes and golden blonde hair—he couldn't help but draw parallels to another Myrcella from his past life as Jon Snow. The Myrcella Baratheon he had known bore the same Lannister traits, and the thought crossed Aemon's mind of what she might have become if not for the tragic events in Dorne.

In his contemplation, Aemon marveled at the idea of a Lannister willingly relinquishing the trappings of power and influence to assume the humble role of a Septa. The Lannisters were renowned for their ambition and often associated with selfish pursuits, making Myrcella's choice to become a Septa an anomaly in the context of her family's reputation. Even if the Lannisters before Tywin were not a threat to many of the other houses, they were known to be for their vanity and ego.

Feeling the subtle pressure of Rhaenyra's hand, Aemon's gaze lingered on his aunts, the Targaryen princesses who embodied the iconic features of their house. His eyes, though, betrayed a flicker of discontent, a sentiment that Rhaenyra understood all too well. In a world defined by dragons, beauty, and Valyrian heritage, Aemon often found himself standing apart from the traditional Targaryen image.

Rhaenyra's grasp on Aemon's hand was both a physical and emotional anchor, a silent assurance that, regardless of appearances, he belonged to this storied family. Aemon's brooding disposition and the weight of not having a dragon nor the quintessential Targaryen looks were challenges he carried. Rhaenyra, even in her youth, discerned the sadness that clung to Aemon, and her innate empathy spurred her to offer support.

Yet, despite Aemon's perceived differences, Rhaenyra proudly claimed him as her cousin and closest companion. In the face of Targaryen expectations, Rhaenyra's unwavering loyalty and familial bond were beacons of solace for Aemon, dispelling the shadows that sought to cast him adrift from his own blood.

Aemon, with the confidence befitting his name, turned to Septa Myrcella. "Good day, Septa. I was resting by the heart tree when I felt the sudden urge to come to see the lesson for myself," he declared, his eyes glinting mischievously.

The Septa, skeptical yet wary of opposing a Targaryen prince, offered a begrudging welcome to Aemon and Lady Alicent. The princesses, observing the unfolding scene, exchanged glances that conveyed both surprise and curiosity. "You are always welcome, your grace. Prince Aemon, your presence is an honor. If you wish to observe, you are more than welcome."

Aemon nodded his head in appreciation and smiled towards the elder woman. "Thank you, Septa. As luck would have it, I felt an urge to witness the lessons firsthand, and Lady Rhaenyra here was kind enough to guide me."

The Septa, addressing Rhaenyra with a stern gaze, warned. The unspoken understanding hung in the air—Rhaenyra's attempts to evade lessons were known to both Septa and the students. "Is that so? Well, Princess Rhaenyra, while I appreciate your enthusiasm for learning, you must adhere to your scheduled lessons. One more deviation, and I'll be forced to inform your parents."

As Rhaenyra stood before Septa Myrcella, a defiant resolve in her eyes, she declared, "I will not leave again." The Septa, though skeptical, nodded, acknowledging the unspoken promise.

Observing the exchange, Lady Alicent found herself at the center of attention. Septa Myrcella, with an inviting smile, extended an offer. "Would you care to join the sowing circle, Lady Alicent? The princes seem to have an affinity for it."

Lady Alicent, glancing towards the princesses, assessed the situation. With a polite nod, she agreed, "I would be delighted, Septa."

As the circle expanded to include the Lady, Princess Saera initiated a conversation that wove through the topics of boys and court gossip. Viserra, Aerea, Rhaella, Daenerys, and Maegelle joined in, sharing tidbits of intrigue and speculation from the corridors of the Red Keep.

Saera, with a playful glint in her eyes, addressed her sister. "Viserra, have you heard the latest about Lord Blackwood's son? They say he's been courting the daughter of Lord Bracken."

Viserra, ever the confident one, leaned in, her curiosity piqued. "Is it true love or just another alliance in the making?"

Aemon fought back the laugh at the idea of a Bracken and a Blackwood courting one another. He thought there was more chance for the mounts to blow in the wind or for all the seas to dry up like the desserts in Dorne. No, Brackens and Blackwoods hated each other more than cats and dogs. Never had there been more proof than Bittersteel and Bloodraven, half-brother children of Aegon the Unworthy, but the parts of them that shared their mother's blood ran so thick and hot that the pair could not stomach one another and were the driving forces for the most of the battles of Blackfyre Rebellions. But Aemon supposed that he would not see any of this happen; if he had his way, the black dragons would never rise and would never keep house Targaryen crippled long enough for Robert to deliver the final blow. Either Saera was trying to make a rumor, or whoever she had heard this from was lying to the new princess of the Red Keep. Aemon would find it historical to imagine a Bracken and Blackwood being in the same room without drawing swords; he doubted even the gods thought it possible for the two families to get along enough for a courtship.

As the gossip unfolded, Rhaenyra, known for her spirited nature, couldn't resist joining in. "And what about the squires? I heard Ser Steffon Harlaw has been showing quite the prowess in the training yards. Perhaps he aims to catch the eye of a certain lady."

Lady Alicent, attempting to absorb the intricate web of courtly conversations, listened intently. As the princesses continued their exchange, discussing the comings and goings of the court and the intrigues of the Red Keep, Lady Alicent found herself caught in the whirlwind of courtly gossip, sowing the seeds of camaraderie among the Targaryen children and their Hightower guest.

Lady Alicent, immersed in the courtly discussions of knights and squires, found herself intrigued by the mention of the young aspirants. As the princesses shared their perspectives, Lady Alicent asked, "Who among them is the best, then?"

Viserra, with a confident demeanor, named several squires who showed promise and potential. Rhaenyra, however, offered a dissenting view. "Most of them aren't that special," she remarked, her discerning gaze sweeping across the yard. To her, the squires seemed ordinary, lacking the spark that might set them apart.

Maegelle, with her gentle nature, shared a different perspective. "Some of them are kind. They've helped me around the keep sometimes," she offered her words highlighting the camaraderie that existed within the Red Keep.

Rhaella, ever the dreamer, spoke of the potential for legends. "Perhaps some of them might end up becoming worthy of songs and poems," she mused, her eyes filled with a hopeful gleam.

Intrigued by the discussion, Lady Alicent inquired, "Who would you say is the most capable squire?" Without a moment's hesitation, the princesses all turned their attention to Aemon, who rested against the wall, fingers gracefully dancing over his harp. Aemon was listening but barely paying attention. "Prince Aemon? But he is not old enough to be a page, let alone squire. How could he best them?"

Rhaenyra, wearing a proud smile, stepped forward to defend her cousin. "Aemon can beat boys twice his age and thrice his size," she proclaimed, her voice exuding confidence. The other princesses chimed in, each contributing their own observation.

Aerea, with a bashful smile, admitted, "Aemon hasn't lost a fight with another squire yet." Daenerys, excitement in her voice, shared her own witness to Aemon's prowess. "I saw Aemon's fight before, and he's really good. Some say he's too good for a boy his age."

Aemon, with the ethereal strains of his harp lingering in the air, found himself lost in a realm of contemplation that transcended the lively chatter of his cousins. As his fingers deftly moved across the strings, weaving a delicate melody, his thoughts were elsewhere, anchored in a profound understanding that stretched far beyond the walls of the Red Keep.

In his musings, Aemon grappled with the realization that during the era of Jon Snow, the Targaryens were oblivious to the ancient prophecy, the dire warning passed down since the inception of their house. The weight of this knowledge settled upon Aemon's shoulders, and his mind raced with thoughts of what needed to be done to confront the impending darkness.

Aemon, his fingers caressing the strings of his harp, was entangled in the threads of prophecy that whispered through the corridors of time. The words echoed in his mind, "From my blood, come The Prince That Was Promised, and his will be the Song of Ice and Fire." Aemon pondered these ancient words, the weight of their meaning pressing upon his Targaryen soul.

To him, the prophecy held a sacred truth—a Targaryen was destined to be the Promised Prince, the harbinger who would stand against the encroaching darkness of the Long Night. Aemon's thoughts drifted to a different lifetime, to his existence as Jon Snow. In that other life, Jon Snow had faced the Long Night and emerged victorious, yet the victory had come at a heavy cost—the world itself had perished in the aftermath of the war.

The intricacies of the prophecy played out in Aemon's mind like a haunting melody. He contemplated the notion that, according to the prophecy, Jon Snow was not just a chance occurrence but a predetermined destiny. Jon Snow, born into the Targaryen bloodline, was the manifestation of the Song of Ice and Fire—a symphony that resonated with the elements of both ice and fire.

As he traced the contours of the harp strings, Aemon contemplated the temporal dissonance between his current life and the future known to Jon Snow. Events unfolded differently, timelines diverged, and the resonance between the past and the future seemed elusive. Yet, the prophecy remained a constant, an immutable truth that transcended the intricacies of temporal intricacies.

The question loomed in Aemon's mind, an unspoken query echoing through the chambers of his thoughts. Did his early rebirth signify an accelerated arrival of the Long Night? Was the darkness encroaching upon the realm sooner than anticipated? The answers remained elusive, veiled in the shadows of the unknown. Undeterred by the uncertainties that lingered in the air, Aemon resolved to prepare for the Long Night, regardless of its temporal nuances.

As Aemon's fingers continued to dance across the harp strings, his thoughts converged on the daunting task that lay ahead—the need to prepare Westeros for the impending Long Night. In the echoes of Jon Snow's memories, he remembered the struggles of a weakened realm beset by the forces of darkness and the valiant efforts that narrowly averted catastrophe.

In Jon Snow's time, Westeros had rallied against the Long Night with meager forces—a hundred thousand Dothraki, six thousand Unsullied, a scattering of Iron Islanders, and a combined force of thirty thousand Northmen and Vale men. These armies, once a formidable strength, were decimated, their ranks diminished by the relentless onslaught of the undead. The survival of Westeros hinged on Arya's decisive act, slaying the Night King and halting the relentless advance of the undead.

However, by the time of the Night King's resurgence, Westeros found itself in a weakened state. Armies were shattered and scattered, and the once-united front had crumbled. Essos, a crucial ally in the first Long

The first struggle had brought a glimmer of hope, a chance for humanity to rebuild and reclaim its former glory over the course of two hundred years. Yet, the opportunity was lost, and by the second Long Night, humanity stood on the precipice of inevitable defeat.

Aemon, burdened by the weight of his newfound knowledge, recognized the urgency of the situation. Without the dragons that had played a pivotal role in the first Long Night, Westeros faced an even graver threat. If he did not act, the realm stood little chance of survival.

As Aemon's fingers gracefully swept across the harp strings, the haunting melody that emanated carried the weight of his contemplations—a sad and mournful tone reflective of the somber thoughts that consumed him. Unbeknownst to Aemon, the emotional undercurrents of his playing mirrored the gravity of the task at hand—the preparation for the imminent Long Night.

In the recesses of his mind, Aemon grappled with the strategic considerations that loomed before him. House Targaryen, the linchpin in the battle against the encroaching darkness, needed to be fortified. Resources, both material and human, required consolidation, and the unity of all Seven Kingdoms was paramount for the survival of Westeros.

The shadow of Dorne, a region that had eluded the grasp of the Targaryens for centuries, lingered in Aemon's thoughts. Dorne needed to be integrated into the fold of the Seven Kingdoms to face the impending threat, a task that demanded swifter action than history had allowed. Aemon, drawing on the knowledge of the historical tapestry that wove through his consciousness, recalled the conquest of Dorne by Daeron the Young Dragon—a conquest that proved costly in lives and resources. Daeron, the Young Dragon, conquered Dorne with ten thousand men within a year, but it is said he lost four times that number within the three or four years he held Dorne.

Daeron's ill-fated endeavor, marked by the loss of tens of thousands, served as a cautionary tale. The Targaryens had faced setbacks, with Daeron ultimately losing his life and Dorne slipping from their grasp. The toll exacted by the failed conquest echoed through the corridors of history, leaving Aemon with the realization that a different approach was needed. Daeron's conquest, while a stroke of genius, eventually amounted to nothing as Dorne returned to independence until the Martells and Targaryens married one another.

As Aemon's harp continued to weave its melancholic melody, his mind traversed the vast expanse of Westeros and Essos—a realization dawned upon him. While the unity of the Seven Kingdoms was imperative, the scope of the impending conflict extended far beyond the shores of Westeros. The threat of the Long Night, once again looming on the horizon, necessitated the consolidation of power within the Seven Kingdoms and across the entirety of Essos.

In Aemon's understanding, the struggles of Westeros alone had proven insufficient against the relentless onslaught of the Night King. The lessons of Jon Snow's life echoed in his thoughts—the critical role that Essos played in tipping the balance in favor of the living. In his determination to fortify House Targaryen and prepare for the Long Night, Aemon recognized the strategic imperative of bringing Essos under Targaryen's control.

Essos, with its vast resources and armies, held the potential to be a formidable ally in the face of the encroaching darkness. Aemon, committed to ensuring the survival of humanity against the Night King's forces, envisioned a united front encompassing both Westeros and Essos. The ancient and powerful dragons stood as the linchpin in this alliance, capable of turning the tide in a conflict that transcended the boundaries of kingdoms.

The Dance of Dragons was a stepping stone—a precursor to the greater challenge that lay ahead. Aemon, resolute in his purpose, understood that the battles for power within House Targaryen were mere preludes to the overarching struggle against the Long Night. The chords of his harp resonated with a determination that transcended the present, echoing the timeless resolve to confront the darkness and emerge victorious—a destiny that stretched beyond the confines of a single lifetime.

The haunting strains of Aemon's harp were abruptly silenced by the clamor that engulfed the Red Keep. The resonant echoes of armor clashing and hurried footsteps filled the air, prompting Aemon to shift his attention from the melancholic melody to the unfolding chaos around him. Tearful eyes met his gaze, the girls in the room affected by the somber notes, but Aemon's focus remained resolute.

In the corner of the room, Ser Harrold stood with an attentive stance, armor gleaming in the dim light. Aemon turned to the seasoned knight, his eyes conveying a silent command. "Bring a lord or knight to the room," he instructed, a note of authority underscoring his words. Ser Harrold, a loyal guardian, bowed his head in acknowledgment, swiftly setting out to fulfill the prince's directive. Within moments, Ser Harrold returned with a man in tow, his face etched with urgency and concern. Aemon's gaze locked onto the newcomer, a lord or knight summoned to provide clarity amid the tumult.

The prince's voice cut through the chaos, a calm inquiry that sought to unravel the mysteries of the unfolding events. "What is happening?" Aemon questioned, his tone measured but carrying the weight of anticipation.

The man, bearing the burden of news, offered a succinct response that reverberated in the room. "Wildlings, my prince, thousands climbed over the Wall."

"That's impossible; a few hundred could climb over it, but a thousand is not possible," Ser Harrold said out loud.

"The Watch is not as great as it once was, Ser Harrold," Aemon returned. "How many are south of the Wall?"

"Fifteen thousand, my prince," the man returned.

A chill settled over the chamber as the word hung in the air. Aemon, absorbing the gravity of the situation, processed the implications of the Wildlings breaching the defenses of the realm. His mind raced, contemplating the strategic considerations and the impending threat that now bore down upon the Red Keep. The Dance of Dragons, once the primary focus of his thoughts, was momentarily eclipsed by the immediate challenge at hand.

South of the Wall

??? 102 AC

In the icy hinterlands of the North, below the looming expanse just south of the Wall, two figures walked through a small village in the unforgiving grip of the cold summer. A young lad with a mane of brown hair and eyes as dark as the shadows that clung to the frigid air ambled alongside his burly father. The man was tall and large, with a balding hard and thick unruly blackened beard, by his side a sword and axe, while his son wore a bow that hung from his shoulders alongside the quiver. The frigid air bit at their faces as the man bore the weight of a massive elk, its antlers scraping against the hardened snow. His frame, formidable and clad in furs, spoke of years weathered in the harsh wilderness.

The elder, a burly figure with a bald head but adorned with a sprawling black beard that seemed to defy the chill, exchanged banter with his progeny. Their breaths hung in the cold air like ethereal whispers as they traversed a modest hamlet crafted from timber. The village, a testament to survival against the relentless winter, stood nestled amid the desolation of the North.

The boy's countenance bore a radiant grin, illuminated by the warmth of his father's jests. As they passed through the settlement, the children of the North frolicked in the snow, their youthful laughter echoing in the crisp silence. Men, sinewy and resolute, toiled to fulfill the necessities of the community, kindling fires and attending to tasks essential for sustenance.

Amidst the swirling flakes, the women of the village diligently prepared, readying clothing and concocting a hearty stew in anticipation of the successful hunt. The aroma of simmering broth mingled with the biting cold, weaving a tapestry of life amid the unforgiving wilderness. In this secluded corner of Westeros, where summer too bore the burden of snow, the interplay of life and survival unfolded, an unending saga etched into the fabric of the North.

The father's weathered face, etched with the lines of countless winters, remained stoic as he recounted a tale from his youth, a time when the cold winds hadn't yet claimed his hair. A flicker of mirth danced in his eyes, hidden beneath the veneer of his rugged demeanor. He spoke with a deep, resonant voice that carried the weight of both laughter and hardship.

"Despite what our mother told us, we did not listen to our father. Now, lad, your uncle and I went hunting; our father told us that if we didn't return with an elk as big as Winterfell, he would clip us behind the ears with blood sausage," he began, his words punctuated by the crunching of snow beneath their boots. The boy's eyes widened with anticipation as the village scenery unfolded around them. "We were after an elk, but it did not end that way."

"Uncle Theon told me that he called you a coward. He said it was easy killing an elk," his son returned with glee.

"He told you that, did he? The ass. It was the other way around, boy. Your uncle pissed his pants at the idea of fighting a direwolf, so we settled for an elk. A beast as big as the Wall itself—or so the tales would have you believe. Your uncle, bless his soul, insisted he could mimic a wolf's howl better than any man alive. So there we were, deep in the woods, the night so dark it could swallow your fear whole." The father's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper as though he shared a secret only with his wide-eyed son. "Your uncle, he let out a howl that would wake the dead, and we waited, breaths held like a winter's frost. The forest fell silent, and just when we thought nothing would happen, the bushes rustled, and out came a rabbit, scampering like it owed the gods a debt." The boy burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the snowy expanse. The father's small smile widened imperceptibly, a fleeting moment of warmth in the frozen landscape. "Yes, lad, your uncle and I, brave hunters we were, scared off a dire wolf with a howl meant for rabbits."

A sudden hush fell over the village, shattered by the ominous whistle of an arrow slicing through the frigid air. The father's instincts kicked in, and with a reflex honed by years in the harsh North, he dropped the elk without a second thought. The serene scene shattered as the arrow found its mark, cruelly piercing the air and extinguishing the life of a woman tending to her child.

The father's eyes, once filled with the warmth of shared laughter, now blazed with a fierce determination. He pivoted swiftly, his burly form facing the origin of the deadly projectile. There, atop a snowy knoll, stood a woman draped in furs and tatters, her fiery mane betraying her identity as a Wildling.

The father's weathered features contorted with a mix of grief and fury. He bellowed a guttural command to his son, a primal instinct to protect in the face of impending danger. "Hide, boy! Now!"

As the village was plunged into pandemonium, a figure emerged from the wilderness – a golden-haired woman draped in tattered furs, a harbinger of chaos. Her eyes bore the wildness of the free folk beyond the Wall, and with a twisted grin, she notched another arrow. A Wildling, a force unseen for generations in these parts, now descended upon the unsuspecting village.

"Defend the village!" roared the father, rallying the few able-bodied men who scrambled to arm themselves against the impending onslaught. His massive frame, a fortress against the encroaching horde, wielded both axe and sword, a testament to a lifetime spent in the harsh embrace of the North.

Over the snowy hill, a horde of three hundred Wildlings surged like a tidal wave, their intentions unknown but undoubtedly dire. The small, wall-less village became a battleground as the defenders, outnumbered and unprepared, stood resolute against the impending onslaught.

The father, a bulwark of determination, positioned himself at the forefront, ready to face the Wildlings with a ferocity born of necessity. In the cold, unforgiving land near the Wall, where the whims of fate could turn as swiftly as the wind, a struggle for survival unfolded amid the swirling snowflakes.

The father, a tempest of fury unleashed, swung his weapons with a lethal precision honed by years of survival in the unforgiving North. The first Wildling fell swiftly, a clean stroke severing the head from the shoulders. In a seamless transition, he intercepted the sword of the second assailant with his axe, the clash of metal ringing through the snowy air. A swift kick sent the Wildling sprawling onto the icy ground, vulnerable and disoriented. The father's axe, raised high, descended with a merciless force, ending the threat with a sickening crunch.

But the battle unfolded in a relentless cadence, a deadly dance where the odds tipped against the lone defender. The father, a force to be reckoned with, carved through the chaos, his weapons a blur of death. Each swing found its mark, yet for every fallen adversary, two more emerged from the frigid shadows.

The Wildlings, undeterred by the prowess of the solitary defender, closed in like a ravenous pack. Swords clashed, axes hewed, and the snow beneath their feet was stained with the crimson testament of the struggle. The father fought admirably, a bastion of resistance against the encroaching tide, but the sheer number of adversaries proved insurmountable.

As the battle raged, the father became entangled in the swirling melee. Blades clashed against his armor, and bruises blossomed beneath the furs that once offered warmth. The relentless onslaught began to wear him down, his movements slowing against the ceaseless barrage. The once stoic face now bore the etchings of pain and exhaustion, a testament to the harsh reality of outnumbered defiance.

Yet, even as he fought valiantly against the overwhelming odds, the outcome of the battle seemed inevitable. The father, surrounded by a sea of hostile faces, stood defiant but increasingly vulnerable. The North, notorious for its brutality, now witnessed the clash of survival against an indomitable force. The fate of the wooden village hung in the balance, and the father, though resilient, faced the stark reality of being overpowered by the relentless horde of Wildlings.

The once defiant father fought with an unyielding ferocity, each swing of his weapons a desperate attempt to stem the tide of carnage unfolding around him. Yet, the brutality of the Wildlings knew no bounds, and as the battle descended into a nightmarish frenzy, the village became a scene of unspeakable horror.

The father's heart sank as the cries of the innocent echoed through the icy air. Women and children, defenseless in the face of the marauding horde, fell victim to the merciless onslaught. The Wildlings, fueled by primal savagery, spared none in their ruthless rampage. The very essence of the North, a realm known for its harshness, now bore witness to an atrocity that transcended the harshest winters.

Women endured unspeakable horrors, and the cries of violated innocence pierced the frigid air, f*cked and rapped before their children. Babies, symbols of life and hope, met cruel fates as their heads were callously dashed against unforgiving rocks. Though fighting with the strength of a desperate heart, the father couldn't prevent the desolation that unfolded before his eyes.

The father, a witness to the unspeakable horrors unfolding before him, could only watch in agonized despair as his son, fueled by a desperate courage, rushed to defend his mother. The air hung heavy with the stench of blood and the haunting echoes of brutality. His son, armed with naught but a bow, unleashed an arrow that found its mark, severing the life of a Wildling in a single, decisive stroke.

But the fleeting victory was swallowed by the relentless onslaught. The boy's mother, a pillar of strength, fell victim to the merciless blades of the invaders. The father's anguished screams reverberated through the chaos as he witnessed the life being extinguished from those he held dearest.

Encircled by the encroaching darkness, his son fought valiantly against insurmountable odds. Yet, in the grim dance of violence, five Wildlings closed in, overwhelming the young defender. The clamor of the merciless siege swallowed the clash of weapons and the boy's desperate struggles.

The father, his soul torn asunder, bellowed in a primal scream of grief and fury. His son, his blood, and the woman he loved lay broken and lifeless before him. The once stoic facade shattered, leaving behind a man consumed by the anguish of an irreparable loss.

In the heart of the North, where winter's grasp held the land in a relentless vice, the village succumbed to the brutality of the Wildlings. The father, now bereft of all he held dear, stood amidst the wreckage, a lone figure against the backdrop of a tragic tale etched in the unforgiving snow.

The man's primal scream, a symphony of grief and rage, echoed through the snowy expanse as he descended into a maelstrom of violence. His movements, fueled by a desperate determination, were a savage ballet of death amid the chaos of the wooden village. The air crackled with the relentless clash of weapons and the anguished cries of the fallen.

With a furious swing of his axe, the man cleaved through the first Wildling, the weapon biting into flesh and bone with a sickening thud. His sword danced in tandem, a deadly partner in the macabre waltz, as he stabbed and slashed with an unwavering resolve. The frozen ground beneath him bore witness to the crimson tapestry painted by his relentless onslaught.

Like a venomous serpent, an arrow found its mark in the man's arm. A scream of pain tore through the air, but he pressed on, the injury becoming but a distant echo amid the symphony of violence. The grief that fueled his wrath transformed him into a force of nature, a juggernaut carving a path through the encroaching darkness.

He dodged a wild slash from a Wildling and retaliated with a swift and brutal counter. The man's sword sliced through the air, and with a single stroke, he cleaved his assailant in twain. The dance of death continued each movement a manifestation of the fury that coursed through him.

However, the relentless onslaught took its toll. Arrows, like harbingers of fate, struck the man a second and then a third time. The wounds, though numerous, failed to quench the fire within him. He cut down six more Wildlings in a desperate bid to stave off the inevitable.

But as the cacophony of battle raged on, the numbers proved insurmountable. The man, battered and bloodied, succumbed to the overwhelming force of the Wildlings. They closed in, their blades finding purchase in his flesh. The once indomitable defender, now surrounded by the very darkness he sought to repel, fell to the unforgiving ground.

The man, held down by the sinewy grip of a Wildling, felt the cold press of the arrow embedded in his flesh. A silent agony etched across his face as the Wildling, an embodiment of the brutal North, pointed to the man's son and wife with a cruel sneer.

With a cruel glint in his eyes, the Wildling pointed toward the pair and barked, "Are these your kin? Your flesh and blood?" The man, his jaw clenched, remained silent, his gaze a defiant silence. His eyes ablaze with fury and despair, the man remained resolute and said nothing. The Wildling, undeterred, twisted the arrow deeper, extracting a muted groan from the captive. "Cat got your tongue, eh? Well, let's see if pain can loosen it." The man, gritting his teeth against the searing pain, met the Wildling's gaze with a steely silence. The Wildling, unfazed by the stoic defiance, continued his cruel inquiry. "Are they your family?" Tears streaming down his face, the man nodded in a begrudging acknowledgment. The Wildling, reveling in the man's anguish, spoke with a sad*stic glee. "I'm thinking of having a bit of fun. Maybe a roast with some Crow meat afterward. Start with the child, then the mother."

A surge of anger and desperation flashed in the man's eyes, a silent plea for mercy that went unanswered. The Wildling, reveling in the cruel power dynamics, pressed further. The man struggled under the weight of the Wildling man holding him down.

"f*ck you and your whor* mother," the man grunted out as blood came from his mouth.

"You know where Castle Black is, don't you?" the Wildling asked as he played with the arrow and put as much pressure as he could. "Good. You'll go to your precious Night's Watch, the Crows, and tell them what happened here today. You'll tell them that the Free Folk are not to be trifled with." The Wildling released his hold on the man, who, now free but battered, clutched his wounds with a grim determination. "Fail to do that, and I'll hunt you down and force feed you your child and wife before cutting you open and ear out y liver. There's no escaping the wrath of the Free Folk."

As the man, a broken yet defiant figure, staggered to his feet, the Wildling's laughter echoed through the desolate landscape, a grim reminder of the choices forced upon those who tread the unforgiving paths of the North. The man staggered with three arrows in him; he staggered towards the Night's Watch.

Chapter 10: To the North

Chapter Text

Aemon Targaryen/ Jon Snow

Red Keep 102 AC

The small council chamber was fraught with tension, the weight of urgent matters pressing upon the gathered assembly. The small council chamber echoed with the muted sounds of deliberation as Aemon moved gracefully among the attendees, the rich aroma of wine lingering in the air. King Jaehaerys Targaryen presided over the gathering at the head of the ornate table. The matters at hand were grave, the urgency in the room palpable as the council convened to address the pressing issue of the Wildlings encroaching upon the Wall.

Seated around the table were the key figures of the small council, each with their sphere of influence and expertise. Lord Otto Hightower's furrowed brow and stern countenance mirrored the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. Aemon noticed that Lord Otto had yet to come up with any decisive information to aid the North.

To his right sat the recently appointed Grand Maester Runciter, his chain of office clinking softly as he shifted in his seat. The man was old and near death, it took much time to become a maester, and even more to be any maester of note worth becoming the grand maester of the Red Keep. Aemon did not think the man would live another decade. Prince Viserys Targaryen had sat there but did more listening than speaking.

The Master of Coin, Lord Lyman Beesbury's calculating gaze was assessing the potential financial strains on the realm. Across the table, the ever-dutiful Corlys Velaryon undoubtedly strategizing the best approach to secure the coastlines.

At the side of the table, Ser Ryam Redwyne, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, presented a formidable presence, his white cloak flowing regally as he listened intently to the unfolding discussions. The small council, a confluence of minds and expertise, wrestled with the complex challenges posed by the Wildling threat.

The tension in the small council chamber thickened as the dire situation Beyond the Wall took center stage in the discussion. King Jaehaerys Targaryen, his countenance a mix of restrained anger and composed authority, addressed the gathering with a question that hung heavy in the air.

"How many Wildlings have crossed the Wall?" the King inquired, the calmness of his voice belying the underlying intensity.

Maester Runciter, a chain of office glinting in the dim light, began to share the grim reports. "Conflicting claims persist, Your Grace," he admitted, the weight of uncertainty evident in his tone. "Some say fifteen thousand men south of the Wall. Most estimates agree it is over twenty thousand."

Lord Corlys Velaryon, Master of Ships, interjected with a pragmatic assessment of the North's military capabilities. "The North has over forty thousand men, Your Grace. They have more than twice the force to repel the invaders," he asserted, his gaze unwavering.

However, Maester Runciter countered with a sobering reality that transcended mere numbers. "Even with superior numbers, the Wildlings are wreaking havoc. They show no strategic pattern, destroying and burning villages and crop fields with reckless abandon. They're using fire as a weapon, setting the entire North ablaze." he explained, emphasizing the chaos unleashed by the invaders.

Lord Lyman Beesbury, Master of Coin, voiced concern about the economic toll of the devastation. "The North's resources are being systematically razed. We should provide aid to protect our investments and stabilize the region," he suggested his focus on the broader repercussions of the Wildlings' rampage.

King Jaehaerys leaned forward, his eyes narrowing with a mix of frustration and concern. "How did the Night's Watch allow the Wildlings to breach the Wall?" he demanded, directing his question at the maester who held the realm's knowledge.

Maester Runciter responded with a grave expression, "The Wildlings climbed the far west side of the Wall. Once over the western portion of the Wall, they began traversing eastward, leaving destruction in their wake."

Prince Viserys, ever direct, sought answers. "Why has the North not planned a counterattack yet? This is an invasion; they should be ready to defend their lands," he asserted, challenging the apparent lack of proactive measures from the Northern lords.

Lord Otto Hightower, Hand of the King, offered a pragmatic perspective. "The Wildlings are attacking indiscriminately. They give the North no time to consolidate their forces for an organized counterattack. It's chaos, Your Grace," he explained, acknowledging the severity of the situation.

King Jaehaerys, his brow furrowed in contemplation, turned to the council for insight. "What is the Night's Watch planning to do? We cannot leave the North to face this threat alone," he stated firmly, seeking a decisive course of action.

Maester Runciter coughed and hacked as he breathed and tried to speak, his older age catching up to him as he was old even before becoming a maester,. "Your Grace, the Night's Watch is currently engaged in fierce battles to the North. They are overstretched and cannot divert resources to face the Wildlings who have made it south," he reported, his voice laden with concern.

Lord Lyman Beesbury leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "How did the Night's Watch allow so many Wildlings to breach the Wall? Even if the Wildings came from the west, over two thousand men were sent to the Wall after most keep in the realm emptied their dungeons. Surely, they knew their duty was to protect the realm."

Maester Runciter interjected, "The Night's Watch faces internal strife. Some brothers, disillusioned and rebellious, have fled the Wall. They are beyond our reach, camped beyond the Wall, further complicating the situation. Nearly five hundred are beyond the Wall after the few rebellions and mutinies that had taken place."

Prince Viserys, his impatience evident, spoke up, "So, because of a few rebellions and deserters, we are to leave the North to face this threat alone? Unacceptable."

Lord Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, countered, "We cannot ignore the reality, Your Grace. The Night's Watch is crippled by internal conflicts. Sending reinforcements might not be enough to turn the tide."

King Jaehaerys, his brow furrowed, addressed the council. "What is the likelihood of calling the other lords to muster their forces and march north to aid the North against the Wildlings?" he inquired. He then turned to the Lord Commander, making it clear who the question was for.

Lord Commander Ryam Redwyne, his white cloak billowing, spoke with a solemn tone. "Your Grace, a royal procession alone would take a month to reach Winterfell. Assembling the armies of the realm would consume a better part of two months. If everything went perfectly—no days to rest, sufficient food, favorable weather, and no unforeseen challenges—it would still take nearly five months more to march the entire force north. And that's only to Winterfell; the Wall lies even further north."

The men continued to argue and debate on what actions needed to be taken. Aemon looked to Lord Hightower; Aemon knew in his heart the Lord Hand was not adding any beneficial information because the North was allied with Aemon, and in turn, Daemon weakening the North meant weakening Daemon. They continued to argue, but most of the information circled and agreed with one another, save for the fact that none of the information went to aiding the North but more so of the fact that the North needed aid, to begin with, and that the Crown must supply it. If the Crown did not aid the North in a time of peril, it would showcase a dangerous president that the Crown would let the realms suffer if the danger was only for one kingdom. Aemon hated all of it. He may have been weak in the ways of politics, but he knew how to fight, and the North needed people to fight.

Maester Runciter, with a sense of urgency, added to the grim assessment. "Your Grace, with the current pace of the Wildlings' advance from beyond the Wall coming south, they would reach the Wall well before any significant support could arrive. The North would be left to face an onslaught of nearly a hundred thousand Wildlings with no hope of reprieve."

King Jaehaerys absorbed the dire information, his mind racing to find a solution. "So, by the time our armies reach the North, the damage would already be done," he remarked with a heavy sigh.

As the debate continued, Viserys, his brows furrowed, raised a pertinent question. "Why can't the Tullys or Arryns send their troops to aid the North? They are the closest and could provide swift support."

Lord Otto Hightower, maintaining his composed demeanor, responded, " "The Arryns are currently dealing with a delicate situation in the Vale. A number of Stone Crows have been causing unrest, and the deaths of Lady Jeyne Arryn's father and elder brothers years ago, have not quelled the Stone Crows' bloodlust. Sending troops from the Vale could worsen the situation rather than improve it." He continued, "As for the Tullys, their relations with the Starks have been strained since Prince Daemon and Princess Lyanna. The incident where they ran away together, breaking Lyanna's betrothal to House Tully, has left a lingering bitterness. It may not be wise to rely on the Tullys for immediate aid."

"Enough of this bickering," Aemon proclaimed, his voice resonating through the chamber. The young prince spoke with a clarity and conviction that demanded attention. There was no anger or rage; it was more akin to tiredness, tiredness of politics, and a need for action. "The longer we argue, the less time the North has to survive. Winter is coming, and it does not wait for men to prepare. Those who don't prepare will freeze and starve." He turned his gaze toward King Jaehaerys, addressing him directly, "Your Grace, you have dragons and riders. Send them to end this before it spirals out of control."

Lord Otto Hightower, feigning kindness, retorted, "Prince Aemon, the affairs of the realm are more complicated than a boy's understanding."

Aemon, unyielding, responded, "If I am a child, then I know how children argue. The small council is doing just that when we should be executing results, not merely reacting. When a building is on fire, one doesn't fix it by pointing it out; they fix it by pouring water on the flames."

King Jaehaerys looked at Aemon with a solemn expression. "Aemon, my boy, I have no dragons to send forth. I am too old to make such a journey on dragon's back, and Viserys must stay behind to guard the city. There should always be a dragon rider in King's Landing, and he needs to learn how to rule from me. Your father, Prince Daemon, is holding his position against a possible Dornish invasion. As for your cousin and aunts – Viserra, Aerea, Rhaella, Daenerys, Saera, Rhaenyra, and Maegella – they are too young for such battles, and their dragons are not yet old enough for such a fight. We have no dragon riders available to handle the situation and fly to the North in time to aid them."

As the small council continued their heated debate, the realization of the limited options available became increasingly apparent. Each suggestion was scrutinized, debated, and often dismissed. The urgency of the situation clashed with the logistical challenges of mobilizing a force to the North.

The king acknowledged the practical challenges, understanding that it would take months for the Crown's forces to reach the North. Nevertheless, the message conveyed in those letters was clear – the Crown would not tolerate any threat to the stability of the realm. Whether it was to save the North or avenge its fall, the Seven Kingdoms would unite against the common enemy. The room, though still tense, acquiesced to this decision, recognizing it as the best available option given the circ*mstances.

Aemon's frustration simmered beneath the surface as the discussions in the small council unfolded like a convoluted tapestry. The reality of inaction gnawed at him, a stark contrast to the urgency that the situation demanded. His mind, a labyrinth of thoughts and reflections, delved into the intricacies of the predicament.

The Wildlings, a hardy and resilient people, were driven by necessity. Their harsh lives beyond the Wall had forged a survival instinct that surpassed the boundaries of kingdoms and politics. Aemon pondered the motivations that had propelled them to march south, challenging the imposing barrier of the Wall. Was it desperation, an attempt to secure resources for the impending winter, or was there a more sinister force guiding their actions?

Amidst the political maneuvering and debates, Aemon felt a deeper, more personal connection to the looming danger. His thoughts traversed the corridors of time, drawing parallels between his current life and the one he had led as Jon Snow. The weight of responsibility pressed upon him, a burden he carried with the knowledge that the destiny of the realm rested on the decisions made in these tense council chambers.

The room echoed with the clashes of opinions, but Aemon's mind delved into the core of the matter. The Wildlings, driven by primal instincts and a relentless pursuit of survival, were a force to be reckoned with. The Night King's army, an amalgamation of generations, threatened to plunge the North into chaos and destruction. Aemon, fueled by a resolute determination, vowed silently to confront this menace head-on, armed with the wisdom of a past life and the weight of a future unknown.

The Wildlings, a formidable force numbering a hundred thousand, possessed the strength to overwhelm the Night's Watch and seize the Wall. The logical progression of their advance should have seen them battering at the gates of Castle Black, yet the eerie calm persisted. Aemon questioned the motives behind this apparent restraint. Was it a tactical decision, a diversion, or did an unforeseen force govern the Wildlings' actions?

The uncertainty clawed at Aemon's thoughts, a disquieting presence that fueled his relentless search for answers. The Wildlings, driven by survival instincts, had shown a penchant for chaos and destruction in their southward march. The absence of an immediate assault on the Wall confounded the conventional expectations of warfare.

Aemon's contemplations traversed the spectrum of possibilities – a hidden agenda, a leader's indecision, or perhaps a force beyond the realm of mortal understanding at play. The mysteries of the far North, where ancient magic and forgotten truths lay dormant, cast a long shadow over the unfolding events.

The Wildlings' decision to withhold their full force from assaulting the Wall presented a conundrum. Their knowledge of the North and the Night's Watch, like a two-edged sword, cut both ways. A lack of recent encounters had shrouded the Wildlings' understanding of the Wall's defenses, just as the Night's Watch remained unaware of the formidable army assembling in the far North. The Wildlings did not have a King Beyond the Wall at some time, and without a King Beyond the Wall, there would never have been a Wilding army capable of fighting the entire North. Due to the Night's Watch and the Wildings not having a true war against one another in some time, neither fully understood how much the other force had in number. If the Wildings knew how many Night's Watchmen there, nearly six thousand, then the Wildings would have rushed and attacked the Wall already.

After two hours of intense discussion, it became evident that no consensus could be reached on an immediate, effective course of action. Despite the lack of a concrete plan, King Jaehaerys made a decision. Letters were to be written and sent to every lord in the Seven Kingdoms, urgently informing them of the threat beyond the Wall. They were instructed to ready their men for a march, as a demonstration of the Crown's commitment to defend the realm.

Alone, in his chambers, at night, Aemon pondered the Wildlings' strategy – a strategic dance with the unknown, a gambit where the element of surprise held considerable weight. The wild expanses beyond the Wall harbored ancient secrets, and the Wildlings, under a yet unknown leadership, chose when and where to unveil their strength.

The recurrence of a divided Wildling force – a vanguard to the south while the main host approached from the north – whispered of a tactical acumen that struck a chord within Aemon's memories. It resembled a tactic he had once encountered, a maneuver that had left an indelible mark on Aemon, or rather, Jon Snow.

As the fragments of recollection danced in the recesses of Aemon's thoughts, the answer lingered just beyond his grasp. The complexity of the Wildlings' approach mirrored a past encounter, his encounter with them as Jon Snow, an eerily similar scenario that eluded the grasp of immediate recognition.

The knowledge of the Night's Watch's strength, numbering six thousand, weighed heavily on Aemon's thoughts. The current count surpassed the figures from his previous life as Jon Snow, and he couldn't shake the unsettling awareness that this time, the challenges were greater, the stakes higher.

The mutinies within the Night's Watch had sown discord, reaping a grim harvest of five hundred lives lost in brutal battles. Another five hundred had managed to escape, seeking refuge in a ramshackle fortress that would eventually evolve into the notorious Craster's Keep. Aemon's understanding of the North's intricate web of events, past and present, informed him of the make-shift defenses erected by these deserters.

The five hundred deserters refortified the keep with ditches and wooden walls to hold off from invasion, from what the scouts could discern. The fortified keep, now housing the renegade Night's Watchmen, stood as a symbol of defiance beyond the Wall. Craster's Keep had become a haven of outcasts, a makeshift bastion ensconced in the frozen wilderness. The wooden walls, though rudimentary, spoke of a resourcefulness born out of necessity, a desperate attempt to secure safety amidst the unforgiving landscape.

Aemon's contemplations brought forth a chilling realization. The path of the Wildling army, heading from the north to the south towards the Wall, would inevitably intersect with Craster's Keep and the renegade Night's Watchmen dwelling within. These deserters, who had managed to cause the internal strife of the Night's Watch, would reveal critical information to the approaching Wildlings.

The deserters, having knowledge of the Night's Watch's numerical strength and the manned castles along the Wall, unwittingly held a key to the Wildlings' understanding of their adversaries. If the Wildlings reached Craster's Keep, they would be privy to crucial intelligence about the Night's Watch's composition and fortifications. This knowledge, in the hands of the Wildlings, could alter their strategic approach and potentially hasten their assault on the Wall.

The Wildlings in close proximity to the deserters could expedite the timeline of their attack on the Wall. The original estimate of a month or more might be reduced to a mere week if the Wildlings, informed by the unwitting Night's Watch deserters, opted for a swifter and more aggressive approach.

Aemon's mind churned with questions and concerns as he pondered the purpose behind the initial wave of Wildlings, the vanguard of the impending invasion. Why had twenty thousand Wildlings crossed the Wall ahead of the main force? Was it a strategic maneuver to sow chaos and confusion, a deliberate attempt to distract the North and strike at the Night's Watch, which lacked the formidable defenses of the southern regions?

The implications were dire. The North, vulnerable and unprepared, would bear the brunt of the initial onslaught. The Night's Watch, lacking substantial fortifications from the south, would be vulnerable to a southern strike as it was designed after one Lord Commander tried to make himself king, and the Stark Kings brought him down and destroyed any southern walls to ensure it never happened again The vulnerable south of the Night's Watch would become a primary target for the advancing Wildlings, unleashing havoc and death in their wake. Aemon grappled with the harsh reality that the North could crumble before the other kingdoms could rally sufficient forces to mount a defense.

Understanding the urgency of the situation and driven by a sense of duty, Aemon found himself echoing the sacred vows of the Night's Watch, words that had transcended time and resonated through the ages. "Night gathers, and now my watch begins..." The solemn oath, etched into the very fabric of the Night's Watch, became a rallying cry within Aemon's heart. Without a second thought, he walked to a small bookcase that was in front of a painting of Aenys and Maegor playing as children as Aegon looked on to his sons. Aemon moved the painting ever slightly and found a small opening that was too small for a man to use but just enough for a child of six to worm into.

Navigating the labyrinthine passages with an almost instinctive familiarity, Aemon traversed the hidden corridors within the Red Keep. These clandestine pathways, remnants of Maegor the Cruel's reign, were known to few, and Aemon's knowledge of them was a testament to the secrets woven into the very foundations of the castle.

The air within the concealed passages was thick with dust, undisturbed by the casual observer for years. The narrow confines created an atmosphere of solitude, a clandestine realm insulated from the grandeur and intrigue that played out in the visible chambers of the Red Keep. Dim light filtered through the thin walls, casting feeble glimmers into the secretive passages, just enough to guide Aemon's way.

The stables were shrouded in shadows as Aemon approached, his movements silent and deliberate. The air within carried the familiar scent of hay, straw, and the musky fragrance of the horses. Aemon's chosen mount, a small black colt gifted to him by his father Daemon, stood patiently in its stall, its eyes reflecting the dim light.

Aemon's fingers traced along the smooth surface of the colt's mane, a comforting touch that conveyed both purpose and reassurance. The horse, attuned to its rider, responded with a nudge as if understanding the gravity of the moment. The young Targaryen prince, burdened by a sense of duty and urgency, moved with practiced ease as he prepared his steed for the journey that lay ahead.

He fastened a simple, well-worn saddle, its leather telling tales of previous adventures. Aemon's hands moved deftly, securing each strap with the precision of someone who had spent countless hours in the company of horses. The colt, spirited yet obedient, stood still, seemingly aware that this was no ordinary outing.

He had waited for when the gates opened, hidden away and out of the sight of the guards, for lords who had been arriving late into the night from the brothels. Once the doors opened, he rushed through and quickly made sure to lose any trace of followers by making far too many turns for any of them to follow; at one point he even made four left turns, enough to return to his same starting point and rushing down the path while any followers, which there were none, Aemon was paranoid, would be lost after following the first turn going straight. The night cloaked Aemon's movements as he swiftly made his way from the Red Keep to the Dragonpit. The rhythmic beat of his horse's hooves echoed in the empty streets, a clandestine symphony under the shroud of darkness. He rode with a purpose, the urgency of the impending threat propelling him forward.

Approaching the Dragonpit, Aemon dismounted and led his horse through the shadowed entrance, seeking the concealed path that would take him to the heart of dragon lore. The Dragonpit held a mystique that transcended time, and at night, it looked like a mass of darkness, with torches only illuminating such a small portion of the structure that it looked like only the fires glowed and that it did not showcase any of the structure save for the dark silhouette.

Navigating the dimly lit corridors of the Dragonpit, Aemon's footsteps were silent against the aged stones. His heart was beating far too quickly for his liking and yet the familiarity of such fears was a comfort in itself because fear meant he was alive, and equally as important, sane, and not yet mad like some of his future family members, Aemon did not count Maegor the Cruel as mad, because he was like Tywin Lannister and he was not considered mad. Aemon moved with the quiet determination of a sworn protector, driven not only by the immediacy of the Wildling threat but also by a sense of duty ingrained in the vows he bore.

Aemon heard a voice in his head; he had spoken too soon, and he was mad. The voice was a contradicting thing, the sound of a thousand angelic whispers and the sound rumbling from the depths of volcanoes. The ethereal guidance whispered through the corridors of the Dragonpit, the resonance of an ancient tongue weaving intricate instructions into Aemon's consciousness. The voice, resonating like the reverberations of molten earth, directed him with otherworldly wisdom, its origins embedded in the cryptic depths of high Valyrian.

Aemon, entranced and humbled by the guidance, moved with a newfound certainty. The labyrinthine passages of the Dragonpit, once a potential maze at night, espically since far too few torches were lit inside at night, now unfurled before him as a guided path. The voice steered him away from patrolling guards, concealed him in the shadows at crucial moments, and guided him toward the elusive heart of the Dragonpit.

As Aemon delved deeper, he felt an unspoken connection between his purpose and the ancient language echoing in his mind. It was as if the very stones of the Dragonpit whispered secrets of a time when dragonlords ruled the skies. The voice, a manifestation of an age long past, wove its narrative into Aemon's quest, a harmonious blend of fate and duty.

Aemon followed the voice to a familiar opening cavern, an enclave large enough to swallow the Red Keep twice over. The night sky did almost nothing to illuminate the darkness of the large opening. It was nothing but blackness and darkness; it was as though this large opening was the end itself, and Aemon was walking into the end with open arms. Aemon recalled the last time he had come to this place; it was through Vermithor's own territory, but the way he came may have been the way in which the dragon he sought out first carved and opened this large area but due to it being far too dark for human eyes to see Aemon would never know how wide of a passage the one he took was.

The cavern beneath the Dragonpit, expansive and shadowed, seemed to hold its breath as Aemon lingered in the darkened embrace. The silence hung heavy, broken only by the distant echoes of the city above. Aemon, patient and vigilant, felt the resonance of power pulsating through the very rock beneath him.

Then, as if the earth itself acknowledged his presence, a subtle vibration coursed through the cavern. The ground trembled, and Aemon sensed the stirring of something ancient, something deeply embedded in the roots of the world. The anticipation heightened, and the air crackled with latent energy.

As the tremors intensified, Aemon knew that the time had come. It was a familiar sensation, one he had felt the last time he entered the Dragonpit, under different circ*mstances. The earth responded to the ancient call, and Aemon braced himself for the revelation that awaited in the heart of the cavern.

The rhythmic cadence of colossal footfalls echoed through the cavern, a prelude to the arrival of an ancient and indomitable force. Aemon, standing in the dim illumination of the Dragonpit's depths, felt the air itself warp with the immense heat radiating from the approaching behemoth. The oppressive atmosphere seemed to thicken as Balerion the Black Dread, the embodiment of dragonfire and dread, drew near.

As the shadows coiled around the colossal dragon, its massive form began to materialize—a living obsidian monolith, an avatar of Targaryen might and power. The cavern, accustomed to the weight of its ancient resident, now quivered with the anticipation of unleashed power. So hot was the air coming from its body that the heat nearly melted stone. Aemon could barely even see the creature; the darkness of night masked Balerion like clothes do bare skin. Aemon did not know of any battles of Balerion during the night, but Aemon realized that Balerion seemed thrice as terrifying as before. At night, with no concept of his size and no clear visibility, Balerion looked like the night, the night alive, the night made flesh, the night taken form. It was as if all the night's darkness, all the missing sights were nothing but Balerion himself. One did not know where Balerion started, and the darkness ended.

Balerion's eyes, ablaze like molten rubies, bore into Aemon with a fierceness that transcended the passage of centuries. All Aemon could clearly see was the blood-red eyes of Balerion in the darkness, larger than Aemon, high into the skies, somehow glowing like the coals of a forge. The dragon's aura resonated with unrestrained wrath, a seething emotion tempest that surpassed mere beasts' realm. The sheer scale of the dragon, coupled with the intensity of its gaze, conveyed a timeless presence—a creature that had borne witness to the eons and would continue to endure.

As Aemon stood before the colossal dragon, the question hung in the air: Was he worthy of the ancient bond shared between the Targaryens and their dragons? Balerion, with eyes ablaze and wings folded, waited for the young prince to reveal his essence, to lay bare the core of his being.

Aemon, though dwarfed by the immensity of the dragon, refused to shrink beneath the weight of the scrutiny. The dragon's tooth alone was over twice the size of Aemon's entire body; the black tooth shone enough for Aemon to see himself in the reflection. If not for the torch Aemon had taken just before arriving, Aemon would have seen nothing, and in that nothing, the darkness would have consumed him. His gaze, unwavering and filled with determination, locked onto the molten eyes of Balerion. In that silent communion, Aemon conveyed a promise—an unspoken oath to uphold the legacy of House Targaryen.

The dragon rumbled, a deep and resonant sound that seemed to emanate from the very heart of the cavern. It was not a growl of hostility but a challenge for Aemon to meet. The air shimmered with latent power, a connection waiting to be forged between dragon and rider, a bond that transcended the boundaries of time and mortality.

Aemon took a step forward, his resolve unbroken. He raised his hand, and for a moment, it seemed as if the colossal beast would strike. Yet, as the seconds ticked by, a subtle shift occurred—an acknowledgment, a recognition of the Targaryen blood coursing through Aemon's veins.

Aemon took this as a sign to get closer. He took another and another. He reached his free hand to the ladder leading to the mount atop the dragon's back, more a net than a ladder, truly. Aemon grabbed the rope, took the first step upon the ladder, and ensured his footing by testing his weights twice before taking the next step. Balerion's long neck turning to allow the dragon to glimpse at Aemon as he rose higher.

The colossal maw of Balerion yawned wide, a cavernous entrance to an infernal realm. The flickering glow within signaled the imminent release of an elemental force that could incinerate armies and melt stone. But the flicker of flame made no light. Aemon had only seen it for a fraction of a second, and it was not because flames made light. No, somehow, it contradicted its own nature, and the flames took the light from everything around it; the black flames took light from a place that had almost none. Time seemed to halt for an instant—a heartbeat suspended in the silent tension of the Dragonpit.

Yet, in the face of the imminent torrent of flame, Aemon did not falter. His gaze held the fiery eyes of Balerion, an unspoken challenge returned in kind. Aemon stood on the net. This was how dragons were; one must be worthy of being their rider. The larger, more powerful, and the older the dragon, the deeper the need for one to prove to the dragon they were worthy.

As the fiery glow intensified within Balerion's gaping maw, the air around Aemon seemed to sizzle with the impending release of the dragon's breath. Once shrouded in shadows, the cavern now danced with the flickering light that heralded the destructive power about to be unleashed.

Aemon stood his ground, facing the imminent torrent of dragonfire with a resolute stare. The heat swelled, the anticipation building as Balerion prepared to unleash the destructive force that had instilled fear across generations.

Aemon Targaryen was standing resolute before the colossal form of Balerion the Black Dread. The cave was hot as magma, and the sulfur smell of the seven hells encompassed Aemon's senses as the young prince, though cloaked in the awe-inspiring presence of the dragon, uttered words in the ancient Valyrian tongue. Aemon spoke to Balerion, his voice strong and resolute; no fear was heard, even if Aemon felt it in his heart. Aemon said the words that he had read in Aegon's dagger the last time he was here.

"Hen issa ānogar, māzigon kivio dārilaros se zȳhon jāhor sagon se vāedar hen suvion se perzys."

But just as the flames were on the brink of bursting forth, something shifted within the ancient dragon. Once on the verge of consuming the young prince, the fiery anticipation now retreated. A subtle quiver passed through its colossal frame, and the searing inferno held at bay. The molten glow within Balerion's throat dimmed, and the imminent threat of annihilation receded.

Balerion, the Black Dread, regarded Aemon with eyes that seemed to pierce the very core of his being. The ancient Valyrian words echoed through the cavern, resonating with the magic that bound dragons and riders through time.

As Aemon uttered the High Valyrian incantation, the young Targaryen and the colossal dragon formed a connection. It was a bond woven with the threads of ancient sorcery and the shared destiny of dragonlord and dragon. The air itself responded to the words, vibrating with a resonance that transcended the ordinary.

At that moment, the fiery potential that had threatened to consume Aemon transformed into a manifestation of raw power. The molten glow that contradicted itself by consuming the light and darkness within Balerion's throat shifted, not in preparation for destruction, but as a response to the unspoken contract being forged. The flames pulsed with an otherworldly rhythm, an acknowledgment that this was no ordinary encounter. Balerion, the Black Dread, accepted the unspoken vow, and in that shared moment, a silent understanding passed between dragon and rider.

Aemon continued on. The closer Aemon got, the more he felt like Balerion was too large for this very world. This was the creature that did the most during the Conquest. This was the creature that made the Iron Throne. His climb to the dragon was slow, and while Balerion looked at Aemon, it was as though Aemon walked and climbed with purpose, but one could not walk without fear when the predator of the territory was waiting for you to make a mistake, waiting for the guard to be done and eat you.

The ascent of Aemon Targaryen, scaling the mammoth form of Balerion, unfolded in a slow dance between man and dragon. The cavernous expanse of the Dragonpit bore witness to the unlikely pairing, a small figure against the vast shadow of the Black Dread.

The climb was arduous, and the labyrinth of ropes seemed an intricate puzzle. Aemon, fueled by a determination beyond his years, persisted until he reached the pinnacle of Balerion's back. There, against the backdrop of scales that glistened like midnight, the boy secured himself to an oversized saddle meant for a full-grown rider. Aemon, a mere speck in the grandeur of Balerion, sat resolutely in the saddle.

The saddle on Balerion's back, a stark juxtaposition against the majestic dragon's gleaming scales, bore the scars of functionality rather than aesthetic refinement. It stood as a testament to utility, a tool fashioned for the raw purpose of riding into the heart of unknown realms. It was asymmetrical, crude, and distinctly unadorned—a far cry from the opulent trappings of royal steeds.

Aemon, strapped onto this unwieldy apparatus, gripped a handle that seemed to have endured countless journeys. The young Targaryen, undeterred by the saddle's lack of elegance, sat resolute in his pursuit. As he urged Balerion to move, the massive dragon responded to Aemon's command, muscles rippling beneath obsidian scales. The cavernous chamber echoed with the sound of his steps.

"Jikagon, Balerion, jikagon!" Aemon's voice, firm and determined, cut through the air. The ancient dragon, heeding the call, carried the small figure atop his back towards the cavern's entrance. The journey into the unknown awaited, and the unspoken bond between rider and dragon set the stage for a destiny that unfolded with each resolute step forward.

The rhythmic thunder of Balerion's footsteps reverberated through the cavern, each stride shaking the very foundations of the subterranean realm. Aemon, perched atop the dragon's back, felt the vibrations course through his being, a testament to the immense power of the creature beneath him. The entrance was too small for Balerion; it should have been big enough for Vhagar, maybe if Balerion were fifty or sixty years younger and far smaller. It was so small that Ameon realized that Balerion had not left the caves in decades.

As Balerion approached the cavern's exit, Aemon's mind churned with questions. How had the great dragon survived in this confined space for decades? What sustenance sustained such a colossal beast in the depths of the earth? The young Targaryen's thoughts raced, the mysteries of Balerion's existence weaving a tapestry of wonder and intrigue. The dragon, however, exhibited an unwavering determination to traverse the smaller entrance. Aemon clung to the crude saddle, eyes wide with anticipation. Balerion slammed into the cave entrance as the stalactites and stalagmites fell and crumbled. The earth shook as Balerion slammed into the entrance with enough force to crumble keeps and castles.

The resounding tumult echoed through the Dragonpit, a symphony of destruction as Balerion, the Black Dread, burst forth into the open. Rubles and rocks are flying and careening in all directions. The explosion of stone and rock flying into the Blackwater Bay. Dust and clouds of grim and dirt covered everything around them as the form of the Black Dread began moving through the smoke and dust it covering his body like a blanket. It was as though Balerion was the largest arrow ever shot as he was covered in rubble and dust, like a gray comet. The very earth quivered beneath the dragon's colossal form, and Aemon clung to the ungainly saddle, a witness to the raw power unleashed by the mighty beast.

Balerion's immense wings unfurled, stretching like the shadowy wings of a dark deity, and with a mighty beat, the dragon ascended into the night sky. The ground trembled with each powerful thrust, and the fragmented remnants of the cave's entrance crumbled in the wake of Balerion's emergence.

King's Landing, nestled below the Dragonpit's hill, felt the shockwaves of the dragon's escape. Balerion took serval flaps of his wings before the dragon that had broken out of the ground bellow the cliff that the Red Keep rested on, began to ascend high into the skies, higher then the Red Keep. Buildings trembled, and the citizens, caught in the grip of unexpected fear, looked skyward, unsure of the source of the seismic disturbance.

Aemon, atop Balerion's back, clung to the saddle as the dragon soared higher, leaving the shattered entrance and the Dragonpit behind. The night air rushed past them as they ascended, a swirling current of wind and freedom. Aemon's heart raced with a mixture of exhilaration and trepidation; his destiny intertwined with the legendary creature that bore him aloft.

Beneath the colossal silhouette of Balerion, King's Landing lay cloaked in the dragon's shadow. The only thing showcasing the dragon mid-flight was the countless stars in the sky; whenever Balerion passed, his black silhouette covered the stars enough for his form to be seen. The monstrous wings, a span that seemed to span the entire heavens, eclipsed the celestial bodies, casting an otherworldly darkness upon the city. The roars echoed through the night, a proclamation of Balerion's return to the realm of the living. The large black dragon covered the moon and stars, and the white light of the stars and moon was blotted out by the large body. It was as though the shining night sky was nothing but a blackened abyss.

As the deafening echoes of Balerion's triumphant roars resonated through the night air, the people of King's Landing stirred from their slumber. The city was plunged into a surreal scene between awe and terror. The ancient dragon, whose existence had been shrouded in myth and legend, had emerged with a ferocity that demanded attention.

"Sōvegon, Balerion, sōvegon!" Aegon roared.

Back in the skies, Aemon clung to the saddle atop Balerion's back, the wind whipping through his hair as they soared through the night. The city, now far below, looked like a sprawling mosaic of flickering candles against the encroaching darkness.

Aemon's small form clung to Balerion's scaled back, his eyes wide with wonder and amazement. His fingers tangled in the coarse mane of the dragon, feeling the warmth of Balerion's body beneath him. The night air was crisp, and Aemon's cheeks flushed with the cold as he grinned from ear to ear.

As Balerion soared through the skies above King's Landing, Aemon's first flight became an exhilarating dance between fear and awe. The dragon's colossal wings, each beat a hurricane-force gust, propelled them forward with a speed that defied earthly limits. The sheer force of Balerion's wings threatened to tear Aemon from the saddle, sending him momentarily airborne before he desperately secured himself once more.

The winds rushed past him, tousling his unruly black hair and pulling at his cloak. The sensation was exhilarating, a wild dance with the elements. Aemon's heart pounded in sync with the dragon's wings, the thud echoing through his chest. He felt alive, liberated from the constraints of the ground, a creature of the night sky.

In the midst of this soaring journey, Aemon couldn't contain his joy. He threw his head back and howled into the skies, a sound of pure elation that echoed through the night. The dragon beneath him responded with a mighty roar, its scales shimmering in the moonlight. The bond between rider and dragon deepened with each passing moment, a connection forged in the crucible of flight.

The city of King's Landing unfolded below like a sprawling tapestry, its intricate patterns illuminated by the soft glow of moonlight. The Red Keep, with its towering spires, stood as a sentinel against the night sky. The city's countless structures, from the modest dwellings of Flea Bottom to the opulent estates of the nobility, formed a mosaic of light that shimmered in the darkness. As they ascended higher, Aemon's eyes widened at the breathtaking sight.

The Red Keep, with its sprawling courtyards and formidable walls, looked like a miniature fortress from their vantage point. The winding streets of King's Landing, normally teeming with life, were now silent and tranquil beneath the dragon's shadow.

The rush of wind against Aemon's face carried with it the scents of the city — a mixture of saltwater from the bay, the aroma of hearth fires, and the faintest hint of blooming flowers. Balerion's wings continued to beat with a rhythmic force, creating a mesmerizing symphony that resonated through the night.

Aemon's gaze wandered beyond King's Landing towards the horizon where the vast expanse of the Crownlands stretched out before them. The rolling hills, the distant forests, and the shimmering waters of Blackwater Bay came into view. It was a panorama that few had witnessed from such heights, and Aemon marveled at the beauty of the world unfolding beneath Balerion's wings.

As they continued their flight, Aemon clung to the saddle, the rush of wind and the unparalleled view etching memories of his first flight into his mind. The thrill of the skies, the sights of the world below, and the realization that he was now part of a mythic tale unfolded before him, promising an interesting story for future history books.

As Balerion ascended higher into the night sky above King's Landing, Aemon clung tightly to the dragon's back, his small hands gripping the scales. Despite Aemon's attempts to command the mighty beast, Balerion seemed to have a mind of his own, ignoring Jon's wishes and soaring even higher into the vast expanse. Balerion seemed to revel in his newfound freedom, disregarding the commands of his young rider. The wind howled around them as they ascended beyond the clouds, the air growing colder and thinner. Aemon's fingers tightened around the scales beneath him as he held on for dear life.

The city lights below began to resemble distant, twinkling stars as they climbed above the clouds. Aemon's eyes widened with a mixture of awe and trepidation as Balerion pushed the boundaries of the night sky. The air grew colder, and the atmosphere thinned, but the dragon showed no signs of slowing down.

Then, abruptly, Balerion ceased his powerful wingbeats, halting his ascent. The sudden stillness in the air left Aemon momentarily breathless and weightless. Before he could comprehend what was happening, Balerion executed a breathtaking maneuver. The dragon flipped gracefully in the air, his massive form twisting against the backdrop of the moonlit clouds.

The world seemed to spin around Aemon as Balerion faced downward, hurtling toward the ground with alarming speed. The sensation of weightlessness enveloped Aemon, his stomach lurching as the dragon descended in a controlled freefall. The wind roared in Aemon's ears, drowning out any other sound, and his black hair whipped wildly around his face.

Balerion's wings remained tightly folded against his body as the dragon executed the daring descent. The night air rushed past them like a torrent, and the city lights blurred into streaks of color. Aemon's heart raced, a thrilling mixture of fear and exhilaration coursing through his veins.

The descent continued faster than Aemon could have imagined. The ground below loomed closer, and Aemon's screams of glee mingled with the wind's howl. It was a heart-stopping moment, a plunge toward the earth that defied the conventions of gravity. In those fleeting seconds, Aemon felt truly alive, suspended between the heavens and the world below.

As Balerion neared the ground, the dragon opened his wings with a powerful beat, arresting their descent just above the city's skyline. The sudden change in momentum sent a jolt through Aemon's body, and he clung to Balerion, breathless and exhilarated. The dragon leveled off, soaring low over the city, and Aemon, despite the initial shock, couldn't suppress the laughter that bubbled up from deep within. It was a laugh of triumph, of conquering the night sky alongside a creature born of legends. Aemon turned to Balerion as the dragon looked back, and Aemon dared say the dragon looked smug with every faint twitch of its lips showing a smile.

As Aemon guided Balerion through the skies toward the North, the wind rushing past them carried a chill that spoke of the skies' icy embrace. Aemon, drawing from his experiences as Jon Snow and former rider of Rhaegal the Emerald Death, expertly handled the dragon's reins, ensuring a steady and controlled flight. Aemon knew from experience it would take a day and night, with no rest and stops, to reach Winterfell itself. But it only took a bit more than half that time to reach the Riverlands.

The Riverlands unfolded beneath them, its terrain a patchwork of fields, rivers, and woods. Aemon knew well the lingering resentment the River lords harbored for House Targaryen, a sentiment rooted in the tumultuous past of his parents, Daemon Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. Aware of the uneasy reception he might face, Aemon decided to press on without lingering in the Riverlands.

With each beat of Balerion's powerful wings, the landscape transformed below. As Aemon pressed onward, his thoughts turned to Winterfell and the Wall, symbols of his past and the looming threat beyond.

Balerion, the mighty Black Dread, was an awe-inspiring sight against the sky. As they approached the familiar territory of the North, Aemon couldn't help but feel a mixture of anticipation and uncertainty. The North was his ancestral home, and Winterfell held the memories of his upbringing as Jon Snow.

As night fell, Aemon decided to descend and find a secluded spot to rest. Landing Balerion in a quiet valley, Aemon dismounted, feeling the weight of his journey and the burden of the responsibilities that lay ahead. The embers of a long-dead campfire hinted at past travelers who had found solace in this hidden alcove.

Aemon gathered some dry wood and kindled a fire, its flickering light casting shadows on the rugged terrain. He leaned against a rock, contemplating the path he had chosen. The rhythmic crackle of the flames provided a comforting backdrop to his thoughts.

The night passed, and as dawn painted the sky in hues of pink and gold, Aemon rose to continue his journey. The North awaited, and the ancient magic that bound him to Balerion whispered of a destiny entwined with the impending threat beyond the Wall. With resolve in his heart, Aemon mounted Balerion once more, guiding the dragon northward toward Winterfell and the looming darkness that threatened to engulf the realm.

As Balerion soared over the lands of House Reed, Aemon marveled at the mysterious nature of Greywater Watch. The ancient castle, shrouded in secrecy, had eluded the gaze of many over the centuries. Aemon knew that the Crannogmen, the elusive people of the Neck, were skilled in the art of moving their home to avoid unwanted visitors.

Despite the vastness of the landscape beneath them, Aemon's attempt to locate Greywater Watch proved futile. The marshy terrain, interspersed with winding rivers and dense vegetation, concealed the elusive keep. Balerion's roars echoed through the swamps, a proclamation of Targaryen's presence in the North.

With a resigned sigh, Aemon urged Balerion to continue their journey. The plan to gather northern houses and march to the Wall remained unchanged. The Crannogmen, bound to their secretive ways, would remain a mystery to Aemon.

As Balerion circled over the marshy lands of the Neck, Aemon contemplated the enigmatic tactics employed by the crannogmen. The elusive nature of Greywater Watch had long confounded would-be invaders, and the strategic advantage of the terrain was evident in the failed attempts to conquer the keep. Aemon recognized the significance of securing the crannogmen's support, not only for their knowledge of the region but also for their unique skills in guerrilla warfare.

With a resolute decision, Aemon guided Balerion toward the heart of the Neck, seeking to make contact with the crannogmen who dwelled in the hidden recesses of the marshes. The challenge lay not only in finding Greywater Watch but also in earning the trust of a people accustomed to isolation and secrecy.

As they descended toward the boggy terrain, Aemon scanned the surroundings for any signs of the crannogmen. The landscape seemed to shift beneath the dragon's wings, mirroring the elusive nature of the keep they sought. Aemon knew that patience and diplomacy would be essential in gaining the cooperation of the crannogmen.

Aemon heard the sounds of movement to the northeast. He urged Balerion closer to it and soon realized it was the sound of rushing men and screams of blood lust. The sounds of battle echoed through the marshes as Aemon descended, his eyes narrowing to discern the chaotic scene unfolding below. The dim light cast long shadows over the boggy terrain, where the clash of arms mingled with guttural roars and the squelching of mud-soaked boots.

As Balerion came closer to the soggy ground, close enough for the trees to nearly touch Balerion's stomach, he bearly glided over the tree line. With a single flap of his wings, the winds picked up so harshly that trees were uprooted, and the gust of wind forced everything around like the push and pull of a hurricane.

Aemon's gaze fixated on the confrontation. A horde of Wildlings, perhaps a hundred in number, their unkempt forms moving with primal intensity, surged downhill toward a small group of Northmen of no more than two dozen. The Northerners, clad in armor dulled by the marsh's muck, stood resolute against the impending onslaught.

Among the defenders, one figure brandished a formidable pike adorned with a flag displaying the emblem of a black lizard-lion on grey-green—a clear indication that these Northmen hailed from House Reed. Aemon recognized the sigil, a reminder of the elusive crannogmen's loyalty to their ancestral home.

The Wildlings, armed with makeshift weapons, advanced with a ferocity that threatened to overwhelm the outnumbered defenders. The clash was visceral, the mud-soaked battleground becoming a canvas for the brutal dance of combat. Aemon felt the tension in the air as the fate of the Northmen hung in the balance.

Without hesitation, Aemon urged Balerion forward, the dragon's massive wings casting shadows over the skirmish. The sight of a dragon descending upon the battlefield momentarily arrested both Wildlings and Northmen, their attention diverted from each other to the new, unexpected player in the unfolding drama.

Balerion, the Black Dread, descended upon the marshy battlefield with a thunderous impact that shook the very foundations of the land. The colossal dragon's landing was a force of nature, sending shockwaves through the muck and causing every man in the vicinity to be thrown to the ground, caught in the grip of Balerion's might.

As the great dragon stalked forward, its scales gleaming like polished obsidian, a palpable sense of dread swept over the Wildlings and Northmen alike. The ferocity of Balerion's presence was enough to incite terror in even the bravest hearts. The Northmen, familiar with the ancient tales of Targaryen dragons, watched in awe as the legendary creature stood before them.

Balerion, towering seven hundred feet tall, far larger than the conquest that made him famous, surveyed the battlefield with a regal air. His eyes, as red as blood, glowed with a fierce intensity. A roar erupted from the depths of his powerful chest, a sound akin to rolling thunder that reverberated through the marsh. The sheer force of the roar was enough to make men clutch their ears in agony. Some began running but Balerion roared, roared like the living thunder and most men fell to their knees and covered their ears. The message clear, move and die.

No one dared to move as Balerion, the embodiment of death and destruction, presided over the scene. It was then that a realization dawned on the men below – atop Balerion's back stood a figure, small in comparison to the dragon but undeniably a dragonrider.

Aemon, having dismounted Balerion, strode purposefully towards the group of Northmen, his eyes scanning the faces for signs of recognition. He found that Balerion's presence was more than enough to keep everyone at bay due to no one wanting to anger the creature that stopped the fight. The Northmen, still recovering from the shock of Balerion's arrival, parted to allow Aemon through. The Reed banner, depicting a black lizard-lion on grey-green, fluttered in the marshy breeze, signifying their identity.

The Northmen of House Reed, clad in armor that bore the marks of the swampy terrain they hailed from, eyed Aemon with a mix of astonishment and gratitude. Aemon's presence, coupled with the legendary dragon at his side, marked a turning point in the battle.

Aemon descended from Balerion's back, his small frame in stark contrast to the colossal dragon behind him. The marshy ground beneath his boots squelched with each step as he approached the Northmen, who were now gazing at him with a mix of awe and reverence. The Wildings, still frozen in fear, cast wary glances at the Targaryen boy.

A wildling saw Aemon and looked at Balerion; they grumbled and cursed, but when they made a sudden movement, Balerion let out a deep rumble that showcased his willingness to burn them all.

A wildling spoke up, low enough that it was clearly intended for their fellow wildlings, but Aemon heard it. "A bloody child! The f*ck is that thing? How does a f*cking child tame something as long as the f*cking Wall is tall?"

A wildling woman with sun-kissed hair looked at the large, strong man who spoke. "Skinchanger, that's what he is. A strong one. I didn't even know a skin-changer could tame a thing that f*cking big."

"I didn't know the gods made something that f*cking big," another returned. "No ordinary lad could command a beast like that."

The Northmen, on the other hand, erupted in cheers at the sight of Aemon Targaryen, the son of Lyanna Stark, descending from the mighty dragon. The news of a dragon rider in their midst being Lyanna's son and the legendary Balerion was his mount spread through their ranks like wildfire, even if it was not needed since they all saw it.

Aemon turned to the Northmen and found a man who seemed to have been in charge. A shorter man with a pudgy belly. His long hair was of whips, almost like he had hair that reached his lower back but came from nothing. It was the deep green eyes that Aemon noticed; it marked the man as Reed, at least, it marked him as related to the three Reeds Aemon had during his lifetime as Jon Snow.

Aemon stretched his arm out for the older man, a head taller than Aemon, to clasp their arms with a smile as he looked at Aemon. "House Reed, I presume? I've heard tales of your moving castle. Impressive, though I must admit, hard to find."

The man was all smiles as the smile lines near his eyes shone how the man smiled more than frowned. "Aye, my prince. We've been expectin' the Wildings to make their way down. Never thought a dragon would arrive first.

"I am Aemon Targaryen, son of Princess Lyanna Stark and Prince Daemon Targaryen," Aemon told the man.

The crannogman looked to Aemon, smiled, and hooked his arm around a fellow soldier. "A Targaryen! Ha! We thought we were done for, but now we've got a dragon on our side."

"On that we know," he returned with a smile.

"You have her hair a curly, long mess, my prince."

"You don't need to finish every sentence with, my prince. I would rather not with the formalities," Aemon returned.

"You act like her, too," the man smiled as he reminisced. "Politer than her, but she hated the formalities just as much." he laughed as he looked at Aemon, and for the life of him, Aemon did not think the man was looking at him but rather through him to see Lyanna. "I am Jorah Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch."

"Lord Reed, I've come to rally the North against the impending threat from beyond the Wall.

"You're a boy," Jorah replied, looking at the five-year-old Aemon. The smile was gone and replaced with the harsh face of a Northman. "You don't even have a f*cking sword," he pointed out skeptically.

"Did you miss the large dragon behind you? I don't think the wildlings here did, and neither will be their kin," Aemon said. The pair looked at each other, staring for some time. Green eyes met the near-black-purple of Aemons. Aemon was calm, stoic, a form of emotionless only those of the Stark blood could show, for they were of the winter. "Winter is coming, Lord Reed; the wildlings seek to bring it to the North. It is high time they are reminded that the Starks rule over Winterfell, and it is they who bear the titles lords of winter."

Lord Reed said nothing as he looked at the small boy. The crannogman were short themselves, but even he was taller than a boy of five-name days. "Even with the Dread, I will not follow a mere boy so young that he pisses grass into a battle. I will not have the death of a child on my conscience when I face the gods. I will not follow a Targaryen, boy."

"There has never been a Stark who forgot an oath. And for a Stark, their first oath, before the Crown, is to the people of the North. I may not have the Stark name, but I have their blood. The blood of the kings of winter, the blood of the North. The North remembers."

No man said anything for some time as they looked to Lord Reed. The man looked to Aemon, anger etched into his face before a smile as grand as any North man could produce broke on his face. "The North remembers!"

"The North remembers!" the men of House Reed screamed in response.

"House Reed will stand behind House Stark as it has for a thousand years! And I will stand behind Aemon Targaryen. The Prince of the North!" he screamed. Many men screamed in response to Lord Reed's words; chants of the prince of the North echoed amongst the two dozen men. "What is your plan, your grace?"

"The Night's Watch can't hold back the tide alone; they are vulnerable in the South and will not survive if the Wildings attack from the South while the North is scattered around and leaving them to do as they wish. If the Wildings defeat the Watch, the remaining Wildlings will be free to climb the Wall, and the North will be lost to a force of over a hundred thousand wildlings, more than twice the North's number. We need to unite the North and prepare for the battles ahead. Will you join us?"

"Aye, my prince. The Reeds stand with the North."

"Get the rest of you soldiers from Greywater Watch to help chain the Wildings. Call the other crannogmen houses. House Blackmyre, House Boggs, House Cray, House Fenn, House Greengood, House Peat, and House Quagg. We will march North to Winterfell and get as many other houses as possible."

"It will take three days to summon them all, your grace," Lord Reed replied.

"You have one," Aemon replied. "The North has no time to give. Send riders and ravens. Tell the lords to meet at the Moat. Once all of them are there, march north to Winterfell."

"As for you?" the man asked.

"Once these Wildlings are in chains and the soldiers are here, I have to take Balerion and inform the other houses of the North and ensure the Wildings are not doing the same amount of damage as they would have here. House Reed is not the only Northern house that needs my aid and not the only house who are bannermen of House Stark."

Lord Reed nodded and agreed to the terms given; he ordered soldiers with letters sent to each crannogmen in the area and sent ravens to every keep in the north. The words were simple: "Winter was coming for the wildings, and with it came fire and blood." Simple enough and easy enough for the lords of their castles to know, only one person could claim the words of House Stark and House Targaryen. Even if the person was but a boy, if the words were said, the northern lords knew the crown would support them.

The one soldier that went to Greywater Watch returned with two hundred more soldiers from the keep. The soldiers were not there, to begin with, because Lord Reed had not gone to attack a group of wildings but to scout a small settlement that supposedly survived a wildling attack, which he did not believe even happened due to wildlings rarely going that far south.

Before the Aemon could climb on Balerion to leave, Lord Reed stopped the boy. He would not allow his prince to leave without some weapons to arm himself; Aemon had none due to leaving so quickly from King's Landing, trying to leave before anyone could stop him. He handed the prince a short sword and a dagger. He asked that Aemon not to leave the dragon, mostly as a jest because both knew he would not have done it; it would be foolish for a boy of five to fight any battles without a giant black dragon by his side if he had one, but he would ensure that Lyanna's son was ready for a fight if the boy was as stubborn as his mother to fight even if everyone tried to stop him.

Balerion took to the skies as they flew over the North for less than an hour. The icy skies allowed the winds. As Aemon soared through the northern skies atop Balerion, the mighty dragon's wings casting shadows over the rugged landscape, he set his sights on Flint's Finger.

Chapter 11: The Wall

Chapter Text

Aemon Targaryen/ Jon Snow

The North 102 AC

The stone keep emerging on the horizon, a somber fortress of black stone walls and four square towers that reached stoically toward the heavens—sitting upon two stone hills with a bridge connecting the castle's two separate parts.

The banners of House Karstark of Karhold adorned the walls, a stark imagery of a white sunburst on black. The keep stood proudly amidst the northern wilderness, a testament to the resilience of the northern houses in the face of the impending threat, of the impending winter.

Descending outside the walls, Aemon saw the Karstarks bustling about, their faces etched with the weariness that came from preparing for the inevitable confrontation with the Wildlings. The air smelled of burning hearths and the faint scent of pine, a familiar northern ambiance that resonated with both familiarity and foreboding.

The sun began to dip below the horizon, casting a palette of warm hues across the sprawling landscape. Below, the forests and fields stretched out like a vast tapestry, the realm untouched by the impending danger that lurked beyond the Wall.

As Balerion descended upon Karhold, Aemon was met with the wary eyes of the Karstark guards, their armor clinking as they tightened their grip on weapons. Aemon, a mere child atop a colossal dragon, was an unsettling sight for those unaccustomed, especially since the black dragon was larger in size than their keep. The dragon was three times the size of the entire keep and was without his wings stretched wide for flight.

The guard, dressed in black and grey armor, stood tall on the ramparts of the outer walls. "Who goes there?"

"I am Aemon Targaryen, rider of Balerion the Black Dread. I've come seeking aid against the Wildling threat that plagues the North."

"A Targaryen, you say? With black hair? Targaryens don't have black hair. There are no black-haired dragon riders; everyone knows that." the guard said. Aemon was slightly surprised that a soldier did not know who he was. Aemon thought it was common knowledge across the Seven Kingdoms, especially the North, that Daemon Targaryen took Lyanna Stark as a wife and had a son. Even if no one knew yet that Aemon rode Balerion, a black-haired Targaryen was known through most parts of the continent.

"You daft c*nt," another guard said, smacking the man behind the head. "That is Lyanna's boy. We did not know you were coming, your grace. No one did."

Aemon smirked at the reprimand. He turned to the man who was chastised and claimed that Aemon being a Targaryen was a jest. "Jest or not, the Wildlings are real, and they've already reached these lands. I am going to every house of the north to converge to Winterfell to fight off the imposing threats."

The captain exchanged wary glances with his men, their skepticism giving way to a realization that the times ahead were far graver than they had imagined. "We'll take you to Lord Karstark. He'll decide what aid we can offer."

The courtyard of Karhold was filled with a hushed tension as Aemon dismounted from Balerion, the great dragon's wings folding gracefully as it settled. Before Aemon could take a step, the gates creaked open, and a figure emerged, armor stained with the telltale signs of battle—a testament to the harsh realities of the North. The man with a thick, graying beard and balding head fell to his knees and bowed. "Karhold is yours, your grace."

The sudden act of submission sent ripples through the gathered crowd, soldiers and smallfolk alike. Aemon, taken aback, looked at the Lord, and the people followed suit as they bowed to Aemon.

Aemon gestured for the man to rise as all others waited for their Lord to rise first before doing the same. "Rise, my Lord. There's no need for such formality."

Lord Karstark got up to his feet. And looked down at the Stark-looking Targaryen. "Your grace, I never thought to see a Northener riding a dragon in these lands."

Aemon smirked slightly before his face turned back to serious brooding. "I imagine the North has had its fair share of surprises lately. I am Aemon, son of Lyanna Stark. I've come with urgency, seeking aid against the Wildlings."

The Lord showed no signs of surprise as he spoke. "I figured as much, lad. My daughter is your grandfather's good sister. I knew very well that if the Stark blood ran true in you, you'd come here to fight, but I thought a few knights would be enough to stop you. We had no word that you were coming... and the dragon?"

"It's a recent development. I claimed Balerion the day before last and flew north immediately. The North does not yet know of my arrival; my grandfather, Lord Stark, does not know I have a dragon yet."

"Knowing that you have Balerion before Rickon Stark does is something I am going to hold over him until my dying day," Lord Karstark chuckled with much mirth. "The North will rejoice at this news. We've been praying for some hope, your grace."

"Hope is what I've come to offer," Aemon said. "Actually, I offer a dragon, but I believe Balerion would be enough," he returned. Some of the courtyards chuckled.

"Sharp little wolf, aren't you, my prince?" Lord Karstark asked. The man sighed before he looked at Aemon skeptically. "Why have you come, your grace?"

"We must gather the strength of the North to face this threat together. The wildlings have crossed the Wall, but there are nearly one hundred thousand still North of the Wall, and they will come through soon."

Aemon looked around the courtyard and the people to see their reactions. The courtyard of Karhold bore the scars of recent struggles, the air thick with a mix of tension and weariness. "Three fights we've had with the wildlings already lost no less than three dozen men. The savages are relentless," Lord Karstark cursed.

Aemon nodded solemnly as he looked Lord Karstark in the eyes. "I know of the fighting. That's why I came as swiftly as I could. The North needs every blade it can muster."

"It's a long journey to Winterfell, boy. You should rest. We all should."

"I'll rest when the North is secure. We don't have the luxury of time."

Silence lingered for a moment before Lord Karstark, recognizing the urgency in Aemon's eyes, asked the inevitable question. Lord Karstark seemed to struggle with something in his heart. "What do you need from me?"

"Gather as many guards as you can. We march to Winterfell. The North must stand united."

Lord Karstarkt said nothing for some time before looking to Balerion; as it towered over Karhold, Balerion dwarfed the walls and the keep in size and height, then back to Aemon. "I'd have done so already, but the Wildlings keep attacking around the keep. I can't leave Karhold unattended, or the common folk will be slaughtered."

Aemon's gaze hardened with resolve as he considered the predicament.

"If you don't go, the wildings already south will march to the Night's Watch and take the Night's Watch from the south, where they are weak. Once The Watch falls, the Wall will fall to the hundred thousand coming down from the deep North. You won't be alone. We will take down as many wildlings as we come across before we go to Winterfell. The crannogmen will reach the Moat. "

"Your grace, my men will be too weary to join forces with anyone if we keep on needing to fight skirmishes in the surrounding lands," Lord Karstark replied.

"I have not stopped in two entire days; I flew from every keep in the North that is south of Winterfell and stopped as many wildlings as I could to get all the houses to rally their men and march. Torrhen's Square, Castle Cerwyn, Oldcastle, New Castle, Widow's Watch, Flint's Finger, Hornwood, I went to all these castles and then spoke to the Lords who ruled over them and went on to more and more keeps to ensure the House Stark has their banners called. I have not failed yet and will not do so now."

"Your grandfather had sent the ravens to call his banner, but we had not the chance to act on them due to the wildlings already upon us," Lord Karstark told him.

"That is why I am here. Me and my dragon, my Lord. That last push. I fought enough skirmishes for the wildlings to know of my dragon and will retreat, maybe for enough time for the North to regroup," Aemon said. As he said that, Balerion let out a deathly roar that shook the keep and the ground around him; it was as though Balerion was calling a storm with nothing but a shout.

"What of you, my prince?" the man asked.

"I will go North," Aemon said resolutely.

"My prince?"

"Beyond the Wall," Aemon clarified. "The Night's Watch deserters that make camp north of the Wall, have information on the Night's Watch that, if the wildlings learn of it, will speed up their march and take down the Wall in a few days rather than a few weeks. Weeks that could give us time to band together to face off against the wildlings," Aemon clarified.

The man said nothing for some time. He looked to Aemon, then the people in his keep; some were still covered in blood from the last wilding raids, one of which must have invaded the keep somehow. Both Aemon and Lord Karstark looked to a girl who had her arm severed several days ago as the raw red stump was being rebandaged. "For the North," was the only reply Aemon was given. Aemon knew all was settled, and he left to go North to the Wall.

Flying deeper into the North, the landscape shifted beneath them. Vast forests and snow-covered peaks stretched out, a testament to the rugged beauty that characterized the northern realm. Aemon's thoughts turned to Winterfell, the seat of House Stark, and the Wall, the ancient barrier that guarded against the mysterious forces beyond.

The frigid air stung Aemon's face as he soared over the unforgiving landscapes of the North. Balerion, the Black Dread, beat his colossal wings against the biting winds as they advanced toward the Wall. The skies, once a canvas of azure, were now draped in the pallor of winter soon to come.

The frigid air cut through Aemon's cloak, given to him by the Flints of Flint's Finger, which he had spoken to directly after House Reed, as he soared over the snow-covered expanse of the North, the biting winds accompanying him on his journey. The landscape, usually clad in the greens and browns of summer, was now a vast sea of white, an unyielding winter even in the heart of the warm season.

Balerion's wings beat against the cold currents, propelling them forward with a powerful rhythm. The icy winds rushed past Aemon's face, his eyes squinting against their sharp bite. The vastness of the North unfolded beneath him, a land untouched by the warmth of summer.

The snow-covered hills rolled below a serene but harsh beauty that painted the land in hues of white and grey. Frozen lakes mirrored the cold sky above, their surfaces reflecting the desolation of the North. Streams and rivers lay hidden beneath layers of ice, waiting for the elusive warmth that seemed to elude them. Aemon could see a large structure in the distant north, one that almost bended in with the snow and ice, but so large was the building, the Wall.

As Aemon approached the Wall, its massive structure loomed like a great sentinel of ice against the barren landscape. As Aemon gazed upon the colossal structure that was the Wall, memories of his time as Jon Snow flooded his mind. The immense barrier stretched three hundred miles across the Northern landscape, a formidable bulwark against the unknown lands that lay beyond. Its sheer size, seven hundred feet tall, was a monument to the strength and determination of the Night's Watch.

The Wall, a combination of ice, stone, and earth, possessed an imposing presence visible for miles around. Depending on the weather and time of day, it took on different hues—grey or blue, a silent guardian standing tall against the elements. The top of the Wall was a broad expanse, wide enough for a dozen mounted knights to ride side by side, and it grew thicker at its base.

Aemon couldn't help but marvel at the Wall's straight, unyielding line, resembling a sword thrust into the very heart of the North. Yet, it wasn't a continuous structure; from Castle Black to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, it stood proud and unbroken, but between Castle Black and the Shadow Tower, it wound like a serpent, adapting to the natural contours of the land.

The enormity of the Wall, reaching seven hundred feet into the sky, was a scale beyond Aemon's comprehension. It was as tall as Balerion was long, casting a shadow over the vast, snowy landscape below. As he approached the Wall on the back of the mighty dragon, Aemon felt a mix of awe and determination, knowing that the fate of the North rested on the resilience of this ancient barrier and the sworn brothers who defended it.

Aemon steeled himself for the journey northward, ready to soar over the Wall and confront the challenges that lay ahead. His mind swirled with conflicting emotions and memories—of Jon Snow, the man he used to be, who had lived among the Free Folk, sharing their meals, their language, their lives.

As he prepared to face the Night's Watch deserters and the looming threat of the Wildling forces, Aemon couldn't shake the knowledge that he might have to unleash the destructive power of Balerion upon those he had once called allies. Aemon thought he might use Balerion to destroy the future Craster's Keep and eradicate the five hundred or so deserters in a single move, quick and easy. If it came to it, he could go further north and show the Free Folk who they truly were facing. He harbored no illusions about the harsh realities of war. Having lived with the Free Folk, he understood their ways, their struggles, and their fierce determination to survive.

Aemon had loved among them, dined at their hearths, and even shared their beds. But duty, that unyielding force that had led him to kill his own kin, now beckoned him beyond the Wall. The weight of duty, the solemn commitment to protect the realm, outweighed the warmth of love and desire. Jon Snow had fought wildlings beyond the Wall, and Jon Snow had killed several to escape and warn the Night's Watch of Mance Rayder. Jon Snow killed his fellow Northmen while fighting to reclaim Winterfell for House Stark. Aemon cared about the living and would fight for it, but he could only fight for the living if he was himself living to do so.

In his heart, Aemon knew that love might be the death of duty, but for Jon Snow, the Kin Slayer who had brought about the fall of Daenerys Targaryen, duty was the death of love. His duty to face the Long Night meant that he would do anything necessary to unify the realm, even killing the Free Folk he knew so well. He would try to avoid killing them, but Aemon knew that Free Folk respected strength, and the person who was willing to use it, not just threaten with it, and a dragon is nothing if not strong.

Balerion's thunderous roar echoed through the air as Aemon pressed his mount toward the Wall, determined to confront the Night's Watch deserters and the looming Wildling threat. However, Balerion, the mighty Black Dread, defied his rider's commands. With a powerful beat of his wings, the dragon stopped abruptly, turning sharply to fly backward, away from the Wall.

Aemon, perplexed and disturbed, pulled at the reins, attempting to guide Balerion past the monumental structure of ice. Yet, the dragon resisted, repeating his refusal to cross the Wall. Aemon tried several more times, each time with the same result. Before the snout of the dragon could pass a section of ice, the dragon would turn back, going south so quickly that if Aemon was not secure on his saddle, Aemon would have flown right off.

Confusion clouded Aemon's mind. His recollection of Daenerys using dragons beyond the Wall to rescue him from the Others, clashed with the present reality. Why did Balerion, now under Aemon's command, hesitate to pass the Wall and venture beyond?

Aemon's frustration grew with each attempt to persuade Balerion to cross the Wall. The dragon's defiance perplexed him, and a sense of foreboding settled in his chest. He tugged at the reins, urging Balerion forward, only to be met with the same unyielding resistance.

Aemon struggled against the invisible force that held Balerion back from crossing the Wall. Balerion would not even reach the first inch of ice; he merely turned around right before his snout could even pass the first section of ice. Frustration transformed into anger, and he screamed in futile defiance. The dragon refused to pass the monumental ice structure.

Aemon's anger boiled to the surface, his screams echoing in the icy air as he grappled with the realization that his dragon, the mighty Balerion, would not heed his call. The ominous presence of the Wall, standing as an insurmountable obstacle, fueled his frustration.

Questions swirled in his mind—was there some ancient magic lingering within the Wall that affected the dragons? Did Bran the Builder, the one who made the Wall, put magic into the Wall that prevented magic from crossing? Or was Balerion sensing a danger beyond, one that even the dragon hesitated to confront? It didn't matter if he could not cross the Wall with a dragon he would have to do so the original way.

As Aemon approached Castle Black on the colossal Balerion, guards hurriedly gathered at the gates, their faces a mix of fear and awe at the sight of the mighty dragon. The walls were pathetic, weak, and run down, just as the kings of winter wanted them to ensure another Lord Commander did not try his hand at becoming a king of the Wall once more. He dismounted once more and walked closer on foot.

One bold guard, perhaps driven by curiosity, dared to question Aemon's presence. "What brings you here, lad? And what's that monstrous beast with you?"

Aemon, looking toward Balerion, replied with a stone-cold face of emotionless indifference, a face Aemon heard several guards claim was Stark. "Seems rather obvious, doesn't it?" Aemon pointed to the large dragon that dwarfed the entirety of Castle Black in size. The dragon that size compared to only to the Wall itself, Balerion's head alone covered the sun from shining on Castle Black as he raised his long neck into the skies with pride. "Large dragon, Stark coloring. I'm a Targaryen, and this here is Balerion. That should answer the first part."

"What brings a Targaryen to the Wall?"

"The wildings. I need to speak with the Lord Commander." The guards seemed to not wish to put up a fight with a dragon rider as they hurriedly ordered the gates opened.

The gates of Castle Black groaned as they opened, revealing the expansive courtyard filled with bustling activity. Balerion loomed over the ancient castle, his watchful eyes surveying the surroundings as Aemon entered with ten men of the Night's Watch by his side. Aemon observed the scene before him – a sight he never thought to witness again.

Within the castle walls, the air was alive with the clatter of armor, the ring of swordplay, and the diligent hum of men preparing for the unknown. The courtyard was a canvas of black-clad figures, each engaged in a task to fortify the stronghold against the imminent threat.

Aemon, his face an enigmatic mask, navigated through the sea of Night's Watch brothers, memories of his past life as Jon Snow resonating with the present. Though his expression remained stoic, a subtle satisfaction glimmered in his eyes at the sight of Castle Black teeming with life and purpose.

As Aemon traversed the familiar grounds of Castle Black, memories of his time as Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, flooded his mind. The imposing structure, not a true castle by traditional standards, stood defiantly against the harsh northern landscape. To the west, east, and south, there were no walls, only the formidable Wall to the north, a constant reminder of the Watch's sacred duty.

The castle itself was a collection of sturdy stone towers and weathered timber keeps, rising amidst the cold winds and biting chill. The structures bore the scars of countless winters, a testament to the enduring legacy of the Night's Watch. Subterranean passages, hidden beneath the keeps and towers, crisscrossed beneath the frozen ground, serving as vital conduits during the harsh winter months.

During Aemon's tenure as Jon Snow, these tunnels had been essential for navigating the castle's various sections, especially in the unforgiving winter. Now, as he walked through the courtyard, he could almost hear the echoes of conversations, the clinking of armor, and the rhythmic footsteps of Night's Watch brothers.

A small sept, under the guidance of Septon Chayle, if Aemon heard the men coming from the sept correctly, occupied a corner of Castle Black. Though modest, the sept held a quiet sanctity for those seeking solace and reflection in the face of the looming Wall. Aemon's gaze swept across the familiar sights, each stone and timber structure holding the weight of history and duty, a stark contrast to the ever-present threat beyond the Wall.

As Aemon is escorted through the bustling corridors of Castle Black, the eyes of the Night's Watch follow the towering silhouette of Balerion overhead, the dragon that played a pivotal role in forging the Seven Kingdoms. Whispers and murmurs spread like wildfire among the black-clad brothers as they caught sight of the young Targaryen prince, a mere five years of age, accompanied by the awe-inspiring creature that looms above. Aemon realized that the guards were leading him to the mess hall.

The crowd swelled as they approached the mess hall, where the Night's Watch was in the midst of a meager feast. At the high table, a gathering of distinguished figures occupied their seats. The maester, adorned with chains denoting his mastery of the Citadel's knowledge, was among them. The first ranger, a grizzled veteran of the icy wilderness, sat with a stoic demeanor.

However, it was the man at the head of the table who drew the attention of all present. The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, a formidable figure with a burly frame, stood out. His steel-gray eyes scanned the influx of men, and the long, curled black hair pulled back into a partial bun framed a face marked by a harsh scar. There was a stern strength about him, reminiscent of the northern lords of House Stark.

The Lord Commander's gaze focused, and he met the eyes of the young Targaryen prince. The air in the mess hall hung with anticipation as the commander assessed the unexpected arrival, his expression betraying the lineage of a Stark in the northern stronghold.

The long, robust hall of Castle Black echoed with the shuffling of armored feet as Aemon was led toward the high table. Balerion's looming presence cast a shadow over the proceedings, the awe of the Night's Watch evident in the hushed murmurs and exchanged glances.

As the company neared the high table, the Lord Commander rose from his seat, his gaze fixed on Aemon. The harsh lines etched into his seasoned face conveyed a lifetime of experience, and his deep voice cut through the murmurs of the hall.

"What's the meaning of this? Bringing a boy to the Night's Watch?" the Lord Commander's voice reverberated with authority.

The guards accompanying Aemon quickly spoke up. "Prince Aemon Targaryen, son of Daemon Targaryen. He came upon the back of the Black Dread, Lord Commander." Many men began speaking and whispering about Aemon as a prince and a rider of the Black Dread.

The maester, an older man, frail man with skin that hung from his bones as if no muscle was there, looked at Aemon with his one good eye. "The Dread, he is here? Aegon's dragon?"

Aemon did not need to answer, as one of the guards did so for him. "Aye, big f*cker too. It could climb the entire Wall in three steps if that. Just outside, looking over the walls."

Lord Commander Stark's eyes narrowed, a glint of recognition shining through. "Lyanna's son, then?" he inquired, though he seemed to already know the answer.

Aemon nodded in affirmation. "Yes, I am Aemon, son of Lyanna Stark."

The Lord Commander's gaze held a mixture of surprise and wariness. "I am Benjen Stark, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. What brings you to Castle Black, Aemon Targaryen?"

Aemon's mind raced as he connected the familial dots within the House Stark. Benjen Stark, the Lord Commander, was not merely a commander—he was kin. The realization flickered across Aemon's features, his eyes widening briefly before settling into a determined gaze.

"You're my mother's grandfather. You're Lord Stark's father, aren't you?" Aemon ventured, a realization dawning upon him.

Benjen Stark's stern countenance softened briefly as he acknowledged the connection. "Aye, that I am. Rickon's my son, which makes me your great-grandfather, young Targaryen." His soft smile turned back to the cold face of Starks. Aemon looked to the Lord Commander and could not help but see his Uncle Ned if the man had grown old; the Lord Commander was no less than five and a half decades of age, the cold, stoic face of Starks not helping with his weathered face. "Now, boy, what brings you here."

"I came to help against the wildlings," Aemon responded with determination. Laughter erupted from some of the Night's Watchmen at the notion of a child facing wildlings. Mocking comments about his bravery were thrown around.

Lord Commander Stark silenced the hall with a stern command. "Enough! This boy brought the Black Dread," he declared, his gaze unwavering. "A dragon's worth more than any army." The weight of his words hushed the hall.

Aemon stood resolute, facing the assembly in the mess hall as he continued to share dire news. "Nearly twenty thousand wildlings have crossed the Wall, setting the North ablaze, destroying villages and keeps. I encountered a few hundred near Greywater Watch."

Lord Commander Benjen Stark scrutinized the report with a furrowed brow. "Wildlings don't band together like that," he asserted, his skepticism evident. "I know thousands have crossed, but such a unified force, so far from the new King Beyond the Wall? Unlikely."

Aemon met the Lord Commander's gaze, his tone unwavering. "Unified or not, they are south of the Wall, wreaking havoc."

Benjen Stark shook his head, a seasoned commander's doubt etched on his features. "Even if that were true, our duty is to the Wall. We can't march south to aid the North."

Aemon's expression hardened, realizing the resistance he faced in convincing the Night's Watch to extend their efforts beyond their sworn duty. "Men and women are dying. I understand your duty to the Wall, but the threat is not only to the North; it's to all of Westeros. If we don't act, the wildlings will continue south, leaving destruction in their wake." Aemon's eyes darted across the faces of the Night's Watch assembled, his gaze piercing through the dimly lit hall. Seemingly shifting the focus, he addressed the matter of the deserters from the last mutiny in Castle Black. "Is it true that they've taken a small keep as their base?" he inquired, already knowing the answer.

Lord Commander Stark nodded solemnly. "Aye, they've holed up at Osric's Keep." Aemon knew of Osric Stark; he was the youngest Lord Commander in Night's Watch history, elected at the age of ten, and served as Lord Commander for over sixty years. But Aemon had never heard of Osric's Keep before. Was it similar to Craster's?

"Osric's keep?" Aemon asked.

The Lord Commander looked to Aemon for some time before explaining. "A small hut just a few days ride from the Wall. It once was made during Osric Stark's time as Lord Commander as a small fort for our brothers to use, but wildlings have invaded and taken it over occasionally. But not for long."

Aemon wasted no time in asserting the urgency of dealing with this threat. "We need to get rid of them, now," he declared, his voice unwavering.

Maester Chayle raised an inquisitive brow. "Why such haste, young prince?"

Aemon's eyes burned with intensity. "They know the strengths and weaknesses of the Wall. The wildlings would find them before they reach the Wall, knowing where to attack. The deserters can reveal our defenses, and the wildlings will exploit them."

"Even if the c*nts betrayed us, they would not work with wildlings," one man argued.

"Not much of a choice with a knife at their throat, is there?" Aemon retorted. "The wildling army would reach Osric's Keep if we intervene or not. And if they find former Watchmen, they will still hate them as members of the Watch and want them dead either way. Tonuges are loosened pretty well with the threat of dagger." The men began speaking to one another. "Or the promise of a wildling woman after having sworn off women as a brother."

The maester spoke up. "Brothers of the Watch swore off women and would not betray those vows."

"I suppose Mole's Town brothel doesn't exist then," Aemon commented. Half the men in attendance began laughing at the comment.

The first ranger then decided to comment. "Going to the Mole's Town brothel is far different than bedding a wildling woman. It's different than bedding the enemy."

"No brother would bed the enemy!" one man screamed.

Aemon looked to the crowd before screaming back. "No brother would kill one of their brothers either, but here we are. We know them to have forsaken their oaths for their desires. Would it be that far of a leap to think them willing to forsake their former brothers for their lives and pleasures?"

Lord Commander Stark spoke up, asking the brothers questions. "What proof have you?"

Aemon looked to all the brothers in the room; he stood tall, as tall as a child could be among hardened men of the Wall. "I fought many wildlings on the way over here."

Aemon could hear several brothers speaking to one another in hushed whispers. "Not much of a fight when the lad has the f*cking Dread itself to breath fire on them."

"I doubt he needed even to do that. Did you see that thing land by the castle? The dread could sh*t on us, and we'll die," another brother continued.

Aemon continued without thinking of their words to distract them. "Some of the wildings I helped capture have confirmed their plan. Once the main force attempts to climb the Wall, the wildlings will attack Castle Black from the south, where it's vulnerable, to eliminate any opposition from within."

A hushed murmur spread through the Night's Watch as the gravity of Aemon's words settled in. The imminent threat weighed heavily on the minds of those in the hall, forcing them to confront the situation's urgency.

Aemon's eyes held a grave intensity as he continued to address the Night's Watch. "If we eliminate the deserters now, the information won't reach the wildlings."

"There are five hundred of them," the first ranger countered. "We'd need more than that to even stage an attack. They have Osric's Keep, they have an advantage, and any man with a brain would try to make the keep a stronger defense, and I can say at least a dozen of those desert bastards have half a brain. They would have an advantage."

Lord Commander Stark then continued, "Osric's Keep may not be much of a stronghold, but when resources are scarce, and you have half a thousand men defending it, the keep would be something we would be hard press to attack. Harder still to come with a plan that doesn't leave our forces cut down by at least a hundred that would still need to fight the wildlings marching south."

The first ranger agreed with Lord Commander Stark, "I don't see any way for us even to fight Osric's Keep if the defenses are strengthened without it being a siege unless we draw the men out of the keep to fight. And only a fool would leave the defenses of the keep."

Aemon looked at the men and noticed he was losing them. "Not if they think they have the numbers. If the deserters think they are secure in victory with numbers, they'll crush the men to show the Watch that they can fight and try to show they are strong. A few men go in, draw them out into an ambush of far greater numbers, and it leaves Osric's Keeps defines useless for them."

"That's still five hundred men, lad. We'd need at least the same number of men to make the battle work," the first ranger argued. Aemon could see he disliked arguing with a child about war.

"Five hundred men tomorrow and a hundred thousand in a month sound far better to me than a hundred thousand men by the end of the week. Either kill the deserters now or die by the wildlings in a few days. The wildlings would know what the deserters know, and that would get every man here killed. They won't know where we're most vulnerable, and, more importantly, they won't realize the most important secret we are trying to hide from them."

The Lord Commander furrowed his brow. "What do you mean by the most important secret?"

Aemon took a deep breath before revealing the harsh truth. "The wildlings outnumber the Watch, and even if each man of the Night's Watch were to kill ten wildlings, it still wouldn't be enough. We can't win in a direct confrontation. They have strength in numbers, and we have strength in the Wall. But if they know our weaknesses, they can exploit them and take the Wall. If they march right now, the Watch loses in a day or less."

Lord Commander Stark remained silent for a moment, contemplating the gravity of the situation. The hall buzzed with murmurs, a mix of concern, uncertainty, and the realization that they stood on the precipice of a dire threat.

Finally breaking the silence, Lord Commander Stark addressed Aemon's proposition. "If we eliminate these deserters swiftly, it buys us time, time the North needs to rally. You believe the wildlings are unaware of their numerical advantage?" he questioned, his gaze fixed on Aemon.

Aemon nodded resolutely. "Yes, Lord Commander. They don't realize the full extent of their advantage. Once they do, they'll strike swiftly. Eliminating the deserters now could give us the time we need."

Lord Commander Stark said nothing for some time. Aemon thought this conversation was happening far quicker than he thought it would. Mayhap his great-grandfather was cunning enough to know he needed to speak to Aemon quickly, so the information was delivered. Not enough time was given for the men to doubt Aemon for being a child, even if Aemon's words carried significance. Aemon would have to thank his great-grandfather for it, even if the man didn't know it yet.

"You talk far too well for a Stark, boy, no matter how you look," Lord Commander lightly chided. "Never thought I would be hearing sensible reasoning of war from the lips of a child. I would like to know what the dragon's feeding you. Whatever it is, it's effective."

"Far smarter than I was at twice his age," the maester's voice cut through the air. "The boy speaks truth," he declared, his tone carrying the weight of authority. "The wildlings must not realize the extent of our vulnerability. We need time. We need to deal with the deserters, secure the Wall, and prepare for what's to come."

Lord Commander Stark leaned back in his chair, his weathered face reflecting the weight of command. "Very well, we'll send a force to deal with Osric's Keep. We can't afford the wildlings exploiting our weaknesses. But the North is vast, and rallying the lords may take time. We must prepare for the inevitable." The Lord Commander observed the reactions of the men in the room before nodding. "I will sanction the trip to dispose of the Night's Watch deserters, but I won't order anyone to go—only volunteers."

Aemon, with determination etched on his face, spoke up immediately. "I volunteer."

"The Black Dread will win this!"

"The dragons will burn those wildling c*nts!"

Cheers erupted from some of the men, glad to have the might of Balerion the Black Dread on their side. The cheers continued on as they screamed and roared in delight. Men began volunteering for the fight. The men had wanted revenge for those killed when the deserters. The men wanted blood because the wildlings crossed the Wall, and the deserters had killed many good brothers, from what Aemon had been told.

Aemon knew that he was asking much. He knew he was stretching things far too far by bursting into the doors, claiming many things, many of which make sense, but all this came from a child, and no man grown would listen to a child about war. But Aemon prayed that by just having Balerion, a dragon that forged the kingdoms, some of the reputation of the former riders may be enough to mask Aemon's lack of credibility. Most of the men in the Watch were commoners who had never seen a prince in person, and once with the Dread was enough to bring enough false hope to half the men to trust Aemon's words like he was a god. But those of higher blood in attendance only say Aemon is a child with a living weapon too large for a child. But Balerion would not be there. The only reason Aemon was even entertained as decibel was because Balerion and the dragon would not join them.

Aemon did not notice it, but his hands were opening, and his fingers were stretching as if grasping air as he kept his hands low, covered slightly by his cloak. However, the Lord Commander's discerning eyes fell on Aemon, catching the boy's attempts to conceal the frantic movement of his hand—opening and closing it repeatedly.

With a shrewd expression, the Lord Commander pointed out Aemon's anxious gesture. "I know that trait. You're hiding something, boy."

"I don't know what you mean," Aemon said as he forced his hands to stop.

"You're hiding something, boy. Speak. Now!"

All eyes turned toward Aemon as the Lord Commander confronted him. Hesitatingly, Aemon admitted, "Balerion can't go beyond the Wall. I've tried, and he turns back every time we attempt to pass."

The Lord Commander, stern and resolute, questioned Aemon's audacity. "Do you seriously think I'd allow a child, barely five, beyond the Wall? One without a f*cking dragon."

Aemon, undeterred, declared, "I will help and fight. The North needs it, and I'm going to give it."

The Lord Commander, unyielding in his stance, rejected the notion. "I will not allow a child, especially one of my blood, beyond the Wall."

Aemon, determined and frustrated, replied, "I frankly don't care. The Night's Watch and the North need every sword they can get. I will fight for them."

"You're a child!" the Lord Commander said with strength.

Aemon, undaunted, retorted, "Aye, I'm a child. A child knows other children."

"Watch your mouth, boy," the Lord Commander said.

"You're all screaming that you wish revenge on your false brothers and to stop the wildlings but won't do anything about it. Right now, you are a child screaming that the rules aren't fair. It's not fair that you have to stay on the Wall while wildings are burning the North, the North you once ruled, and you can't help your son. Right now, we have the chance to do what we can to buy enough time for my grandfather and your son to plan the counter. The Night's Watch needs every man and sword. I am willing to fight."

"I am Lord Commander here, boy. You will stay here. You will go back south with your dragon where it is safe," Lord Commander Stark looked at his decedent with the gray eyes of Stark.

The Lord Commander remained adamant. Aemon, however, reminded him of his royal status. "I'm a prince. While the Night's Watch may not follow the rules and politics of the South, they're still a part of the Seven Kingdoms. As a prince, I will go beyond the Wall, and there's nothing you can do about it."

Balerion roared in agreement, a thunderous proclamation that echoed through Castle Black. The roar made all men flinch as they looked at the skies and ceilings, wondering if the Black Dread would slaughter them all. Aemon reaffirmed his decision.

Aemon, unyielding, proclaimed, "I will go north."

After a tense moment of silence, the Lord Commander locked eyes with Aemon, acknowledging the stubbornness that ran in the veins of Starks. Finally, with a resigned sigh, he conceded, "You're as stubborn as a Stark, with the Wolf's Blood thick in your veins. As f*cking stubborn and Wolf blooded as your mother. I'm going to regret this, but if you get volunteers, you can go."

"I think there would be no shortage of men who want vengeance for the death of their black brothers," Aemon replied with no emotion shown on his face.

The Lord Commander, despite the tensions, decided to temporarily put aside the discussion. "We'll continue this later," he grumbled. "You've ridden far. You must be tired." With a gesture, he motioned for Aemon to follow him. "We'll get an expedition ready, but for now, you should rest." Aemon, still silent, nodded in agreement. The Lord Commander rose from the high table, addressing his Night's Watch brothers. "Continue eating. I'm taking my great-grandson to a room to rest." He led the way out of the mess hall, and Aemon dutifully followed him.

As they walked through the corridors of Castle Black, the Lord Commander's cloak billowing behind him, Aemon observed his great-grandfather in silence. Despite the two generations between them, Aemon's mother and her father before her, Benjen Stark seemed remarkably young and vigorous for his age. The black clothing and the wolf's pelt cloak spoke of strength and capability, traits evident in his tall and muscular form.

Breaking the silence, the Lord Commander pointed to Balerion, looming above them. "A dragon as big as a mountain, black as night. That damn thing is too f*cking big," he remarked. "Why haven't we heard of Lyanna's son claiming the Conqueror's dragon? Such news would spread like wildfire in the North." He glanced at Aemon, awaiting an explanation.

Aemon responded, "I claimed Balerion just a few days ago. The news hasn't had time to spread beyond the walls of this castle."

The Lord Commander's gray eyes bore into Aemon's darker ones as he dissected the timeline. "You claim to have bound with Balerion a few days ago, yet you've been to many castles in that time. Flying on a dragon from one castle to another would take more than a day," he pointed out, a note of skepticism in his voice.

"Right after I mounted Balerion, I set him to the North. We flew off minutes after our bonding, heading straight to the north," he admitted, revealing the clandestine nature of his journey. The Lord Commander raised an eyebrow, noting the secrecy surrounding Aemon's departure. Aemon acknowledged it further, stating he had snuck away in the dead of night to claim Balerion.

The Lord Commander regarded Aemon with a stern expression, his gray eyes scrutinizing the young prince. "Did you not consider visiting your grandfather, Rickon, at Winterfell before rushing to the Wall?" he inquired, curiosity lacing his words.

Aemon responded promptly, "I never had the chance. My priority was to reach the Wall as quickly as possible, to offer whatever help I could against the Wildings."

The Lord Commander's gaze lingered on the boy, his weathered face revealing little emotion. He spoke with an air of authority, "You're but a child, Aemon, too young to concern yourself with the threats beyond the Wall, with battles and wildings."

Aemon, however, held his ground, a determination in his voice. "One is never too young to care about the realm and the people of the North. Duty knows no age."

The Lord Commander remained silent for a moment, his stoic expression unyielding. Eventually, he nodded, acknowledging the conviction in Aemon's words. Lord Commander Benjen Stark led Aemon through the dimly lit corridors of Castle Black, the torches casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. His stern gaze never left the young Targaryen as he continued his inquiry, his questions direct and without hesitation.

"King's Landing, what did you think of it?" he asked, his voice gruff.

Aemon, walking alongside the Lord Commander, replied bluntly, "It smells like sh*t."

A faint hint of amusem*nt flickered in Benjen Stark's eyes, but his demeanor remained serious. "Fair enough," he muttered. "And the Red Keep?"

"Big. Lots of stairs," Aemon responded. His great-grandfather smirked at him. Aemon could tell he preferred Aemon's blunt words more than his long-planned speeches. Aemon may have had too good of a teacher in his wives during his life as Jon Snow.

Lord Commander Benjen Stark listened to Aemon's tales of the Red Keep and the Targaryen family with a reserved expression. The torchlight danced on the walls, casting shadows that seemed to flicker with the boy's words.

"So, you spend time with the king?" Benjen inquired, his voice gruff.

Aemon nodded, his eyes lighting up. "King Jaehaerys is kind. He teaches me about ruling and justice. He says I'll be a great lord one day."

The Lord Commander observed the innocence in the boy's response and couldn't help but feel a pang of concern. "And your family, Aemon? You're close to them?"

Aemon's face took on a thoughtful expression. "Uncle Viserys and Aunt Aemma take care of me the most. They teach me things, and we have fun together. But Rhaenyra, my cousin, always wants to play games, and then we get in trouble."

Benjen Stark let out a low chuckle, finding some familiarity in the dynamics of a family, even one as extraordinary as the Targaryens. "And your aunts?" he pressed, curious about the boy's relationships within the sprawling Targaryen family. Aemon knew he was speaking of King Jaehaerys' daughter, but technically, they were his great-aunts rather than just his aunts.

Aemon's brows furrowed slightly. "They're a year older, and they mostly spend time with Rhaenyra. We go to some classes together, but they're more interested in her since they spend more time with her when they have other lessons with their septa."

"You don't go to lessons with the septa, do you?" the Lord Commander asked, not looking at Aemon.

"No," he replied simply.

"Good, you are of the north. The septs and their septons are of the south, the Andals, lad. You may be born in the south and fly a dragon, but you are a Stark lad. You might not have my name, but you have my blood. True Northmen do not bow to a stone statue of a southern god," he said approvingly, his voice deep and stern.

The Lord Commander continued to lead Aemon through the corridors, contemplating the boy's words. In the midst of the Night's Watch and the icy halls of Castle Black, the stories of the Red Keep and the Targaryen court seemed like distant echoes of another world. The echoes of dragon wings and the scent of stone and mortar seemed to linger in the air as they conversed in the torchlit passages of Castle Black.

"You said Prince Viserys and Princess Aemma take care of you most. What of your father?" Aemon noticed the hint of anger when the lord Commander spoke of Daemon. Aemon did not know if he was angry at Daemon for his mother, Lyanna, passing away or because Daemon could not spend much time with Aemon.

"Kepa is building a new keep, Summerhall. It's going to be his new castle and a second seat for our house," Aemon enlightened.

"Building a new seat for House Targaryen," the Lord Commander mused. "That's a significant endeavor. Your father, Daemon, must be a busy man."

Aemon nodded, a small frown on his young face. "He is, but he tries to find time for me. He flies over to see me, and sometimes Uncle Viserys takes me to Summerhall so I can spend time with him there."

The Lord Commander's expression softened, recognizing the challenges of balancing familial duty with the demands of leadership.

"And what's Daemon like?" Benjen inquired further, curious about the man who was both Aemon's father and the builder of Summerhall.

Aemon's eyes lit up as he spoke of his father. "He's strong and honest. When he says he'll do something, he does it, no matter what others think. Even if Lord Otto dislikes it the most."

The Lord Commander nodded, appreciating the virtues of strength and honesty in a leader. Yet, the mention of tensions within the family caught his attention. "You mentioned Lord Otto Hightower," Benjen observed. "What's the story there?"

Aemon hesitated for a moment, realizing he might have said too much. "Lord Otto doesn't like my father, and my father doesn't like him. They've had disagreements, and they don't see eye to eye on many things."

The Lord Commander raised an eyebrow, sensing the weight of political complexities even within the mighty House Targaryen. "Politics are complicated. Southerners play too many games while women and children starve in the distant north. We don't have the time for their games, lad; we are from the North. There are more important things." Benjen remarked, his voice carrying a hint of understanding.

Aemon's voice echoed in the cold stone corridors of Castle Black as he delved into the intricate dance of tension between his father, Prince Daemon Targaryen, and Lord Otto Hightower. The Lord Commander listened attentively, the shadows dancing along the walls like silent witnesses to the tales being shared.

"Lord Otto and my father," Aemon began, his young voice carrying an air of understanding beyond his years, "they despise each other." The Lord Commander gestured for Aemon to continue, intrigued by the narrative unfolding. "One time," Aemon continued, "my father and Lord Otto crossed paths at a council meeting. Uncle Viserys couldn't make it and asked Kepa to take his place for the meeting. The tension in the room was noticeable, like the calm before a storm. It started with seemingly innocent words, but everyone in the room could feel the underlying tension. They exchanged words, seemingly polite, but every sentence carried hidden meanings and barbs."

"You understood them, what they meant?" the Lord Commander asked, skeptically of a small boy knowing hidden meanings to words that true meanings were opposite than hidden jabs.

"It's easy when you pay attention," Ameon said quickly.

"And how do you have this special magical power when the rest of our blood is as good at it as a fish is at walking?" he asked Aemon.

"I was born in King's Landing," was Aemon's only response. The Lord Commander said nothing for some time as they walked.

Balerion roared, a loud roar as if daring the Wall itself to combat the fire dragon that survived the doom of Vlarian. A roar as if saying that Balerion had survived the heat so hot that even dragons burned, and he would survive a cold so cold that death would freeze over. A roar that made even the gods of death shutter and the gods of war coward in fear. At that moment, Aemon understood why the small folk thought the Targaryens were gods among men, for they rode disaster and destruction itself, fire made flesh, death in mortal bones.

The torchlight flickered in the room as Lord Commander Benjen Stark turned from the window, his gaze meeting Aemon's. "Wolf's Blood runs strong in our family, boy," the Lord Commander remarked, a hint of a smile playing on his weathered face. "Your grandfather has a spirit as untamed as the North itself. The news of you bonding with Balerion, the Black Dread, would undoubtedly light a fire in his eyes." As Balerion's roars echoed through the courtyard, Lord Commander Benjen continued, "He'd throw a grand feast, I have no doubt. The North may be a harsh and unforgiving land, but we know how to celebrate victories. Your grandfather would roar with laughter and lift a horn of mead in your honor. I can imagine the scene," he mused. "Your grandfather would be boasting to every lord and lady about his grandson riding the legendary dragon of Aegon the Conqueror," he said with a wink to Aemon, which made Aemon chuckle.

The Lord Commander's eyes gleamed with a shared understanding of the proud, stubborn nature that defined House Stark. His gray eyes did not leave the large Black Dread. For a faint second, the old man seemed to have smiled before the smile faded into the stoic, icy face of the Stark kings. Aemon knew of his blood, how most were as cold as ice, but a few had the wills of wolves rather than the embodiment of icy winter. Most Starks acted like the winter itself as they were the Kings of Winter, but the few that had the Wolf's Blood were more ferocious and passionate than any man had any right to be, and they also died the soonest.

"He may be gruff and stern, your grandfather, but deep down, he'd be as proud as a dire wolf leading his pack. The Wolf's Blood demands respect, and having the might of Balerion under your command would be a testament to the strength of our house."

Balerion's roars outside seemed to harmonize with the Lord Commander's words, creating a symphony of power and ancient bloodlines within the walls of Castle Black.

Aemon was led to the familiar door of the Lord Commander's chambers. He recalled the bare and minimalistic room. In Jon Snow's time as Lord Commander, the Wall was bare, ruined, and nearly destroyed with cracked walls, and most things had to be repaired with ice due to materializes rarely being fully ready. Aemon could recall the cracks in the walls of the Lord Commander's chambers giving way to the winds as they whistled like the light signs of ghosts telling secrets. But that was as Jon Snow, as Aemon Targaryen the Watch had more men, more materials, and better maintenance.

The Lord Commander's chambers were a stark contrast to the austere conditions typically associated with the Night's Watch. As Aemon entered the room, the scent of burning wood greeted him, emanating from the robust flames in the stone fireplace. The warmth radiating from the hearth provided a stark relief from the cold winds beyond the Wall. The Lord Commander walking towards the flames.

The walls, adorned with the pelts of various animals, spoke of a leader who took pride in his surroundings. The furs were meticulously arranged, creating a rustic yet dignified atmosphere. It was a far cry from the sparse chambers Aemon had known as Jon Snow, a stark improvement brought about by the apparent revitalization of Castle Black.

The Lord Commander, in the process of stoking the fire, threw a couple of logs into the flames. The crackling of burning wood filled the room, a comforting sound that resonated with the newfound vitality within the Night's Watch.

Amid the enhancements, a solitary banner of House Stark hung in the corner, a silent reminder of the Lord Commander's roots and the legacy he carried. The dire wolf sigil, stark against the backdrop, held a prideful place in the chamber, representing the unyielding spirit of House Stark and its enduring connection to the Night's Watch.

As the Lord Commander gestured toward a chair by the hearth, inviting Aemon to take a seat, the room seemed to tell a tale of renewal within the ancient walls of Castle Black.

As Lord Commander Benjen Stark tended to the roaring fireplace, the flames danced, casting flickering shadows that played on the walls adorned with animal pelts. Though still belonging to the Night's Watch, the room carried an air of distinction, a testament to the respect and leadership bestowed upon its current occupant.

The banner of House Stark, solitary but proudly displayed, hung in the corner of the room. It bore the sigil of the dire wolf, the ancient emblem of the North. Aemon's gaze lingered on the banner, a visual reminder of the lineage he shared with the Lord Commander.

"Your grandfather's touch," Lord Commander Benjen remarked, following Aemon's gaze. "He had it sent in and redecorated it when I took the mantle of Lord Commander. The direwolf banner was his way of infusing a bit of the North's strength into these cold walls." As the flames crackled in the hearth, Lord Commander Benjen moved toward a small table, pouring two cups of a steaming liquid that filled the room with the rich aroma of hot, spiced wine. "Sit, Aemon," he invited, gesturing to a couple of sturdy chairs by the fireplace. "It's not every day we have a Targaryen in these chambers. Let's talk, lad. I didn't get many visitors after I swore my vows. Your grandfather sends letters, but that is most of it."

Aemon thought about being led to the Lord Commander's chambers. He recalled his great-grandfather saying he would lead Aemon to chambers for himself. Aemon knew that there had been a King's chambers, made for the crown if they ever visited; they were vacant for Aemon to use. "I-"

"Speak, lad. Let it not be said I ignored the thoughts in my own blood," the Lord Commander commented.

"I thought you were bringing me to mine own chambers, my lord."

"f*cking southerners, so proper that they turn my own blood, calling me my lord instead of grandfather," he mumbled before looking to the flames and taking in a deep breath. Lord Commander Benjen Stark regarded Aemon with a stern yet protective gaze. "Aemon, these are troubled times, and not all who find themselves at the Wall share your noble intent. Your blood ties to King Jaehaerys make you a target for those who hold grudges against the crown."

"And King Jaehaerys ordered most of the keeps in the realms to empty their dungeons and send them to the Wall. It did not help that since the men rebelled," Aemon realized.

The Lord Commander raised his eyes questioningly as he drank the ale down with a single gulp before pouring himself more. "How do you know this, boy?" he asked Aemon.

"I'm the king's cupbearer; I attend the small council meetings," Aemon said evenly.

The lord Commander nodded his head in understanding. He gestured towards the lone bed in the room. "This chamber is more secure than most, and I can personally see to your safety. I've seen enough in my years to know that even the sworn brothers of the Night's Watch aren't always free from treachery. That same treaty in the last mutiny killed the previous Lord Commander and allowed me to be voted in." Sipping from his cup of spiced ale, the Lord Commander continued, "I'll not have you endangered while you're under our roof. It's a precaution, Aemon, and one I hope you understand. We're dealing with more than just wildings and deserters these days. Besides, I feel I need to protect the men from themselves more than protect you from them."

Aemon frowned; the warmth of the fires did little to stop the chill of the news. "Is it because of the dragon?" he asked, glancing toward the darkened skies where Balerion stood guard over Castle Black.

The Lord Commander's gaze remained steady. "Partly. Your dragon's presence has its own challenges. We need to be vigilant. But it's also because of you, Aemon. The North is harsh, and I won't have you wandering around unguarded."

Aemon took another sip, contemplating the Lord Commander's words. "I can take care of myself," he declared, his voice carrying the stubbornness of youth.

Lord Commander Benjen Stark chuckled. "No doubt you believe that, but even Targaryens need a bit of guidance. And in times like these, the Night's Watch looks out for its own, regardless of name or bloodline. Besides, you're still a child."

The two talked for hours, deep into the night. The older man did not have much time to speak to his true kin, and Aemon had not spent much time among the Starks since his life as Jon Snow. Lord Commander Stark spoke to Aemon of stories of Lyanna when she was a girl and of other stories of his grandfather and his mother's uncle, Bennard Stark. And with those talks, Aemon fell asleep, and for the first time in a long time, the dreams were not of dead men and lost loved ones.

As Aemon Targaryen drifted into the realm of dreams, he found himself transported to a distant and otherworldly North. The landscape unfolded before him, vast and unexplored, shrouded in a blanket of pristine snow. The air was frigid, each breath he took turning into a visible puff in the icy atmosphere.

In this dream, Aemon was not himself; he was a creature of the wilderness, a dire wolf prowling through the silent woods. The scent of pine, earth, and the crisp cold air enveloped him as he navigated the snow-covered terrain. His senses were acute, and the world appeared in shades of silver and blue under the moonlit sky.

The dream unfolded like a vivid tapestry, leading the dire wolf version of Aemon through the snowy expanse until he encountered a majestic stag, its antlers crowned with frost. The stag's breath formed clouds in the wintry night as it grazed in the moonlit glade.

Driven by instinct, the dire wolf launched into a swift and silent pursuit. The chase was an intricate dance between predator and prey, the dire wolf's powerful strides matched by the stag's graceful leaps through the snow-covered forest. Eventually, the dire wolf closed the distance and sprang into the air, jaws snapping shut on the stag's vulnerable neck.

Blood sprayed forth in crimson arcs, and the taste of iron filled the dire wolf's mouth as it clamped down, securing its hard-earned meal. The forest around them seemed to hold its breath; the only sounds were the crunching of snow beneath the dire wolf's paws and the fading heartbeat of the vanquished stag.

Aemon, as the dire wolf, devoured the stag with a primal hunger, the metallic tang of blood lingering on his tongue. The dream was a visceral journey into the heart of the North, a world where the line between man and beast blurred beneath the silver glow of the moon. As the dream continued, Aemon would navigate this wilderness, guided by instincts older than the Wall itself. Aemon woke up, and when he put his finger to his lips, he saw blood on his fingertips coming from his mouth, the mouth of a dire wolf in the form of a man.

It took an entire day for the force to be assembled to go beyond the Wall. The men watched vengeance for the brothers who died from the previous mutinies. Too many had died, and they would not have the criminals survive for their treason. Aemon did part of the convincing, but no man would listen to a child no older than half a decade, but the few that did convince the rest not for the realm to prosper and fight wildlings but for violence for the brothers that were killed. The following day, the men were ready, not truly ready for a long journey, but vengeance was a good motivator, and the men got ready as quickly as possible.

The group assembled at Castle Black, a formidable force of six hundred brothers of the Night's Watch, led by Aemon's great-grandfather, Lord Commander Stark. The courtyard buzzed with activity as the men prepared for the perilous journey beyond the Wall. Aemon, now on foot, felt the absence of Balerion's towering presence. The dragon remained at the Wall, a silent guardian. Aemon knew that if some Wildlings came south to the Wall, some hoe escaping the party going north, Balerion would be a good deterrent for them to think about climbing while most of the brothers were beyond the Wall.

The seasoned veterans and green recruits alike exchanged wary glances, their faces painted with a mix of determination and uncertainty. The colossal shadow of the Wall loomed behind them, a constant reminder of the perilous journey that lay ahead. More than half of the fighting force of Castle Black would come. Five hundred men would make it even against the deserters, and another hundred gave them a strong advantage, especially since the brothers who had stayed loyal to the Watch were the more experienced fighters and soldiers rather than the criminal cutthroats who started the mutinies and escaped.

Lord Commander Benjen Stark stepped forward, a stern figure in his black cloak. Lord Commander Stark addressed the men, his voice carrying the weight of experience and authority. "Brothers, today we march north to deal with the threat that lurks beyond the Wall! This is no ordinary mission," Lord Commander Stark continued. "We go to rid ourselves of those who betrayed us, to eliminate a threat that could compromise our defenses. We march for the North, for the Wall, for the realms of men. We are the sword in the darkness, the watchers of the Wall, the shield that guards the realms of men! What say you!"

"For the Watch!" they replied. Balerion roared loudly as if he was warning the lands beyond the Wall not to dare and harm his rider, for if they did, he would show it why he was named the Black Dread.

The men, clad in the black garb of the Night's Watch, stood ready for the challenging journey ahead. Aemon, among them, felt a mix of anxiety and determination. He knew the risks involved but also understood the urgency of their mission.

Chapter 12: Beyond the Wall

Chapter Text

Beyond the Wall 102 AC

Aemon Targaryen

As the gates of Castle Black creaked open, the group set forth into the unforgiving lands beyond the Wall, a vast and treacherous wilderness that held both ancient secrets and imminent dangers. The wind howled through the icy landscape, and the men pressed forward, united by a common purpose – to face the unknown and protect the realm from the looming threat of the Wildlings.

The snow-covered terrain stretched endlessly, the winds biting into their faces as they ventured northward. The air was thin, and the cold seemed to seep into their bones, into their flesh, and into their souls. Aemon had missed this, even if he never said it aloud. This was the true North, a north that in another life, if all the kingdoms did not bow to him and support him against Greyworm, then he would have more than likely been sent here to spend the rest of his days. As the next King Beyond the Wall, the same title he now would need to fight against for the second time, or rather, the first time in his life. He only got a little chance to prioritize his time in the North before riding for the Wall.

He felt the winds and the cold that were so familiar to him that he felt more at peace in it than any heart could ever do. But something felt right when taking the horse beyond the Wall, the North beyond the North. It was as though in King's Landing, in both lives, he had lived underwater; he had grown used to the restriction that being submerged underwater had given him, but now, beyond the Wall, he felt as though he had finally come to land once more and had been brought to where he was supposed to be. The kingdoms were restricting the real North; it had space, a freedom that the rules south of the Wall could not replicate.

The biting winds and falling snow created an otherworldly landscape as the party ventured deeper into the frozen expanse beyond the Wall. Aemon, wrapped in layers of furs and clad in the black attire of the Night's Watch, felt the cold seeping into his bones. Memories of his previous life as Jon Snow mingled with the stark beauty of the northern wilderness.

Aemon, astride his steed, ventured into the unforgiving realm beyond the Wall, where a pristine tapestry of driven snow and ancient forests unfolded before him. The land blanketed in a glistening shroud of white, sparkled under the touch of the pale sun that struggled to penetrate the thick canopy of evergreen sentinels. Towering pines, their branches laden with snow, whispered secrets to the northern winds, their stoic presence standing as silent witnesses to centuries of untold tales.

The wind, a constant companion beyond the Wall, danced through the icy air with a haunting melody, carrying with it the whispers of the wild. It swirled around Aemon, tugging at his cloak and tousling his unruly hair, a reminder that he was a mere mortal in the face of the ancient and untamed beauty that surrounded him. The cold, crisp air, laced with the scent of pine and the distant promise of adventure, invigorated his senses.

As dawn broke on the horizon, the eastern sky painted itself in hues of pink and orange, casting a warm glow upon the icy canvas below. Clouds, like wisps of pink cotton, caught fire in the light of the awakening sun, transforming the heavens into a celestial masterpiece. Aemon's gaze lingered on the breathtaking spectacle, a fleeting moment of serenity in a world fraught with conflict.

For Aemon, these northern lands were more than a wilderness; they were a refuge. Here, beyond the Wall, he felt a profound connection to a world unburdened by the politics and machinations of the South. The simplicity of survival, the raw beauty of the landscape, and the untamed spirit of the wild made him feel alive in ways that the complexities of the Seven Kingdoms never could.

Yet, with every breath of the brisk northern air, Aemon knew that his time in this untouched paradise was finite. Duty and destiny awaited him south of the Wall, and the bittersweet beauty of the North beyond the Wall would forever remain etched in his heart, a fleeting respite in the tumultuous saga of his life.

They pressed forward for four days and nights, the North revealing its harsh but captivating essence. Aemon marveled at the untamed beauty of the snow-covered terrain and the ever-present threat that lingered in the cold air.

As the party approached the elusive keep, only a day's ride away with all six hundred men following, Aemon, fueled by strategic foresight, persuaded his great-grandfather, Lord Commander Stark, to allow a small scouting party ahead. He argued that his small stature and agility would make him less conspicuous, allowing for a stealthy reconnaissance.

Though reluctant to send a boy into potential danger, the Lord Commander acknowledged the validity of Aemon's reasoning. With cautious approval, Aemon and three seasoned men ventured ahead, their destination a mysterious keep looming on the horizon. The main party trailed behind, leaving the small scouting party to explore the secrets that awaited them at the world's edge.

As they neared the keep, hidden amidst the harsh northern landscape, Aemon felt a mixture of anticipation and uncertainty. The small scouting party moved with caution, navigating through the snow-laden landscape. Aemon, though a mere six years old, carried a determination and wisdom beyond his years. The Lord Commander's decision to allow him this task spoke of his trust in his abilities.

The keep emerged on the horizon, a dark silhouette against the snowy expanse. Aemon signaled for his men to halt, his keen eyes scanning the surroundings for any signs of movement. They approached quietly, their steps muffled by the thick snow underfoot.

As Aemon and his small scouting party approached Osric's Keep, the name of Craster's before it was taken by the Wildling himself, even if Aemon could neither confirm nor deny it with the books at the Night's Watch, the eerie atmosphere of the haunted forest added a layer of tension to their journey. He recalled Craster giving his sons to the Others in this forest, and whenever he blinked, he swore he could see the blue eyes looking back at him.

The keep, perched atop a low hill, was surrounded by an earthen dike, with at least one gate granting access on the southwest side. The gate itself, adorned with the skulls of a bear and a ram, hinted at the grim atmosphere within.

A stream ran around the hill's north end, creating a natural barrier. Inside the dike, various structures revealed Craster's abode's crude but functional nature. A midden heap, a pigsty, and a sheepfold formed a makeshift settlement within the forest.

The keep itself was a daub-and-wattle hall constructed with logs and roofed with sod. It sprawled low and long, accommodating thirty to fifty men at best. The entrance to the hall consisted of two flaps of deer hide, offering a meager barrier to the elements and any unwelcome visitors. However, due to the revisions, the walls, ditches, small camps, and huts were made around the main keep. Crude wooden walls made of giant log spikes made an enactment with several openings that Aemond guessed were made to funnel enemies through to fight on the deserter's terms rather than keep them out completely.

A single room within the hall lacked windows, emphasizing the desolation of the surroundings. Above, two splintery ladders could access a sleeping loft, providing a vantage point that could be advantageous for defense or escape. Aemon thought of just starting a fire to burn things down but quickly thought against it. He needed a good location for a fire to grow strong enough to draw attention to it and allow for any future fires to be made, and he noticed the tents were too far from one another to catch all on fire at once. The winds were not strong enough to carry the fires from one tent to the next, and the men would act quickly since they were on high alert and knew the Night's Watch would be coming. Only those with higher numbers than the invading party would have their guards low enough to do such things.

The pair of four divided into two groups as they snuck around the keep, trying to avoid the eyes of the deserters. Aemon was paired with a taller man with golden brown hair, a beard, and a comely face, too pretty for the Night's Watch. Aemon had thought him a male whor* at first; commoners rarely keep their appearances this well otherwise, especially men.

Aemon and Jonothor Flowers, a bastard son of a Tyrell bastard, moved stealthily through the shadows, trying to glean as much information as possible about the inhabitants of Osric's Keep. The murmur of the haunted forest masked the crunch of snow beneath their boots; they ventured cautiously around the crude structures.

As they approached the hall, they noted the flickering glow of a feeble fire escaping through the gaps in the daub-and-wattle walls. A low hum of conversation could be heard, though the words were indistinct. The skulls decorating the gate were a stark reminder of the harsh reality within.

Jonothor and Aemon counted sentries and gauged the general size of the force within. They moved with the practiced silence of those who had spent years beyond the Wall, adapting to the perils of the wild. Jonothor Flowers, despite being a bastard, proved himself a capable companion, ready to face whatever dangers lay ahead.

The moans and humping sounds echoed through the keep as they made it inside one of the rooms, a macabre symphony of violence and violation. The Night's Watch deserters must have run into a group of wildings and, after killing the men, took the women for themselves. Around them lay the lifeless bodies of a hundred wildings, their fate sealed by the black-clad deserters. The ground was stained with blood, a stark testament to the unfolding savagery. Amid the carnage, Wildling women, survivors of the massacre, were subjected to further torment.

Aemon's stomach churned as he witnessed the atrocity unfold. A Night's Watch deserter, clad in the black garb of his order, was ruthlessly violating a wildling woman by a hearth. The grotesque scene played out before the eyes of the young Targaryen and Jonothor Flowers. Aemon said as the nude woman was raped and her bare tit* jiggled with each thrust, tears streaming down her face, and whimpers escaped her lips.

As the duo stumbled upon the grotesque scene, Aemon's young heart felt rage and sorrow. The cold air seemed to freeze the landscape, and the horrified gasps caught in Aemon's throat.

The iniquity of the Night's Watch deserters was laid bare, a grim tableau of violence and violation. Aemon's small hand clutched the hilt of his dagger, a surge of anger coursing through him. Jonothor Flowers attempted to draw Aemon away from the gruesome spectacle, perhaps thinking to shield the young prince from the harsh realities beyond the Wall.

Yet, Aemon stood his ground, his resolve unyielding. The mission remained, and he wouldn't allow the horrors before him to deter him from the task at hand. The black-clad deserter, lost in his brutal act, was oblivious to the pair observing from the shadows.

As Aemon emerged from the concealment of some barrels that he and Jonothor were hiding behind, he clamped his hand down on the young Targaryen's shoulder, restraining him. "Hold, princling. Our duty is to observe and report, not to intervene," Jonothor insisted, his voice a low, urgent whisper.

Aemon's grip tightened on the hilt of the sword provided by the Night Watch steel sword that hung at his side without drawing it out. "We can't just stand by and let that happen," Aemon muttered, his breath visible in the frigid air.

Jonothor, much taller and older than Aemon looked the boy in the eyes, and placed a restraining hand on Aemon's arm, his voice low and urgent. "Our mission is to scout, not to play heroes. We're here for information, not to intervene in their bloody affairs."

Aemon's eyes blazed with defiance as he met Jonothor's gaze. "I won't stand by while such things happen, even beyond the Wall," he asserted, his voice carrying a steely resolve.

Aemon's gaze locked with Jonothor's, a clash of determination and duty. "I won't let harm come to her. Not if I can do something about it."

"f*cking royalty! You can't save everyone. We're outnumbered, and our best chance is to stay hidden," Jonothor reasoned, his eyes narrowing in the dim light. "If we blow our cover now, it won't just be her life at stake."

"But you swore an oath to protect the realm from all dangers, and that includes protecting those who can't defend themselves. If you won't uphold it, I will," Aemon argued, his voice tense.

Jonothor sighed, torn between loyalty and practicality. "There's a greater picture. Lives might be lost if we act impulsively. We're here to gather intelligence and get back to your great-grandfather."

Aemon looked at him defiantly. "That man killed your black brothers; you should want to fight him with your own hands. The Night's Watch is an honorable calling, and its vows are to protect. Even if you don't follow the words of your oath, some of us will even if we haven't sworn them."

Jonothor sighed, recognizing the stubborn determination in the young prince. "Your honor is going to be the death of you, prince," he warned, but Aemon had already decided.

Ignoring Jonothor's caution, Aemon pressed forward toward the scene of horror. The deserter, preoccupied with his vile actions, took notice of the approaching figure. "Who's there?" he called out, suspicion tainting his words. Aemon stepped into view, his black attire revealing his allegiance to the Night's Watch. The deserter, momentarily puzzled, squinted at the young boy.Aemon walked forward towards the hearth, the crackling burning wood. Aemon touched one of the prods for the flames and played with the handle. "You're a bit young for a brother, aren't you?" he remarked, his tone mocking.

Aemon's piercing gaze met the deserter's eyes, a silent challenge. The haunting echoes of the haunted forest surrounded them, and Aemon's next words held an air of unwavering conviction as he grabbed the handle that's point was still in the flames. "Old enough to know when to stop such acts," he declared, his voice cutting through the chilling silence of the small room inside Osric's Keep.

The man drew his sword and went to strike at Aemon. Aemon had fought in such close quarters a few times before and had learned one thing from the fights. Aemon never drew his sword. No. He would never do such a thing. The man rushed forward, and while drawing his sword, the room's quarters and confined space worked against him. While drawing the blade out, the blade hit a wall and stopped it in its tracks. Panic crept into his eyes as the weapon got entangled in a net that hung on the wall before he could unleash a deadly swing toward the young Targaryen.

Aemon, quick-witted and sensing the urgency, seized the opportunity. He lunged forward with the metal prod still aglow from the hearth's heat, aiming for the man's eye socket. The prod found its mark with a sizzling sound, penetrating the eye socket and into the skull. The deserter grunted twice, the breaths deep and laborious, before succumbing to death. Aemon stood there, his small form surrounded by the haunting silence of the keep, the deed done in defense of the Wildling woman.

The aftermath of Aemon's first kill hung heavily in the air. Aemon and Jonothor, shared a silent moment of acknowledgment. Jonothor, wise to the weight of the situation, asked Aemon if he was all right, but the young Targaryen remained silent, his gaze fixed on the lifeless deserter. Aemon disliked killing, Jon Snow despised it, he was good at it. But not everyone liked what they were good at.

Their moment of reflection was abruptly interrupted as another deserter, fueled by madness, screamed and charged at them. Jonothor, his eyes hardened by the grim reality of their situation, swiftly intervened as the remaining deserter charged toward them, his desperate screams echoing through the confines of the keep. With deft movements, Jonothor parried the assailant's strike, redirecting the momentum of the attack. Now off balance, the deserter stumbled forward, vulnerable to Jonothor's decisive countermove.

A knife appeared in Jonothor's hand, and with a well-aimed strike to the back of the deserter's neck, he brought a swift end to the threat. The dying man's screams were abruptly silenced, leaving only the haunting silence to fill the room.

The echoes of the slain deserter's screams had barely faded when a cacophony of approaching footsteps reached Aemon and Jonothor's ears. The harsh reality of their predicament set in as they understood that more deserters were converging on their location.

Panicking, Aemon and Jonothor exchanged a determined glance, silently communicating the urgency of their escape. Without wasting a moment, they sprinted through the crude hallways of Osric's Keep, the uneven ground beneath their feet adding an extra layer of challenge to their flight.

As they raced through the dimly lit confines, Jonothor skillfully dispatched three more deserters who attempted to intercept them. His combat style's swift, brutal efficiency was a stark reminder of the harsh nature of life Beyond the Wall.Aemon watched as Jonothor slashed at the back of the leg of an aggressor and, while the man was falling to his knees, stabbed his dagger into the man's eyes. While the technique was not similar to his, Aemon, for a fleeting second, could see the shape of Ser Alliser Thorne as Jonothor fought with brutal efficiency.

Finally, the other two Night's Watch brothers who had initially joined Aemon and Jonothor on the scouting mission caught up with them, their breaths heavy and faces etched with concern. The small group continued their desperate escape, leaving the haunting silence of Osric's Keep behind them as they sought refuge with the larger party of Night's Watch brothers waiting just a little ways out.

The metallic tang of blood filled the air as Jonothor and the Night's Watch brothers engaged in a brutal melee with the approaching deserters. Each swing and parry echoed through the cold air, the clash of steel against steel and the agonized cries of the wounded painting a gruesome symphony.

Jonothor, a formidable force in the chaos, skillfully danced between strikes, his blade carving through the air with deadly precision. His movements were a lethal ballet, dispatching foes with calculated efficiency.Aemon was far more talented with a blade. However, it was clear that in any showing of speed and strength, if he was not able to see their swings far before they were swung, he would have died many times before.

While bold, the other two Night's Watchmen that accompanied Aemon and Jonothor were not untouched by the ferocity of the skirmish, sustaining wounds in the struggle against their less-skilled adversaries. The pair took the lives of two other deserters, but the wounds they sustained from their skirmishes would hinder them if more were to come.

Amid the chaotic clash, Jonothor found himself surrounded by two particularly aggressive deserters. The tide seemed to turn against him as their blades closed in. Then, Aemon sprang into action, fueled by a surge of desperation.

Leaping onto the back of one of the assailants, Aemon drove his dagger into the man's exposed neck. The blade sliced through flesh, creating a gory arc that painted Aemon's face in a mask of crimson. Blood dripped from the dagger as Aemon pulled it free, leaving the lifeless deserter crumpled to the ground. The brief reprieve allowed Jonothor to regain his footing, the tide of the skirmish once again teetering on the brink. Jonothor smiled as he could now focus on the other aggressor.

The air was filled with the clash of steel as Aemon faced a hulking deserter, a brute of a man whose laughter echoed through the cold air. The man seized Aemon, lifting him effortlessly off the ground before slamming him down with brutal force. Gasping for breath, Aemon scrambled to his feet, determination burning in his young eyes.

Drawing his small sword, Aemon faced his towering adversary. The undeterred man charged forward with a sad*stic grin, the clash of their swords ringing out like a morbid melody. Aemon's skill was undeniable, a dance of precision and finesse, but the cruel reality of age and strength favored the grown deserter.

The blades met in a flurry of slashes and parries, Aemon desperately trying to anticipate the man's movements. Each strike from the brute felt like a sledgehammer, Aemon's smaller frame unable to match the sheer force. Despite his tactical awareness, Aemon's skill was eclipsed by the overwhelming difference in strength and speed.

The struggle was a mismatch, and Aemon's efforts seemed futile. The man disarmed the young Targaryen with a cruel chuckle, leaving him defenseless. The deserters' sword hovered menacingly, poised to cut Aemon down. At that moment, it became apparent that skill alone could not bridge the gap between a seasoned warrior and a determined but physically overmatched child.

In the chaos of the fray, the other members of the Night's Watch struggled valiantly against the surging tide of deserters. The sounds of clashing steel, grunts, and desperate cries filled the air, creating a cacophony of battle that echoed through the wilderness.

As Aemon's comrades fought bravely, their resistance began to crumble under the sheer weight of numbers. The death toll rose, the carnage unfolding in the shadow of the imposing Osric's Keep. One by one, Aemon's comrades fell, their valiant efforts met with ruthless brutality from the relentless deserters.

A sword slashed for his skull, and Aemon barely dodged the lethal blow to his head. Aemon, his young face smeared with blood from the cut across his left eye, dodged a killing blow that narrowly missed its mark once more. The sharp blade left a crimson trail on the side of his face, obscuring his vision as blood continued to flow freely. The blood was gushing and dripping down his face like a red river. The young Targaryen, now partially blinded, faced imminent danger from the same merciless deserter who had struck him. The strike starting above his eye and down his face.

The biting wind whistled through the desolate landscape as Aemon clashed swords with the Night's Watch deserter in the unforgiving darkness, in the shadows just outside Osric's Keep. The dance of steel and snowflakes played out in a macabre symphony, each parry and thrust a testament to the life-or-death struggle in the frozen wilderness. Aemon could see the strikes coming, but he was far too slow to act on them or dodge them. He could see the man's mistakes but could do nothing to capitalize on it. The man went for a feint towards Aemon's stomach, and Aemon went for the strike; he realized it was a feint before the man changed the direction of his strike, but Aemon would not be able to block the strike either way. During the chaos, a lethal swing aimed at Aemon's head threatened to end his fight prematurely.

Yet, in the nick of time, Jonothor Flowers displayed a warrior's foresight. With a swift and decisive motion, Jonothor cut down the two assailants before him, before Aemon's aggressor even made the feint, and rushed into the battle, saving Aemon from the imminent strike. Rushing to his prince's side, he attempted to repel the relentless deserter. A desperate clash ensued, steel meeting steel in a desperate struggle for survival. However, the deserter, with a display of brutal strength, blocked Jonothor's strike, overpowering him and forcing both blades to the frozen ground. Seizing the opportunity, the deserter delivered a savage punch to Jonothor's face, sending him reeling backward. In that fleeting moment of vulnerability, the deserter plunged his blade into Jonothor's stomach before the blade was taken out, and the aggressor used it to cut Jonothor's throat.

Aemon forced himself forward to fight the large brute of a man. Then, he blocked several of Aemon's strikes and then, overhead, punched Aemon to the ground to his knees. Aemon tried to get up, but the man kicked Aemon down. Aemon tried to get up once more, but the man rushed forward and kneed Aemon in the head, leaving the boy dazed.

Aemon, lying on the ground with a dagger clutched in his small hand, prepared for the inevitable onslaught of the remaining deserters. The cold air of the North hung heavy with the scent of blood, and the chilling realization of impending doom gripped Aemon's heart. His slashed face oozed blood, staining the snow beneath him.

As the deserters closed in, hungry for the kill, a sudden disturbance came from the winter snow. Like a specter of death, a massive figure lunged from the shadows. A great white shape, fierce and powerful, struck with deadly precision. The creature tore into the throat of the nearest deserter, crimson spurting out in a grisly display.

With terrifying speed and strength, the enigmatic figure moved to the next target, ripping an arm clean off with a savage swipe. A scream like no other echoed outside Osric's Keep. The once-confident deserters now recoiled in fear, witnessing their comrades fall prey to an unseen force. Aemon, still on the ground, gazed wide-eyed at the creature that had emerged to defend him.

The great white shadow continued its relentless assault, ruthlessly dismantling the remaining seven deserters around Aemon. The air was filled with the sounds of desperate cries, the clash of steel, and the gruesome tearing of flesh. Aemon, spared from the brink of death, marveled at the mysterious savior who had intervened on his behalf. The snowy battlefield became chaos, with the white creature weaving a dance of death amidst the blood-stained snow. Every time someone tried to strike, the creature disappeared into the snow as if it was a part of itself. But Aemon could make out the shape of a wolf. No, it was too large to be a regular wolf. A dire wolf.

The dire wolf, majestic and imposing, stood guard over Aemon, its fur as pristine as freshly fallen snow and eyes ablaze with an otherworldly red hue. Towering at nearly five feet, the creature exuded an aura of silent menace; it kept a snarling face that resonated with the pinnacle of animalistic fear despite the absence of sound from the creature, as if thesound itself died when the wolf wished it to. The young prince recognized his loyal companion as the dire wolf positioned itself protectively before Aemon, a formidable barrier against the surrounding danger.

"Ghost," Aemon whispered in both awe and relief. The dire wolf, Jon Snow's faithful companion, had come to his aid. The bond forged in the frigid wilderness of the North had endured, and Ghost's silent presence spoke volumes about the strength of their connection. Aemon's gratitude swelled as he felt the dire wolf's protective stance, a living shield against the encroaching threats.

The remaining deserters, now faced with the supernatural guardian, hesitated. Fear danced in their eyes as they assessed the dire wolf's lethal potential. Ghost's snarls, though unheard, reverberated in the air like a chilling symphony of warning. Aemon wounded and bloodied but alive, watched as the dire wolf held its ground, a silent sentinel in the face of danger.

The dire wolf, Ghost, moved like a phantom on the battlefield, his once white fur now stained with the blood of those foolish enough to challenge him. The scene unfolded in a gruesome ballet of violence as Ghost's crimson eyes glowed with an otherworldly intensity. His powerful jaws, adorned with the viscera of his fallen foes, struck terror into the hearts of the remaining deserters.

Aemon, though battered and bloodied, felt an odd sense of reassurance as Ghost single-handedly dismantled the would-be assailants. The dire wolf moved with a grace that defied his immense size; each strike a lethal dance that left the battlefield littered with the remnants of those who dared to defy the fearsome creature.

The remaining deserters that surrounded Aemon, now witnessing the carnage wrought by Ghost, hesitated in their advance. Fear etched across their faces as they realized the futility of challenging this mythical beast. The dire wolf, ever protective of his charge, stood as a formidable guardian, a living testament to the supernatural forces that lurked in the North.

As the dust settled, Ghost stood proudly over the fallen, a silent sentinel with eyes that bore witness to the primal chaos of battle. Aemon, still on the ground, met the gaze of the dire wolf, gratitude and understanding passing between them. In the cold North, where magic and reality intertwined, Ghost had become the unlikely savior of a Targaryen prince.

Several deserters were ready to attack again; while the entire camp had not yet awakened to know of Aemon and the Night's Watch intruding into their keep, the few that had mobilized were now surrounding Aemon and Ghost. Two men with swords set to inch close enough to draw Ghost's attention as three archers readied themselves behind Ghost to fire an arrow once Ghost was fully distracted. They were about to execute their plan when they heard screams from the southern forests.

The distant roar grew louder as the Night's Watch, six hundred brothers, thundered toward the besieged keep. The Night's Watch, six hundred strong, marched with the determination of men defending their honor and purpose. Swords unsheathed, they advanced against the chaotic backdrop of the haunted forest. The deserters, desperate and outnumbered, fought with a ferocity born of survival.

Aemon, still on the ground, witnessed the approaching tide of black-clad brothers. The clash between the Night's Watch and the deserters unfolded chaotically, with a symphony of steel against steel and the cries of men echoing through the frozen air. Ghost, ever vigilant, stood beside Aemon as the two forces collided in a cacophony of violence.

The Night's Watch, fueled by the dire wolf's unexpected intervention and the desperate need to eliminate the threat of the deserters, fought with an enthusiasm that bordered on recklessness. Their black cloaks billowed in the wind as they surged forward, blades drawn, ready to reclaim the honor of the Night's Watch that the traitorous few had tarnished.

The deserters, caught off guard by the sudden onslaught, scrambled to form a defense. Their once-confident demeanor gave way to panic as the numerical advantage they once enjoyed diminished under the relentless assault of the Night's Watch.

The battle waged on, each clash of swords and each desperate cry for mercy painting the snow-covered landscape with the brutality of men at war. Ghost, the silent harbinger of retribution, continued to weave through the chaos, his massive form a specter of death that haunted the deserters' every move.

The battlefield was a chaotic dance of clashing steel and desperate cries. Aemon, his vision obscured by the blood that covered his left eye, fought alongside Ghost, the dire wolf's silent presence adding an air of terror to the Night's Watch onslaught.

Aemon's small frame moved with surprising agility and determination. He parried a deserter's strike with his sword, the clash of metal ringing through the frozen air. In tandem, Ghost lunged at another assailant, tearing through armor and flesh with a primal ferocity.

Each step Aemon took was measured, and his movements were a dance of survival. Ghost, a spectral force of nature, moved with lethal grace, dispatching foes with a single-minded determination to protect his young companion.

Ghost, a blur of fur and fangs, lunged into the fray with a primal savagery. His massive jaws clamped onto limbs, tearing sinew and bone with brutal efficiency. Limbs were ripped from bodies, as the silent wolf ripped the throats of deserters out from their necks. The scent of blood and fur mingled in the frigid air as Ghost moved with predatory grace, leaving a trail of maimed foes in his wake.

Beside his faithful companion, Aemon danced amidst the chaos, his sword gleaming in the light of the campfires and hearths Swift and lethal, he dispatched wounded enemies with relentless precision, his dagger finding its mark in the vulnerable gaps of armor.

Deserters, fueled by desperation, fought back with a grim determination. Swords clashed, and bodies fell on both sides. Aemon, with Ghost by his side, remained a focal point in the maelstrom. His dagger found the mark on a deserter's thigh, crippling him, and Ghost's massive jaws closed around the arm of another, rendering him defenseless.

The tide of battle swung back and forth, the combatants locked in a struggle that transcended mortal conflicts. Aemon, despite his youth, fought with a resilience that defied his age, and his every move was a testament to his dire circ*mstances.

A Night's Watchman, skilled with a battle-axe, swung his weapon precisely, cleaving through a deserter's helmet and sending him sprawling to the ground as his head was spit in two. Another Night's Watchman, armed with a spear, thrust it forward, piercing through a deserter's armor and leaving him gasping for breath.

As the battle unfolded, Ghost moved among the combatants like a phantom, his white fur stained with the blood of the fallen. His teeth found purchase on the throat of a deserter, and the man's gurgled screams joined the cacophony of war.

The Night's Watch fought with a discipline honed by years of training at the Wall. A swordsman parried a deserter's strike, retaliating with a swift thrust that found its mark. Nearby, an archer from the Night's Watch released a volley of arrows, felling two deserters attempting a flanking maneuver.

Deserter and Night's Watchman locked in struggles, blades biting into flesh, and the agony of the fallen filled the air. Ghost continued his silent assault, dispatching deserters with ruthless efficiency.

Despite the overwhelming odds, the deserters fought fiercely, fueled by desperation and a desire to escape the noose that awaited them. A deserter, wielding a mace, swung it savagely, smashing through the defenses of a Night's Watchman and leaving him crumpled on the icy ground.

In one corner of the skirmish, a veteran of the Night's Watch, clad in worn black leather, faced off against a deserter wielding a crude axe. Their swords clashed in a discordant symphony, sparks flying as each blow sought to find its mark. With a sudden lunge, the Night's Watchman drove his blade through the deserter's abdomen, the spurt of blood mingling with the unforgiving snow beneath.

Further along the frigid battlefield, an archer from the Night's Watch skillfully nocked an arrow and let it loose, the projectile whistling through the air before finding its target—a deserter caught in the midst of raising his sword. The arrow embedded itself in the deserter's throat, and he crumpled to the ground, a gurgled death rattle escaping his lips.

Amidst the chaos, two warriors grappled in a merciless dance, both armed with spears. The cold steel clashed with a metallic resonance, each combatant desperately vying for dominance. In a sudden twist of fate, the Night's Watchman expertly thrust his spear through the deserter's chest, the lethal point emerging from his back as life drained from his eyes.

Elsewhere, a deserting brother swung a heavy club, the brutal weapon connecting with the shield of a Night's Watch defender. The clang of metal echoed in the frosty night as the two locked in a grim struggle. With a swift maneuver, the Night's Watchman disarmed the deserter, and a fatal swing of his sword cleaved through the air, severing the deserter's arm before finding its mark in his throat.

On another front, a desperate deserting ranger grappled with a Night's Watch recruit, their bodies entangled in the snowy battlefield. The ranger, fueled by desperation, managed to draw a concealed dagger and plunged it into the side of the recruit, leaving him gasping for breath as crimson stained the pristine snow.

As Aemon pressed forward, his dagger found its mark in the side of a deserter attempting to flank him. The man howled in pain, only to meet Ghost's savage retaliation, his throat torn open in a crimson spray. Aemon's blade found its next target, a quick slash across the chest of a deserter who underestimated the young Targaryen.

A pair of deserters closed in on a lone Night's Watchman, only to find themselves ensnared in Ghost's relentless onslaught. The dire wolf lunged with primal fury, tearing into the throat of one deserter while Aemon swiftly blocked a strike heading to his head twisted his wrist, and directed the blade away from the pair before Aemon rushed forward with the dagger and stabbed it into the man's chest. Aemon did not wait long as he rushed through the battle with Ghost right beside him.

A trio of deserters attempted to flank a Night's Watch archer positioned on higher ground. Anticipating the threat, Ghost bounded into action, his powerful jaws clamping down on the arm of one deserter, disarming him in a spray of crimson. Seizing the opportunity, the Night's Watchmen unleashed a barrage of arrows, each finding its mark in the hearts of the remaining deserters. As Aemon cut down an unsuspecting deserter who planned to strike the archer from behind.

In a brutal skirmish near the edge of the battlefield, a deserter wielding a wickedly curved blade engaged in a fierce duel with a Night's Watch swordsman. Ghost, ever the opportunistic predator, darted forward, his massive form colliding with the deserter and sending him sprawling to the ground. Before the fallen deserter could rise, Aemon's sword found its mark, delivering a decisive end to the duel.

The deserter bearing a jagged spear advanced menacingly toward a wounded Night's Watch recruit. Ghost, with a silent grace, intercepted the threat, deflecting the spear with his massive paw and incapacitating the assailant. In the ensuing chaos, Aemon delivered a swift and merciful strike, ending the deserter's life with a measured precision.

In the final throes of the battle, a pair of deserters armed with crude axes cornered a weary Night's Watch veteran. Sensing the imminent danger, Ghost lunged into the fray, his ferocity unmatched. The dire wolf tore through the assailants with primal rage, allowing Aemon to deliver a swift and final blow to the last deserter, their lifeless bodies crumpling in the cold embrace of the northern night.

Aemon found himself surrounded by a vengeful cadre of deserters, the frigid wind carrying whispers of impending doom. Three of the rogues veered off toward Ghost, the dire wolf that had stood faithfully by Aemon's side. The remaining two, eyes gleaming with malice, closed in on Aemon, blades raised high in a grim symphony of impending violence.

Aemon fought with a desperate fervor, his sword cleaving through the air in a frantic attempt to parry the onslaught. However, the deserters, fueled by a toxic mix of hatred and desperation, pressed on relentlessly. The clash of steel echoed through the night, each blow bringing Aemon closer to the brink of exhaustion.

Meanwhile, Ghost faced the trio of assailants, his white fur now stained with the crimson evidence of previous battles. The deserters, aware that Ghost's joining into the battle was due to Aemon, thought it best to keep him at bay while the boy was dealt with, attacked with calculated ruthlessness. Fangs met steel as Ghost fended off the relentless onslaught, but the odds began to shift as the deserters worked in tandem to overwhelm the dire wolf.

Back in Aemon's corner of the skirmish, the situation grew dire. The two deserters, sensing victory within their grasp, intensified their assault. Aemon parried and dodged with a skill honed by years at the Wall, but the sheer force of the onslaught was proving insurmountable. Fatigue set in, and with each strained movement, it became evident that Aemon, the stalwart defender of the Night's Watch, was teetering on the precipice of defeat. As the deserters closed in for the final, fatal strikes, Aemon's resolve wavered but did not break.

As the deserters closed in on Aemon Snow, the fatal blows poised to end his life, a sudden intervention shattered the impending doom. A sword, swift and sure, intercepted the deathly strike with a resounding clash. The deserters staggered back in surprise, their momentary advantage disrupted by an unforeseen defender. In the fleeting silence, the figure emerged from the shadows, revealing himself to be none other than Aemon's great-grandfather, Lord Commander Benjen Stark.

Benjen, a paragon of the Stark lineage, moved with a lethal grace that belied his years. His weapon is a large, long sword that looks nearly identical to the ancestral sword of House Stark, Ice, including its six feet of length. This sword, forged in the crucible of countless battles, became an extension of his will. With a single, deft motion, he severed the arms of the assailant, the detached limbs falling to the ground in grotesque testimony to the abrupt shift in fortune. Then quickly, he surged forward with a shoulder tackle as the man collapsed to the ground, and Benjen ended the man's life by stabbing the sword downward to his skull.

The chaos continued as the second deserter rushed forward, his intent clear in the malevolence etched across his face. Yet, Benjen, the seasoned warrior, proved elusive. A sidestep so fluid it seemed almost preternatural, and the deserter stumbled, leaving himself vulnerable to Benjen's relentless counterattack. A swift downward thrust of the sword pierced through the deserter's hip, and the man collapsed to the ground with a guttural cry on to knees. Benjen, undeterred, raised the sword and drove it into the deserter's skull, severing the life that once pulsed within. Then, moving the blade upwards, he cut through the man's head to release the blade rather than pulling the blade out.

With only one adversary left, the final deserter charged at Lord Commander Benjen with a reckless fury. A dance of blades ensued the clash of steel echoing through the frozen night. Benjen, a master of combat, deflected the blows with calculated precision. Twice, he parried the deserter's strikes before their blades met in a fierce stalemate, the tension escalating.

In a swift and unexpected move, Benjen seized the moment. His hands closed around the deserter's sword, wrenching it from his grasp. With a forceful shoulder, Benjen sent the man sprawling backward, disarmed and vulnerable. Swift as a winter gust, Benjen wielded both swords with deadly proficiency, cutting down the final deserter in a whirlwind of steel.

"Stay close, Aemon," Lord Commander Stark gruffed, his sword still wet with the blood of the fallen deserter. The Night's Watch continued to battle fiercely around them, but in that moment, Aemon found solace in the protective presence of his great-grandfather.

Together, the unlikely pair stood side by side in the struggle for survival against the chaotic backdrop of the haunted forest. Ghost, ever loyal, prowled at their side, his white fur stained with the remnants of the skirmish. The battlefield echoed with the clash of steel, the cries of combatants, and the haunting howls of the dire wolf. Aemon, half-blind and covered in blood, looked at his great-grandfather with a mix of relief and gratitude. The haunted forest seemed to hold its breath as the two Starks faced the remaining chaos.

Two deserters, undeterred by the presence of the Lord Commander, rushed forward, blades raised high. Shifting as a shadow, the Ghost leaped into the fray, ruthlessly tearing into one of the attackers. The other deserter, undeterred by the dire wolf's wrath, swung his sword with deadly intent.

Lord Commander Benjen Stark, a seasoned warrior, parried the incoming strike with precision, their blades clashing in a flurry of sparks. Aemon, now behind his great-grandfather, gripped his small sword tightly, ready to defend the Lord Commander.

As the duel unfolded, Ghost dispatched the first deserter, his jaws closing around the man's throat with lethal force. The lifeless body crumpled to the ground as Ghost turned his attention to the remaining threat.

The remaining deserter, realizing the dire wolf's imminent threat, faltered for a moment. In that moment of hesitation, Lord Commander Stark seized the opportunity. With a swift movement, he disarmed the deserter, sending the blade clattering to the snowy ground before Aemon stabbed the man in the heart with a dagger.

For the better part of two hours, the fight continued. The Night's Watch did go through the openings on the walls, which allowed them to be funneled into many archer fires. The ditches made were dilute to overcome, and the few that made it across were quickly killed and thrown into the ditch by the testers. One man of the Night's Watch realized this and decided to get every man he could send the ones they killed in the ditches to fill them and allow the Night's Watch to overwhelm the deserters with numbers rather than allow the deserters to keep space and pick them off with arrows.

The frigid air settled in the aftermath of the battle, and the haunted forest bore witness to the somber echoes of victory and loss. The Lord Commander's roar cut through the lingering cries of combat, demanding a toll of the fallen. The Night's Watch emerged triumphant, though the cost had been high.

Aemon stood by, his face stained with the remnants of the gruesome skirmish as Lord Commander Stark surveyed the field. The battle, which had once roared with chaos, now dwindled to sporadic skirmishes and isolated clashes. Hundreds were on the ground as blood soaked the white snow. floor

In the aftermath of the chaos, as the echoes of clashing steel began to fade, the Night's Watch emerged victorious in the battle against the deserters. Only several skirmishes remained, and there it was suspected that there were a dozen or so more deserters in the keep itself. The haunted forest bore witness to the aftermath of the brutal confrontation, with bodies scattered across the snow-covered ground.

Lord Commander Benjen Stark, his face etched with weariness, approached Aemon amidst the subdued chaos. Concern etched the stern lines of his features as he examined the young Targaryen's left eye, obscured by the blood that matted his face. With a gentle touch, the Lord Commander checked the wound, tracing the line of the slash that marred Aemon's visage.

The Lord Commander used his leather flask to pour water on Aemon's face and clean it enough for him to see Aemon's wounds. Pouring water over the boy's face, he sought to cleanse away the encrusted blood, revealing the extent of the injury. As the cold water trickled down, the Lord Commander spoke with a mix of reassurance and practicality.

"The wound doesn't look that deep, Aemon," Lord Commander Stark remarked, his voice cutting through the lingering tension. "It will heal. You'll carry a scar, a mark of this day, but you'll see it again. You're a Stark and a Targaryen; scars are a part of our stories."

With the healing promise hanging in the frigid air, the Lord Commander's words carried a weight that extended beyond the physical realm. Ghost checked around the area once more before coming to look at Aemon's wound. He sniffed it twice before turning to the Lord Commander as if trying to confirm if the man had told the truth.

Ghost came close and licked Aemon's face as he looked at Aemon's wound. He smiled as he scratched Ghost's ears. "Staying by my side in one life wasn't enough for you, you greedy mutt," he said with a soft almost faint smile as Ghost licked his face once more and pressed his head into Aemon's own forehead. "Missed you too, boy."

Aemon continued to stroke Ghost's fur, his fingers weaving through the few places where the white coat was still not covered in dirt or blood. The dire wolf, a majestic presence, stood steadfast by Aemon's side, reciprocating the affection with a nuzzle and a low, rumbling growl of contentment.

Lord Commander Stark observed the scene, his gaze shifting between Aemon and the formidable creature that stood beside him. Inquisitively, he queried, "How did you manage to win the allegiance of a dire wolf, Aemon? They aren't known to befriend just anyone."

Aemon fixed his eyes on Ghost and said, "He's part of my pack."

The Lord Commander, a man of seasoned wisdom and experience, regarded Aemon with a mixture of admiration and amusem*nt. A smirk played on his lips as he remarked, "First, you tame the mightiest dragon in the realm, and now you've got a dire wolf at your side. The gods must favor you more than most." A moment of levity passed between them, the Lord Commander chuckling at the irony of Aemon's extraordinary companions. "When Rickon hears of this," he continued, "he'll be more pleased than the day Lyanna was born. A grandson who fights alongside a dire wolf beyond the Wall – it's a tale that will bring him more joy than any victory."

The Night's Watchman, panting from the recent battle, approached Lord Commander Stark, saluting before delivering the grim news, "Lord Commander, we've found wildling women in the camp. We spoke to some of them, and it seems the deserters fought and killed their men before taking them."

Lord Commander Stark's expression darkened, and he exchanged a knowing look with Aemon. The young Targaryen nodded, confirming the information, "Aye, it's true. When I was scouting, I saw one of the deserters raping a Wildling woman. I had to intervene."

Lord Commander Stark, his features carved from years of harsh experience, sighed heavily, "This is a grave matter. We can't let such actions go unpunished."

Aemon, despite his tender age, displayed a steely resolve, "We don't know how far away the wildling army is from here. They might be here within a week or a day. We need to act swiftly."

Benjen looked to Aemon and stared into the boy's eyes. "I thought you said we had a month?"

Aemon looked to his grandfather and responded as if returning to a report, "We have a month if they go at their current pace to keep the entire army together. They could reach here soon. And once here, they'll know of our weakness at the Wall and pick up speed to reach the Wall, regardless of keeping the army together. Even if only half the army makes it to the Wall within a few days, they still outnumber us."

Lord Commander Stark nodded, "Bring the women to safety and gather any survivors found. We'll interrogate the deserters who are still alive and get to the bottom of this."

As the Night's Watchman hurried to carry out the orders, Aemon met the Lord Commander's gaze, determination burning in his remaining eye. Aemon squared his shoulders, his young face determined. "I need to go inside and help flush out any more deserters. Ghost can help me find them and protect me."

The Lord Commander's gaze hardened. "No, Aemon. I won't allow a child with only one eye to venture into a place where he could be attacked by surprise. I already regret allowing you beyond the Wall."

Aemon met the Lord Commander's stern look with defiance. "I've already been inside the keep, Lord Commander. I know much of its layout. With Ghost by my side, nothing will go wrong. I want to help." Aemon's gaze did not waver, "I've faced dangers before, beyond the Wall and within North. I can handle myself, and Ghost will keep me safe. You need all the help you can get, and I won't sit idly by."

The Lord Commander sighed, his gaze softening slightly, "Aemon, you're my kin, and I worry for your safety. I can't let you put yourself in harm's way. I already let you do as you wished, and it lost you your eye for at least half a moon!"

Aemon, undeterred, insisted, "I've fought against the wildlings, and I've faced dangers most can't comprehend. I want to help, Lord Commander, for the North and the Night's Watch."

After a moment of contemplation, "No lad, you did enough; stay behind and get one of the lads that are better with wounds to check you over. Gods know I'm sh*t at it."

Aemon stood up and came closer to his great-grandfather. His great-grandfather looked down on the boy. Aemon wished to help; he wished to put an end to all the skirmishes so that they could fish quickly and head back to the Wall and prepare. Aemon's stoic face should have no emotion, much like his great-grandfather's. The two Stark-looking males said nothing. A young wolf challenged the aging alpha. In the end, the young wolf backed down and begrudgingly sat down on the icy wooden stump.

Aemon sat alone on an icy stump outside the keep, the bitter cold seeping through his black wolf's cloak. Lord Commander Benjen Stark's orders were clear – Aemon was to stay put while the Night's Watch finished the skirmishes inside. Ghost stood faithfully by his side, the massive dire wolf's white fur blending with the snowy landscape.

The sky overhead was a canvas of swirling snowflakes, a silent witness to the aftermath of the battle. In the distance, the muffled sounds of the Night's Watch dealing with the remaining deserters echoed through the frigid air. Aemon's one good eye surveyed the surroundings, his face etched with a mixture of frustration and determination.

The captured deserters, now terrified, stole furtive glances at the giant white wolf beside Aemon. Ghost's red eyes gleamed with an otherworldly intensity, serving as a silent warning to anyone who dared approach the young Targaryen.

As Aemon awaited the conclusion of the Night's Watch actions within the keep, his thoughts turned to his role in bringing this conflict to light. The icy winds whispered through the snowy landscape, carrying with them the weight of the choices made beyond the Wall.

The Night's Watch, relentless in their pursuit, spent another hour cleansing the keep of the remaining deserters. The sound of clashing steel, muffled cries, and the occasional roar of winter winds resonated through the air. The icy winds carried the echoes, creating an eerie symphony in the aftermath of the battle.

The Night's Watch controlled over sixty deserters as the skirmishes subsided. Disarmed and defeated, the captured men were herded together like sheep being brought to a pen. Their faces bore the marks of desperation and fear, knowing that they had transgressed beyond redemption.

Amidst the chaos, more than a hundred Wildling women were accounted for, their faces etched with suspicion and defiance. Many of them stood together, forming a united front against the Night's Watch. The scars of their recent ordeal were still fresh, and the men in black had to contend not only with the remnants of the deserters but also with the distrustful glares of the very women they had come to save.

The Night's Watch stood in the aftermath of the chaos, the captured deserters in tow and the Wildling women now under their watchful gaze. The Lord Commander, Benjen Stark, faced with the question of what to do with the women, turned to his men for counsel.

Aemon, the young Targaryen prince, stepped forward with a proposition that caught many by surprise. "They should come with us," he declared, his voice carrying a conviction that demanded attention.

Confused murmurs swept through the ranks of the Night's Watch, and skeptical gazes turned toward Aemon. Always practical and cautious, the Lord Commander asked him to elaborate on his proposal.

"Torrhen Wolfsbane's army is coming. If I were him, I would find it suspicious if I learned of a settlement that held Night's Watchmen, deserters, or otherwise, had wildling women in the keep, and after the Night's Watch left, the women stayed."

The Lord Commander thought of Aemon's words and thought of the conclusion out loud. "Either way, this will get their attention, and he will come this way. He'll wonder why the Night's Watch was here, learn that there were deserters, and see that there was fighting in the Watch; he'll attack sooner if he thinks the Watch weak."

A murmur of disagreement spread among the men. "They're wildlings! We can't trust them," one argued.

Aemon's voice cut through the frigid air, his impassioned plea echoing the gravity of the situation. "They're not just wildlings; they're people, and the Night's Watch deserters violated them. It's our responsibility to make amends."

The Night's Watchmen, perplexed by the boldness of the suggestion, turned to their Lord Commander for guidance. Lord Commander Benjen Stark, standing tall and resolute, listened to Aemon's words. The howling wind seemed to carry the weight of the impending decision.

Aemon continued, "Torrhen Wolfsbane's army is coming, and if we leave these women here, they'll be left with nothing. The army will strip this land of every resource, and these women will starve. We can take them to Mole's Town and offer them refuge. It's the least we can do."

"The wildlings have killed tens of thousands of us for thousands of years, boy," the Lord Commander replied.

"And the Night's Watch has killed ten times that number in the same time," Aemon argued. Aemon's frustration grew, and he shot back, "It was Night's Watch deserters who violated and harmed these women. What does that say about us if we turn our backs on them now? The Night's Watch is sworn to protect men's realms, including these women."

The Lord Commander turned to the group of Wildling women, facing the complexity of the decision. "What do you wish to do?" he asked, his voice firm but considerate.

Several women stepped forward, their eyes reflecting the pain and horror they had experienced at the hands of the Night's Watch deserters. "The men we were with did horrible things to us, and your former brothers killed him," one of the women confessed, her voice shaky but determined.

"They did unspeakable things to us," one woman confessed, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and anger. The sentiment was echoed by others who recounted the brutality they endured at the hands of the deserters.

"I don't trust crows," another declared. The tension in the air was palpable as the women expressed their reluctance to trust those who wore the black.

Another woman, her gaze hardened by the harsh realities of the North, continued, "You wear the same black as those black sh*ts."

A particularly striking woman, seven years older than Aemon, emerged from the group. Her hair, the color of dark honey, cascaded down to her waist, adorned with a golden braid across one shoulder. Her face was framed by high cheekbones and eyes that seemed to shift between pale grey and blue. Despite the dire circ*mstances, she possessed a slender figure with a full bosom. Aemon whispered the name Val to himself but quickly realized it wasn't her.

Addressing Aemon directly, she spoke with a sense of gratitude and admiration. "The little crow saved me," she began, her voice carrying a blend of warmth and strength. She recounted how Aemon had risked his life to protect her from rape. "He killed the crow himself. He could have left me to him, escaped. But he stopped him, the little crow saved me and almost died. I trust the little crow."

The heated discussions among the Night's Watch and the Wildling women continued, the bitter winds of the far North carrying the weight of uncertainty. The Lord Commander, with a stern and measured voice, voiced his concerns about the potential repercussions of the women staying with the Night's Watch.

"If they stay, the Wildling army will gain information about us, information that could be as damning as if they were in the hands of the deserters," he argued, emphasizing the strategic implications of their decision.

Amid the debates, the Wildling women took a pivotal step. After a lengthy discussion, they decided to trust the judgment of the "little crow," Aemon, believing that he had their best interests at heart. The decision weighed heavily on Aemon's young shoulders as the women's fate rested partly in his hands.

The Night's Watch, begrudgingly acknowledging the strategic concerns raised by the Lord Commander, reluctantly agreed to let the Wildling women accompany them. The sixty deserters, now prisoners, added to the uneasy alliance that traversed the harsh landscape back to the Wall.

The group endured the biting cold and treacherous terrain for four more days, the journey a testament to the complex dynamics at play. The bitter winds whispered tales of redemption, trust, and survival as they neared the Wall, where the frigid stones stood as silent witnesses to the struggles beyond the icy veil of the North.

During the last night before they reached the Wall, Aemon's dreams turned sour once more. Sleep never came to Aemon because each one was filled with the blue eyes of the dead or the memories that were not his; he now knew them to be Balerion's when he conquered the lands for Aegon the Dragon. But here he was dreaming again, not of Balerion, but of his other mount and bound.

In his dream, Aemon found himself in the ethereal form of Ghost, the dire wolf with fur as white as snow. The vast expanse of the lands beyond the Wall unfolded before him, a pristine canvas of untouched snow-covered fields. The eerie tranquility of the winter forests enveloped the surroundings.

Aemon, or rather Ghost, keenly sensed the scent of blood lingering in the frosty air. Instinctively, he followed the trail, his large paws leaving imprints in the freshly fallen snow. The dream unfolded in a surreal dance of shadows and moonlight, with the haunting silence of the North broken only by the crunching of snow beneath Ghost's powerful strides.

The deeper Ghost ventured into the winter forest, the more pronounced the scent of blood became. It was a visceral experience, the dream blurring the lines between Aemon's consciousness and the primal instincts of the dire wolf. The gnarled branches of ancient trees cast elongated shadows that danced in the moonlit night, creating an otherworldly atmosphere.

As Ghost continued his journey, the dream took on an ominous tone. The distant howls of unseen creatures echoed through the woods, and the air seemed to thicken with an unspoken tension. The dream became a tapestry of sensations — the cold wind brushing against Ghost's fur, the distant sounds of the forest, and the ever-intensifying scent of blood guiding him deeper into the heart of the winter wilderness.

Ghost's large form padded through the wintery expanse until he reached a chilling scene—a large clearing marked by a grotesque display. The frigid air seemed to thicken around the open space, and a pervasive sense of unease settled over the dream landscape.

In the center of the clearing, the once-pristine snow was stained with thick, dark blood. The remnants of lifeless bodies lay strewn about, forming a nightmarish pattern—spirals reminiscent of the symbols associated with the enigmatic Children of the Forest. The corpses, dismembered and arranged with macabre precision, created a disturbing mosaic that spoke of ancient rituals and ominous portents.

Ghost, ever the silent observer in this surreal realm, surveyed the grotesque display with an otherworldly understanding. The spirals, etched in the crimson tapestry of the snow, seemed to resonate with an ancient power, a force that lingered in the air like a haunting melody. The dream offered no explanations, only a tableau of horror and symbolism that resonated in the depths of Aemon's sleeping consciousness.

Aemon's eyes snapped pen as he looked at the fires before him with a terrified gaze. His heart beat faster and faster as he gasped for breath. No one around him was awake, every man sleeping save for the watcher too far away to notice Aemon. But he was glad for it. He would not sleep that night; he never slept; this time, however, he felt as though he looked upon the Night King once more. He felt as though he had already lost all over again.

Chapter 13: The Battle of the Wall

Chapter Text

The Wall 102 AC

Aemon Targaryen/ Jon Snow

Upon their return to the Wall, Aemon and the Night's Watch were met with sad tidings that cast a shadow over the already chilling northern landscape. As they approached the towering structure of ice and stone, the air carried whispers of tragedy that mirrored the desolation of the lands beyond the Wall.

The grim news unfolded as they were informed of the havoc wrought by the wildlings who had already crossed south of the Wall. The villages, once thriving with life, now lay in ruin—smoke rising from the remnants of burning homes, the acrid scent of destruction lingering in the cold northern air. The reports show that the wildlings were growing closer to the Wall instead of going further south. The crisp winds seemed to carry echoes of the screams that had accompanied the fiery onslaught.

The reports spoke of widespread devastation, with nearly five thousand commonfolk meeting a grisly end at the hands of the marauding wildlings. Their lives, like fragile candles in the wind, were extinguished amid the chaos and brutality of the invasion.

The wildlings, driven by a ruthless determination, had claimed lives and set fire to the precious forests and woods that adorned the northern landscape. The crackling flames devoured the greenery, leaving behind a desolate landscape where once-promising crops struggled to survive. The heart of the North, already burdened by the looming threat of winter, now bore the scars of a conflict. But still, the Night's Watch would not act; their duty was to the Wall, and while Aemon hated to admit it, he was needed here as well due to the overwhelming numbers of the wildlings coming from beyond the Wall.

The return to the Wall was marked by the biting sting of harsh winter winds, each gust carrying with it the cold whispers of the North. As Aemon and the Night's Watch approached the colossal structure, Balerion's triumphant roar echoed through the air, a proclamation of their return that resonated across the icy landscape.

The vastness of the black dragon, perched regally above the Wall, cast a shadow over the men below, a stark reminder of the mythical power that stood with them. The awe-struck gazes of those who manned the Wall bore witness to the colossal creature, a living testament to the Targaryen legacy now entwined with the Night's Watch. Aemon wondered if Balerion's weight was enough to break the Wall before he had fully made it to the North, but now he knew his answer.

The sight of Aemon, accompanied by the presence of Ghost, left the onlookers in awe. With fur as white as the snow-laden landscape, the dire wolf stood by Aemon's side, a silent guardian that had proven its loyalty beyond the Wall. Whispers of the battle at Osric's Keep spread like wildfire among the Night's Watch, and the tales painted Aemon as a figure of resilience and courage.

Word of the boy's deeds and the mythical companionship of a dire wolf and a dragon led the men of the Night's Watch to christen Aemon with a new title—the White Wolf. The name carried with it an air of both reverence and mystique, signifying not only his connection to the noble house of Stark but also the extraordinary events that had unfolded beyond the Wall.

As the snow continued to fall, covering the Wall and its surroundings in a pristine blanket of white, the men of the Night's Watch looked upon Aemon, the White Wolf, and his formidable companions with a mixture of admiration and trepidation, aware that the forces beyond the Wall were far more complex and dangerous than they had ever imagined.

In the sad days that followed their return to Castle Black, a sense of urgency gripped the Night's Watch as they prepared for the impending clash with the wildling army. The courtyard echoed with the sounds of blacksmiths hammering away at armor and blades while the cold winds whispered through the towering structures of Castle Black.

Aemon took an active role in the preparations. His left eye, still bearing the scar from the skirmish at Osric's Keep, was a constant reminder of their challenges. Alongside Lord Commander Benjen Stark, Aemon strategized and coordinated the efforts to fortify the Wall and ready the Night's Watch for the onslaught on the horizon.

The men trained tirelessly, honing their skills with swords, bows, and other implements of war. Balerion's imposing presence added an air of both reassurance and fearlessness to the training grounds. The dragon's fiery breath, a display of its might, was a stark reminder of the power that stood with the Night's Watch.

Ghost, the dire wolf, prowled the snowy grounds with an eerie grace, a silent sentinel overseeing the preparations. Aemon, attuned to the bond between him and Ghost, found solace in the wolf's company as they surveyed the Wall together, each lost in their thoughts.

The atmosphere within Castle Black was tense, laden with the weight of impending conflict. Every man knew the magnitude of the battle they were about to face, and the importance of their preparations echoed through the ancient stone halls. As the days passed, Aemon's stature among the Night's Watch grew, his actions at Osric's Keep cementing his place as a figure to be reckoned with.

Aemon stood atop the Wall, gazing southward as the winds whipped through his raven-black hair. A different kind of chill consumed the bitter cold bit at his face, but his thoughts – the chilling realization that the impending storm approached from both ends of the realm.

From his vantage point, Aemon pondered the fate of Winterfell. The North, a vast and storied land, was undoubtedly a formidable ally. If the Northern lords had rallied their banners and set forth for the Wall, the Night's Watch could stand a chance against the impending onslaught of wildlings. Yet, uncertainty lingered in Aemon's mind, a gnawing worry that the vast wilderness and the relentless wildling threat might have delayed the North's arrival.

Ameon thought that the Northern lords had reached Winterfell and should be on their way to the Wall. The question was, did the wildlings already south of the Wall slow them down? While nearly tens of thousands came across already, Aemon wagered due to them not knowing how to deal with such large numbers as a single unit, and due to the northern lords fighting back, the number of wildings south of the Wall was just north of ten thousand now, half of what they crossed with just about a moon ago.

The Night's Watch prayed for the sight of familiar banners approaching from the south. The arrival of Northern armies would tip the scales, bringing hope to Castle Black and bolstering their defense against the hordes that lurked beyond the Wall.

As the days passed, Aemon's anxiety grew. The Night's Watch diligently continued their preparations, but the knowledge that the wildlings could descend upon them at any moment loomed heavily in the air. Six thousand courageous and resolute men could not hope to withstand the overwhelming force that the wildlings represented.

Aemon's thoughts were on the absence of any Targaryen emissaries. There were no other Targaryens on the Wall when he returned, no tell of other dragons, and no word had spread to the Wall that Red Keep informed the realm of a missing prince, especially one who was third in line for the throne. But the most surprising person was not there, Daemon himself.

Daemon Targaryen, Aemon's father, was a great influence in the Red Keep, even if he was off building Summerhall, yet the news of Aemon's flight seemed to have eluded him. If Daemon was not here to bring Aemon back, that meant he had yet to learn of Aemon's disappearance, and the only way that is possible is if no one is speaking about the disappearance, even in the Red Keep. The Targaryens were trying to keep Aemon's disappearance secret and if they sent any dragon rider out to find him, they would undoubtedly draw attention and the anger of Daemon for them not being able to keep Aemon in the Red Keep.

The night unfolded in an abyssal cloak of darkness, the heavens obscured by thick, brooding clouds that denied the stars their celestial dance. The biting winds, laden with the promise of winter's frigid breath, whipped through the air, carrying a relentless barrage of snowflakes that stung like icy needles. The harsh blizzard, a herald of the impending winter, sought to ensnare the world in its icy grasp.

In the heart of this wintry tempest stood Aemon, his silhouette barely discernible against the backdrop of the raging storm. The Night's Watch, recognizing the symbolic might wielded by the boy with a dire wolf and a dragon, had reluctantly given him a watch to uphold. The snow assaulted him with a fervor akin to hail, a relentless onslaught that tested the resilience of those who dared to venture into the night.

Wrapped in layers of black, Aemon gazed into the swirling void, his eyes searching for any movement amidst the blinding white expanse. The Wall, a silent sentinel, loomed large, its icy surface glistening in the muted glow of the snow-laden night. Balerion, the Black Dread, perched atop the Wall, a silhouette of power against the indomitable forces of winter.

As the blizzard raged on, Aemon's thoughts were a storm of their own. Winter was not merely a season but an omen, a harbinger of challenges yet to unfold. His watch, a solitary vigil in the heart of the storm, embodied the quiet defiance of a realm bracing itself for the unknown. In the stillness of that wintry night, the boy with Targaryen blood and Northern resolve stood guard, a living testament to the intricacies of fate and the dance of elements beyond mortal comprehension.

In the pitch-black heart of the night, Aemon's gaze fixed on the horizon beyond the Wall, his eyes piercing through the veil of the snow-laden blizzard. The world around him was obscured, every detail drowned in the relentless assault of swirling white flakes. But amidst the frozen chaos, a faint glow flickered on the edge of the known world.

Aemon squinted, the orange hue barely discernible against the vast canvas of winter's ferocity. The glow, a mere ember on the distant landscape, swelled and intensified. It transformed into a raging inferno, a conflagration that consumed the very heart of the forest just a stone's throw from the Wall.

As realization dawned upon him, Aemon's mind echoed with the words of the Night's Watch deserter, a grisly insight uttered by a wildling doomed to fall. The deserter had forewarned of a fiery spectacle meant to herald the advance of the wildling army. Now, standing witness to the colossal blaze, Aemon comprehended the magnitude of the impending threat.

Once cloaked in the serene beauty of snow-laden branches, the entire forest was now a pyre stretching towards the heavens. The flames danced with an untamed fervor, casting grotesque shadows that flickered and contorted in the relentless gusts of the blizzard. Aemon's heart quickened, for the fire that now raged before him was not merely a destructive force of nature—it was a signal, a herald of the encroaching storm that bore the weight of an entire civilization seeking to breach the Wall.

The night shuddered beneath the echoing proclamation of Balerion's thunderous roar, a sound that seemed to resonate with the very foundations of the Wall itself. The roar was more than loud enough to wake the sleepers. Aemon, already poised to signal the impending threat, found himself bowing involuntarily before the colossal resonance, a symphony of might that overpowered the wintry cacophony surrounding Castle Black.

As the echoes of the dragon's roar reverberated through the frigid air, Aemon surveyed the Wall's expanse. His keen eyes discerned the hurried response of the Night's Watch, a synchronized ballet of men hastening to their posts, scaling the icy heights to brace against the imminent assault. The urgency sparked by Balerion's bellow rippled through Castle Black, an unspoken pact amongst brothers clad in black to stand vigilant against the encroaching storm.

Aemon, still kneeling from the roar, gradually rose, his ears still ringing with the echoes of draconic might. Despite the overwhelming tumult, he knew the dance had begun—the wildlings, driven by the infernal glow beyond the Wall, were surging forth like an unbridled force of nature. The Night's Watch, bound by oaths and centuries of tradition, rallied to defend the realm from the tempestuous tide that threatened to engulf the Wall.

The abyssal sea of torches emerged from the incandescent inferno beyond the Wall, a relentless surge of wildlings advancing like a tide of living flame against the stark canvas of the frozen landscape. Aemon's gaze, fixated on the spectral glow that heralded their approach, carried the weight of a leader yearning to be a warrior, yet the constraints of circ*mstance held him back.

Amid the chaos, the prospect of unleashing Balerion's might was a tantalizing thought, a dormant desire kindling in Aemon's heart. Yet, the dragon's enigmatic reluctance to soar beyond the Wall tethered the young Targaryen to the realm of longing ambitions. The flames of a dragon might have devoured the sea of torches, but Balerion, steadfastly grounded, remained a sentinel of the Wall.

Aemon grappled with the internal strife of choices, torn between the duty to engage the force beyond the Wall and the immediate threat looming over Castle Black. The chilling reality echoed in his thoughts—the castle was under siege, its defenders counting on ice resilience against the fiery onslaught. If brought too close, the flames that could annihilate the wildlings might also reduce Castle Black to ashes.

Aemon's voice cut through the biting wind, clear and commanding, as he surveyed the Wall and its defenders, his dark eyes revealing a determination beyond his years. "Where is the Lord Commander?" he inquired, the urgency in his voice underscored by the imminent threat that loomed beyond the icy barricade.

"The wildlings hit the south side just before Balerion roared. The Lord Commander and the First Ranger are holding the line at Castle Black," one man explained, the gravity of the situation etched on his face.

Aemon's eyes scanned the nearly five hundred men stationed atop the Wall. The scared left eye seemed to be highlighted by the fire pits on the Wall, his black cloak making him as though he was a living shadow in the blizzard. No commanding officers were present, leaving an ominous void in leadership. His young shoulders squared, and Aemon stepped forward.

Aemon looked onto the fires across the Wall, the sea of wildlings, and their torches. Aemon looked to the men as they had arrows in their buckets and holsters near the small platforms of wood to fire off. "Ready your arrows and bring barrels of oil," Aemon ordered with a firmness that brooked no dissent.

"Why should we listen to a child?" questioned a skeptical voice. Aemon turned around to see many men supporting the brother in question. Aemon understood the thought; no man would listen to a child in times of war. But Aemon also noticed the man opened up the statement for others to try and claim the position for themselves and become the leader of this group to face the wildlings. The man was going to continue before something tackled the man from behind, sprawling him on the ground flat. The man looked up only to see the bloody red eyes of Ghost. Ghost was unnaturally calm and quiet, but his snarl was clear to see; he was more than willing to rip the man's throat out. Aemon, ever the mediator, gestured for Ghost to step back, affirming his control over the dire wolf.

"Anyone else wishes to take charge?" Aemon challenged the assembly, met with a resounding silence. "Ready the arrows and the oil. We defend the Wall."

The Wall stood as a colossal barrier, its icy surface gleaming ominously in the torchlight. The men dipped the arrowheads in the oils around them and pushed the arrowheads into the torches by their sides. Four hundred men had their arrows in a blaze as another hundred were ready to switch out empty arrow holsters. They drew their arrows, ready to fire as the mass of wildlings began to run out of the forests rather than their slow march.

Aemon's voice, though youthful, resonated with an authority that belied his age. "Fire!" he commanded, his words cutting through the howling wind.

In response, a symphony of tensioned bowstrings sang as arrows were sent soaring into the frigid night. With grim determination etched on their faces, the men on the Wall became a relentless storm of fire.

As the arrows arched through the air, they left trails of radiant light against the ink-black sky. The men worked with practiced efficiency, dipping fresh arrows into barrels of oil and hastily igniting them. The Wall became a forge of flame, and the night sky erupted with a cascade of fiery projectiles.

The volley descended upon the wildling horde below like a tempest, each arrow carving an ephemeral streak of brilliance before meeting its target. Hundreds of feet down, the chaos unfolded beneath as the flaming arrows found their marks. The snow-covered ground became a chaotic dance of flickering flames, illuminating the faces of the wildlings caught in the onslaught.

The air crackled with the hiss of burning flesh and the triumphant cries of the Night's Watch. The Wall, once a stoic guardian against the unknown, now bore witness to the unleashed fury of its defenders. Aemon, atop the icy precipice, watched the inferno of falling stars he had orchestrated, knowing that this was only the beginning of the battle to safeguard the realms of men.

The falling arrows descended like celestial bodies, leaving trails of fiery brilliance that cut through the biting cold of the blizzard. Each flaming streak painted the night in hues of orange and gold, briefly eclipsing the relentless onslaught of the snowstorm. In the harsh winds, the arrows danced like falling stars, their glow a stark contrast to the desolate landscape.

The wildlings, charging through the deep snow, were met with the searing rain of fire over and over again. Panic and confusion spread among their ranks as the relentless barrage forced them to veer off course, desperately trying to avoid the deadly trajectory of the flaming arrows. The blizzard, unforgiving and relentless, howled in protest, but the Wall stood tall, a bastion of defiance against the encroaching darkness.

Despite the biting cold and the fury of the storm, the Night's Watch persisted in their volleys. Fresh arrows continued to rain down, each one a harbinger of destruction for any wildling daring to approach the base of the Wall. The men on the Wall, faces obscured by fur-lined hoods and frost-covered beards, stood as a united front against the advancing horde.

As the flaming arrows continued to descend, Aemon surveyed the unfolding chaos below. Despite the onslaught, the wildlings pressed on with determination, reaching the base of the Wall. He could see them preparing battering rams, chopping down trees to construct makeshift siege weapons.

Aemon called out to the men on the Wall, rallying them in the face of the impending assault. "Prepare for a breach! Ready the defenses at the outer gate! We can't let them break through! Grab the barrels!"

Fueled by a shared sense of duty, the Night's Watch hastened to reinforce the outer gate. Men rushed for the barrels of oil that would be needed, and men readied themselves with flaming arrows, aiming for the wildlings attempting to scale the Wall. The sound of clashing weapons, grunts, and the howling wind created a cacophony of battle.

Aemon, with Ghost by his side, observed the chaos, his young voice carrying authority. "Hold the line! We can't let them breach the gate! Pour the oil and ready the arrows. We stand united against the storm!"

As the wildlings persisted in their attempts to break through, Aemon's eye darted across the Wall, seeking any signs of weakness. The bitter cold and the relentless blizzard were formidable foes, but the Night's Watch stood firm, their actions guided by the urgency of the impending threat.

Aemon continued to bark orders. "Prepare the boiling oil We cannot let them breach the outer gate, or Castle Black is lost!" The urgency in his voice matched the dire circ*mstances unfolding below. Aemon, his lone eye scanning the scene, shouted to the archers on the Wall above, "Keep those arrows raining down on them! We need every second we can get!" The archers responded with a renewed flurry of arrows, each one aimed at halting the advance of the wildlings below.

Aemon watched a large horde of the wildlings that were now concentrated at the large gate. The battering rams made from a cut-down tree slammed into the gate; it would do nothing for now. Aemon could see the horde growing in size, and Aemon realized they were using chains and rope to try and hook around the gate; they were trying to loosen the hinges with the repeated hitting of the battering ram to pull the damn thing down with force.

In the harsh darkness of the blizzard, Aemon's sharp command cut through the wind. "Light the barrels! Drop them over the edge!"

The Night's Watchmen swiftly responded, igniting the barrels filled with oil and fire. With a fiery glow, the barrels were released from the top of the Wall, hurtling down toward the mass of wildlings attempting to breach the gate. The barrels erupted in a blaze upon impact, casting an eerie light on the chaotic scene below.

Aemon continued to direct the defense efforts. "Keep them at bay! Drop more barrels when you see a concentrated group. We cannot let them break through!"

The Night's Watchmen maintained a rhythm, coordinating their actions to thwart the wildlings' advances. The fiery explosions created a barrier of light in the abyss of the blizzard, briefly illuminating the fierce struggle between the defenders of the Wall and the relentless onslaught of the wildling horde.

As the blizzard raged on, the wildling hordes persisted in their relentless climb up the Wall. Despite their valiant efforts, the Night's Watch defenders found themselves overwhelmed by the sheer numbers that ascended, rendering the archers' arrows ineffective against the swarm. For every man they shot down, five more would rush through the opening as the fiery arrows illuminated the ground, just enough for the men to know that they must go to the Wall and not get lost in the piles of bodies, arrows, and chaos.

The wildlings, undeterred by the fiery rain of arrows, had managed to construct makeshift ladders and siege engines from the bones of ancient mammoths and trees from the haunted forests beyond the Wall. Giants, their eyes burning with primal rage, swung colossal clubs and battered at the ice, seeking to breach the ancient barrier. All knew it would not do much, but Aemon realized the giants were using themselves as a sacrifice to take the onslaught of arrows so that fresh wildlings could continue fighting as the giants protected them overhead by taking on the arrows.

The flaming arrows continued to rain down, casting an eerie glow upon the battlefield. Yet, as the flames danced and flickered, they failed to stem the inexorable advance of the wildlings. It was as if an otherworldly force propelled them forward, an unrelenting determination that transcended the mortal realm.

No matter how many wildlings fell to the fiery barrage, more took their place, scrambling over the bodies of their fallen comrades with a primal ferocity. The Wall, once thought impregnable, now stood as a last bastion against the relentless surge of the free folk. They rushed forward and continued to climb the Wall as the giants protected took on all the arrows themselves as living shields in the hope that the wildlings broke through.

Aemon, standing atop the Wall, assessed the dire situation. The giant scythe was their last hope, a formidable weapon designed to sweep away climbers. However, to Aemon's dismay, the lever to release it was jammed. The massive throng of wildlings continued their ascent like an unyielding tide, threatening to breach the Wall.

"We need that scythe! Someone get that lever unstuck!" Aemon shouted, his voice carrying over the tumultuous winds. The Night's Watchmen scrambled, attempting to free the mechanism that could potentially turn the tide of the battle.

As Aemon's desperate cry for the scythe pierced the frigid air, Balerion, the giant black dragon, let out a deafening roar that echoed across the icy expanse. The dragon, perched atop the Wall, spread its wings wide as it responded to the command.

Aemon looked at the dragon, which was larger than the Wall. Aemon knew what words he needed to say, but never before had he said them to kill so many. And yet, he cared little for what he was about to do; it was needed. He had yet to say the words in this lifetime that went hand in hand with being a Targaryen and a dragon rider. But for now, that didn't matter. He brought wildlings' blood when he fought them with his swords when coming to the Wall the first time, and now, he shoots them with arrows; now, he will bring the fire.

Balerion, the mighty dragon under his command, awaited in the shadows, its massive form concealed by the cover of night. The flames flickering in the distance seemed to reflect in Aemon's troubled eyes as he grappled with a decision that weighed heavily on his conscience.

In the recesses of his mind, the faces of Val and Ygritte emerged, their features etched with memories of love and shared moments in the harsh lands beyond the Wall. Val, a woman of wild beauty with hair as white as the snow itself and eyes that sparkled with an untamed spirit. Her strength and resilience had earned her a place of respect among the free folk, and her bond with Aemon had transcended the boundaries of the Wall.

Ygritte, with her fiery red hair and piercing blue eyes, haunted Aemon's thoughts as well. She had been his companion in the wild, and their love had bloomed amidst the dangers of the untamed north. Her laughter echoed in his mind, a painful reminder of the warmth they had found in the midst of the icy wilderness.

The mere contemplation of using Balerion's destructive power against the wildling horde gave Aemon a horrifying vision of Val and Ygritte consumed by dragonfire. The guilt gnawed at Aemon's heart, a visceral struggle between duty and the preservation of the lives of those he once called kin.

He envisioned the dragon's flames engulfing the bodies of Val and Ygritte, their forms twisting and contorting in the searing heat. The anguish etched on their faces, the betrayal in their eyes, became a haunting specter that fueled Aemon's internal conflict. The very idea of sacrificing their lives to protect the Wall tore at his soul.

Aemon perched atop the Wall, saw and heard the Ygritte and Val burning alive as they screamed and screeched. As he considered the devastating power of Balerion's fire, the faces of Val and Ygritte twisted in agony amid the searing flames. The imagined screams of the two women, once beloved, now consumed by dragonfire, echoed through Aemon's conscience like a haunting refrain.

Yet, in this internal struggle, another voice intruded upon his thoughts. A voice, disembodied and chilling, whispered words that sent shivers down Jon's spine. "Burn them all," it whispered. "Burn them all," it said gradually louder. "Burn them all!" it roared in his head. Aemon's eyes looked on Balerion, but for a fleeting second, just longer than a heart, he saw no one but an older man on the Iron Throne, the Mad King, Aerys II Targaryen. The words, a sinister reminder of the madness that had gripped the ruler of the Iron Throne, reverberated through Aemon's troubled mind. Aemon saw him moving fervently on his chair as he ordered more wildfire; he ordered the same acidic green flames that Aemon's former dragon, Rhaegal, breathed. Aemon had always thought of the Mad King when Rhaegal breathed his flames, but this was the first time that Aemon would use the flames on the armies of the living. He always had used dragons as intimidation, but never had he let the flames loose on such a scale.

The memories of Aerys and the tales of his cruel reign surfaced in Aemon's thoughts. Aerys, driven to madness, had reveled in burning his enemies alive, reveling in the sad*stic pleasure derived from the screams of those consumed by the flames. The image of women and children meeting a fiery end at the Mad King's command haunted Aemon, a stark reminder of the dark underbelly of power.

The burning visions persisted, and Aemon found himself slipping into a dark contemplation. The desire to end the threat before him, to ensure the safety of the realms of men, clashed with the horror of becoming a merciless executioner. The imagined screams of innocents, akin to the tormented cries heard during the Mad King's reign, tore at Aemon's soul.

In his tortured imagination, Aemon began to see himself as a mirror image of the Mad King, a ruler driven to madness by the weight of responsibility and the harsh choices demanded by war. He envisioned the dragonfire consuming not just the wildling invaders but innocent men, women, and children caught in the fiery maelstrom. Aemon was sentencing many women and children to suffer and starve if he were to burn this army, for there would be no one to protect them in the North. He might as well of burnt the women and children alongside the armies. He was no better than the Mad King. He was no better than Daenerys as she burned King's Landing. He would never be better. Maybe it was the curse of their blood to always burn anything and everything in their path or anything around them. He would burn them all, and it hurt him.

The echoes of the Mad King's madness still reverberated in his mind, a dark specter threatening to consume his sense of duty. As the imagined screams of innocent lives intertwined with the haunting memories of Aerys the Mad King, Aemon found himself paralyzed by indecision.

A familiar voice broke through the cacophony of conflicting thoughts. A wise and weathered voice, that reminded him so much of King Jaehaerys. He thought it was Jaehaerys for some time but somehow it felt wrong. The man was the blood of the dragon, the voice was old and frail, but it sounded lonely.

"A Targaryen, alone in the world, is a terrible thing," he heard the voice whisper in his head. Aemon now knew that voice; he knew who it was, his namesake.

Aemon could see the older man in his mind now, see him sitting on a chair as they spoke in the library. "I need your advice. There is something I want to do, something I have to do but...it will kill a part of me doing it," Aemon whispered to himself.

Maester Aemon was resolute even if he did not look the younger Aemon in the eye. "You have already died twice before," the old man said with no hesitation. "Do it."

Aemon knew these were merely words in his head; he knew that this was not truly happening, but some part of him latched on to it as if it were. Some part of him desperately needed that familiarity of his old life and the wisdom of those who knew his life well. "But you don't even know what I plan to do," Aemon pointed out in his head.

"It does not matter; you do. You will find little joy in your new life, Aemon," the older man said as he touched Aemon's cheek. "I think the gods have cursed you to be born in times in which our family is teetering on death's door. But with any luck and the majority of the stubbornness given to you by your mother and father in both lives, you will find the strength to do what needs to be done. Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Winter is almost upon us. Kill the boy and let the man be born," the maester's words echoed in Aemon's mind like a beacon of clarity.

With the words of Maester Aemon echoing in his mind, Aemon steeled himself. The conflict within him did not vanish, but a newfound resolve took root. He knew that to protect the Wall and the realms of men, he had to make a choice that pained his very soul.

In that moment of clarity, Aemon's gaze returned to the chaos unfolding below. The wildling horde pressed relentlessly against the Wall, and the fiery glow of Balerion's potential unleashed destruction lingered in the distance. Aemon, with a heavy heart, prepared to give the command.

"Dracarys!" Aemon repeated, his voice carrying the weight of ancient Targaryen authority. Balerion, seemingly understanding the urgency, opened its maw wide, unleashing a torrent of searing black flames down upon the climbing wildlings. The fire roared and crackled, engulfing the Wall in a blaze that illuminated the night like a monstrous beacon.

The dragon's black flames, as if conjured from the depths of the abyss, engulfed the landscape, stretching as far as the eye could see. The once frigid air now shimmered with an infernal heat, and the entire horizon became a sea of black fire, a menacing veil that devoured all in its path.

The flames, black as the darkest night, danced with an eerie beauty, casting an ominous glow that painted the frozen landscape in shades of shadow. The firestorm blazed with an intensity that seemed to defy the natural order, consuming everything in its relentless advance. It was a sight both mesmerizing and terrifying, as the very essence of darkness itself manifested in the form of relentless, all-consuming flames.

The wildlings, caught in the inferno, screamed in agony as the flames consumed them. The relentless assault that threatened to overwhelm the Night's Watch now met the unstoppable force of dragonfire. Aemon watched as the cascading flames carved a path of destruction through the wildling ranks, halting their ascent and turning the Wall into a wall of fire.

As Balerion unleashed his fiery breath, the very essence of darkness seemed to manifest in the form of black flames. Once shrouded in the icy grip of winter, the lands beyond the Wall now succumbed to the relentless assault of a supernatural inferno. The cold, which had gripped the region with its icy tendrils, melted away in the face of the searing heat radiating from Balerion's breath.

The flames, an obsidian cascade of pure destruction, devoured everything in their path. The intense black blaze consumed trees, frozen earth, and any unfortunate wildling caught in the dragon's wrath. The heat emanating from the fires was so intense that Aemon, standing atop the Wall, felt the warmth despite the freezing winds that whipped around him.

The paradox of the scene was mesmerizing – a black sea of flames against the backdrop of a dark, stormy night. The contrast between the ethereal black fires and the snow-laden landscape created an otherworldly spectacle. The flames seemed to defy the laws of nature, burning hotter and darker than any fire had a right to.

In the midst of the chaos, Balerion's colossal form remained a silhouette against the blazing abyss. His wings, extended majestically, cast a shadow over the tumultuous scene unfolding below. The dragon's roars merged with the crackling of the black flames, creating a symphony of destruction that reverberated across the desolate landscape.

Aemon, his eyes fixed on the apocalyptic display, couldn't help but marvel at the sheer power unleashed by the ancient dragon. It was a cataclysmic force, a manifestation of Targaryen might that surpassed the limits of mortal comprehension. The air seemed to pulse unholy as Balerion continued to breathe forth the dark fire, a force that transcended the boundaries of the known world.

Balerion's black flames surged forth like a boundless sea of darkness, an all-encompassing inferno that devoured the landscape. The intensity of the flames was so overwhelming that attempting to gaze directly into the abyss of black fire was akin to staring into the sun. The sheer volume of the dark blaze dominated the visual field, leaving nothing beyond the Wall visible except for the ominous, all-consuming blackness of the dragon's breath. The dark storm, once a formidable force, now paled in comparison to the otherworldly spectacle of Balerion's relentless onslaught, rendering the entire scene an indistinct canvas painted in the hues of an ethereal, consuming darkness.

The ceaseless torrent of Balerion's black flames spanned an eternity, an infernal cascade that seemed to defy the boundaries of time. The relentless outpouring engulfed the lands beyond the Wall for more than ten minutes, leaving nothing untouched in its wake. As the dragon's breath finally subsided, the once-climbing horde of wildlings was reduced to smoldering ruins, the fires reaching down to the scorched ground below.

The heat generated by the conflagration was so intense that it melted the once-pristine snow, leaving behind a desolate landscape charred by the dragon's wrath. The breath had traversed a mile, reaching halfway to the distant tree line, a testament to the overwhelming power of Balerion's fiery exhalation. The aftermath lay before the Wall, a scene of destruction and desolation, the blackened earth bearing witness to the awesome might of the dragon's dark flames.

Amidst the charred aftermath, a hushed silence fell upon the Wall. Initially frozen in awe and dread, the Night's Watchmen began to register the extent of Balerion's devastation. The eerie glow of the remaining embers cast shadows on their faces, revealing a mix of relief and disbelief.

A single cheer pierced the quiet, erupting like a spark that ignited the spirits of the men. The contagion of joy spread swiftly, each man joining the chorus of celebration. They clapped each other on the back, shared wide smiles, and exchanged words of gratitude for the dragon that had become their unlikely savior.

In the midst of the revelry, Aemon stood, his eyes wide with a mix of emotions. He marveled at the power of the dragon he commanded, the creature that had staved off an impending threat. Yet, beneath the surface of relief, he couldn't shake the weight of the responsibility that came with wielding such formidable might. The cheers echoed through the frigid night, a symphony of triumph over the silent battlefield.

Amidst the jubilation, Aemon's cry cut through the celebratory air. "Quiet!" he commanded, the authority in his voice quelling the cheers.

As the men hushed, a panting brother from the Night's Watch stumbled towards Aemon. "We're under attack!" he gasped, urgency etched across his face.

Aemon, his brow furrowing, demanded, "What happened?"

The man took a moment to catch his breath. "Ten thousand wildlings, they've breached the south side of Castle Black; the Lord Commander could not stop them from entering. We need every man, and the Lord Commander requested Ghost and your aid. Castle Black is in peril, and they can't hold much longer!"

Aemon cursed under his breath, the weight of the situation pressing upon him. He knew the delicate balance between defending Castle Black and the Wall itself. "If we leave the Wall, they'll climb it once more," Aemon muttered, contemplating his dire choices. The fate of Castle Black hung in the balance, and Aemon found himself torn between the duty to the Night's Watch below and the defense of the Wall.

The heavily breathing black brother looked at Aemon. "My prince, we need you. The Lord Commander says that he needs the dire wolf; no one's going to be able to see him in the snow, and he knows the wolf won't leave you."

"We need to hold the Wall!" one of the men argued for Aemon.

"And if we let Castle Black fall, those wildlings would march right on up here and kill us before letting those north of the Wall through the gates," Aemon returned.

"Your grace, they already made it through. They are bleeding through the front gates and spilling over the south archway of Castle Black. If we don't act now, we are all doomed," the man confirmed.

Aemon did not know what to say. He looked around the brothers and asked for the man with the most seniority out of the five hundred atop the Wall. A middle-aged man with a balding head, a beard reaching his waist, and piercing blue eyes came forth. He named himself Ragnar.

"Brother Ragnar, you have the Wall. I'm leaving you just a bit more than half of the men here to defend her." Aemon, with authority in his voice, gave swift orders to the Night's Watch atop the Wall. "Two hundred archers, down to Castle Black! Ready yourselves for the fight," he commanded, his words firm and decisive. The archers nodded, promptly moving to carry out his instructions.

Turning to the colossal dragon, Balerion, Aemon spoke in High Valyrian, his words carrying the weight of command. "If the wildlings reach halfway up the Wall, unleash your flames upon them. Burn them all."

Balerion roared loudly in response, half of the massive dragon's body perched out of the Wall as his neck loomed over the Wall, allowing his massive head to rest comfortably over the Wall. Aemon knew the wildlings would not be bold enough to climb the Wall once more now that they knew the giant beast they had been seeing that roared like tornado winds could breathe fire. They would be running to the outer gate since one of the heads of the flames reached the ground, save for a few strands, and many would die, but it was a worthwhile risk for them.

Addressing Ragnar, Aemon issued further instructions. "If any wildlings breach the outer gate, drop the flaming barrels upon them. Do not let them pass."

"Your dragon won't listen to me. Without you, he'll have no reason not to burn us all," Raganar returned.

"Well then, don't give him a reason then," Aemon returned. To the remaining two hundred men, he rallied them with determination. "With me! We descend to Castle Black. The Castle Black needs our aid."

As the men below the Wall prepared to descend and face the impending threat, Aemon led the way down towards Castle Black, his resolve unwavering in the face of the imminent battle. The men going down would only be able to go down a dozen or so at a time, and that meant that the first group had to ensure no wildlings attacked the elevator for the others to come down and fight back. Aemon, with Ghost, led the first group of about a dozen or so men as they descended the wooden, frozen elevator.

As Aemon descended on the wooden elevator, the chaos at Castle Black came into full view. The night air was filled with the sounds of battle – the clash of steel, the screams of men, and the roar of flames. Wildlings and Night's Watchmen were locked in a deadly dance of combat, and Aemon could see the brutality of the fight unfolding below.

The courtyard was a chaotic battleground, illuminated by sporadic bursts of flame from burning structures. The air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and the metallic tang of blood. Aemon's gaze darted across the scene, taking in the gruesome details of the fight.

A sword against axe, dagger against spear – the clash of weapons created a symphony of violence. Bodies fell in quick succession, blood staining the snow-covered ground. Wildling warriors' faces contorted in rage clashed with Night's Watchmen, who fought desperately to defend their stronghold.

Aemon's eyes widened as he witnessed the brutality of the conflict. He saw a Night's Watchman fall, a wildling's axe cleaving through his armor, leaving a trail of crimson. Another Wildling, a woman with fierce determination in her eyes, lunged at a Night's Watchman with a crude spear. But a stray arrow pierced through her neck, and she began to gurgle and choke on her own blood.

The fight was relentless; each swing of a blade or thrust of a weapon met with fierce resistance. Aemon, gripping his sword tightly, felt a surge of urgency.

As the elevator reached the ground, Aemon leaped into action, his sword drawn and determination etched on his face. The fight between Night's Watch and wildlings intensified, and Aemon joined the fray, his every strike aimed at protecting Castle Black from the impending threat.

Aemon stood his ground at the base of the Wall, surrounded by a dozen Night's Watchmen, ready to defend the wooden elevator that would bring reinforcements from the top of the Wall. The chaotic battle between Night's Watch and wildlings raged around them, but Aemon focused on the task.

As the first wave of wildlings approached, Aemon readied his sword with a swift, practiced motion. Ghost, the silent dire wolf by his side, mirrored his readiness, teeth bared and eyes fixed on the incoming threat.

Aemon led his small band of Night's Watchmen with determination. The wildlings charged with ferocity, but Aemon's skill with a blade was evident. His movements were fluid and precise, a dance of deadly efficiency. With a swift slash, Aemon incapacitated a wildling, leaving them vulnerable for Ghost to deliver the finishing blow.

The dire wolf moved with an eerie grace, his white fur blending with the snow-covered landscape as he lunged at the wildlings. His jaws closed around the arm of an approaching enemy, tearing through flesh and causing chaos among the wildling ranks.

Aemon and Ghost fought as one, a seamless collaboration of boy and beast. Aemon's sword flashed, parrying attacks and delivering well-timed strikes, while Ghost's feral instincts complemented Aemon's every move. Together, they formed a deadly duo that struck fear into the hearts of their enemies.

Aemon's leadership kept the Night's Watchmen cohesive, defending the vital elevator. Each swing of his sword was met with Ghost's swift and lethal interventions, creating a lethal synergy that pushed back the relentless onslaught of wildlings.

As the wooden elevator continued its ascent and descent, more Night's Watch reinforcements joined the fray. Aemon and Ghost, undeterred, remained at the forefront, a formidable force against the tide of wildlings. The battle at the base of the Wall became a testament to their resilience and unwavering determination to protect Castle Black.

In the chaotic maelstrom of battle, Aemon, a mere child, moved with an unnatural grace. His slender frame weaved through the clashing combatants, his movements anticipatory and precise. Beside him, Ghost, the towering dire wolf, fought like a mythical beast unleashed upon the battlefield.

As the wildlings closed in, their raucous cries cutting through the frigid air, Aemon's senses heightened. He read their intentions before the first strike was launched, a skill honed through training and the dire circ*mstances of his young life beyond the Wall. Aemon's small sword became an extension of his will, a deadly instrument that he wielded with preternatural finesse.

The wildlings, larger and more robust than the young prince, underestimated the combination of Aemon's agility and Ghost's relentless ferocity. Ghost moved like a white shadow, his massive form dominating the battleground. With each swipe of his powerful claws and every snap of his formidable jaws, the dire wolf dispatched wildlings ruthlessly.

Aemon danced between the chaotic clashes, avoiding blows that would have proven fatal for a child of his stature. His dodges were a testament to the instinctual connection he shared with Ghost, a bond that transcended the boundaries of human and beast. The dire wolf, attuned to Aemon's every move, became a guardian, ensuring no harm befell the young boy.

As Aemon and Ghost moved in harmony, their adversaries found themselves outmatched. The wildlings, driven by desperation and aggression, telegraphed their attacks with a stark predictability. Aemon exploited these openings, his movements a ballet of evasion and retaliation. His sword struck true, finding vulnerable points in the wildlings' defenses, while Ghost's powerful presence created a barrier that none dared to breach.

The battlefield around Aemon became a tableau of chaos and carnage. Ghost's eyes burned fiercely as he relentlessly defended his young charge. Aemon, though inexperienced, fought with a determination that transcended his age, his small form a whirlwind of calculated strikes and evasive maneuvers.

Aemon, having facilitated the arrival of reinforcements, moved away from the elevator, determined to contribute to the defense of Castle Black. The battleground was a chaotic violence, the clash of steel against steel, and the screams of the wounded.

The wildlings pressed forward with a savage fervor, their sheer numbers threatening to overwhelm the Night's Watch defenders. Aemon, with his small stature and Ghost by his side, moved gracefully through the chaotic fray. His movements were a dance of evasion, every step guided by an instinct cultivated through harrowing experiences beyond the Wall.

Atop the roof, a Night's Watch archer and a wildling marksman engaged in a deadly contest. Arrows whizzed through the air like vengeful spirits as the archers sought to outdo each other's skill. The twang of bowstrings echoed in the icy winds, and the clash of arrows filled the frozen night. The duel ended abruptly as one arrow found its mark, plunging into the eye of the wildling marksman.

As Aemon and Ghost moved through the chaos, a group of wildlings emerged from the darkness. Aemon, with a sword in hand, faced off against two attackers while Ghost prowled at his side. With swift swordplay, Aemon deflected the initial strikes, parrying blows with skill. In the shadows, Ghost lunged at the unsuspecting third wildling, ripping into their throat with feral precision. The element of surprise allowed Jon to dispatch his opponents swiftly, their bodies falling lifeless to the snow.

On the battlements, a Night's Watch swordsman clashed with a wildling warrior. Steel met steel in a furious dance, sparks flying with each clash of blades. The bitter cold air carried the grunts and curses of the combatants as they fought for dominance. In a moment of vulnerability, the Night's Watchman's blade found its mark, piercing the wildling's side.

A burly wildling armed with a massive club charged toward Aemon. Ghost, ever vigilant, leaped in front of Aemon, acting as a living shield. The wildling's club met Ghost's form, but the dire wolf held firm; the dire wolf was the size of a horse, and a mere sing of a club would not deter him. Seizing the opportunity, Aemon circled the distracted foe and delivered a precise strike with Longclaw, crippling the wildling. With a feral snarl, Ghost lunged forward, tearing into the wounded enemy and finishing the fight with a savage display of primal strength.

Amidst the chaos, a berserker wielding a massive axe charged through the melee. The Night's Watch defender, armed with a shield, desperately tried to parry the brutal strikes. The clash of metal and wood resounded, but the berserker's relentless onslaught proved too much. With a thunderous swing, the axe cleaved through the shield, finding its mark and ending the defender's resistance.

In the courtyard, a group of Night's Watch brothers faced off against a band of wildlings. The clash of weapons echoed off the stone walls as swords, spears, and daggers danced in a chaotic symphony of violence. The ground became slick with blood, and the cries of the wounded mingled with the clash of arms. The Night's Watch held their ground, but not without paying a heavy toll.

In the midst of a skirmish, Aemon found himself surrounded by a trio of agile wildlings. Ghost, a blur of white fur and red eyes, circled at Aemon's side. The wildlings attacked in a coordinated frenzy, but Aemon's swordsmanship held strong. With each swing of the sword, he deflected their strikes while Ghost darted in and out, slashing at exposed limbs. The dance continued until one wildling, weakened and disoriented, fell prey to Ghost's relentless assault, the dire wolf tearing into their limbs with a ferocity that left no room for escape.

A narrow staircase became the setting for a desperate struggle. A Night's Watchman, outnumbered by wildlings, fought for his life with a combination of skill and desperation. The staircase turned into a bloody battleground as each step became a potential death trap. In the end, a wildling's dagger found its mark, leaving the Night's Watchman lifeless on the cold stone steps.

As the moonlight reflected off the icy ground, Aemon faced a skilled wildling warrior. The clash of steel echoed in the frozen air as the two combatants engaged in a duel of blades. With calculated precision, Aemon blocked and dodged the wildling's strikes. At the opportune moment, Ghost lunged from the shadows, tearing into the enemy's arm with a swift and deadly attack. The wildling, now vulnerable, fell to Aemon's sword, the clash of metal against bone ending the confrontation in the cold silence of the night.

A massive Night's Watchman faced off against a towering giant armed with nothing but a spear. The ground shook with each step as the giant swung a makeshift club. The Night's Watchman, nimble and determined, darted between the giant's legs, delivering precise strikes with his spear. In a daring move, he drove the weapon into the giant's ankle, bringing the colossal foe to its knees. But before he could end the giant, the giant used its large club to slam down on the Night's Watchmen within a single heartbeat; it was as if the club had always been there.

In the thick of the melee, the Night's Watch fought valiantly, but the wildlings, driven by desperation and a thirst for revenge, fought with brutal ferocity. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, and the ground beneath Aemon's boots was slick with a morbid co*cktail of snow and gore.

The gruesome scene unfolded with each clash of blades and every desperate swing for survival. Wildlings, their faces contorted in a feral rage, struck with merciless brutality. Night's Watchmen fell, their cries mingling with the cacophony of battle as the relentless assault threatened to breach the defenses.

Ghost, the towering dire wolf, moved with primal savagery, his fangs and claws leaving a trail of mangled bodies in his wake. His white fur was stained crimson, a stark contrast to the surrounding chaos. Aemon, despite his youth, fought with an unyielding determination, his small sword a deadly extension of his will.

Limbs severed, bodies sprawled in unnatural positions, and crimson stains on the pristine white landscape painted a vivid portrait of the grim struggle.

Wildlings, their faces contorted by the harsh winds and the ferocity of battle, surged forward with a primal hunger for blood. Outnumbered and facing a relentless onslaught, the Night's Watch fought desperately to hold their ground. The clash of swords and the twang of bowstrings filled the air as the combatants met in a maelstrom of violence.

Swords swung with deadly intent, cleaving through the air and finding their mark on both sides. The metallic ring of blade against blade echoed through the night, punctuated by the desperate cries of men locked in mortal combat. Some Night's Watchmen fell under the sheer force of the wildlings' strikes, their bodies crumpling under the brutal assault.

Spears thrust forward like deadly serpents, seeking out vulnerable points in the Night's Watch's defenses. The cruel tips found flesh, and the cries of the wounded mingled with the clatter of armor and the visceral sounds of combat. In the chaotic swirl of the battle, faces contorted in pain and rage became indistinguishable from one another.

Arrows soared through the air, their deadly flight leaving trails of death in their wake. Night's Watchmen fell with fletched shafts protruding from their bodies, victims of the relentless barrage from the wildling archers. The merciless rain of arrows added to the nightmarish panorama, turning the once-clear sky into a canvas of death.

Gruesome kills unfolded in the snow-covered expanse. Wildlings, driven by a savage determination, employed crude but effective methods. Blades slashed across throats, leaving crimson arcs against the pristine white backdrop. Limbs were severed with brutal efficiency, and the air resonated with the sickening thud of bodies hitting the ground.

The brutality was not confined to one side, as Night's Watch blades also found their mark. Desperation and survival fueled the ferocity of the defenders, and each swing of a sword or thrust of a spear was an act of defiance against the encroaching horde.

The night was ablaze with the chaotic dance of shadows and flickering torchlight. Aemon, with a sword in hand and Ghost by his side, moved with an unnatural grace through the melee. An arrow sliced through the air towards Aemon's face, but with a swift and practiced motion, he intercepted it with his sword, the blade cleaving the projectile in twain.

With a pirouette of lethal elegance, Aemon cut down a wildling who dared to approach him. His sword moved with a fluidity that defied his age, striking true and leaving his foe sprawled in the snow. Meanwhile, Ghost prowled through the battlefield, a white blur of fangs and fur. The dire wolf lunged at a wildling, pinning him to the ground, and with a vicious bite, tore out the man's throat.

The chaos of battle intensified, and Aemon's attention was drawn to a dire situation. A dozen wildlings encircled his great-grandfather, Lord Commander Benjen Stark. Aemon's eyes widened with a fierce determination, and he let out a primal roar that echoed through the tumultuous night. With Ghost by his side, the boy charged headlong into the fray.

Sword and fang worked in tandem as Aemon and Ghost cut a path through the wildling ranks. Aemon's blade found its mark with deadly precision, and Ghost's ferocious attacks left a trail of fallen enemies. The Night's Watchmen, initially surrounded, now found a swift and unexpected ally in the form of the White Wolf and his dire companion.

As they neared Lord Commander Stark, Aemon's strikes became more fervent, a storm of steel that cleared a protective circle around his great-grandfather. The air was filled with the metallic symphony of clashing blades, and the ground beneath them was stained with the lifeblood of the fallen.

Aemon found himself locked in a tense struggle with a young wildling, their blades clashing in a symphony of steel. Despite the wildling's strength, Aemon's skill allowed him to hold his ground. Sensing an opportunity, Aemon swiftly drew a dagger from his back pocket, a blade that gleamed in the pale moonlight.

With a determined thrust, Aemon drove the dagger into the wildling's face, the steel finding its mark with a sickening crunch. The young wildling, just a few short years older than Aemon himself, crumpled to the ground, defeated. Aemon's eyes, though filled with the gravity of the situation, betrayed a steely resolve as he moved with a preternatural confidence.

With a swift command, Aemon directed Ghost, the mighty dire wolf, to the aid of Lord Commander Benjen Stark. The massive wolf moved like a white streak through the chaos, closing the distance with an almost supernatural speed. Ghost lunged at a wildling who had been poised to strike at the Lord Commander from behind. Fangs sank into flesh, and a spray of blood marked the dire wolf's swift, lethal intervention.

Ghost's intervention brought precious moments for Aemon to reach his great-grandfather's side. The Lord Commander, now aware of Aemon's presence, fought with renewed vigor as the boy joined the fray. Aemon's sword and dagger became an extension of his will, each strike precise and calculated.

Aemon and the Lord Commander formed a formidable duo, cutting down wildlings with lethal efficiency. The battlefield echoed with the sounds of clashing steel, the roles of Balerion high above the Wall, and the cries of the fallen. The defenders of Castle Black, inspired by the valor displayed by the young Targaryen and the seasoned Lord Commander, began to turn the tide against the encroaching wildling onslaught.

As dawn broke over the battered landscape, the trio of Ghost, Aemon, and Lord Commander Benjen Stark fought on, rallying the beleaguered Night's Watch. The first light of morning cast long shadows on the battlefield, revealing the aftermath of a night steeped in chaos and conflict. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, and the ground was littered with the fallen from both sides.

The Night's Watch, under Aemon's and the seasoned Lord Commander's leadership, had weathered the wildling onslaught's initial storm. The sun's rays painted the snow-covered grounds in hues of pink and gold, a stark contrast to the violent struggles that had unfolded under the cover of night. Ghost, the mighty dire wolf, stood beside Aemon, a silent and formidable guardian.

The skirmishes that remained were sporadic, as the wildlings, thwarted in their initial assault, regrouped for the inevitable nightfall when they would launch another wave. The Night's Watch, having withstood the initial onslaught, began to consolidate their defenses, tending to the wounded and reinforcing key positions.

A sense of weary triumph permeated the air as the Night's Watch surveyed the battlefield. Aemon's young but resolute presence, coupled with Lord Commander Benjen Stark's seasoned leadership, had inspired the men to stand firm in the face of adversity. The Night's Watch had won the first wave, a hard-fought victory that set the stage for the challenges yet to come.

The cheers of victory echoed across the Wall as the Night's Watchmen celebrated their hard-fought success against the wildling onslaught. Amidst the jubilation, Lord Commander Benjen Stark approached Aemon, a stern yet approving look on his face. He checked Aemon's face and looked over his scared left eye. He grabbed Aemon's face gently and turned his face several times to make sure he wasn't hurt.

"Good job, lad," the Lord Commander said, clapping Aemon on the shoulder. "You held your ground. Are you unhurt?"

"Ready for the night to come, Lord Commander," Aemon made sure to say the last part for the men around them to know that Aemon would follow the rules of the Wall rather than focus on his family relations.

"Good man," the Lord Commander said. Aemon knew that Stark men did not mince words; Benjen called him a man because today, Aemon, to Benjen, was just as much a man as any on the Wall. Aemon knew the North, and once a boy was able to fight off a wildling, no one in the North would refute him as a man of the North.

"Are you well, Lord Commander?" Aemon asked in a lower voice so that only his great-grandfather could hear him.

The Lord Commander was as serious as the grave before ruffling up Aemon's hair slightly. "It would take more than a few wildlings to kill me, little wolf."

Aemon smiled; his great-grandfather was Stark through and through, cold as winter, stoic, and unyielding. Aemon, oddly enough, felt more centered by the lack of emotion on his face than if a person was fretting over him. Aemon remembered hearing Tyrion tell him once that Northmen don't smile or laugh in fear the laugh freezes in their throat and kills them, and right now, seeing the face colder than the Wall itself ensured Aemon had no ensuring he had no fatal wounds was as though he was back in Winterfell once more and Uncle Ned was checking over after a difficult spar.

"You might have taken down two hundred men among you and the wolf," the Lord Commander told Aemon slightly.

Aemon, still catching his breath, nodded in gratitude. "Ghost and I did our best."

Lord Commander Stark then turned his attention to the formidable dire wolf at Aemon's side. "And Ghost, my friend, you were a true warrior tonight. Your loyalty to Aemon did not go unnoticed."

Ghost, his fur stained with the blood of fallen foes, wagged his tail enthusiastically, seemingly understanding the words of praise. The bond between Aemon and his dire wolf was evident, a connection that transcended the spoken language.

As the cheers continued around them, Lord Commander Stark maintained his composure, a stoic figure amidst the revelry. "This victory is but the first chapter in the battle to come. We've proven we can withstand their initial assault, but the night is long, and the wildlings won't rest. We must prepare for what lies ahead."

"Aye, Lord Commander!" the men screamed.

"Our victory tonight is a testament to your bravery, but the fight is far from over. We must prepare for the night to come." The men listened attentively as Stark continued, "First, we honor the fallen. We count our dead, give them their funeral rites, and burn their bodies. Let them find peace in the flames." A somber hush fell over the gathered Night's Watch as they began the grim task of accounting for those who had sacrificed their lives in the battle. "Half of you, take the time to rest," the Lord Commander commanded. "The other half will be on watch, preparing for the return of the wildlings. We rotate in a few hours; those who rest now will be ready to stand guard when the night is at its darkest."

It took some time to get the men of the Night's Watch onto the pyre they had made. The Lord Commander stood before the gathered brothers of the Night's Watch, the flickering flames of the funeral pyre casting an eerie glow on his weathered face. The air was heavy with the scent of burning wood and the weight of loss.

"Brothers," he began, his voice carrying a mixture of sorrow and pride, "we stand here today to honor those who have given their lives in defense of the realm. They were not just good men; they were great men, true brothers of the Night's Watch." He gestured towards the pyre where the fallen lay, their forms outlined by the dancing flames. "These men fought through the night, against overwhelming odds, not for glory or fame, but for duty, for the oath we all took when we swore to guard the realms of men." The Lord Commander's eyes scanned the faces of the assembled brothers, each one reflecting the pain of loss. "In the darkest hours, we find our true friends on the battlefield. These were not just comrades; they were our brothers. They served with strength and honor, and they served truly." A solemn pause hung in the air before he continued, "Now, as the sun rises on a new day, we must bid farewell to these valiant souls. Their watches have ended. But let their sacrifice not be in vain. Let us remember their courage, their loyalty, and the bonds that unite us as brothers of the Night's Watch. And now their watches have ended."

"And now their watches have ended!" the men responded.

With a final nod, the Lord Commander stepped back, allowing the flames to consume the fallen. The crackling of the fire seemed to echo the eulogy, a lament for those who had given everything in service to a cause greater than themselves.

A brother ran down from the upper watch tower that was meant to scout for forces. The Night's Watchman, breathless and wide-eyed, stumbled towards the Lord Commander and his assembled men. The Lord Commander's eyes narrowed as he listened intently, his gaze fixed on the messenger.

"They're coming, my lord," the man gasped, "from the south."

"More wildlings?" Aemon asked.

"It's not wildlings. Banners. Banners of Manderly, Glover, Flints, Karstark, Reed, Bolton, and many more. And the dire wolf of House Stark flies high among them."

The Lord Commander's expression shifted, a mix of surprise and concern. "Dire wolf banners? Are you certain? How many men do they bring?"

The Night's Watchman caught his breath before responding, "Aye, my lord. I saw it with my own eyes. Tens of thousands, maybe forty thousand. It's an army, not a raiding party."

"They came to aid us. The North remembers!" a man screamed scream.

"For the Wall!"

As they screamed and prepared for the coming aid and for the night to come, Ghost stood next to Aemon, ready to face the night to come alongside his owner. Balerion roared loudly into the skies above, the massive dragon landing near Castle black as the ground trembled under his foot. He roared louder still towards the south. The North remembers. But a dragon never forgets.

Chapter 14: The Wild Wolf

Chapter Text

The Wall 102 AC

Rickon Stark

Lord Rickon Stark, the formidable ruler of Winterfell, cast his penetrating grey eyes across the desolate expanse of Castle Black. His towering figure, marked by a handsomeness that betrayed the underlying fierceness within, strode purposefully through the shadowed corridors. The hot-blooded essence that coursed through his veins, an inheritance from his grandfather, something his father, Lord Benjen, referred to as "the wolf blood," fueled the fire that burned within him.

Brandon Stark, unapologetically assertive and unabashedly bold, bore the weight of his father's lineage with pride. His father, now the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, recognized the unmistakable trace of untamed spirit flowing through his veins. Rickon was not one to shy away from seizing what he desired, especially when it came to the fairer sex.

The Lord of Winterfell had now crossed the threshold into Castle Black, the ancient bastion standing as a stark reminder of the challenges beset the realm beyond the Wall. Rickon Stark, a commander of men and a Warden of the North, embodied leadership as he marshaled the formidable Northern armies numbering forty thousand strong. Their march to confront the Wildling Invasion and reinforce the Wall was not just strategic; it manifested his unbridled fury. The icy wind nipped at his skin as his gray wolf's pelt cloak blew slightly.

The anger that festered within him, a wrath that smoldered beneath the surface, had propelled the Northern forces through a grueling month-long journey. Gathering the disparate elements of his army had been no small feat, but the urgency of the wildling threat brooked no delay. With an unwavering determination etched on his features, the Lord of Winterfell stood ready to face the impending storm.

As the Warden of the North, Rickon Stark harbored a seething resentment for those who dared to assail his homeland. The audacity of the Wildlings, trespassing on Northern soil, inflicting harm upon women and children, and callously slaying fathers before the eyes of their kin, kindled the flames of his rage. The North, under his vigilant watch, would not yield so easily.

Rickon Stark, the embodiment of Northern might, prepared to lead his armies into the crucible of conflict, fueled not only by duty but by an indomitable resolve to protect his people and preserve the honor of Winterfell. The winds of war howled, and the Lord of Winterfell stood poised at the forefront, ready to unleash the fury of the North upon those who dared to threaten its sanctity.

Lord Rickon Stark, the bold and proud ruler of Winterfell, had harbored a deep yearning to meet his grandson, Aemon Targaryen, for many long years. The desire burned within him, a flame fueled by the anticipation of witnessing the bloodline of House Stark and House Targaryen converge in the person of this young boy. He wished to meet Lyanna's last gift, the last piece of his daughter still breathing in this world. He had sent many, many offers to the Red Keep to have Aemon fostered in the North. Aemon was Lyanna's son, and Lyanna was his sole heir. The position of heir of Lord of Winterfell had fallen on the boy's shoulders, and should worse come to worse, Rickon needed his heir by his side to raise him if he did not father a son on his lady wife. The last time he went for battle, he told Lyanna so many stories of how great her father was, how he would best men with one arm and even killed a bear with a single swing, and yet he had not a chance to see the wonder in Aemon's eyes if he did the same. He had heard that Aemon was more Stark than Targaryen; he had heard he had her smile, dark eyes, and curled black hair. He could already see Lyanna's smile again by retelling Aemon the stories he told his mother for the first time. At five years of age, the boy was strong already, besting squires, and some even claimed he fought like a northerner, with his whole body not afraid of being cut or harmed. Gods be good, Lyanna had made a northern Targaryen, and Rickon had yet to see him. Yet, circ*mstances had conspired to keep them apart, and Rickon doubted he would lay eyes on his grandson anytime soon, especially in the face of the Wildling invasion that gripped the Wall and the North.

However, the gods smiled at him and offered him a reprieve, weaving a tale that saw Aemon Targaryen rise to prominence amidst the chaos. Lyanna's son was here, in the North. Tales of Lyanna's boy showing courage and leadership reached Lord Rickon's ears; he was filled with happiness and pride. Northern lords spoke in unison, extolling Aemon's feats in rallying the houses and raising an army to repel the wildling threat. The boy helped fight off wildlings and had ridden from dawn to dusk, day and night, to fight for the North. A North the boy had yet ever to experience. Pride was not enough of a word when Lord Reed explained it to him, and it was only a fraction of what Rickon felt when he had other lords confirm the stories. Aemon had put them in their place as Cassels of House Stark; as a repressive of House Stark, he helped fight the wildings and helped pave the way towards Winterfell for Rickon to lead the armies. But those blasted wildings continued to annoy his men, forcing them to take far longer than expected to reach Castle Black.

Aemon, a mere five-year-old, defied age expectations. News of him riding Balerion the Black Dread and confronting Wildlings head-on spread like wildfire, immortalized in songs and tales that echoed throughout the North. Rickon, upon hearing these accounts, couldn't contain his joy. Lyanna's son rode a f*cking dragon! Not just any dragon but the Conquoerer's dragon, the same dragon that was the sole reason the North knelt before the Targaryens. When he heard those words, he could already see Lyanna smiling from ear to ear, a wolfish and mischievous smile before telling Rickon that she told him her children would be better than Stark before her. She told him that her children would bring more pride to the North than Rickon's hero and favorite ancestor, Theon Stark, the Hungry Wolf. Lyanna was right, and Rickon used to hate how much his daughter was more correct than he was, but this time, he could never describe how happy he was. His daughter was right, and he wished she could be here to rub his face in her victory. The pride swelled within him, a roaring affirmation that the blood of the North ran strong in his grandson's veins.

The laughter and roars of Lord Rickon echoed through the halls of Winterfell as he reveled in the unexpected heroism of Aemon Targaryen. The boy, guided by a spirit that mirrored his mother, Lyanna, had not only united the North but had set forth to confront the encroaching threat on his own. In the heart of Rickon Stark, any doubts about the Targaryen lineage faded away, replaced by a deep satisfaction that Aemon embodied the fierce essence of House Stark. The boy was not sour then like his father; no, he was northern like his mother. That was needed if Rickon were to set things right by naming him heir unless a son is born to him, but until that is done, no man would question Aemon as heir. And his c*nt of a brother, Bennard, could not say anything against Aemon being the heir. God be good. He laughed so hard when word spread from lord Reed in Winterfell when Bennard heard that Aemon rode the Black Dread. Bennard had fought hard against naming Aemon heir because Aemon was Targaryen, in favor of Bennard being his heir, but once the Black Dread was announced, all color drained from his brother's face. Rickon could recall that the last time he laughed so hard was when Lyanna convinced him to cut open Bennard's sheets, stuff horse sh*t inside, and sow it up once more. Bennard was complaining about it for two moons before he found out, and Lyanna, the little minx, kept her act up better than any murmur Rickon had ever seen.

To Rickon, the Targaryen name mattered less than the indomitable spirit that Aemon displayed—an echo of his daughter's legacy. In the face of adversity, Aemon Targaryen had become a symbol of Northern resilience and determination. For Lord Rickon Stark, this unexpected turn of events was a source of immeasurable joy as he witnessed the emergence of a new hero in the ongoing saga of the North.

As Lord Rickon Stark led his vast armies, a formidable force numbering forty thousand men, toward the Wall, a roar shattered the icy silence of the North. More thunderous than erupting volcanoes and fiercer than ten thousand storms, the sound reverberated through the frigid air. An ominous noise, initially mistaken for the heralding of a brutal winter storm, stirred apprehension among the troops. Most men fell to their knees and covered their ears, but Rickon would not allow himself to, no, he was the head of the North and the North was strong.

Yet, as the cacophony persisted, the black silhouette of a mountain emerged on the horizon, casting its shadow over the landscape. The realization struck Rickon like a bolt of lightning — the thunderous sound and the towering black mass were the same: Balerion the Black Dread. The legendary dragon, thought by many to be a creature of myth, now manifested itself in the realm of men.

As the Northern armies closed in on the colossal beast, the enormity of Balerion became increasingly apparent. The dragon, with wings that spanned wider than the Wall itself, dwarfed everything in its vicinity. The sheer magnitude of the Black Dread left the men in awe, for Balerion surpassed even the colossal Wall in size and stature.

Rickon Stark, however, found amusem*nt in the irony of the situation. A hearty laugh escaped his lips as he contemplated the absurdity of it all. His grandson, Aemon Targaryen, the brave young boy who had captured the hearts of Northern lords and warriors alike, now rode atop the back of the legendary Black Dread. The contrast of the dragon, larger than life, and the young Aemon at its helm struck a chord of doubt in Rickon's heart. The dragon was not old and weak like many claimed he would be, seeing as Vhagar had grown so large, too large, that her roars were long drawn out like the groaning of an old ship in the waters. But Rickon saw no age on the black beast; he saw no weakness; he saw a dragon ready to claim all seven kingdoms over again. He saw a creature of conquest waiting for a conqueror to mount him and take the world. Lyanna would be so proud of Aemon. Rickon wished Lyanna could have just lived five more years to see her son atop such a beast and claim that her son was better than all the world's sons. She would have probably said something stupid in her cups, something along the lines of her c*nt being a c*nt worthy of conquerors. He loved his daughter; she was crass and blunt, a northern beauty through and through; Prince Daemon was not worthy of his daughter. But neither were the Tullys, but they were closer and far easier to keep in line for Rickon than the rider of the Blood Wyrm.

The enormous wings pressed against Balerion's sides, emphasizing his overwhelming power. His horns, from the great ones on top of his head to the smaller ones on his chin and cheeks, were patterned in a way that suggested he had seen many years of Westerosi history come to pass. These horns, each as black as the night, straightened and drawn back, large enough to be seen from below. They possessed smaller horns on their chin, cheeks, lower jaw, and rows above their brow. No matter how straight or twisted, every horn added to the dragon's intimidating appearance and sense of ageless strength.

The scales of obsidian that adorned Balerion's powerful form appeared to have reclaimed an unmatched splendor. The limited sunlight was reflected by each scale, giving the dragon an unearthly radiance that brought out its immense magnificence. The horns, which had become worn down over time, now shone with a terrifying edge, indicating a complete regeneration.

The scales of obsidian that adorned Balerion's powerful form appeared to have reclaimed an unmatched splendor. The limited sunlight was reflected by each scale, giving the dragon an unearthly radiance that brought out its immense magnificence. The horns, worn down over time, now shone with a terrifying edge, indicating a complete regeneration.

Balerion radiated heat so intense that it seemed like the dragon was fire. The distorted mirage from the air shimmering around him heightened the bizarre ambiance of the cavern. Even though Rickon had no fear of men and no fear of anything, both living or dead, he couldn't help but feel a little bit scared and in awe of such a legendary creature. The creature was so hot that it melted the snow and ice surrounding Balerion's body, revealing green grass beneath. The area surrounding the creature, which was as big as the Wall, was so hot that Rickon started to sweat and felt like he should take off his cloak made of wolf fur. Rickon wanted to take off his cloak in the North, near the Wall, with the days getting colder due to winter around the corner. He wondered how Aemon could even ride the beast with such heat.

In that moment, as the Northern armies stood beneath the colossal wings of Balerion the Black Dread, Rickon embraced the surreal nature of the scene. The laughter echoed across the snowy plains, a testament to the unexpected turn of events that had unfolded before him. Aemon Targaryen, the five-year-old hero, had become an indelible part of Northern lore, riding a dragon that surpassed the very Wall they sought to defend. The North, it seemed, was destined for a new chapter in its history, with the Black Dread soaring through the skies as a symbol of both fear and hope.

The heavy gates of Castle Black creaked open, heralding the arrival of Lord Rickon Stark and the formidable Northern army. As the Stark forces marched into the courtyard, they were met by Lord Commander Benjen Stark, a figure shrouded in the black garb of the Night's Watch. Behind him stood a contingent of brothers, their expressions veiled in the somber demeanor befitting the sworn protectors of the Wall.

Lord Stark and Lord Commander Stark looked at one another and said nothing for some time. Rickon's father, Benjen Stark, left Winterfell on horrible terms. Rickon recalled his father telling him he had a dream that Rickon needed to become Lord of Winterfell. Rickon felt his father had abandoned him right after the man had forced him into a marriage with Gillian Glover, especially after getting his younger brother Bennard married to a woman that Rickon truly loved, Margaret Karstark. After they had argued for a moon, Benjen left for the Wall a few years after Lyanna, his only child, was born.

His countenance stoic and commanding, Lord Rickon Stark approached his father with a measured nod. "Lord Commander," he greeted, his voice devoid of emotion yet laced with a respectful acknowledgment of the office held by Benjen Stark. Rickon wondered how long it would take for him to have the urge to punch his father in the face; it usually did not take long for the urge to come upon him.

In response, the Lord Commander's gaze met his son's, and he returned the courtesy, addressing him as "Lord Stark."

The following exchange of words was as frigid as the winds that swept across the Wall. Unyielding in his demeanor, Rickon wasted no time expressing his dissatisfaction. "How the f*ck did you allow wildlings across the Wall. If wildlings have managed to scale the Wall, it reflects poorly on you. Perhaps you're not as good at your duties as one would expect. You're getting old."

Benjen Stark, equally unyielding, retorted without hesitation. "And what does it say about your prowess as Warden of the North when your grandson must rally the North to build an army against the wildlings? How does it feel to be upstaged by a five-year-old?" The words were sharp, biting through the frosty air, revealing the tension that lay beneath the surface.

The two Starks continued their verbal sparring; each remark delivered with the precision of a master swordsman. Their words were laden with criticism and accusation as if they were strangers rather than kin. The coldness between them was palpable, reflecting the weight of duty and the strain that divided their roles.

Yet, amid this verbal clash, a subtle shift occurred. The corners of their mouths twitched, betraying the masks of indifference. A shared understanding, a familiarity born of blood, overcame the icy exterior. The tension dissipated into a sudden warmth, and before long, the Stark father and son found themselves enveloped in a genuine, albeit brief, moment of connection.

The laughter that followed echoed through the stone walls of Castle Black. Despite their harsh words, the two Starks embraced each other in a heartfelt hug. It was a silent acknowledgment of the complexities that bound them together—duty, lineage, and the inescapable ties of family. The North, it seemed, had a way of forging connections even in the harshest of circ*mstances.

In the shadow of Castle Black's towering walls, Lord Rickon Stark and Lord Commander Benjen Stark exchanged a gaze that held a complex blend of familial warmth and the weight of duty. The winds carried with them the unspoken history between father and son as Rickon broke the silence.

"I missed you, old man," Rickon said, a rare trace of vulnerability softening his stoic exterior.

Benjen, the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, met his son's gaze with a nod. "You seem to have ruled Winterfell and the North well in my absence, Rickon. Where is Bennard? I would think he would have come to fight these overgrown c*nt hairs."

A genuine smile tugged at the corners of Rickon's mouth. Rickon always found it funny that his father could make a jest, but somehow, it was more serious than truth, as ugly as Maegor was cruel.

"Bennard is overseeing Winterfell in my stead. He's proving himself a capable ruler."

Benjen's eyes lingered on his son for a moment before he spoke, the weight of responsibility evident in his words. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell."

Rickon nodded, acknowledging the age-old saying that bound the Starks to their ancestral seat. "Aye, there must."

Turning his attention to the practical matters, Benjen addressed the Night's Watch brothers standing behind him. "Help the Northern army settle in. We need their strength against the wildlings."

As the Night's Watch moved to assist the Northern forces, Benjen shifted his gaze to the assembled Northern lords. "We'll be heading to the mess hall. My men are discussing strategies and plans for dealing with the Wildlings. Join us; your insights will be valuable."

With that, the two Starks led the way into Castle Black, a procession of Northern lords and Night's Watch brothers falling in behind them. The mess hall awaited—a place where alliances would be forged, strategies devised, and the shared burden of defending the realm against the Wildling threat would be shouldered collectively. Under the watchful eyes of father and son, the North prepared to face the challenges ahead.

The echoes of heated voices reverberated through the stone corridors as Lord Rickon Stark, Lord Commander Benjen Stark, and the Northern lords entered the bustling mess hall of Castle Black. The din of argumentative Night's Watchmen created a chaotic symphony in the air, a testament to the atmosphere's urgency and tension.

As they entered, the scene unfolded before them like a tableau of uncertainty. A few hundred Night's Watchmen, clad in their black attire, stood in clusters, their expressions a mix of determination and apprehension. The biting chill of the North compelled them to wear wolf-skin pelts, the coarse fur serving as a meager defense against the relentless cold.

The mess hall, ordinarily a place of communal gatherings and shared meals, had transformed into a makeshift war room. Tables were strewn with maps, hastily drawn battle plans, and the residue of numerous discussions. The flickering light of torches cast dancing shadows on the faces of the Night's Watchmen, emphasizing the gravity of their situation.

Rickon's keen gaze swept across the room, taking in the enthusiasm and urgency that gripped the Night's Watch. He observed the diversity among them—men from different backgrounds and walks of life, united by their solemn oaths to defend the realm. The clash of opinions, the spirited debates, and the occasional flash of frustration created a palpable tension in the air.

Amidst the sea of black-clad figures, the wolf-skin pelts added a primal and raw element, a stark reminder of the harsh environment beyond the Wall. The men, their breath visible in the cold air, spoke with conviction, each advocating for a course of action that they believed would safeguard the Wall and the realms of men.

As Rickon and Benjen approached, the noise level diminished, and a few pairs of eyes turned toward the newcomers. The Lord Commander's authoritative presence seemed to command a momentary respite in the enthusiasm. Rickon's observant gaze lingered on the faces of the Night's Watchmen, recognizing the weariness etched into their expressions.

The mess hall, a crucible of strategy and resolve, awaited the guidance of those who led. With the Northern lords now in attendance, the convergence of their insights and the Night's Watch's seasoned experience formed a tenuous alliance, a bulwark against the impending threat from beyond the Wall. The North, a realm forged in ice and fire, stood united against the wildling onslaught, and the mess hall bore witness to the crucible where decisions would be made, alliances strengthened, and the fate of the realm hung in the balance.

The mess hall resonated with the vibrant voices of the Night's Watch and the Northern lords, a tempest of conflicting opinions that clashed like thunder in the stone chamber. The Northern lords screamed for one thing while the Night's Watch screamed the reverse.

"The Wall is our best defense! We hold the high ground, and it's a natural deterrent against the wildlings," shouted a Night's Watchman, his voice cutting through the air with an edge of desperation. "We cannot abandon the Wall!"

A grizzled Northern lord, his features etched with the hardships of the past month's skirmishes, retorted with equal enthusiasm. "If we remain here, they'll just keep coming. The wildlings won't tire out—they have the numbers! Waiting is a death sentence for the North."

The argument intensified, each side defending its stance with a conviction born of survival instincts and duty. A seasoned Night's Watch ranger, his face etched with the lines of countless watches, bellowed, "We've held the Wall for centuries! We must protect it, not abandon it to satisfy the whims of impatient lords."

His brow furrowed in frustration, a Northern lord countered, "Duty won't matter if the Wall crumbles under the weight of a hundred thousand wildlings! We need to take the fight to them."

Lord Rickon Stark, a towering figure amid the enthusiasm, raised his voice above the din. "Enough! The Night's Watch has stood here for a hundred generations, and it was with their help that we pushed back every wildling invasion, both known and unknown. I will be damned before allowing you all to kill each other before the wildlings have their f*cking chance! The brothers of the Night's Watch and the North have fought bravely and together, and we have more times than each of us has fingers. We find our true friends, our true brothers, on the battlefield. And no man is as cursed as a man who kills their brother. No man is as cursed as a kinslayer. So all you stop fighting like children and worry about those ice-encrusted, savage c*nts beyond the Wall! "

No man said a word or uttered a single reply for some time. Before Lord Manderly spoke up. "Rickon," was his first utterance. Rickon had known the man well; he had fostered with the Manderlys longer than most other Houses. Rickon would never admit it, but his father was smart to make him foster with the most prominent Houses of the North to strengthen his ties with the Lords and their heirs. "Winter is coming. The fields are torched. There will be no food or resources to wait out the storms, even if we kill all the wildlings there are. Frankly, New Castle would not survive one year of winter, let alone the size expected. We need to end this quickly so that I can go home and help my castle and the people in it and of White Habor survive. I do not wish to make it about me, but if White Habor falls during the winter, it would be far harder for me and mine to get ships from the Reach to provide shipments of food. The longer we wait here, the longer it will be for all of us to survive the coming storms."

The Night's Watchmen and Northern lords turned their attention to Lord Rickon, awaiting his guidance. "We can't afford to let the wildlings dictate the terms of this conflict. The Wall may be our stronghold, but we can't wait for them to wear us down. We need a plan that combines the Wall's strategic advantage with our united forces' resilience."

The mess hall of Castle Black became a tempest of heated arguments, each side entrenched in their convictions, as the Night's Watch and the Northern lords clashed in a cacophony of discord. The air crackled with tension, and the fervor of the debate escalated to a point where reason seemed to have abandoned the room.

The Night's Watchmen, steadfast in their commitment to defend the Wall, shouted down the Northern lords who advocated for a more proactive approach. "We've held the Wall against countless invasions! We won't abandon our post now!" yelled an impassioned Watchman, his voice drowning out the counterarguments.

On the other side, the Northern lords, their faces etched with frustration, countered with a sense of urgency. "Sitting behind this Wall won't save us if the wildlings keep multiplying! We need to act, and act now!" shouted a determined lord, his words echoing in the hall.

Both seasoned leaders, Lord Rickon Stark and Lord Commander Benjen Stark, attempted to restore order. Rickon's voice, authoritative yet measured, cut through the clamor. "Enough! We are allies in this fight, not enemies. We need a plan that considers both strategies' strengths."

Benjen, the Lord Commander, added his voice to the plea for reason. "Calm yourselves. We need unity, not division. The North must stand as one."

But their attempts at moderation fell on deaf ears. The arguing only intensified, reaching a crescendo that rendered the room a tumultuous sea of discord. Rickon's stern gaze swept across the hall; his attempts to quell the unrest met with defiant stares and hardened resolve.

The atmosphere grew thick with frustration and impatience. Benjen's commanding presence, honed through years of leading the Night's Watch, struggled to impose order. "Brothers, lords, enough of this!" he boomed, the weight of his words carrying the authority of his office. However, the tumult persisted, drowning out the call for reason.

The creaking of the opening doors seemed to echo louder than before, drawing the attention of every eye in the mess hall. The sudden hush that fell over the room was as profound as the silence that precedes a winter storm. The sound of footsteps followed, deliberate and purposeful, resonating like a drumbeat against the stone walls.

In the wake of the collective anticipation, Lord Rickon Stark turned to witness the entrance of the mysterious figure. As the murmurs of "the White Wolf" and "the Prince of the North" cascaded through the room, the assembly parted to make way for the approaching presence.

At the head of the table, there emerged an unlikely leader—a five-year-old boy with a crown of unruly dark curls atop his head. Clad in the somber black garb of the Night's Watch, the boy's diminutive stature seemed incongruent with the weight of expectation that accompanied his entrance.

Walking confidently at his side was a creature that commanded awe and respect—a dire wolf, majestic and silent as it moved. The wolf's fur, as white as the snow that blanketed the North, framed eyes the color of blood, an unsettling contrast that bespoke beauty and an otherworldly presence. The dire wolf, a silent guardian, matched the boy's pace with almost supernatural grace.

It took Rickon a moment to process the scene before him—a child and his dire wolf, emerging from the shadows to command the attention of both Night's Watch and Northern lords alike. The room, gripped by an atmosphere of wonder and uncertainty, bore witness to the unfolding tableau.

The boy's eyes, as solemn as an old man's, met Rickon's gaze. His eyes were dark, darker than black, yet when the candlelight flickered just right, they were no longer deep gray but a deep purple. The intensity within those eyes betrayed a wisdom that belied the boy's tender age. The whispers continued, resonating with reverence and curiosity as the Prince of the North, a child with the power to rally both men and beasts, stood poised at the precipice of destiny.

Rickon Stark's discerning gaze fell upon the young boy, and in that moment of silent appraisal, he recognized the familiar contours of Stark features etched upon the child's face. The dark and curly hair mirrored Rickon's own, a familial trait passed down through generations. Though tender in age, the boy's countenance bore the stoic demeanor that characterized the Stark bloodline.

A subtle difference in cheekbones hinted at the mingling of Targaryen lineage. Yet, the essence of House Stark prevailed, making the boy a living testament to the union of two powerful houses. As still as a winter's night, the Prince of the North projected an aura of cold composure, an emotionless veneer that belied the depths of his potential.

Despite the gravity of the situation, Rickon couldn't help but find amusem*nt in the undeniable handsomeness of the boy. A chuckle escaped him as he marveled at this five-year-old's thought of becoming a man of striking allure. The irony of a child radiating such preternatural charm amused Rickon, who couldn't help but acknowledge the inherent beauty bestowed upon the boy by his lineage.

As the subtle humor lingered, Rickon's thoughts meandered into the realm of legacy. Aemon Targaryen, the grandson born of his beloved daughter Lyanna's union with Prince Daemon Targaryen, held within him the weight of Winterfell's future. The boy who would inherit not just the ancient seat of House Stark but also the indomitable spirit that characterized the North.

The question of inheritance took a more personal turn in Rickon's contemplation. Would Aemon inherit not only the responsibilities of lordship but also the more intricate aspects of Rickon's character—the thirst and lust for life and love that defined the Stark lord? The thought brought a wistful smile to Rickon's lips.

Lyanna's son, the embodiment of her spirit and Targaryen blood, stood before him—a potential bridge between two noble houses, a living testament to the interconnected destinies of House Stark and House Targaryen. In the quiet of that moment, Rickon's eyes remained fixed on the boy who bore the weight of history and the promise of the future—a grandson, a Stark, and the heir to Winterfell.

The resounding echo of Lord Commander Benjen Stark's voice cut through the lingering tension in the room, demanding an answer from the enigmatic figure who had just entered. "Aemon, where have you been?" Benjen inquired, his tone commanding attention.

Aemon Targaryen, as composed as the winter night, responded evenly, "Atop the Wall, Lord Commander. The wildlings sent scouts to ascertain if Balerion was perched above. They see a giant black mass that breathes fire and think it is a cunning idea to get closer to it."

"Says the lad who rode the damn thing here," Lord Manderly replied to chuckles across the room. At that moment, the candlelight flickered, and Rickon had forgotten how fat his friend had gotten. His friend had married a Karstak cousin, and his children inherited the Stark looks for it, but the man had a mother from the Reach, and his brownish blonde hair and well-trimmed beard showed it well.

Aemon turned to the lord, a half smile on his lips; he chuckled to himself, just a lone chuckle, before responding to the lord. "Balerion is very territorial of who he likes, my lord. Very selfish in that regard. If he likes you, no one else could have you. I think the same could be said about a few lords and the pies at their dining halls," He said, turning to Lord Manderly's stomach, just enough for the northern lords to get who he was talking about. Rickon chuckled just a bit; the boy's got balls, that he could not argue. He would expect nothing more of Lyanna's son, of his grandson. The entire hall, even Lord Manderly, began laughing.

As if in response to Aemon's words, Balerion roared with a ferocity that rivaled erupting volcanoes. The loud sound reverberated through the hall, prompting many to cover their ears to shield themselves from the overwhelming force of the dragon's call. As Aemon made his way to the head of the table, the Northern lords celebrated his presence, clapping him on the shoulder in a show of respect and admiration.

"What of the scouts, boy?" Lord Commander Benjen asked.

Aemon, with a calm demeanor, revealed, "Shot down by arrows before reaching the tree line, a mile north of the Wall."

Benjen nodded approvingly at the swift response to the Wildling scouts. Aemon, then, turned to Lord Rickon Stark, his great-grandfather, lowering his head in a gesture of respect. "Lord Stark," he greeted, acknowledging Rickon as the Lord of Winterfell rather than revealing their familial bond.

Rickon, however, responded with a grunt and a laugh. "Stop talking like you're from the South, Aemon. I'm your grandfather, and I'll have none of that 'Lord Stark' nonsense. Call me anything but that. I'll beat you bloody and clip you behind the ears if you call me that again."

Aemon chuckled at the gruff exchange, a hint of amusem*nt glinting in his eyes. The generational banter between grandfather and grandson painted a familial picture amidst the weighty matters. Rickon, perhaps to shift the mood, invited Aemon to join them at the table where plans were laid out for the next steps against the Wildlings north of the Wall.

The debate in the mess hall continued to escalate as Northern lords and Night's Watchmen clashed over the best course of action against the Wildling threat. A vocal Northern lord argued passionately for taking the offensive, insisting they leave the Wall and march north to attack the Wildlings head-on.

"Our lands are ravaged; the North is half on fire! We need to end this quickly and return to our homes," he declared, urgency dripping from every word.

A Night's Watchman countered, emphasizing the effectiveness of the Wall as a perfect defense. "Just last night, we held off hordes of Wildlings by ourselves. A thousand or so Night's Watchmen held back a hundred thousand wildlings. The Wall works. We could wait for them to keep coming at the Wall. Prince Aemon held the Wall for half the night as Castle Black was fighting below; with him and Balerion, we could allow them to kill themselves every time they attacked. Few casualties to our men, and a message the Wall will continue to stand firm for another thousand years."

But another Northern lord, echoing the ominous Stark words, interjected, "A thousand years? It would take us another thousand years to finish this battle if we wait for them to tire themselves. We can't afford to wait."

The Night's Watchman, undeterred, argued that abandoning the Wall's defense was foolish. "What's the point of having the Wall if we're just going to abandon it and charge into battle? We should let the Wall do its job."

A lord of the North, perhaps impatient with the debate, asserted, "We need to return to our lands and put an end to this invasion quickly."

In response, a Night's Watchman retorted with a touch of sarcasm, "Do you think we want this to last forever? The Night's Watch shields the realms of men. We wish to help the North; we defend it."

The sarcasm didn't go unnoticed, and a Northern lord shot back, "Oh yes, the Night's Watch has been a tremendous help, allowing wildlings to cross the Wall and harm our people. What a generous defense you've provided."

Then, with a sudden roar that cut through the stillness like a winter storm, Lord Rickon Stark addressed the assembly. His voice, loud and prideful, echoed off the stone walls of Castle Black. "Winter is coming!" he declared a stark reminder of the impending peril. He admitted, with a touch of disdain, that the Wildlings now knew winter this far north better than the lords of the South. His tone turned passionate and bold as he continued, "The Wildlings have survived worse winters. They would endure this one more easily than we would. The southern lords wouldn't last a night when winter comes. We, the northern lords, would last a month, but the Wildlings have lasted lifetimes." Rickon emphasized the urgency of their situation, insisting that they couldn't afford to wait for the Wildlings to succumb to the harshness of winter. "We do not have the luxury to wait for them to kill themselves," he proclaimed, his words hanging heavy in the air. "We will attack the Wildlings, for the brothers we lost last night!" The Night's Watch roared in approval once he said those words.

Rickon noticed that Aemon said nothing the whole time. He sat with his dire wolf, the white beast as big as a horse, as it nudged his shoulder, and Aemon read over some papers before him. Rickon thought the boy was far too young to even begin to understand the papers has read of some of the wildlings' actions both beyond the Wall and South of it. Aemon thought of something before writing it down, crossing it out, and reworking it.

Aemon then grabbed another parchment and drew battle plans that were not bad at all, from what everyone could tell, a rough draft at best, but nothing the lords could not debate and polish off for an attack. But Aemon still said nothing; he showed the paper to his dire wolf; the beast shook his head no and then put its snout on the far right of the page, showing a possible wildling encampment. Aemon nodded his head before addressing several drawings of northern troops and drawing lines indicating certain formations and directions. The dire wolf made no sound as it placed its paw on the lower right corner of the parchment, and Aemon thought of something. Aemon then drew battle formations that seemed to close around and pincer around the point the wolf pointed out.

Lord Commander Benjen Stark, ever wise, pointed out Aemon's apparent contemplation for the hall to hear. "Aemon," Benjen addressed his great-grandson, "what are you thinking?"

Rickon, eyes fixed on the white direwolf by Aemon's side, remained silent, curious to see what thoughts were brewing in the young Targaryen's mind.

Aemon took a moment before turning his attention to Lord Glover and Lord Karstark. He posed a hypothetical question to the gathered lords in a measured tone. "If Lord Stark were to die hypothetically, who would rule Winterfell?"

On the brink of responding, Rickon felt a nudge from his father, signaling him to withhold his answer. A flicker of suspicion crossed Rickon's mind. Was Aemon, like his father Daemon Targaryen, playing the political game, manipulating the circ*mstances to his advantage?

But Lord Commander Benjen, wise and patient, held Rickon back, allowing Aemon to elaborate on the thought he had set in motion. The hall, filled with expectant Northern lords, awaited Aemon's words with a mixture of curiosity and intrigue. In the quietude that followed, the air was pregnant with the potential revelation that could reshape Winterfell's leadership.

Lord Karstark spoke first, his voice even as if what he was to say was more true than the sky being blue. "It would go to Lord Bennard, naturally, my prince."

Lord Glover looked confused as he raised his eye skeptically. "We are not Targaryen's here; we do not wed sibling to sibling, and last I checked, it was my daughter married to the Lord of Winterfell. Gilliane would rule Winterfell after her husband passes, gods forbid. She is married to Lord Rickon, and as by right, they have no children, and she would rule for the family."

Lord Karstark's voice boomed as he addressed Aemon. "Bennard Stark and my daughter shall rule Winterfell if, gods forbid, Lord Stark were to die!" His assertion hung in the air, a declaration of his family's claim to the seat of Winterfell.

Lord Glover, incensed by this proclamation, roared in disagreement. "Gilliane Glover, Lord Rickon's wife, is the rightful Lady of Winterfell! The position belongs to her!"

The disagreement escalated into a fiery debate, the air thick with tension as the two lords clashed over the potential successor to the lordship of Winterfell. Lord Karstark argued for Bennard Stark, Rickon's brother, while Lord Glover vehemently asserted that it should rightfully pass to his daughter, Gilliane Glover.

As the verbal sparring intensified, the two lords began approaching each other, flaring tempers. The hall buzzed with frenzied energy as onlookers caught glimpses of the impending clash. Men from both sides hurriedly moved to intervene, attempting to keep the escalating confrontation from turning physical.

"Bennard is the rightful heir!" Lord Karstark insisted, his face red with fervor.

Lord Glover, equally passionate, countered, "Gilliane is the Lady of Winterfell by marriage, and she will rule!"

The exchange reached a boiling point, with Lord Karstark and Lord Glover inching closer to each other, their voices thundering through the hall. A swirl of emotions—anger, pride, and the fierce determination to defend their respective claims—enveloped the room.

Amidst the chaos, men tried to intervene, creating a barrier between the two lords. The clash of bodies and the cacophony of shouts and protests filled the hall as the debate transcended words, threatening to spill over into physical confrontation.

Aemon's nod to Lord Commander Benjen Stark triggered a thunderous response, as Benjen slammed his fist on the table, the resounding echo silencing the hall. All eyes turned to the trio with Stark features—Benjen, Rickon, and Aemon—as the tension in the room peaked.

In a moment of strategic clarity, Aemon addressed his grandfather, Lord Rickon Stark, inquiring about the heir to Winterfell and the line of succession. After a contemplative pause, Rickon turned his gaze to Aemon and then to the assembled lords.

"Lady Lyanna was my only child with my wife," Rickon began, his voice cutting through the stillness. "After her, Aemon follows in the line of succession. With Lyanna gone, Aemon Targaryen is the heir to Winterfell. If I were to die, it would make Aemon Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North."

"My lord, he is a Targaryen. You would end the House Stark's rule over the north?" one of the lords argued.

Rickon looked to the lords in attendance and made his words clear. "Until I have a son, Aemon Targaryen is my heir. If Aemon does not inherit the Iron Throne, I will begin talks with the Crown so that he is named a Stark if I have no other male heirs. If we have a daughter, we will discuss the need for Aemon to marry if it comes. The boy is a Targaryen; marrying his aunt is rather tame and has been done in the Stark line before."

The Lord Commander looked to his son. "You thought of this before."

"I have no son; I had much thought of what needs to be done if the worst should come. I may be of the wolf's blood, old man, but there must always be a Stark in Winterfell, and one connected to the Crown would be better for the North. "

The declaration hung in the air, a revelation that shifted the dynamics in the room. The assembled lords, previously embroiled in a heated debate, now faced a new reality—the direct line of succession and the potential future ruler of Winterfell.

Silence gripped the hall, and the gaze of those present shifted toward Aemon and his imposing white direwolf. The significance of the moment weighed heavily, and a palpable sense of uncertainty lingered.

The room, still reeling from the revelation of Aemon's potential inheritance, was shrouded in confusion when Aemon, breaking the silence, declared, "This is what we get the wildlings to do."

Rickon, blunt as ever, cut through the ambiguity. "What do you mean, boy?" he demanded.

Aemon, his gaze unwavering, began to unravel his strategic plan. "By putting the succession and leadership of the North in doubt, I got two of the most prominent families in the North at each other's throats," he explained matter-of-factly. "Once a position of leadership is vacant, everyone rushes to fill it. It often comes to a blow, and that's when opportunities arise."

Rickon, growing impatient, urged Aemon to get to the point. "What are you suggesting, Aemon?"

Aemon met Rickon's gaze, the intensity in his eyes revealing a calculated mind at work. "If we can assassinate the King Beyond the Wall without anyone knowing, there will be a power vacuum. The Wildlings will be left fighting amongst themselves to choose a new leader. They will fight each other if we are lucky; half of them will die, and we could win this all in one battle. We strike when they are weakened from infighting and finish the fight." Rickon, though still puzzled, listened as Aemon elaborated. "It keeps most men ready if things ever get worse," Aemon concluded, his plan laid bare before the assembled lords.

Amidst the conflicting opinions that reverberated through the hall, one lord, his voice tinged with anger, cried out, "This is not the Northern way to scheme and manipulate!"

Another lord, suspicious of Aemon's Southern heritage, added, "He's a Southern, born and bred in deceit and cunning!"

Lord Reed roared as all turned to him. The shorter man was calm. "He rallied the North, you c*nt! He brought us together. He defended the Wall. He is of the North! The Prince of the North!"

"It is not our way to scheme and f*cking plot. How can a boy who is heir to Winterfell give such a Southern idea? There is no honor in getting our enemies to fight one another!" another lord screamed.

Aemon, unfazed by the accusations, responded with a resolute voice that carried through the room, "My mother is of the North, and I will do anything for the North. If I have to use Southern tactics to help keep the North safe, then so be it."

A dissenting lord, impassioned by his sense of honor, shouted, "There is no honor in letting them fight amongst themselves!"

Aemon, raising his voice with little emotion, countered fiercely, "Honor? Do you think the dead care about songs of honor and valor? How is it more honorable to die when there is no hope than making sure that as many lords and ladies are saved?" His words hung in the air, challenging the traditional notions of honor. Aemon, with unyielding conviction, continued to shout, "If you wish to hear songs of honor and valor in this fighting, the dead would not hear the songs. How is it more honorable to die when there is no hope than to make sure that as many lords and ladies are saved as possible? If every one of you hates me, if everyone curses me, I would not care because I kept you alive to do so in the first place!"

Lord Glover, a seasoned elder, and father to Gillian Glover, Aemon's grandmother, regarded Aemon with a measured gaze. His eyes swept across the gathered lords representing the diverse branches of Houses Flint, Bolton, Cassel, Cerwyn, Dustin, Locke, Manderly, Mormont, Reed, Ryswell, Slate, Stout, and Umber. In a moment of contemplative silence, he spoke with a voice that resonated with authority.

"Prince Aemon brought a f*cking dragon," Lord Glover declared, his eyes lingering on the boy. "He rallied the entire North to come here, and he's only five. Yet, he fights for the North as much as any man in this room. He has defended the North and devised a plan better than the rest of us." Acknowledging Aemon's strategic prowess, Lord Glover continued, "The boy is fighting for our homes and our families. If there's a way to reduce the number of lives lost, then that's what we're going to do."

The weight of Lord Glover's words hung in the air, casting a sobering reflection on the dire situation the North faced. Lord Rickon Stark, in turn, looked to his father-in-law with a fierce determination. "The wildlings outnumber us at least two to one," Rickon declared loudly to the assembled lords. "If there's a way to minimize the loss of lives, then that's the path we'll take."

Amidst the strategic discussion, Lord Rickon Stark raised a critical question, "How are we going to sneak someone into the group?"

"They would spot us far before we reach the camp," another added.

Lord Commander Benjen Stark, with a note of resolve, responded, "We have many wildling clothes from our skirmishes in Castle Black."

Lord Glover, adding his insights, remarked, "We need a small group. Too many would draw too many eyes since they'll be coming from the Wall."

Lord Rickon, his mind already working on a plan, suggested, "A small group of no more than four could sneak in and out. Perhaps start a fire some ways away to draw attention elsewhere."

As the men deliberated on who would be part of this covert mission, the discussion was abruptly interrupted by Balerion's thunderous roar. The room fell silent as everyone turned their attention to the imposing dragon.

Taking advantage of the moment, Aemon seized the opportunity to speak, "I'll go with Ghost."

A murmur of protests and arguments erupted among the gathered lords. Aemon, undeterred, asserted, "I've killed a wildling of similar age to me. I can use the clothes to sneak in, and Ghost can lead me around the camp, coming from the North instead of making it seem like I came from the Wall."

Lord Rickon Stark looked to his grandson and spoke evenly. "Are there any other suggestions?" He spoke to the other lords, trying to find a way to get his grandson away from his mission to get himself killed. The boy had just pointed out the likelihood of what would happen should he and Aemon die, and now he wished to enter a quest to get half of it true.

"I will cross the Wall. They would never suspect a child ready to kill him. If worse comes to worse, I could escape on Ghost's back," Aemon returned, his cold eyes boring into the angry ones of Rickon.

Rickon looked to his grandson, and for a fleeting second, he felt he was looking at Lyanna all over again. The dark curled hair, the resolute near angry face. This was his daughter's boy. This was her last gift to him. "You will not cross that Wall. "

Rickon looked into Aemon's angry eyes. The boy did not have Lyanna's wolf's blood, the same angry temper she shared with Rickon, but the boy had stubbornness. The boy was Lyanna if she were a dragon rider. The boy was more Stark than any Stark had any right to be. Rickon wanted to be happy. This is all he wanted in an heir. This was all he prayed for at night when he thought no one was listening or around. An heir who would fight and kill for the North and Aemon was that. The way his eyes bore into him, Rickon half thought he needed to put the boy in his place, but he was happy that the boy was bearing his fangs. The boy was made for the North. But he couldn't allow the boy to prove his claws just yet. He could not allow the boy to leave the Wall to die.

Aemon looked on angrily at Rickon, and Rickon wanted to smile as the boy spoke, but anger was all he could feel. Rickon watched as Aemon's fist opened widely, stretching each finger as far as they could as if he was angrily grabbing the air; the boy was not clenching his fist. He opened his palms wide, just like Lyanna, just like Rickon himself. "I will fight. Fighting for the North is more a birthright for me than Winterfell itself. I will do what is needed of me!"

Lord Rickon's voice thundered through the room, vehemently arguing, "I will not allow you to cross the Wall alone, Aemon."

Aemon, resolute, countered, "I won't be alone. I'll have Ghost with me."

His frustration mounting, Lord Rickon roared at Aemon, "Your job is to stay behind the Wall, where you'll be safe!"

Aemon, undeterred, pointed out, "I've crossed the Wall before. I've fought deserters and wildlings."

Lord Rickon, turning to his father, Lord Commander Benjen Stark, demanded an explanation. "Did you let a child cross the Wall?" he screamed.

Lord Benjen Stark, a stoic figure, remained silent, a response that spoke volumes. When pressed, he acknowledged, "The boy fought well and saved many lives."

Fury etched across his face, Lord Rickon bellowed, "He's a child!" Now, he wished to strike his father; the urge had come upon him at last, more so than ever before.

Lord Benjen, attempting to justify, explained, "Everyone here knows Aemon fought wildlings, defended the Wall, and united the Northern army. The boy unitedyour army. The boy defended the Wall from waves of the wildling horde." Rickon hated it when his father showed no emotion; it felt as if the conversation was with the Wall itself as if his father was ice-made flesh.

Rickon, incredulous, pointed out, "He has a dragon capable of burning entire kingdoms to the ground! Look at the thing on the Wall! It won't follow him. Aemon went across the Wall without it!"

Aemon interjected, his voice determined, "I will fight for what is right."

Lord Rickon, adamant, insisted, "You will stay here where it is safe!"

Aemon, raising his voice, declared, "I will do my duty as the heir of Winterfell."

Finally, Lord Rickon, unable to contain his emotions, snapped, "I will not lose you again, Lyanna!"

The room fell silent at the unexpected outburst; the weight of a father's fear laid bare. Lord Rickon, momentarily confusing Aemon with his late daughter, revealed the depth of his paternal concern and the haunting specter of past losses that still lingered. As the echoes of his words resonated in the room, a tense atmosphere enveloped the Stark family. No words were said after the outburst. No words needed to be said.

Chapter 15: Death Beyond the Wall

Chapter Text

The Wall 102 AC

Aemon Targaryen

Under the shroud of night, Aemon Targaryen moved with a purpose, navigating the sprawling camp of the Northern forces with the skill of a shadow. Exhausted from the arduous journey, the lords slumbered in their makeshift tents, unaware of the young heir's secret departure.

Aemon knew the Night's Watchmen were vigilant, their watchful eyes scanning the perimeter for any signs of the impending Wildling threat. It was under the cover of weariness and watchfulness that Aemon seized his chance.

Ghost, the massive white dire wolf, padded silently at Aemon's side, his keen senses attuned to the night. The moon's pale glow provided just enough illumination for Aemon to make out the dim outlines of the camp. The distant murmur of slumbering men and the occasional snap of a distant twig echoed through the stillness.

Aemon navigated through the labyrinth of tents, keeping to the shadows, his movements calculated and deliberate. Ghost, a spectral presence in the moonlight, moved gracefully, his senses heightened and alert. As Aemon and Ghost closed in on the location of the deceased Wildling around his age, the air carried the faint scent of death. Ghost, guided by an instinctual understanding, led Aemon to the corpse. The fallen warrior lay still, a silent witness to the chaos that had befallen them.

Aemon, now crouched beside the body, carefully examined the Wildling's attire. His hands worked swiftly, exchanging his Northern black garb for the rough-hewn garments of the deceased. The task was morbid, but necessity blurred the lines between honor and survival in the face of imminent danger.

The night embraced Aemon's stealthy endeavor, and Ghost's presence provided an eerie assurance. The transformation was underway, and Aemon, now clad in the ghastly attire of a corpse, became a ghostly figure himself, blending with the shadows as he prepared to infiltrate the Wildling camp.

The night air hung heavy as Aemon Targaryen and Ghost approached the inner gate, the threshold that would lead them beyond the Wall. To their surprise, two imposing figures emerged from the shadows—Lord Rickon Stark, Aemon's grandfather, and Lord Commander Benjen Stark, Aemon's great-grandfather. The stark contrast in generations was apparent, yet the determination in their eyes mirrored that of the young Targaryen scion.

Aemon, undeterred by the unexpected encounter, drew closer with Ghost at his side, the dire wolf's eyes fixed on the elder Starks. Despite the vast height difference, Aemon's gaze met theirs with a resolute stare. Aemon could see both his grandfather and great-grandfather looking at the wildling clothing he now wore.

Aemon was silent for a time, his face stone, he forced himself to sound sure and resolute but he felt anything but that. "I will cross the Wall and kill the King Beyond the Wall myself," Aemon declared with a firmness that echoed through the silent night.

Lord Rickon Stark, visibly angered yet begrudgingly impressed, muttered, "Without a doubt, Lyanna's son." He cursed quietly, acknowledging that Lyanna would likely be proud of Aemon's defiance.

Lord Commander Benjen Stark chuckled softly, his weathered features softened by the moonlight. "Lyanna would have done the same thing," he remarked with a wry smile. He then turned to his son. "I wouldn't have put this act passed you a decade or two ago."

"I am older and wiser now," Rickon returned to his father without taking his angry glare away from his grandson.

"Older, yes," Lord Benjen said, refusing to agree on the wiser portion of the statement. Rickon turned to his father and was going to say something but decided that focusing on Aemon was thrice as important as his slightly wounded pride.

Lord Rickon, still seething, retorted, "I don't know much about how Targaryens act, but you, Aemon, are surely as stubborn as any Stark there has ever been."

Aemon, steadfast in his resolve, declared, "You will not stop me."

Lord Benjen, his laughter lingering, mused, "I doubt any man in the world could stop a Stark once their minds are made up."

Lord Rickon, letting out a curse, added bitterly, "The only man who ever did had the largest dragon ever seen, and Aemon is currently riding that very same dragon. Only fire and death made flesh could get a Stark to do anything that we otherwise won't do."

Aemon's gaze shifted downward, a somber acknowledgment of his perceived outsider status. Aemon knew that his grandfather would eventually have a son and heir, Cregan Stark, arguably the most important since the Targaryens conquered Westeros, but Aemon was currently heir, and he would take pride in that. "And yet I'm not a Stark. That's why I need to do this. I need the North to know that I may not have the name, but I will fight for the North just as hard!"

Lord Rickon, sensing the weight of the moment, approached the young Targaryen and knelt down, meeting Aemon's eyes. Tenderly, he traced the scar on Aemon's left eye, a silent testament to battles fought and scars earned."You may not have my name, but you have my blood," Rickon spoke, a melancholic smile playing on his lips. Aemon looked up fully once more, and for a split second, he did not see Rickon Stark the Wild Wolf, but rather, he saw Eddard Stark the Quiet Wolf, a brother to yet another Wild Wolf of House Stark. Aemon wondered why his grandfather was not remembered as a Wild Wolf. Perhaps Cregan's reign was so focused on that his father's was mostly forgotten; he had time to think upon this, and that time was not now.

Aemon, lifting his gaze, responded with a wry grin, "Anything before the word 'but' is horse sh*t." He replied using his mother's words, the words, the only words he knew his mother said often.

Rickon couldn't help but bark out a laugh at the bluntness of Aemon's retort. "True enough," he conceded. "Having Stark's blood is more important to me than you having the Stark name." Aemon's smile widened a flicker of warmth in the chilly night air. Yet, the gravity of the situation remained, and Rickon, ever the concerned grandfather, suggested, "Maybe I should tie you to a chair and lock you in your room."

Lord Benjen, joining the exchange, interjected, "That's what you tried with Lyanna when she wanted to go to the tourney at King's Landing. It didn't work. By the time you found out, she was already halfway through the Riverlands with your procession."

Rickon grumbled and cursed under his breath, "Her coming south cost me my daughter."

Benjen, ever the voice of reason, countered, "But it gained you a grandson, Rickon."

Rickon, frustrated, snapped back, "And that very same grandson is trying to get himself killed!"

The tension between father and son was palpable, each grappling with the weight of their respective concerns for Aemon. Benjen, looking at his son, offered a sage perspective, "You can't be angry at him for doing the same thing you would have done at his age."

The air resounded with the echo of Rickon Stark's curses as frustration gripped his senses. His hands clenched into fists, craving an outlet for his turbulent emotions. The icy Wall stood as an indifferent witness to his turmoil. In a surge of anger, Rickon struck the frozen surface; his grunted frustration barely audible over the vast expanse of the North.

Turning to Ghost, the massive direwolf by his side, Rickon spoke with a mix of command and plea. "Protect Aemon. Bring him back safely." With eyes as red as blood, Ghost met Rickon's gaze and nodded in silent agreement.

Addressing his father, Lord Commander Benjen Stark, Rickon signaled for the outer gate to open, a decision that marked the beginning of a perilous journey for Aemon. Rickon turned to his grandson as the gate creaked open, revealing the unforgiving terrain beyond the Wall.

In a moment of fierce embrace, Rickon hugged Aemon tightly, the unspoken weight of their parting evident in the unyielding grip. Whispering words of both caution and affection, Rickon urged Aemon to return safely before daybreak. The ultimatum was clear – once dawn arrived, the Northern army would march, with or without the King Beyond the Wall defeated.

Aemon, the fearless five-year-old, mounted Ghost's back. The dire wolf, a formidable creature almost the size of a war horse, stood ready. With a final nod and a reciprocal hug, Aemon and Ghost galloped through the open gate and ventured beyond the Wall. The night swallowed their forms as they disappeared into the wilderness, leaving Rickon to grapple with the uncertain fate that awaited them in the frozen expanses of the North.

In the eerie silence of the North beyond the Wall, Aemon and Ghost continued their journey atop the dire wolf's back. The desolate landscape bore the scars of the recent battle against the wildlings on the Wall, arrows scattered like twisted remnants of a forgotten conflict. The grown burned from Balerion's flames, charred and blackened further than Aemon could see.

Aemon's eyes settled on one of the few arrows that had survived the night unburnt. A spark of an idea ignited within him. He plucked the arrow from the ground and, with a determined glance at Ghost, thrust it into his own shoulder. A muffled grunt escaped his lips, the pain searing through him, but Aemon stifled any cries that sought release.

Realizing that a solitary arrow wouldn't suffice to convey the extent of his ordeal, Aemon dismounted Ghost and threw himself onto the ashy ground. Intent on creating an appearance of a survivor barely clinging to life, he dirtied his clothes and face with the remnants of burnt wildlings. Never attuned to Aemon's cues, Ghost followed suit, dusting parts of his pristine white fur with the ashes of the fallen.

Aemon, unsatisfied with his level of distress, sought more convincing damage. Approaching the still-active flames, he carefully burnt parts of his clothing, enhancing the illusion of a harrowing escape. However, he sensed it still fell short of the desired effect.

His gaze fell upon the scar on his face, reflected from a shield that still had enough shine to reflect a blurry image, a remnant of battles fought before. The realization struck him — this mark would lend credibility to the narrative of a miraculous survival. With a determined resolve, Aemon traced the scar with a charred piece of fabric, deepening the lines as he sought to craft a visage that spoke of fierce resilience in the face of overwhelming odds.

Concealed within the folds of his clothing were hidden daggers, tools that now served a different purpose. Determination etched across his features, he unsheathed one of these blades and prepared to inflict upon himself wounds that would tell a story of survival.

With measured precision, Aemon began to cut, starting from the top of his left eye and carving a path down past the existing scar, ending at the nape of his neck and down to his left shoulder. Each incision, a testament to his resolve, drew forth grunts of pain that he swallowed, biting down on his fingers to stifle any expression of agony. Careful not to jeopardize his vision, Aemon ensured the wounds were severe enough to appear life-threatening yet not debilitating.

Blood trickled from the fresh wounds, painting a narrative of a boy who had narrowly escaped the clutches of death. The pain, a silent companion to his journey, remained concealed beneath Aemon's stoic facade. He mounted Ghost, the dire wolf who had become both ally and protector, laying down upon the creature's back as if unconscious.

The display of a wounded boy clinging to life unfolded as Aemon rode Ghost slowly toward the wildling camp. The frigid air sought to freeze the blood that escaped his wounds, and the journey was calculated to allow the crimson liquid to either congeal or dry, concealing the fresh nature of the injuries. It was a delicate dance with fate, a gamble that the wildlings, even the cannibals among them, might see Aemon not as prey but as a symbol of survival worthy of celebration. The odds were in Aemon's favor, but the treacherous North held secrets and uncertainties that even a dragon rider could not fully predict.

Amidst the haunting shadows cast by the trees beyond the Wall, Aemon Targaryen and Ghost pressed forward into the wilderness of the North. The darkness of the night cloaked their approach, making them appear as fleeting specters in the frozen realm.

It wasn't long before the keen eyes of the wildlings detected a figure moving among the trees, and soon the air was filled with the echoing cries of a wounded soul returning from the Wall. Aemon played his part convincingly, lying limp on Ghost's back, eyes closed as if unconscious.

As the wildlings gathered around, a mix of curiosity and wariness marked their expressions. The dire wolf carrying Aemon made it convincing enough, and most would figure Aemon for a warg; a common enough and important presence drew both awe and caution. However, the arrival of a man, possibly a warg, changed the atmosphere. His recognition of the bond between Aemon and Ghost seemed to grant the pair acceptance among the wildlings.

"He's got a wolf for a bonded," the warg declared, his voice resonating through the cold air. "The boy's a warg."

One looked at the dust and soot on Aemon and the light white patches of fur that were dirtied by smoke and grime. Aemon's hope that all thought Ghost had pulled Aemon from the flames was believed by anyone who wasever willing there. "Never seen a warg so young before, especially one with a dire wolf loyal enough to bring the boy back from the fires."

"f*cking crows!" one roared as the other cursed the Night's Watch. "Lad's breathing, though, thank the gods for that."

A murmur of understanding swept through the gathering wildlings as they regarded Aemon with newfound respect. The man continued to speak, interpreting the wounds as the aftermath of a perilous journey beyond the Wall. Aemon, feigning unconsciousness, listened intently to the discussions around him.

"He's been to the Wall and back," the warg explained, examining Aemon's fabricated injuries.

"Look at the cuts and the blood. He's lucky to be alive."

Aemon's heart raced beneath his still exterior as he maintained the illusion, letting the wildlings weave a narrative around the wounds he had intentionally inflicted upon himself. The ruse had to hold; his success in navigating this intricate dance with the wildlings depended on it.

The debates among the wildlings intensified as they noticed Aemon's tender age, some expressing concern over a child engaging in the harsh battles where black fire rained from the skies like streams of a waterfall, but had no end like a sea of flame. However, others argued that the boy's strength and resilience, evidenced by his return from the Wall and the wounds he bore, spoke volumes about his mettle.

As the wildlings debated, the warg stepped forward and addressed Ghost, the dire wolf, with a knowing gaze. "Come with me, white wolf. We'll tend to your friend's wounds," he spoke in a voice that resonated with both authority and understanding. "Someone get Torrhen! He'd want to see this!"

Aemon, keeping up the appearance of unconsciousness, subtly communicated with Ghost, urging him to follow the warg. The dire wolf, initially on edge, observed the warg's movements and, sensing no immediate threat, acquiesced. Ghost accompanied the warg to a tent designated for healing, where the murmurs of the camp receded into the background.

Inside the tent, the warg and a few others inspected Aemon's wounds, their experienced hands deftly assessing the severity. The atmosphere was a mixture of concern and curiosity, with some wildlings expressing doubts about the gravity of Aemon's injuries. One even pointed out Aemon was lucky to have kept his eye. One looking at the deep cut around neck and shoulder. One person pointed out that Aemon probably used up all the luck he had for the rest of his life surviving the battle.

"He's just a child," one voice murmured, skepticism singing the words. "Why the f*ck was he fighting? He was far too young to fight; he would have done nothing fighting."

Another replied seriously, "Maybe the wolf? He probably thought the wolf would be more than enough to make him a good fighter?"

"And now the boy is dying and wounded for it," they countered.

"And yet the wolf brought him back. The wolf did what the boy thought it would: fight and protect him," the warg argued.

"He fought for us, no matter his age," another argued, emphasizing the significance of Aemon's presence. The warg looked to Aemon and watched as a healer tried to burn the neck wound, but the fires did nothing to the flesh and fully stopped the bleeding. There was chaos in the tent as they questioned how the boy's flesh did not burn.

Aemon, being unable to see, keeping the appearance of being unconscious, could only hear as an older woman, most likely a healer spoke up. "The gods have blessed the boy." Aemon could hear every person quiet at her words; he assumed she had to have much respect for all the wildlings to quote so quickly. "They blessed him to be immune to the flames; more likely, he is unconscious from the smoke he breathed rather than the flames from the great black beast on the Wall that touched his skin."

She instructed them to get some salvs and needles; mayhaps they could close the wounds and pray to the gods to keep the boy alive. Once the needles came close, Aemon could feel through their bond that Ghost was rearing to attack. He did not trust their sharp objects near Aemon.

The warg, undeterred by the discussions, directed Ghost to stand watch. The dire wolf, a vigilant guardian, kept a close eye on the proceedings, ready to intervene if needed. Aemon, maintaining the guise of unconsciousness, listened to the exchanges, realizing that his fate lay in the hands of these wildlings, uncertain allies in the North's unforgiving wilderness.

Aemon feigned grogginess as he opened his eyes, the flicker of consciousness returning. The tent was dimly lit the glow of a nearby fire casting dancing shadows on the fabric walls. As Aemon attempted to sit up, he heard a deep and resonant voice catching his attention. Turning his head, he beheld a giant of a man towering over him with wild red hair and a formidable presence, his hair and beard wild and untamed.

The man spoke with a mixture of curiosity and amusem*nt. "Well, look at this. Survived the Wall, did you? With a dire wolf, no less." The man's eyes twinkled with interest as he regarded Aemon, assessing the boy's condition. "I was told about a survivor but could not believe it without seeing it myself. But I don't recall sending a child to the Wall to fight, not one as young as young anyway. My sister's son had gone forth south the Wall, but he is a bit older than you, lad."

Aemon said nothing for some time, coughing a little due to dry mouth from breathing through his mouth. He thanked Arya and Sansa once again, and then Margaery and Arianne for making sure his acting wasn't sh*t. "I forced my brother to take me and Ghost. I needed to protect him."

The man said nothing but gave a sad smile. "How old was your brother?"

"I don't know," Aemon said sadly. " I think he told me this was his third summer and going to be his fourth winter."

"It makes the man older than you by at least twenty years," he said seriously. "You sure he's your brother and not your father."

"Unless he f*cked his own mother then, aye, I'm sure. My mother birthed the two of us, but they were different fathers. My brother says my mother comes from Bael the Bard; he says Bael had two children after the Stark King," Aemon said.

The redhead laughed at Aemon's words. "That makes your blood of the last King Beyond the Wall, boy. Makes you special."

Aemon looked to the ground. This felt so familiar to him, lying to a King Beyond the Wall; it felt like he was back as a black brother once more, talking to Mance Rayder once more. He was sent to kill a King Beyond the Wall once more; it had been so long since he had done it last. "It didn't make my brother special when the black beast brunt us."

"No, but the wolf of yours made you special." The man then looked to Ghost, who looked definitely to the redhead man and was ready to kill him to protect Aemon. "If I had fifty men as brave as you with your dire wolf, the Wall would have fallen already. Brave wolf nearly killed a dozen men who tried to heal you. Braver lad fighting alongside your brother to the end." Aemon, feigning discomfort, winced as if in pain. He attempted to rise but then settled back down, claiming pain in his stomach. The large man chuckled heartily and gestured for him to stay put. "No need to rush, lad. Take your time."

"I didn't greet you." With a mischievous glint in his eye, Aemon decided to play along and offered a cheeky response. "Can't disrespect you, or my mother will come back and beat me bloody," he quipped, a sly smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

The giant man roared with laughter, appreciating the boy's humor. "Your mother sounds like quite the woman. What's your name, boy?" he inquired, his tone warm and inviting.

Aemon looked at the man and could see the face of a ghost from his past, making it far easier for him to get his answer. Far easier to get the name he wanted when the man before him looked almost identical to the man in question. Aemon, quick on his feet even in deception, thought on his feet. "Tormund Giantsbane," he declared with a hint of pride, adopting the name of a renowned wildling leader. The giant man raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the audacious choice.

"Well, Tormund Giantsbane, I'm Torrhen Wolfsbane. A pleasure to meet you, lad," he said, extending a massive hand for a handshake. This was the King Beyond the Wall. The two shared a firm grip, sealing the playful introduction between the boy who wasn't a Stark and the giant wildling whose curiosity had been piqued. The giant of a man, Torrhen Wolfsbane, leaned forward with genuine interest, his laughter lingering in the air. "Giantsbane, eh? How'd you earn such a name?" Torrhen asked, the mirth evident in his voice.

Aemon, fully committed to his ruse, grinned and began his tale. "A year back, my elder brother and I were out in the wilderness, just surviving. We stumbled upon a giantess who thought my brother was a baby giant and me... well, a runt. She took us to her cave, thinking we needed feeding, and started nursing us like pups." Aemon chuckled as he spun the tale, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

Torrhen's booming laughter filled the tent, and he slapped his knee in delight. "Nursed by a giantess? Ha! "

Aemon nodded, weaving more details into his story. "That night, we overheard her talking in old tongue. She thought I was weak and planned to... you know, end me. My brother, who knew the old tongue, told me what was going to happen. So, we did what we had to do. Killed her and made a run for it."

Torrhen's laughter continued, echoing through the tent. "You killed a giantess, did you? Bravo, Tormund Giantsbane! Not many can say they've done that and lived to tell the tale." After some time of speaking, Torrhen looked at Aemon and nodded. "Rest for now, lad. We'll speak once daybreaks. I have questions, and gods willing, you have answers for them, but for now, you rest." Aemon agreed and laid down, closing his eyes before making his breathing heavy and large like one in deep slumber. Torrhen waited, ensuring Aemon was asleep before he left.

As Torrhen Wolfsbane exited the tent, the crisp northern air greeted him. Aemon, still feigning slumber, listened intently to the distant murmurs of the camp. Torrhen's hearty voice carried through the night, creating a sense of camaraderie among the wildlings.

Outside the tent, the curious had gathered, seeking insight from the renowned Torrhen Wolfsbane about the mysterious boy he had found. The questions buzzed like restless insects, eager for morsels of information.

"What do you think of the lad, Torrhen?" one voice asked.

Torrhen, his silhouette outlined by the soft glow of the campfires, responded thoughtfully. "He's been through much, that's for certain. Lost a brother, killed a giantess, or so he claims. There's more to his tale, but he's smart—keeps his secrets close. Can't blame him for not trusting."

The crowd nodded in agreement, acknowledging Torrhen's wisdom. Another voice chimed in, "Think he'll speak about what happened at the Wall?"

Torrhen chuckled, his laughter carrying over the night air. "Not yet, but we'll give him time. The lad needs to feel he can trust us. We'll find a way to get the truth out of him." As Torrhen dispersed the gathering crowd, he left explicit instructions for the guards posted outside Aemon's tent. "Don't disturb me or the lad. He's been through a lot, and I need him well-rested for what comes next. We'll talk in the morning. Keep an eye on him; there might be more to this boy than meets the eye."

With that, Torrhen Wolfsbane disappeared into the shadows of the wildling camp, leaving Aemon to continue his charade of slumber while the wheels of deception turned around him.

The bond between Aemon Targaryen and Ghost was palpable in the dimly lit tent. Aemon, still feigning rest, whispered his instructions to the large dire wolf. Ghost's keen eyes met Aemon's, a silent understanding passing between them. Aemon's plan required Ghost to create a diversion, drawing the attention of the wildlings away from their tents and, more importantly, Torrhen's tent.

"Go to the campfires, Ghost. Grab some firewood and start a blaze near the tents and supplies," Aemon urged, his voice hushed but determined.

Ghost, ever vigilant and loyal, observed Aemon for a moment longer before giving a nod of agreement. The dire wolf turned gracefully, slipping through the tent's entrance at the back without making a sound. The darkness of the night swallowed Ghost's form as he moved with stealth, guided by his instincts and Aemon's commands.

As Ghost ventured into the wildling camp, Aemon remained in the tent, waiting with bated breath. He knew the success of his plan hinged on Ghost's ability to create a convincing distraction. The muffled sounds of the night surrounded him, punctuated by distant laughter and the crackling of campfires.

In the stillness of the tent, Aemon strained his ears for any signs of Ghost's actions. The air seemed charged with anticipation as he envisioned the dire wolf moving with purpose, executing the plan that could provide Aemon with the opportunity to slip away unnoticed.

The minutes felt like an eternity, and Aemon could only hope that Ghost's diversion would be effective, casting shadows of chaos over the wildling camp and affording him the chance to navigate through the darkness undetected.

Aemon moved stealthily through the shadows, his dark clothing blending with the night as he followed Ghost's lead toward the distant fires. The chaos in the wildling camp intensified as panicked shouts filled the air, and the flickering flames danced against the snowy backdrop. Ghost, his white fur a contrast against the darkened surroundings, continued his strategic efforts to set more fires, diverting attention away from Aemon's clandestine movements. The white fur blended in with the white snow, making it nearly impossible to see him, especially as the flames were too bright to look anywhere beside them.

The young Targaryen had an innate ability to navigate through obscurity, slipping through the tents and structures with an uncanny grace that belied his tender age. The fires, both intentional and unintentional, provided intermittent illumination, casting eerie shadows that Aemon expertly used to his advantage.

The sounds of commotion reached Aemon's ears as he skirted the edges of the chaos. Wildlings rushed to and from, their attention consumed by the unfolding crisis. Aemon seized the opportunity to move through the camp, his small form almost imperceptible amid the confusion.

Ghost's actions proved invaluable, creating a diversion that allowed Aemon to traverse the camp's outskirts unnoticed. His movements were deliberate, each step carefully placed to avoid detection. Aemon felt a surge of adrenaline as he approached the outskirts of the camp, where the fires had drawn most of the wildlings' focus. With each passing moment, Aemon distanced himself from the center of the tumult. The night swallowed him whole as he ventured into the darkness beyond the reach of the flickering flames.

Aemon moved through the camp, navigating the chaos he had helped create. The light of the fires danced in his eyes as he searched for Torrhen's tent. He stealthily maneuvered around the tents, taking care not to draw attention to himself. The unsettling glow of the fires cast eerie shadows on the snowy ground.

As Aemon traversed the maze of canvas, wooden, and leather structures, he came across tents filled with supplies, weapons, and other essentials for the wildlings' survival. In an orchestrated effort, he set each significant tent ablaze, sending flames licking into the night sky.

It was a meticulous operation that took the better part of two hours. The scent of burning materials permeated the air, blending with the shouts and cries of the disoriented wildlings. Aemon pressed on, undeterred, until he finally identified Torrhen's tent.

To his advantage, the tent was unguarded, the men preoccupied with extinguishing the flames consuming their camp. Aemon slipped inside the tent, his movements silent and purposeful. The interior was nearly empty, illuminated by the faint glow of the surrounding fires.

Torrhen lay asleep, unaware of the impending danger. Aemon drew a wildling's knife, a cruel reminder of the night before when he had taken a life to maintain his disguise. He hesitated for a moment, contemplating the weight of his actions. With a heavy sigh, he inched closer to Torrhen, the knife poised for a silent strike.

The young Targaryen steeled himself for what needed to be done, the gravity of his mission weighing heavily on his conscience. As he stood over the slumbering Torrhen, Aemon prepared to leave a mark that would set off a chain of chaos among the wildlings or, rather, set up the infighting.

Aemon stood over the sleeping Torrhen Wolfsbane, wildling knife in hand, ready to strike. But as he hesitated. Aemon turned before seeing a figure taller than himself. He looked on at gray eyes, long face, and dark hair. Aemon looked at the figure; the face was familiar, but he could not place it. The man was Stark, and there was no doubt. He looked sad, brooding even.

Aemon looked at the man, confused; how did anyone follow him here? This mission was supposed to be solely himself. Besides Rickon and Benjen, there were no Starks this far south, especially since Aemon's great uncle Bennard and his sons should be at Winterfell.

The man looked at Aemon, his face serious and cold, with no emotion on his stoic face. "Last time I saw you, you looked far older."

Aemon said nothing. He looked to the man and looked to Torrhen, hoping the sound of another voice did not wake the man. Torrhen had not moved. Aemon looked confused before looking at a shield, freshly cleaned, most likely from a former brother Torrhen had killed. Aemon looked to the shield and could only see Torrhen's sleeping form and Aemon himself; Aemon could not see any Stark man where the man should have been in the reflection.

"Who are you, and what are you doing here?" Aemon forced out in a whisper.

The man looked sad for some time before a weary smile graced his lips, one so slight that Aemon doubted that it was much different than his neutral expression. "A husband to a murdered wife. Father to one King, who was beheaded. A father of two strong wolves and two strong she-wolves. An uncle to the King who should have always been."

Aemon looked at the man, but instead of showing surprise, his eyes narrowed. Eddard Stark, his former father, appeared more real than the dark, barely illuminated tent. "Lord Stark."

"I was your father, Jon," Eddard replied. "I would think your greeting would be more warm than that."

"My name is not Jon. It never was," Aemon said coldly. "You couldn't even tell me the truth of my name."

Eddard sighed as if resigning himself to this fate. "Robert would have killed you if he found out."

"And yet you choose him over me. You choose a whor* monger, the rebirth of Aegon the Unworthy, over your own flesh and blood." Aemon said through gritted teeth. He looked to Torrhen and realized he said that low enough for the man to not hear him.

"I wanted to keep the peace, Aemon, something we both have tried and failed at doing," Eddard argued neutrally.

Aemon wanted to scream at the top of his lungs but settled for a harsh whisper. "And yet I never failed my family!"

"No, you didn't. You merely killed your aunt." Eddard argued.

Aemon walked up to his father and, for a second, was going to throw him against the wall before stopping and looking definitely into his eyes. "You have no right to look down on me for doing what I did."

Eddard said nothing for some time, looking mournfully at Aemon. "I'm not looking down on you. Sacrificing your own honor to kill the woman that you loved and swore to serve in order to save the Seven Kingdoms. I am proud of you."

"I did not love her," Aemon lied to himself.

Eddard smiled sadly as he placed his hand on Aemon's shoulder, and even when talking to a memory, Aemon could feel the warmth in his father's hands. "You could lie to me but never to yourself. You have married the Tyrell and the Martell, but you had fallen for them just as I did Cat. But I did not love Cat first; it was Ashara I fell for and who had my heart, just like your wildling women and Daenerys Targaryen. Five times you fell in love, that's five more times than many."

"Five times I watched them die before my eyes," Aemon said bitterly.

The tension hung in the air like a winter storm as Aemon Targaryen confronted the spectral figure of Eddard Stark in the recesses of his mind. Aemon, the reincarnation of Jon Snow, stared angrily at the apparition of Eddard. "Why didn't you tell me who my mother was? Why didn't you tell Jon Snow that his mother was Lyanna Stark?"

Eddard, defending his actions, replied with a heavy heart, "I protected you, Aemon. I loved you like my own son. I raised Jon Snow with love and care."

Aemon's eyes burned with frustration. "If you loved me, you would have supported me. You wouldn't have let me go to the Wall."

Eddard countered, "It wasn't my decision to send you to the Wall. You made that choice."

Aemon scoffed, "We both knew the limited options for a bastard, especially one hated by Lady Stark."

Eddard insisted, "You swore off your birthright willingly."

"I did not know I had a birthright to swear off!" Aemon shot back. He turned back to see Torrhen sleeping; he thanked the gods that he was screaming in a whisper, barely low enough for the sleeper to not wake. "I care less about the throne and more about being lied to. You, the man who raised me, chose a whor*-mongering drunk, willing to kill children, over your own son! Robert killed my brother and sister. He was going to kill Daenerys!"

"But he didn't kill you," Eddard replied. "Every night, I feared waking to see Robert marching North to find you and know you were Rhaegar's son. I could barely sleep knowing the two of you were in the same castle when he asked me to be Hand."

"He and the Lannisters destroyed the realm," Aemon argued. "I had to fix it. All of it. You chose your best friend over your son."

Eddard, his voice laden with sorrow, explained, "I made the choices I believed were right to protect you."

Aemon retorted, "By sending me to the Wall? By not telling me the truth about my mother? About my heritage?"

Eddard stood firm, "I couldn't risk your life. You needed to be kept safe."

Aemon, consumed by anger, cried out, "Safe? I would have faced anything for you, for my family. Instead, you chose secrecy and betrayal! I wouldn't have acted on the knowledge; I would have put the family first, but you took that choice from me!" Aemon tightened his fist on his dagger; he had no time for this. "You're not here. You're dead. Gods, even worse, you are not even born yet. You have no hold over me. This ends here and now." Aemon walked closer to Torrhen, ready to slit his throat.

Eddard's stern gaze pierced through Aemon's resolve, and his voice echoed in Aemon's mind. He looked at Aemon's dagger in his hand. He looked to the sleeping man before Aemon. "This is not honorable, Aemon. Killing a man in his sleep goes against everything you were taught."

Aemon retorted, "I do this for the North. To protect it."

Eddard shook his head disapprovingly. "The ends don't justify the means. There's no honor in taking a defenseless man's life."

Aemon argued passionately, "How is it more honorable to let hundreds of thousands die on the battlefield? I'm protecting the North,Father."

Eddard reminded him, "Your duty is to uphold honor, even in the face of adversity."

Aemon countered, "My duty is to the North, to the living. I will protect what I can."

Eddard pointed out, "You're killing a defenseless man."

Aemon's frustration boiled over. "You killed Arthur Dayne without honor!"

Eddard replied calmly, "I tried to raise you to be better than myself."

Aemon snapped, "You cursed your own honor by protecting me, naming me your son. This is no different. I will curse my honor to protect the North."

Eddard argued, "You were an innocent baby."

Aemon pressed on, "Torrhen Wolfsbane is not innocent! He killed every Stark who swore to the Night's Watch in the last three decades!" Aemon stood resolute, his eyes locked on the sleeping Torrhen Wolfsbane, a knife gripped tightly in his hand. Eddard's ghostly figure remained, pleading with the young Targaryen.

Eddard spoke with conviction, "Aemon, you cannot resort to this. Killing a man in his sleep is not honorable. It will make you no better than Robert or Tywin."

Aemon, unmoved, retorted, "Don't compare me to those men. They killed my brother and sister. This is different. I'm protecting the North."

Eddard insisted, "A man's word and honor are all he has. Once you lose them, you're no better than a monster."

Aemon, growing impatient, countered, "I've lost my honor for the greater good, Eddard. I won't let Torrhen destroy everything we've fought for."

Eddard pleaded, "There's always another way. Killing a defenseless man is not the solution."

Aemon, determined, argued, "I've faced worse than this, and I won't let honor stand in the way of protecting the living."

Eddard, trying to appeal to Aemon's sense of morality, said, "Think of what Lyanna would say. Would she want her son to lose his honor like this?"

Aemon fell silent, contemplating the weight of his actions. Finally, he spoke, "If sacrificing my honor is what it takes to prepare for the Long Night, then so be it."

He walked past the fading illusion of Eddard, leaving behind the spectral figure, and approached the sleeping Torrhen with a resolution that echoed in the quiet shadows of the tent. Winter came for Torrhen Wolfsbane. Winter came for another failed King Beyond the Wall.

Under cover of darkness, Aemon hurried through the sprawling wildling camp; his senses heightened to the chaos beginning to unfold. The fires he and Ghost had set in the distance flickered like distant stars as panic and confusion spread among the unsuspecting wildlings.

As he approached the outskirts, Ghost, the ever-faithful dire wolf, met him. Aemon took a moment to inspect the majestic creature, ensuring Ghost had suffered no harm during their clandestine mission. Satisfied that the wolf was unharmed, Aemon followed Ghost's lead as the dire wolf guided him toward a discarded wildling sword.

Aemon's hand closed around the hilt, feeling the cold, rough metal beneath his fingers. Ghost's red eyes met his, a silent communication passing between them. Aemon nodded, acknowledging the significance of the weapon in his hand as a means of defense.

With Ghost by his side and the borrowed sword in hand, Aemon allowed the direwolf to lead him to the edge of the camp. The chaotic scene unfolded around them as wildlings scrambled to extinguish the fires and understand the sudden turmoil that had befallen their community.

As the night progressed, the chaos heightened, and Aemon knew he needed to slip away before the first light of dawn revealed the full extent of the disturbance. He moved through the shadows, using the confusion to his advantage, determined to escape the wildling camp unnoticed and continue his mission to protect the North.

Aemon first heard people speak about Torrhen being killed and people accusing the fires as a diversion an hour later. No one claimed the fires or the murder. He needed them to accuse one another, so whenever he was close enough to a tent filled with wildlings, he would speak as though he heard a rumor that one tribe was discontented with Torrhen's rule. All his words are baseless, but the fires caused chaos, and chaos meant it was time for reaction; reaction meant no one was sound enough to make reactive thought. Aemon would hate himself for the rest of his days for saying this, but Little Fingure was right; chaos was a ladder.

Amidst the chaos, Aemon and Ghost moved with purpose, strategically igniting more fires to fuel the turmoil among the wildlings. The night had transformed into a cacophony of accusations, clashes, and chaos as different tribes pointed fingers at one another for Torrhen's demise.

As the fires grew in number and intensity, so did the conflicts within the wildling encampment. Aemon heard the rising tension in the accusations, with tribes turning on each other, each vying for control in the power vacuum left by Torrhen's death.

It was an hour later that he heard different tribes of wildlings being accused, the fires raging and people still burning from the flames made it understandable that no one was thinking clearly when their families were being burnt alive by flames and not by Balerion. He heard screams of one tribe trying to take the power Torrhen left behind while others accused them of killing Torrhen to take power. The Hornfoot screamed that it was Thenn that killed Torrhen. The Thenns called it lies and accused Hornfoots of doing the same act but blaming the Thenns. The heads of the clans began arguing with one another, and it did not take long to get the Hornfoot in question to grab a large club and bash the Thenn in the head so hard that brain and blood coated the floor. The Thenns been fighting the Hornfoots in retaliation. And it was not long after that eight entire clans began fighting, and soon more joined in, and soon more after. Half the entire camp was fighting.

The first skirmishes had erupted, individuals from various tribes engaging in brutal combat. The sound of bronze clashing against bronze and the anguished cries of the wounded filled the air. Aemon moved through the shadows, Ghost by his side, feeling the vibrations of the unfolding chaos beneath his feet.

People screamed in panic, confusion, and anger, and it wasn't long before the skirmishes escalated into full-scale battles. Aemon asked Ghost to guide him to strategic locations where they could set more fires to stoke the flames of discord. With each new blaze, the tension among the wildlings grew, pushing the camp further into madness. Half the camp was fighting itself, a quarter of the camp was on fire as the fires converted together to make one large wildfire, and the quarter of wildlings that weren't injured were trying to put out the flames.

As Aemon witnessed the encampment descend into turmoil, he couldn't help but feel a heavy weight on his shoulders. The consequences of his actions were rippling through the camp, sowing discord and violence. Yet, with the impending threat beyond the Wall, Aemon steeled himself, convinced that the chaos he was orchestrating was a necessary evil to prepare the North for the greater dangers that lay ahead.

The first rays of daylight broke over the frozen landscape, revealing the aftermath of the night's chaos. Half of the wildling encampment lay in ruins, consumed by fires that continued to smolder. Aemon and Ghost, positioned at the edge of the camp, surveyed the devastation they had orchestrated. The plan had worked, and the wildlings were weakened and divided.

As the first light of dawn illuminated the scene, the silence was shattered by the resounding roar of Balerion the Black Dread. Aemon knew the dragon was announcing its presence, a signal that the wildlings could not ignore. The war horns of the wildlings echoed through the air, a response to the impending threat.

Aemon turned to face the south, where the Wall stood tall and imposing. The pounding of hooves reverberated through the icy ground, and Aemon knew that the North had arrived. The cavalry, accompanied by the banners of various Northern Houses, charged down from the Wall in a formidable display of strength.

The ground quivered beneath the collective force of thousands of horses, armored men, and the Night's Watch. Aemon could hear the war cries, the shouting of orders, and the thunderous gallop of the Northern forces rushing forward. The North had answered the call, arriving at dawn to confront the wildling threat.

The clash of two forces on the frozen expanse beyond the Wall was imminent. Aemon watched the approaching wave of northern warriors, their armor glinting in the morning light, their banners fluttering defiantly. The stage was set for a decisive confrontation that would determine the fate of the North and its ability to stand against the looming threat beyond the Wall. But Aemon had done his work; the wildlings were too weak due to killing half of their numbers, from the fires, and from having no rest while the Northern men and the Night's Watch were rested and ready. This would be no battle but a slaughter.

Amidst the chaos of the battlefield, Aemon and Ghost moved seamlessly through the ranks of Northern forces, joining the fight against the now-desperate wildling horde. Aemon had received a black cloak from a Night's Watchman, a gesture that would help distinguish him from the foes they were facing.

The Northmen, divided into three forces, strategically closed in on the weakened wildlings, effectively surrounding them. Aemon observed the coordinated attack from the east and west, realizing that the wildlings had no chance against the organized might of the Northern forces. The clash was not a battle; it was a ruthless slaughter.

Aemon, riding Ghost, charged into the fray, their movements synchronized in a dance of death. The white dire wolf fiercely guarded Aemon, intercepting any wildling who dared to approach the young Targaryen. Ghost's teeth and claws became a whirlwind of deadly precision, leaving injured or slain wildlings in their wake.

Aemon, wielding a stolen wildling sword, moved with agility and purpose, delivering precise strikes to any wildling who dared to challenge him. Ghost, relying on his powerful jaws and claws, would incapacitate adversaries, allowing Aemon to finish them off. The duo became a formidable force, seamlessly complementing each other's strengths.

In the midst of the chaos, a Night's Watchman recognized Aemon and handed him a black cloak. The gesture not only offered Aemon some protection but also signaled to his allies that he fought on their side. Aemon and Ghost continued to press forward, their movements fluid and efficient.

As the battle raged on, Aemon and Ghost fought side by side, an unstoppable force within the Northern ranks. The wildlings, overwhelmed and outnumbered, found themselves caught in a relentless onslaught that left them with little hope of survival.

In the heart of the chaotic battlefield, Aemon and Ghost moved in perfect harmony, weaving through the skirmish with a deadly dance. Aemon's movements were fluid, his stolen wildling sword cutting through the air with precision as he engaged his foes. Each slash was calculated, aiming for vital spots to dispatch his enemies swiftly.

As Aemon faced a charging wildling, he sidestepped a swinging club and swiftly countered with a low slash to the legs, disabling his opponent. Before the fallen wildling could react, Aemon's sword pierced through the exposed neck, ending the threat with a decisive strike.

Meanwhile, Ghost moved like a ghost on the battlefield, white fur blending seamlessly with the snow-covered ground. The dire wolf's agility and sheer power were a sight to behold. In one swift motion, Ghost lunged at a trio of wildlings, jaws snapping shut on one's throat while simultaneously using his claws to disembowel the others.

Aemon found himself surrounded, the wildlings closing in. Just as a spear was thrust towards him, Ghost materialized from the chaos, intercepting the weapon with his massive jaws. The dire wolf shook his head; the wildling's futile attempts to retrieve the weapon met with futility.

In turn, Aemon fought with relentless determination. His blade danced through the air, parrying attacks and dealing deadly blows. Aemon dodged a swing, countered with a quick slash across the chest, and then drove the blade into the heart of his adversary.

Ghost, sensing Aemon's imminent danger, leaped into action. The dire wolf tore through the fray, ripping into the throats of multiple wildlings in a gruesome display of power. Blood sprayed across the snow-covered ground as Ghost's jaws clamped down with bone-crushing force.

As the battle continued, Aemon and Ghost's deadly partnership unfolded. Aemon's swordplay was a whirlwind of calculated strikes and dodges, while Ghost's primal savagery left a trail of maimed and lifeless foes. Together, they were an unstoppable force on the battlefield, the dance of death choreographed with grim efficiency.

Amidst the chaotic battlefield, Ghost continued to exhibit his incredible prowess, moving with lethal precision as he tore through groups of wildlings. His powerful jaws snapped shut, ripping limbs from bodies, and his claws slashed through the air, leaving a trail of carnage in his wake.

As Aemon faced a particularly burly wildling, a massive brute armed with a crude axe, he found himself at a disadvantage. The wildling swung the axe overhead with brutal force, aiming to crush Aemon beneath its weight. Just as the weapon descended, Ghost lunged forward, intercepting the attack with his jaws clamped around the axe's haft. The dire wolf's sheer strength was evident as he wrestled the weapon away from the wildling, leaving him defenseless.

Aemon seized the opportunity, thrusting his stolen sword into the exposed side of the disarmed wildling. The man fell to the ground, his roars silenced by Ghost's brutal efficiency. Aemon glanced up at the dire wolf with a mixture of gratitude and awe, the bond between them evident in their seamless collaboration on the battlefield.

In another encounter, Aemon found himself surrounded by a trio of wildlings, each wielding makeshift weapons. Ghost, recognizing the imminent danger, leaped into action. With swift movements, he circled Aemon, creating a barrier between the child and his attackers. Ghost's feral appearance warned the wildlings, but not once did he make a sound as only the blood from his maw and the red in his eyes showed anyone that he was more than just the white that matched the snow as he lunged at the closest one, tearing through flesh with razor-sharp teeth.

Seizing the opening, Aemon lunged forward with his sword, dispatching one of the wildlings with a well-placed thrust. Ghost continued his assault, incapacitating the second assailant by ripping into his legs with powerful bites. The third wildling, desperate and disoriented, faced a determined Aemon, who swiftly delivered a fatal strike.

Throughout the battlefield, the terrifying combination of Aemon and Ghost struck fear into the hearts of the wildlings. Ghost's savagery complemented Aemon's calculated strikes, creating a dance of death that left no room for mercy. As the battle raged on, the bond between the young Targaryen and his direwolf proved to be an unstoppable force, turning the tide in favor of the North.

Amidst the aftermath of the battle, the Northmen celebrated their hard-fought victory. Aemon, seated beside Ghost, observed the revelry with a mix of exhaustion and relief. The dire wolf stood guard, his keen eyes scanning the surroundings, a silent protector by Aemon's side.

The cheers of the victorious Northmen echoed through the air as they gathered the surrendered wildlings. Men, women, and children were taken into custody, their weapons confiscated as the Northmen ensured they posed no further threat. Aemon, still wearing the black cloak gifted to him, watched the proceedings with a solemn gaze.

Ghost, his white fur stained with the blood of their enemies, sat faithfully beside Aemon, a silent guardian who had been instrumental in turning the tide of the battle. Aemon reached out to pat Ghost's head, a wordless acknowledgment of the dire wolf's unwavering loyalty and the crucial role he played in the victory.

As the Northmen began securing the surrendered wildlings, Aemon stood up, still clutching the sword he had used in the heat of battle. He surveyed the field, taking in the sight of fallen foes and allies alike. The air was thick with the scent of blood and burning remnants of the wildling camp.

Lord Rickon Stark, having witnessed the success of Aemon's plan and the subsequent battle, approached his grandson with a stern yet proud expression. "You did well, Aemon. The North owes you a debt," he declared, a hint of admiration in his voice.

Lord Rickon Stark dismounted from his horse, his eyes filled with a mix of concern and pride as he inspected Aemon's wounds. Benjen Stark, the seasoned Lord Commander, joined them, listening intently to Aemon's account of the night's events.

"Aemon, you look like sh*t," he said, glancing over the wounds on Aemon's shoulder. Benjen, his father, joined them, concern etched on his weathered face.

Benjen spoke first, "You did well, Aemon. Your plan worked better than any of us could have hoped."

Aemon nodded, still gripping the sword he had used in the battle. "The King Beyond the Wall is dead, killed him halfway through the night. The wildlings tore each other apart through the night as the fires converged, and the small portion of wildlings that tried to fight the flames were too few to do anything major. It was chaos out there."

Rickon, a seasoned leader of the North, assessed the situation. "And you went back amidst that chaos? Your wounds, I heard my men say not a blade touched you; how did you get injured."

Aemon met Rickon's gaze, determination in his eyes. "I needed to get into the camp. If I came from the Wall, it would be suspicious. An injured soldier returning from the battlefield, less suspicious. I had to make it look real. So I made it real."

Benjen chuckled, a rare expression on his face. "Smart lad. You've got the makings of a true Stark."

Rickon's stern demeanor softened, and he clapped Aemon on the shoulder. "Proud of you, Aemon. But the next time I see you cutting yourself, I will beat you bloody myself."

"The end result is the same, I suppose," Aemon chuckled. Rickon purposefully tightened the grip he had on Aemon enough to squeeze the life out of Aemon before. Aemon returned the gesture, feeling the weight of his family's pride. "I won't let you down, Grandfather."

Aemon ordered the men to take Aemon back to the Wall; soon after, Aemon had had a long night, and the boy needed sleep. Aemon tried to protest, but Rickon told Aemon he had done enough; they would speak after Aemon had rested.

Chapter 16: A Father's Rage

Chapter Text

King's Landing 102 AC

Two months ago...

The night hung heavy over King's Landing, cloaked in shadows that whispered of secrets and concealed treachery. The air was thick with anticipation, and the silence of the city streets seemed to dance with unseen menace. Under the cover of darkness, the Hill of Rhaenys stood as a brooding sentinel, its contours outlined by the silvery glow of a waxing moon.

Then, with a roar that echoed through the ancient stones of the Red Keep, the very earth beneath the Hill convulsed in a violent upheaval. A colossal explosion of dirt and rubble erupted from the bowels of the Hill, rending the quiet night asunder. A shockwave of force shattered the stillness, sending tremors coursing through the heart of the city.

The people of King's Landing were jolted from their slumber, their dreams shattered like glass. The explosion was a discordant symphony that shattered the peace, awakening the entire city in a frenzy of confusion. Panic spread like wildfire through the narrow streets as the very ground beneath their feet quivered and groaned.

In the alleys and market squares, in the chambers of the Red Keep and the humble abodes of Flea Bottom, the denizens of King's Landing stumbled out into the moonlit night. Their eyes were wide with terror, and their voices rose in a cacophony of fear and disbelief. Nobody knew what had transpired beneath the Hill of Rhaenys, and whispers of disaster permeated the air.

The once-steadfast walls of the city shook, and the ancient stones groaned as if the very foundations of King's Landing were rebelling against the weight of history. A pervasive sense of foreboding hung over the city like a shroud, and the night seemed to have taken on a malevolent life of its own.

As the chaos unfurled, the chaos deepened. The city guards rushed through the streets, their armor clanging like an ominous herald of impending doom. The septons, their prayers muffled by the uproar, sought solace in the gods, beseeching them for mercy. The smallfolk, desperate and bewildered, ran through the streets, their faces a tableau of fear and desperation.

In the midst of this pandemonium, the Hill of Rhaenys stood, its secrets now laid bare. The dark smoke billowed from the fractured earth, casting a sinister pallor over the once-proud edifices of King's Landing. The unknown had erupted from the very roots of the city, and its impact was felt not only in the trembling ground but in the hearts of those who called the capital home.

The explosive force, unleashed from the very heart of the Hill of Rhaenys, sent shockwaves rippling through the ancient city of King's Landing. As the ground convulsed beneath the weight of unseen chaos, the bowels of the hill disgorged a monstrous plume of dust and rubble. A colossal eruption that seemed to defy the very laws of nature. A herald of dark death and black dread.

Debris and rocks, jagged and unforgiving, soared through the air with the ferocity of vengeful spirits. The night sky, once serene and moonlit, was now obliterated by a shroud of darkness as the vast cloud of dust ascended like a phantom, blotting out the celestial canvas. The moon's silvery glow, once a beacon of calm, succumbed to the brooding shadow cast upon the city.

The cacophony of destruction was accompanied by the relentless hail of debris, crashing through the structures that stood in the way of this elemental fury. Houses crumbled like fragile sandcastles, their once-stalwart walls reduced to splinters. Buildings that had weathered many storms were now being torn asunder as if the very soul of King's Landing was being laid bare.

The airborne onslaught descended upon the city like a relentless storm, shattering windows, splintering wood, and raining chaos upon the unsuspecting inhabitants. The wails of the wind carried the sharp, stinging bite of dirt as the dust enveloped every nook and cranny, coating the city in a blanket of murky brown fog.

Amidst the calamity, the terrified screams of the people rose like a symphony of despair. A chorus of panic echoed through the narrow streets and bustling market squares, a visceral response to the unbridled wrath that had been unleashed upon them. The air was thick with fear, and the very essence of King's Landing trembled in the face of an unknown force that had erupted from the bowels of the earth.

As the dust settled upon the city, it transformed the once vibrant streets into a desolate wasteland. The familiar landmarks were obscured, and the chaos had left an indelible mark on the landscape. The city now stood not as a symbol of grandeur but as a testament to the capricious nature of fate.

Through the brown, dusty fog that lingered in the air, the people of King's Landing ran blindly, their faces contorted in terror. Each step taken was a desperate attempt to escape the unseen menace that had descended upon them. The city's collective scream reverberated through the stone walls, a haunting lamentation for the sudden and violent upheaval that had shattered the tranquility of the night. In the wake of the explosion, King's Landing had become a realm of chaos, and the people within it were left to grapple with the aftermath of an earthquake that had not only shaken the very foundations of the city but also shattered the illusions of safety and security that once held them captive.

And so, beneath the ominous moon, the city of King's Landing became a maelstrom of confusion and terror as the people grappled with the enigma that had erupted from the Hill of Rhaenys, shattering the semblance of normalcy that the night had once held

The panicked populace, driven by sheer terror, fled in disarray, their faces etched with the lines of fear. The once-cobbled pathways were now a chaotic river of humanity, desperately seeking refuge from the unseen menace that had shattered the serenity of the night.

Women, clutching the hems of their disheveled gowns, raced through the alleys with wide-eyed terror. The flickering lantern light cast stark shadows on their faces, revealing the panic etched across their features. Mothers, normally pillars of strength, now shielded their children with trembling arms, the instinct to protect overpowering any semblance of composure.

Children, wide-eyed and bewildered, stumbled alongside their frantic parents, their innocent faces contorted with fear. Tiny hands clung desperately to their mothers' skirts, seeking solace in the warmth of familial embrace. The world they once knew as stable and secure had crumbled, leaving them in a terrifying limbo of uncertainty.

In the midst of the stampede, a group of young girls, their laughter extinguished by the tumultuous events, clung to each other as they navigated the tumultuous streets. Their eyes darted wildly, scanning the chaos for a semblance of safety that remained elusive. Hair tousled and clothes smeared with dust, they moved with a sense of urgency that belied their tender age.

Amidst the clamor, an elderly woman, her stooped frame a testament to a lifetime of resilience, hobbled along with a determined yet faltering gait. Her weathered hands clutched a tattered shawl, her eyes reflecting the horror of a city in upheaval. The world she had known had been shaken to its core, and the weight of her years offered no immunity to the terror that enveloped King's Landing.

The cries of infants pierced the air, carried by the wind like a haunting melody of distress. Mothers cradled their babies, shielding them from the debris and chaos that rained down upon the city. The piercing wails of the youngest denizens of King's Landing merged with the collective screams, creating a dissonant symphony that underscored the magnitude of the catastrophe.

As the tumultuous echoes of the earth-shattering explosion subsided, a new and monstrous resonance filled the air, drowning out the terrified screams of the city's inhabitants. It was a roar unlike anything ever conceived in the annals of history – a primeval bellow that transcended the realms of mortal comprehension.

The people of King's Landing, still reeling from the seismic upheaval, clutched their ears in anguish as the colossal roar reverberated through the city. It was a sound so profound that it seemed to emanate from the very depths of the underworld, a resonant force capable of shaking the foundations of both stone and soul.

The deafening roar eclipsed even the mightiest thunderstorms, its ferocity reaching into the heavens and causing the very clouds to tremble. It was as if the gods themselves recoiled at the sheer power and malevolence that had been unleashed upon the world. The streets, once filled with the clamor of panicked footsteps and anguished cries, fell into an eerie silence as the people, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the sound, covered their ears in a futile attempt to shield themselves from the auditory onslaught.

The heavens themselves seemed to weep as the roar echoed through the night, a guttural symphony of terror and impending doom. The very air quivered with the palpable weight of fear, and the hearts of the people of King's Landing beat in unison, each pulsation a testament to the collective dread that hung thick in the atmosphere.

Then, from the midst of the chaotic haze emerged a sight that further plunged the city into a state of stupefied awe. The Dragon Pit, a once-hallowed structure, now revealed its true nature as the source of the cataclysmic eruption. From its depths arose the colossal form of Balerion the Black Dread – a legendary dragon of unprecedented size and malevolence.

Balerion's scales, obsidian-black and gleaming in the fractured moonlight, seemed to devour the very essence of the night. The dragon's eyes burned with an infernal intensity, their gaze penetrating the very souls of those who dared to behold this ancient terror. With wings outstretched, the creature dwarfed the entirety of the castles that had once stood as symbols of power and dominion.

Balerion the Black Dread, an embodiment of ancient terror, unfolded his colossal wings and ascended into the night sky. The legends had vastly underestimated the sheer enormity of the beast, for as it soared overhead, its vast silhouette eclipsed both the moon and stars. The very heavens bowed to the dark majesty of the dragon, and the city of King's Landing was plunged into an abyss of obsidian shadow.

The dragon's scales absorbed the feeble light that struggled to pierce through the overcast sky, rendering its body an abyssal void that devoured all illumination. It was as though the celestial bodies themselves recoiled in deference to the colossal creature that now dominated the night.

The dragon's flight was a ponderous spectacle, an unfolding epic that stretched the limits of mortal perception. It took an entire minute for Balerion's immense form to traverse the span of the city, during which time the heavens were veiled in darkness. The moon and stars, celestial witnesses to the primordial might that soared above, were obscured by the sheer magnitude of the dragon's wingspan.

For that fleeting moment, the city of King's Landing existed in a realm untouched by light. The people below, their eyes cast upward in a mixture of awe and dread, could only bear witness to the stygian void that replaced the familiar canopy of stars and moonlight. The dragon's passage left an indelible mark on the night, a cosmic disruption that altered the very fabric of reality.

As Balerion roared once more, the sound reverberated through the obsidian expanse he had created, a haunting symphony that resonated with the primal fear etched upon the faces of the people below. And then, with an unhurried purpose, the colossal dragon turned north, its departure marked by the gradual return of celestial radiance.

With the departure of Balerion, the dragon whose existence seemed to defy the very laws of nature, the veil of darkness lifted from King's Landing. Light returned as if reluctant to breach the sanctity of the dragon's presence. The stars blinked into view, and the moon cast its silvery glow upon the city once more.

As the skies cleared, the resumption of sound was heralded by the terrified screams of the people below. Panic swept through the streets with renewed vigor as the inhabitants of King's Landing, shaken by the revelation of a living legend, scattered in disarray once more. The dragon's departure marked the end of a harrowing chapter, leaving in its wake a city haunted by the echoes of a night touched by the colossal shadow of Balerion the Black Dread. The dragon that showed the realms of man the definition of Fire and Blood.

Red Keep 102 AC

Two months later.... Today.....

Daemon Targaryen

Daemon Targaryen, astride his fearsome dragon Caraxes, descended upon King's Landing like a vengeful storm. His armor, adorned with the black and red of House Targaryen, gleamed in the sunlight as his crimson cape billowed behind him. Once full of regal composure, his eyes now burned with a furious fire. So angry was he that he barely noticed the city in reconstruction near the Dragon Pit.

The guards foolish enough to approach him, not allowing him to continue forward as he landed in the Dragon Pit, were met with a savage onslaught. Daemon's sword, the Valyrian steel blade known as Dark Sister, danced through the air with lethal grace. Helmets became weapons turned against their wearers, the clang of steel against steel mingling with the agonized cries of the guards. Blood spattered across the ancient stones of the Dragon Pit, a visceral testament to Daemon's wrath.

"I will know where my son is!" Daemon's voice thundered through the pit, echoing off the walls. His eyes glowed with a draconic intensity as he surveyed the chaos he had wrought.

Daemon knew far before entering the Red Keep that the news of Daemon's arrival would spread like wildfire within the Red Keep. Servants whispered of the furious dragon rider in the Dragon Pit, and the fear of his impending wrath reached even the highest chambers. Daemon wondered if Viserys stood frozen for a moment upon hearing the news after losing Daemon's only son!

Undeterred by the chaos he left in his wake, Daemon mounted Caraxes again and took to the skies. The red dragon's wings beat against the air, propelling them toward the Red Keep. Daemon's thoughts were a tempest of anger and worry as he envisioned confronting Viserys, demanding answers about his missing son.

The Red Keep loomed ahead, its towers casting long shadows across the city. Daemon landed with a resounding thud in the courtyard, drawing the attention of those brave or foolish enough to witness the spectacle.

With Dark Sister still in hand, Daemon stormed into the Red Keep, the dragon bone pommel gleaming ominously. The halls echoed with his heavy footsteps as he sought the whereabouts of his brother. No door, no guard, would stand in his way.

Daemon Targaryen, clad in the black and red of House Targaryen, confronted Ser Harrold Westerling and the King's guards at the entrance of the Red Keep. His eyes, ablaze with a mixture of fury and concern, locked onto Ser Harrold as he demanded answers about the whereabouts of his son.

"Step aside, Westerling, or feel the bite of Dark Sister!" Daemon's voice, a tempest of anger, echoed through the courtyard. Caraxes, perched behind him, bellowed in unison, its crimson scales reflecting the fiery mood of its rider.

Ser Harrold stood his ground, resolute in his duty to protect the royal family. "I am here to ensure the King's and the realm's safety. Even you, Prince Daemon, cannot be allowed to threaten the peace within these walls."

Daemon's hand tightened around Dark Sister's hilt, and his face contorted with rage. "Peace? My son is missing, and I've been kept in the dark like a beggar in the street for over two moons!"

Ser Harrold, maintaining a calm demeanor, raised his hand in a gesture of diplomacy. "Lower your sword, Prince Daemon. I understand your concerns. If you seek answers, I can lead you inside to speak with the King. But violence is not the path to resolution."

Daemon glared at Ser Harrold, grappling with his seething anger. Caraxes, sensing its rider's fury, shifted restlessly, its wings unfolding and then folding back against its massive frame.

"If I lower my sword, it's not peace I'll find, but lies and deceit!" Daemon spat the words out, the air crackling with tension.

Ser Harrold, his voice firm, spoke again. "I swear to you, Prince Daemon, you will be given an audience with the King. But only if you lower your sword. We must resolve this matter with reason, not bloodshed."

Daemon hesitated, his gaze flickering between Ser Harrold and the entrance to the Red Keep. The choice before him weighed heavily on his shoulders, torn between the desire for answers and the searing anger that threatened to consume him.

He did not have his son for most of the boy's life. He was deprived of his last piece of Lyanna; the promise he swore to his late wife on her death bed was to protect their boy, and here he was, deprived of answers about where his son was and what had happened. He asked his brother to protect his son, his brother, the only man he cared for and loved, he trusted him with the only treasure he cared for, and Viserys f*cked it up.

Amidst the tension in the courtyard, Viserys appeared, his presence greeted by an uneasy silence. Daemon's eyes, still ablaze with fury, locked onto his brother. Viserys approached cautiously, a hint of trepidation in his gaze as he greeted his brother.

"Daemon," Viserys began, "we need to talk. Calmly."

But Daemon was beyond reason. "Where is my son, Viserys? What have you done with Aemon?" His voice echoed through the courtyard, a roar that demanded answers.

Viserys attempted to calm the situation, urging Daemon to lower his sword for a civil conversation. The momentary truce shattered when, without warning, Daemon dropped Dark Sister to the ground and delivered a thunderous punch to Viserys's face. The force of the blow was enough to break Viserys's nose, sending him sprawling to the ground.

Daemon, fueled by rage, was poised to unleash further violence upon his brother, mirroring the brutality inflicted on the guards. However, a sudden realization halted him in his tracks. His eyes, filled with hatred, shifted from the dazed Viserys to the onlookers—Rhaenyra and Aemma—momentarily, he saw Aemon and Lyanna in their gaze. He failed Lyanna and Aemon, but once he died, he would not have Lyanna curse him for failing Rhaenyra as well.

Cursing under his breath, Daemon retrieved Viserys, lifted him from the ground, and locked eyes with him. Accusations flowed from Daemon's lips, condemning Viserys for the loss of Aemon. Viserys, weighed down by guilt, acknowledged the truth.

"I trusted you with my only son," Daemon seethed, his voice dripping with betrayal. "I trusted you to fulfill your vow to care for him when I couldn't."

Viserys, his expression reflecting the burden of his failure, agreed solemnly. "I know, Daemon. I failed you."

"I trusted you with Aemon. Not our father. Not our grandfather. You promised me you would look after him. You said you would take care of him like your son! And where is he now, Viserys?"

"I don't know, Daemon. I'm sorry. Please understand. I am sorry. I failed you and Aemon. I'm sorry," Viserys replied. Viserys looked down in guilt as tears threatened to spill over.

Daemon didn't need apologies. He needed answers. Apologizing would do nothing. His son would still be lost. His son would still be gone. He could not blame Viserys; this was his son. He failed to be with his son. Damn, his father and grandfather for taking him away from Aemon and then losing him! Damn all of them to the lowest hells.

Torn between the desire for vengeance and the remnants of familial love, Daemon spoke with venom. "I should kill you right now, Viserys. You deserve it."

Viserys, eyes filled with regret, accepted the judgment. "I do."

Daemon, relenting for a moment, uttered a harsh truth. "If you were anyone other than my brother, you would be dead already." The air hung heavy with unresolved tensions as the brothers confronted the bitter reality of their shattered trust.

The courtyard held its breath as Daemon, his fury momentarily abated, bent to retrieve Dark Sister. Daemon's hand tightened around Dark Sister, every eye in the courtyard tracking his movements. The air was thick with anticipation, but with deliberate intent, Daemon sheathed his sword instead of unleashing his fury once more. The tension remained a palpable force hanging over the scene.

"Take me to see the king," Daemon ordered, addressing the guards and Ser Harrold Westerling. The tension lingered, palpable in the air, as the guards escorted Daemon toward the heart of the Red Keep. Viserys offered to lead the way to the throne room where the King held court, a proposition met with a reluctant nod from Daemon.

As they walked together, Daemon couldn't resist a barbed comment. "Your nose is still crooked," he observed, noting the aftermath of his earlier punch. Before Viserys could react, Daemon took matters into his own hands. With swift and deliberate movements, he reset Viserys's nose. The sudden pain elicited a grunt from Viserys.

As they moved, the silence was broken by Viserys, who grimaced at the pain. "Why did fixing the nose hurt more than breaking it?" he muttered through gritted teeth.

Without a hint of sympathy, Daemon retorted, "You deserved it."

"I still have the right to complain about the pain, though," Viserys argued. Daemon looked at his brother. The threat in the glare was evident to the pair. "I know you could, so again, I'm surprised you didn't beat me further in the courtyard."

Daemon said nothing for some time before replying. "Rhaenyra was watching. The girl does not need to see her father being nearly killed by her uncle."

Viserys nodded, "Thank you."

" I didn't do it for you. But, when I finally meet those c*nts we call gods, I rather meet them without kin slaying being on the list of my many sins."

"Fair enough," Viserys returned.

The tension between the Targaryen brothers hung thick as they made their way through the Red Keep. Viserys, nursing his mended nose, cast furtive glances at Daemon, uncertain of what awaited him in the throne room.

Daemon's demeanor remained stoic, the whirlwind of emotions within him concealed beneath a façade of calm. As Viserys continued to rub the injured nose. "You're lucky I'm not making it worse," he muttered, referencing the swift correction of Viserys' broken nose.

Daemon's demand echoed through the halls as they traversed the passages of the Red Keep. "Tell me everything," he ordered Viserys, a dangerous intensity in his gaze. Viserys took a deep breath, ready to recount the events that led to Aemon's disappearance.

"Aemon was frustrated with the pace of our response to the wildling threat," Viserys began, recounting the tale. "He took matters into his own hands, sneaking into the Dragon Pit. And there," Viserys paused for emphasis, "he claimed a dragon."

Daemon's eyes widened in shock, anger, and pride. Furious and determined, his son had managed to secure a dragon for himself. The specific dragon in question intrigued Daemon. "Which one?" he inquired, his voice betraying a hint of satisfaction.

Viserys met his brother's gaze, "Balerion the Black Dread. "

A smirk danced across Daemon's face, a mixture of triumph and acknowledgment. "Lyanna's blood runs true. Only the Black Dread is worthy of Lyanna's son! Ha!" he muttered, his words a whispered homage to his departed love. "My son rides the f*cking Dread!" Daemon then began laughing in earnest. Daemon then considered what Viserys said about Aemon being angry at the Crown's lack of action for the North and the Wildling Invasion. Aloud, he declared, "That means Aemon is in the North. I'm going to get him my-f*cking-self!" Daemon was about to turn around and leave, but Viserys stopped him.

Viserys interjected, highlighting the enormity of the task. "But which part of the North, Daemon? It's vast, as large as all the other kingdoms and Dorne combined."

Daemon contemplated the challenge. "Why not send dragons after him?" he questioned.

Viserys explained the limitations. "Jaehaerys is too old, Rhaenyra and our aunts too young. And as for me," Viserys paused, his tone bitter, "I'm not allowed to leave. King's Landing needs a dragon rider for protection."

The atmosphere in the throne room was thick with tension as Daemon Targaryen, flanked by Viserys, entered the grand chamber. All eyes shifted towards them, and the courtiers, nobles, and lords spoke in hushed tones. Whispers of the missing heir and the impending confrontation with the King filled the air.

Daemon's gaze, full of fury and determination, fixated on King Jaehaerys, who sat on the Iron Throne. The frailty of the old King did little to quench Daemon's seething anger, but the acknowledgment of his lineage stayed his hand. He restrained himself from acting out against the aged monarch.

As Daemon prepared to address the court, a thunderous roar echoed through the walls of the Red Keep, reverberating like a storm in the silent throne room. The sound was so immense that the entire castle seemed to shake with its resonance. The audience, caught off guard, fell into a sudden silence, their collective concern palpable.

Before Daemon could voice his concerns, a guard rushed into the throne room, sweat streaming down his face. King Jaehaerys, leaning forward, demanded information. The guard, gasping for breath, relayed the news.

"Balerion the Black Dread has landed outside the Dragon Pit," the guard announced. "Several figures have dismounted him, and carriages have been dispatched. They'll be brought to the Red Keep within the hour."

King Jaehaerys, though weakened, retained his command. "Have the riders brought to the throne room within half that time," he ordered, the urgency evident in his voice.

The tension in the throne room only escalated as the news of Balerion's return and the mysterious riders spread among the courtiers. Still seething with anger and worry for his son, Daemon awaited the imminent arrival of those who descended from the mighty dragon. The throne room, once a venue for political intrigue, now brimmed with anticipation and unease.

Standing in the grand throne room of the Red Keep, Daemon Targaryen felt a torrent of emotions coursing through him. The news of Balerion's return with a rider, his son Aemon, had caught him off guard. The mixture of relief and impatience churned within him, compelling him to immediately rush to the Dragon Pit. But Daemon, well-versed in courtly etiquette, forced himself to remain composed, at least on the surface.

As he surveyed the throne room, his eyes flitted across the familiar faces and political figures. Aemma, his sister-in-law, entered the room with Rhaenyra, and they positioned themselves near Viserys. The young princesses, his aunts Viserra, Aerea, Rhaella, Daenerys, Saera, and Maegella, stood closer to the Iron Throne. Daemon did not speak to his aunts; he had barely even interacted with them. He was only given a few days every few months with his son, and when Viserys did not drag him into the small council rooms, he would ensure his time was with his solemn son, how the boy was more northern and stoic in character than his mother was beyond him.

Daemon observed the court, sensing that the news of Balerion and Aemon's return had spread faster than wildfire through the Red Keep and not just the throne room, considering the knowing glances exchanged by those gathered. Daemon would celebrate that Aemon had Balerion, but right now was not the time. But Balerion was a boon for Aemon and Daemon. Balerion had a long and important reputation as the conqueror's dragon, and any person who rode him gained the history of the dragon with it, the weight, and the responsibility. Aemon was to be the Prince of Summerhall, and with the first Prince of Summerhall being Daemon, who rode Caraxes, and the second being Aemon, who rode Balerion, would already show the importance of the possession. Then, for Daemon to be the Prince of Dragonstone once Viserys rose to the throne, Daemon's heir, being the rider of Balerion, would strengthen Daemon's own claim. No one would anger the rider of the same dragon that made the Seven Kingdoms. Daemon smiled.

His son had picked the best mount possible to strengthen both their claims and to enhance the position of the Prince of Summerhall, and if done correctly, a branch house, Aemon's second son, if need be, will always be loyal to the Daemon and Aemon's line. Daemon loved his son all the more. The boy was truly a godsend. But he did not know how the court would take the news or the already established knowledge that the youngest male of House Targaryen was both the youngest dragon rider in their history and rode the most important dragon of their history.

Daemon looked around and noticed several River Lords, each looking at Daemon with contempt. They had hated Daemon since he had taken Lyanna as his wife. They claimed Daemon had stolen her from House Tully as if Lyanna Stark could ever be stolen. The She-wolf would gut any man who tried to steal her and drag him by his innards to a cliff to promptly kick them off. No man in the Seven Kingdoms could tell Lyanna what to do, and thetroutswere unimportant, even if they had been managing their lands better over the last five years. Daemon assumed that if he had ever been caught in the Riverlands and did not have a dragon, the Tullys would try to kill him and cover the death up by claiming bandits had done the deed. That same hatred for both Lyanna and Daemon himself transferred to Aemon as if his son had done anything wrong. The River Lords were the only outside lords in attendance because he doubted anyone out of the Red Keep, and the North knew Aemon had disappeared or claimed Balerion, more than likely despised the fact Aemon now rode the most important dragon in their histories and were plotting ways to change this. Daemon did not care. A dragon does not care for the opinions of the sheep. And if thetroutstried anything to his son, he would show them fire and blood.

Daemon would make sure Aemon avoided the River Lords as long as he was here. No, better yet, maybe he would challenge a few in the training yards to remind them who he was and then allow Aemon to face their squires to put them in their place for future reference. Fighting alongside his son to gut a fewtroutssounded better than going to the Street of Silk.

As he looked around, past the River Lords, Daemon noticed some Vale Lords and noticed no friends there either, due to him forsaking his betrothal to the Bronze Bitch in favor of Lyanna. The news of Aemon having the Black Dread would not be taken well by them. However, due to their close ties to Aemma and Rhaenyra, he doubted they would be an issue since it was widely known that she helped raise Aemon and due to Rhaenyra and Aemon being publicly close to one another. He would not need to care about their dislike for Aemon once Aemon married Rhaenyra.

Amidst the courtiers, Daemon couldn't ignore the intense gaze of Lord Otto Hightower. The Lord's disdain was palpable, likely fueled by the turmoil surrounding Aemon's reappearance. Daemon would not doubt the man was happy that Aemon had initially disappeared. Daemon would also not doubt it was Lord Hightower who suggested that Daemon not be told his son had disappeared and probably prayed day and night for Aemon to be killed by wildlings to hurt both the North and Daemon himself. However, Daemon, ever the master of smugness, met Hightower's glare with a confident smile. The power dynamics in the court had shifted once again, and Daemon was keenly aware of the whispers and speculations that would undoubtedly follow.

A sudden hush fell over the courtiers as a squire hurriedly relayed information to the announcer. With a nod, the announcer signaled for the guards to open the doors, and anticipation rippled through the room.

However, instead of a human figure making an entrance, the colossal form of a dire wolf emerged. Towering as tall as a war horse, the creature moved with silent grace, its white fur resembling the pure snow that blanketed the North. The dire wolf's eyes gleamed a deep crimson, a stark contrast to its snowy coat. Despite its immense size, the creature made no sound as it advanced, each step calculated and silent.

Gasps echoed through the throne room, and panic erupted as some courtiers retreated in fear while others rushed back, creating chaos and screams. Standing among the onlookers, Daemon remained still, his interest piqued by the unexpected spectacle.

The dire wolf, majestic and imposing, continued its unhurried approach towards the Iron Throne. The Kingsguard near the throne readied their swords, preparing for a potential threat. The dire wolf, however, displayed no signs of aggression. It stood in the center of the throne room, a silent sentinel amidst the fear and disorder it had stirred, showing no emotion or inclination toward violence.

The dire wolf, standing proudly in the midst of the throne room, turned its gaze toward Daemon before focusing its attention on the King. The air was thick with anticipation as the announcer's voice echoed through the grand hall.

"Prince Aemon of House Targaryen, the White Wolf, Prince of the North, heir to Summerhall and Winterfell!" the announcer proclaimed, and the room was filled with a collective murmur of surprise and intrigue. The dire wolf's presence seemed to amplify the solemnity of the moment. Daemon looked at his son and noticed that he was wearing mostly black, which is not uncommon for Aemon, considering the last time he saw his boy. However,the child looked like a man of the Night's Watch more than a prince. Relief washed over Daemon as he saw his son alive and seemingly unharmed at first glance. Until he saw a scar over his son's left eye carrying downward. Daemon's gaze shifted between Aemon and the towering dire wolf, wondering at the bond between them.

He looked over every inch of his son at a distance. He wanted to rush his son and ensure the boy was found. He wanted to ground the boy to his bed chambers in Summerhall, not that it was finished yet, to keep an eye on him indefinitely. But he could not be angry at his son, never angry. He and Lyanna had done the same to be married, and it would seem the boy had more than just Lyanna's looks.

Daemon looked at the man near Aemon and knew his former father-by-law. They had crossed paths once, but the man was easily recognizable, especially since so few Northmen, especially Starks, ever came down from the North. "Lord Rickon of House Stark, Warden of the North, Lord of Winterfell, the Wild Wolf," the announcer proclaimed. Other Northern lords were named, but Daemon's heart raced with impatience to see his son. He would not look away from the group's two Stark-looking leaders.

It was then that Daemon registered the information of Aemon being heir to Winterfell. The crowd murmured and spoke in hushed whispers, at least those not terrified by the wolf. Daemon glanced at the Vale Lords and the River Lords as they spoke with glares in their eyes. They continued to leer at his son. He would cut out their eyes if they continued to do as such. He looked back to his son and supposed he should not be surprised, but he was pleasantly surprised; Lyanna was her father's only child, so it would make sense to make her only son the heir once she passed.

Aemon approached the dire wolf and began scratching behind its ears, a surreal sight given the size difference between the five-year-old boy and the majestic creature. The throne room, caught in a collective state of shock, remained silent as the unusual pair commanded attention. Daemon, overcome with emotion, barely heard the continued introductions of Northern lords.

Daemon's eyes honed in on the stitches that marred Aemon's young face, and a surge of rage boiled within him. Someone had harmed his son, and the primal instinct to protect flared in Daemon's chest. Etiquette and protocol were cast aside as Daemon, fueled by a father's wrath, stepped forward, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword.

Viserys attempted to intervene, his concern for his brother's well-being evident, but Daemon pressed forward, his focus solely on reaching Aemon. The Northmen standing guard next to Aemon turned their attention to Daemon, prepared to defend the White Wolf if needed.

Sensing the tension, the massive dire wolf began to scrunch its nose aggressively, a silent threat emanating from the imposing creature. The air grew tense, but Aemon, with a raised hand. The dire wolf relaxed in that instant, and the Northmen ceased their defensive stance. Aemon's command resonated with authority, and it was enough to calm both men and beasts. With a silent understanding, the dire wolf returned to a state of tranquility.

A single word uttered from Aemon's lips. "Kepa."

Overcome with a whirlwind of emotions, Daemon embraced Aemon in a fierce hug. Words were unnecessary; the reunion spoke volumes, a father's love transcending any injury or hardship his son had endured. The dire wolf stood sentinel, a silent witness to the powerful bond between father and son, as the tumult of the throne room momentarily faded away.

Daemon's eyes narrowed with concern as he looked at the stitches on Aemon's face. An undertone of anger laced his voice as he asked, "What happened to your eye, Aemon?"

The young prince, wise beyond his years, responded cryptically, "Some victories are worth a price, Kepa."

Daemon growled in frustration, his protective instincts raging within him. "Who did this to you?" he demanded, the edge in his voice sharp and unforgiving.

Before Aemon could answer, King Jaehaerys interrupted, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "Welcome, Prince Aemon. And greetings to Lord Rickon and our Northern guests."

Lord Rickon lowered his head in respect, "You grace," was all he said. Daemon would have laughed at the lack of decorum but did not move his eyes from his son's scar.

Lord Otto Hightower looked to the northern delegation, and then his eyes narrowed on Aemon and his dire wolf. "It is customary to bow when greeting the king, Prince Aemon."

Daemon wished to slit the man's throat for calling on his son so openly. The man seemed to take pride in the fact that Daemon's only child was to be punished for his abandonment of the city. But when Daemon was going to protest, in the corner of vision he did not see his son but rather Lyanna herself. She smiled at him for a fleeting second and stopped Daemon as if waiting for Aemon to speak.

"Aye, that is true, my Lord Hand," Aemon admitted. "If it pleases you, perhaps you could climb down here and bow alongside us bow alongside us. The Hand of the King is, after all, a servant of the Crown just as we all."

Daemon smiled smugly and chuckled in his throat. His son actually made a joke. His solemn boy had grown a few claws since his time in the North. Something had happened there. Something had happened in the North that had changed his son, at least ever so slightly. Daemon looked up to the King and saw the man smile a bit; he approved of Aemon putting Lord Otto back in his place; the man was not a dragon, even if he was the second most powerful man in the kingdoms, and it was important for him to remember that it was the dragons who ruled.

Aemon couldn't resist the opportunity to acknowledge King Jaehaerys. Daemon noticed as the King tightened his grip on Blackfyre; Daemon looked at his grandfather fiercely. The last time Daemon had seen the King's eyes like that, he sentenced his father, Baelon, to whip Daemon on his back, which was red and raw. If Jaehaerys ordered Daemon to do the same, Jaehaerys would have grown foolish in his old age.

Aemon turned from Daemon. Daemon wished to take his son away from Jaehaerys. The King was a good, great king but a horrible father and grandfather. Daemon watched as Aemon took a deep breath before smiling, faintly, smugly as if mimicking Daemon himself. "You look like the Conqueror himself, Your Grace."

King Jaehaerys, however, remained unswayed by the flattery. He fixed his gaze on Aemon and sternly remarked, "Flattery will not get you out of the situation you find yourself in."

Daemon saw Aemon smirk ever slightly as if he was going to make a jest, a whisper over his face, an image so soft he barely noticed it, but the mischievous smirk was so much like Lyanna. So faint was the smirk compared to the wide smile of Lyanna, but the devilish smug smile was Lyanna's, and there would be no doubt of it in Daemon's eyes. Confused, Aemon questioned, "What situation? I wish to return and see my aunts and cousins again, Your Grace. I had merely gone for a ride to meet my grandfather in the North."

Jaehaerys, growing impatient, warned Aemon, "You are pushing your luck."

Aemon, displaying a precocious diplomacy, quickly apologized. "Forgive me, your grace."

The elderly King sighed, acknowledging the toll of his age. In an attempt to redirect the conversation, Jaehaerys pointed out, "You now ride a dragon."

The smirk on Aemon's face vanishes, and the small whisper of Lyanna's face on Aemon's is replaced with the cold, stoic face of the Stark Kings. Aemon replied seriously, "Indeed, I ride Balerion the Black Dread." Jaehaerys then turned his attention to the dire wolf accompanying Aemon. Aemon introduced, "This is Ghost, my dire wolf. We fought together against both wildlings and Night's Watch deserters." The dynamics in the room grew more intricate with every revelation.

Jaehaerys' countenance grew serious as he fixed his gaze on Aemon. "You bonded with Balerion and left soon after. Explain yourself, Prince Aemon," he inquired sternly. Daemon did not miss that King Jaehaerys used the title prince and was showing no kindness in his speech.

Aemon, maintaining a stoic expression, replied, "I wished to go North and aid it. I had heard during the small council meeting that the North needed aid, and as one with Stark blood, it was my duty to come when my kin called for me"

Jaehaerys retorted, "The Starks did not call for you. You were in no position to leave the Red Keep nor King's Landing."

Aemon did not take his eyes off of the King as he spoke. "I then put myself in the position to leave, Your Grace. As the small council discussed, neither you nor Prince Viserys could not leave to go North, and my aunts and cousin were too young to do the same."

King Jaehaerys began to grow frustrated. Daemon could see the Old King begin to hold back his rage as the calm facade momentarily slipped. "If you understood that your aunts and cousins were too young to act, you must also conclude that you were too young. You are a boy, Prince Aemon. You are to stay here in the Red Keep. Five is too young to see war and bloodshed."

Aemon scratched the back of Ghost's neck. Daemon looked at his son, clad in black clothing, standing next to the white beast. Daemon did not see a boy when he looked at his son. He would always be his boy, Lyanna's boy, but for now, in Demon's eyes, Daemon could see a man grown looking back at the King. "I won't be a boy forever, my King. And winter is coming. I took Balerion so that no one else needed to leave."

Daemon did not know how to feel when those words were said. He wanted to be proud of his son. Standing up to the King, like he and Lyanna had done, riding the greatest dragon, supposedly winning battles. But he did not wish to think about the innocents his son had already lost, not even over half a decade old. His son was too young for such talks, and because his grandfather and brother could not manage the realm correctly, his son had to suffer for it.

Jaehaerys seemed to tighten his grip on the Iron Throne as his eyes burned with anger. Daemon could tell the man was holding his anger at bay, maybe due to the time spent alongside Aemon since the Grand Council. "I did not allow you to fly off like that."

Aemon calmly explained, "I took Balerion to fight the Wildling Invasion. The North needed my aid, and as a member of the Crown and as the heir of Winterfell, I supplied my aid."

The King's anger surfaced, "You're leaving the Dragon Pit, causing damage to the city! Balerion burst out the side of the Rhaenys' Hill, and the earth quaked so violently that some of the structures in the city nearly collapsed!"

Aemon defended himself, "Balerion did not hurt a single person. We escaped away from populated areas."

Skeptical Jaehaerys argued, "You wouldn't know. You left immediately after bonding with the dragon. The city was filled with terror at the thought that one of the dragons had gone wild. Then, when inspected, Aegon's dragon and a prince of the realm were found missing."

Unable to contain his frustration, Daemon stood up and glared at his grandfather, declaring, "My son did nothing wrong." Daemon would not have his son be ridiculed in front of the court. He had let this go on for long enough, he knew his son needed to defend his actions, but he would no longer do so alone.

Angrily, Jaehaerys asserted, "He flew off to the North without the leave of the Crown. I will not hear words from you, Daemon. This is not the first time that a prince of the realm left to do as he wished and against the wishes of the Crown, and I will remind you of the punishment you faced for it."

"You will not dare to do the same twice," Daemon shot back. He grabbed Dark Sister and drew it from his sheath. The Kingsguard did the same as each man pointed their swords at the ready. Lord Rickon drew his sword and stood by Daemon's side as Ghost snarled without making a sound. The other Northern lords followed their luggage lords' lead and did the same. "My son is the Crown. He can do as he pleases."

"You will bear your blade to me?" Jaehaerys said angrily.

"I will bare my blade for my son," Daemon said. "I have been whipped by my father and deprived of my son for picking Lyanna. I will make the same choice every single f*cking time! But I will not stand by as my son is ridiculed for your failed decision! He is a boy of five, and he had to fix a problem you could not fix!"

Jaehaerys looked to the Northern Lords. "I could have your heads for this."

Daemon recalled that Lord Rickon was just as wild and insane as his Lyanna. "The lad fought for the North! And even if he were not my blood, any man willing to fight for the North is one I would fight alongside! You are the one who questioned our grandson for doing the honorable thing! Not that most of you Southerners know a thing about honor. We had sent ravens to the south for aid, and a boy of five answered the call. All of you should be ashamed of your damned selves."

The Kingsguard marched closer, but Ghost stood tall, his body arched, ready to pounce, and Daemon doubted five Kingsguard were enough to kill him, let alone the three currently standing before the King. "Ghost killed more wildlings and deserters during the battles than any man living. I don't want to add honorable Kingsguard to the list," Aemon said.

"You are a squire to a Kingsguard, Aemon," Jaehaerys replied.

"Neither the Lord Commander nor Ser Harrold Westerling are here; Ser Harrold was outside when he let me in, and the Lord Commander is more than likely resting after a long shift. And I am sorry to say this, with all due respect, those are the only two Kingsguard Ghost needs to worry about," Aemon said. "A prince serves the realm, and the North needed me. I will willingly fight and die on that hill for the rest of my days. The North was being raided. Men killed. Women raped. Children abducted. Fields burned. The North needed me, and I needed to serve."

Jaehaeys said nothing for some time. Daemon did not know what was going to happen. Daemon was the first to draw the blade, and this escalation would be firmly placed on his head. For a heartbeat, Daemon thought Jaehaerys would claim all their heads save for Aemon to keep the North in check and merely skip off Daemon in the line of succession. "Raising your sword to your king is treason," King Jaehaery replied sternly. "I am sure you were just looking over your blades to see how damaged they were for the blacksmiths to fix."

Daemon noticed the opportunity Jaehaerys gave them to lower their weapons, and he was going to not use the chance. He wanted to show King Jaehaerys he would support his son over the Crown he would inherit after Viserys every day of his life. But instead of the standoff continuing, Aemon looked to Ghost to stand down; Rickon turned to Aemon, and the pair, unspeaking, agreed. The Northern lords began lowering their weapons, and Daemon looked to his son as he followed their lead.

Jaehaerys sighed before looking at both Daemon and Rickon, firm in his position, countered, "He is not the Crown; he is only a portion of it. Without my word, Aemon had no right to leave."

Defending Aemon's actions, Daemon insisted, "The Crown must protect the realm, and Aemon did just that."

Lord Rickon Stark, breaking the tense silence, spoke up, "Aemon is the reason the North won."

Jaehaerys, skeptical, narrowed his eyes and ordered, "Lord Rickon, recount everything that happened up North." The throne room buzzed with tension as the truth unfolded.

King Jaehaerys asked the other eight lords and two Night's Watchmen to leave the throne room. They recounted their stories one by one, providing their versions of events. Now limited to King Jaehaerys, Daemon Targaryen, and Lord Rickon Stark, the room waited for the narratives to unfold.

Lord Rickon began to speak, delivering his own account of the events that unfolded in the North. A sense of consistency emerged as each Lord and Night's Watchman spoke. Their stories aligned seamlessly, like different threads weaving a tapestry of the truth. There were no contradictions or conflicting details; only different perspectives contributed to the same overarching narrative.

Those who spent any time in King's Landing and the Red Keep knew there were lies, and it was evident that no lies were found. The longer the story was and the more detail there was, the more difficult it was for multiple people to keep them all aligned with one another. And the story of what happened in the North, even after Aemon had supposedly come into the fold, was a month long.

Daemon Targaryen and those gathered in the throne room recognized a fundamental truth: the Starks were known for keeping their word. In the North, where winter loomed and survival relied on trust and shared efforts, lies held little currency. The stories told by the Northern lords bore the hallmark of honesty, reinforcing the credibility of their accounts.

In the silence that followed, Daemon and the court of King's Landing acknowledged the veracity of the Northern lords' testimonies. The events in the North were not the concoction of deceit but a stark reality that had unfolded, validated by the unwavering honesty of the Starks.

Aemon's voice resonated through the throne room as he recounted the events that transpired beyond the Wall. The young Targaryen confirmed that he had flown nonstop to the North, joining forces with the Northern lords and regrouping at Winterfell. He then took to the Wall, marching alongside the Night's Watch to confront the deserters beyond.

The scar on his left eye told a story of the fierce battles fought beyond the Wall, where Aemon and Ghost, his direwolf companion, moved as one. Their synchronized efforts secured the Night's Watch from the deserters and unveiled crucial information about the wildling army's numbers and strategies.

Aemon's narrative unfolded further as he detailed how he defended the Wall, perched atop Balerion, the Black Dread, as waves of wildlings surged forward. The flames from the dragon's breath engulfed the invaders, preventing them from reaching the Wall.

As Castle Black faced the threat of being overrun, Aemon and Ghost descended from the Wall, leading a group of Night's Watchmen to reinforce the stronghold. The clash between the defenders and the wildlings echoed through the icy landscape, with Aemon and Ghost at the forefront, fighting fiercely to protect the Wall and Castle Black.

Aemon continued his tale, recounting the morning after the victory at Castle Black. The Northern army had arrived, and plans were forged to deal with the remaining threat posed by the wildlings. During this strategic meeting, Aemon proposed a cunning plan to sow discord among the wildlings.

With a keen understanding of the chaos that could be incited within the enemy ranks, Aemon suggested a covert mission to assassinate the King Beyond the Wall. The idea was to exploit the internal strife that would ensue as the wildlings turned on each other, believing one of their own had betrayed and killed their leader for power.

Under the cover of night, Aemon, accompanied by Ghost, infiltrated the wildling camp. Adopting the guise of a survivor from the Wall's attack, Aemon cunningly played his part, feigning injuries and reopening the wound on his left eye to sell the authenticity of his tale. Meanwhile, Ghost set fire to half the camp, creating a chaotic scene of panic and confusion.

As the fires raged and the wildlings scrambled to quell the flames, Aemon seized the opportunity to strike. In the midst of the bedlam, he located the King Beyond the Wall and swiftly ended his life, adding to the perception of internal strife and betrayal.

By the time the night had waned, a third of the wildling camp was engulfed in flames, and less than half of their forces remained standing. The calculated chaos orchestrated by Aemon had paved the way for the Northern army to easily overcome the disoriented and weakened wildlings, securing a decisive victory for the realm. The court listened in awe, as the young prince's tactical brilliance unfolded in the face of adversity beyond the Wall.

Daemon Targaryen listened to Aemon's account with a mix of conflicting emotions. While the strategic brilliance of Aemon's actions impressed him, the revelation of the risks his son had taken stirred a potent blend of pride and fury within Daemon.

As Aemon spoke of infiltrating the wildling camp, causing chaos, and personally dispatching the King Beyond the Wall, Daemon couldn't deny the audacity and success of the plan. Yet, the reckless nature of Aemon's actions grated against Daemon's more pragmatic and calculated approach to power. Daemon valued strength but also control and order, traits that didn't always align with Aemon's impulsive decisions.

The mention of reopening the wound on his eye caused Daemon's jaw to tighten, revealing his internal struggle between paternal concern and frustration. He admired Aemon's cunning, but Daemon was also pragmatic enough to realize that Aemon's bold moves risked not only his own life but the stability of the realm.

As Aemon concluded his tale, Daemon couldn't help but feel a mix of pride and exasperation. Pride for his son's tactical prowess and the successful outcome, but exasperation for the unnecessary risks taken. In Daemon's eyes, power was a delicate game, and Aemon's gambits danced dangerously close to the edge.

His thoughts raced, contemplating the implications of Aemon's actions for the Targaryen legacy. Daemon's ambition craved a dynasty built on strength, control, and careful maneuvers. Aemon's exploits, while effective, felt like a divergence from that vision.

In the ensuing silence, Daemon struggled to find the right words. In the end, Daemon's pride won out. He looked at his son and forced a smile to his lips as he whispered to the air in the room. "Lyanna, our boy, he has a dire wolf. He defeated an army single-handedly. Not with the army but with his own f*cking skill. You would be so proud of Lyanna. I-I wish you could have seen him."

The realization hit Daemon Targaryen with the force of a dragon's roar. As Aemon concluded his tale, Daemon was left standing in the aftermath of a whirlwind of emotions. Pride for his son's achievements mingled with a profound sense of responsibility and concern. The very essence of Aemon's character, a reflection of Lyanna's wildness, stirred a curious blend of excitement and trepidation within him.

Daemon's gaze lingered on his son, the heir to House Targaryen and the living embodiment of Lyanna Stark's spirit. Aemon's daring exploits, though effective, hinted at the challenges Daemon would face in guiding his son through the complex dance of power and politics.

Vowing to himself in the wake of this revelation, Daemon decided that he would not allow his son to face the tumultuous world alone again. The upcoming task of completing Summerhall, the Targaryen seat, now held a renewed urgency. He needed a place where he and Aemon could forge a stronger bond, away from the complications of courtly intrigue and the dangers lurking beyond the Wall.

As he pondered the path ahead, Daemon envisioned a Summerhall bustling with life, echoing with the laughter and lessons shared between father and son. The lessons would go beyond the training yard, encompassing the intricate strategies required to navigate the intricate webs of power that ensnared the realm.

Daemon was determined to be an active participant in Aemon's life, not just as a father figure but as a mentor and guide. His son's propensity for audacious moves reminded him of the wild beauty of Lyanna, a woman who had captured his heart in both tumultuous and tender moments.

With these thoughts swirling in his mind, Daemon, the Targaryen lord, walked beside Aemon. He placed a firm hand on his son's shoulder, a silent promise to stand by him, to guide him, and to share the burdens of leadership.

The air in the throne room hung heavy with tension as King Jaehaerys, weighed down by the complexities of the situation, spoke with a sigh. His words were measured, expressing a temporary resolution to the current predicament involving Aemon and the Northern contingent. "Prince Aemon and our northern guests are very. You are all welcome to rooms in the Red Keep. On the morrow, we discuss things at further length in the small council chambers." With a nod from the King, Aemon and the Northmen were granted respite within the Red Keep.

Aemon acknowledged the decree with a respectful nod and exited the throne room accompanied by his white direwolf Ghost. Following closely behind his son, Daemon Targaryen couldn't help but feel a mixture of anticipation and curiosity about what lay ahead. The unpredictability of Aemon's actions, a reflection of Lyanna's spirit, promised an intriguing journey.

Daemon's thoughts were centered on the promise of adventure as he walked alongside his son. The prospect of witnessing Aemon's growth and the unfolding of his potential brought a spark of excitement. For Daemon, life had always been a series of daring endeavors, and now, with Aemon by his side, he anticipated that things would only get more interesting.

Daemon decided that tomorrow, once his son had rested, he and Aemon would mount Balerion and Caraxes and go for a flight. Daemon had waited long enough to finally do so with his son. Daemon had done so with his mother; she had done so with his mother, and now Daemon would fly with his son. He would feel another smile grace his lips, one he had only gained from two people: his late wife and his son.

Daemon helped lead the northern men to some guest chambers as he continued walking with his son to his own room. "Are you angry with me, Kepa?" Aemon asked him as he continued walking.

"I am furious with you." Daemon began. "You will be punished for sneaking out of the Red Keep and going to fight a war by your lonesome," Daemon said, and Aemon shuddered from what Daemon could tell. "But I am proud of you too, Aemon. More proud than you can ever know." He felt Daemon kiss on Aemon's forehead and smile. "The Black Dread, no better mount for our boy Lyanna."

Chapter 17: A Hand Plays the Game

Chapter Text

Red Keep 103 Ac

Otto Hightower

The small council meetings within the Red Keep had taken on a different tone. King Jaehaerys, once a central figure in these deliberations, is now bedridden and a harbinger of the approaching end to his long and eventful reign. With the King unable to guide the discussions, the burden of authority fell upon Lord Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, a position he held with increasing frustration.

The realm, it seemed, was relatively stable, with no imminent threats demanding the attention of the small council. The Iron Islands, traditionally a source of unrest, had shown increased activity, but as yet, nothing that posed a direct threat. House Reyne and House Tarbeck, notorious for their financial woes, had sought additional loans from the Crown. However, the council, mindful of the vast sums already extended, had firmly refused any further financial aid.

As Otto presided over these meetings, the weight of responsibility on his shoulders intensified. With King Jaehaerys' time on the throne drawing to a close, Crown Prince Viserys loomed as the natural successor. The realm's affairs, once under the steady guidance of the aging King, now rested in the hands of a new generation, bringing uncertainty and tension to the corridors of power within the Red Keep. It was only the day prior that Otto nearly lost his composer and had nearly physically confronted the prince.

The small council meeting was in full swing, with Lord Otto Hightower and Prince Daemon Targaryen at odds over the perceived threat from the Iron Islands. The tension in the room was palpable as the two men engaged in a heated exchange. Initially, the talks were about how Lord Corlys brought up further information on the increase of Iron Island activity once more and said that ships belonging to the Lannisters have been disappearing by the Iron Islands. Otto pointed out that not a single sighting of the ships of the Iron Islands showcased them nearing Lannister waters; some had gone west, but none had gotten close to Lannister vessels, and it was likely bandits and pirates. Prince Daemon, however, had then said that all Iron Islanders were bandits and pirates, and it led them to a debate between the two alone as the rest of the council watched on in silence. Otto could only be thankful that Prince Aemon was not there to embolden Daemon even further; the boy was currently with the Old King Jaehaerys.

The Old King was too old to rule; the times in which he would merely allow Viserys to sit on the throne and the council and lay in his bed were growing more frequent, but he spent much time with Prince Aemon. Otto did not know how the prince spared time for the princess, his lessons, his duty as a squire, training, and time for the Old King in the King's chambers, but the boy somehow did it, and considering the fact the other princess was too young to understand that the King's life was coming close to the end they did not spend much time with the old man, but Aemon spent no less than three hours by his great-grandfather's side. Otto had tried to send spies near the room to know what they spoke of. Still, they only spoke in High Valryian, and finding one willing to spy on dragon riders was difficult enough because one was a King and the other was a boy known to have destroyed an entire army without a dragon. It was impossible to find someone willing to speak High Valryian.

Otto did not know what the King and the prince spoke of, but he would not trust the prince if it were innocent talk. Otto disliked to admit it, but Prince Aemon was, as a child, growing in popularity and in reputation. A boy of five ended a wildling invasion and destroyed the army single-handedly, and the people applauded and celebrated the fact that he had the Conqueror's dragon. Aemon's mere presence strengthened Daemon's position; Daemon had not fought in a single war as of yet, and yet the fact his son fought for the kingdoms strengthened his position as the heir to crown Prince Viserys. He did not know much about Prince Aemon, but seeing him as just another child was something he would not be able to continue. Especially since the boy made Daemon Targaryen the most vexing and ambitious man he had ever met, even more of a danger and emboldened.

Otto was tightening his fist under the table as he looked over the parchment Lord Corlys provided, and not a single one of them incriminated the Iron Islanders; not a soul saw Greyjoy banners. As far as he could tell from the writings, all that could be confirmed was that ships had been missing and found destroyed with their supplies and resources taken, but nothing pointed to the Greyjoys outright. Otto would not be the one to make the Crown make the accusation, especially since a fight with the Greyjoys would put the North, Riverlands, and Westerlands in imminent danger of swift retaliation.

Otto looked it over a third time before placing the papers down and looking to Daemon to reply. "These Iron Islanders have done nothing but increase their fleet. It's hardly a threat worth our attention."

Daemon responded, his words dripping with subtle mockery. "Now come on, Otto, one does not wait until their enemy's blades are at their throat to recognize a threat. Maybe we should act after our throats have been slit and the Ironborn bleed our coffers dry?"

Otto countered, a sly grin forming on his lips, "Imaginary threats, Prince Daemon. It seems you've become quite adept at chasing shadows."

Daemon shot back, his tone carrying an air of superiority. "It's easy to dismiss the unseen when you're too focused on other things, Otto." With a smirk playing on his lips, Daemon couldn't resist a subtle jab. "Come to think of it, Otto, your wardrobe is as expressive as ever. One might wonder how you manage to focus on the matters at hand with such a vast array of distractions hanging in your wardrobe. Looking more at the payment the Crown gives rather than an obvious threat in the Iron Islands. Mayhaps it's not only the Ironborn stealing from the Seven Kingdoms."

Otto, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features, retorted dismissively. "Clothing is hardly the issue at hand, Prince Daemon. Let's not waste time on trivialities."

Daemon, maintaining his calm demeanor, responded with a veiled insult. "Indeed, Lord Otto, the Greyjoys' growing strength is far more pressing than your sartorial choices. Although considering your recent acquisitions, it might be difficult to discern the true threat amidst the sheen of silk and velvet."

Lord Otto, growing increasingly agitated, defended himself. "My personal wealth has no bearing on the matters of the realm. The Greyjoys haven't shown any signs of hostility." Otto, visibly irritated, defended his position. "There is no concrete evidence that the Greyjoys pose a threat. Your concern is misplaced, Prince Daemon. You are seeing things that are not there."

Daemon's gaze turned sharp as he seized an opportunity to strike at Otto's personal life. "My my, Lord Hand, commenting on my eyesight? Well, you would know, I suppose. Can't expect much foresight from someone who could not see. Should not be surprised considering who you married."

Lord Otto, his face reddening with anger, shot to his feet. "You dare insult my wife?!"

Before the situation could escalate further, Prince Viserys intervened, his authoritative voice cutting through the tension. "Enough! This bickering gets us nowhere. Let us refocus on the matters at hand, or I'll have to find a way to make you both see reason."

Lord Otto Hightower's disdain for Daemon Targaryen festered like a wound that refused to heal. As he sat in the small council chamber, his gaze fixated on Daemon; every word the prince uttered only fueled Otto's resentment. He couldn't shake off the feeling that Daemon epitomized everything he despised—entitlement, privilege, and the audacity to flaunt it.

Daemon's casual remarks about Otto being a second son struck a nerve, a nerve that had been raw for years. And yet Daemon, to was a second son! The second son of a second son, and yet somehow, the man was lucky enough to be in a position to inherit the entire realm. Otto was a man who had meticulously crafted his path to power, earning his place through intellect, cunning, and unwavering loyalty to the crown. In his eyes, Daemon was an opportunist, riding the coattails of his lineage without truly understanding the weight of responsibility.

As Otto listened to Daemon's unfiltered words and observed his seemingly carefree demeanor, the bitterness within him grew. He couldn't fathom how someone like Daemon, who had seemingly achieved so much with so little effort, could be regarded with admiration. Otto's own journey had been a relentless climb marked by strategy and calculated decisions.

Daemon's nonchalant approach to life irked Otto to no end. Breaking betrothals and fathering a son out of wedlock seemed like a careless indulgence in the eyes of the ambitious Hand of the King. The fact that Aemon, the son in question, bore a stronger resemblance to the Stark bloodline than the Targaryens only added salt to the wound. It was a constant reminder of Daemon's forays beyond the conventional boundaries of noble life. He had chosen not to think about it and focus on other events that needed his focus, so once the meeting had finished, he left quickly to the chamber of the Hand.

Lord Otto Hightower sat in his dimly lit chambers, surrounded by stacks of parchment and the faint scent of aged books. The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows on the parchment strewn across his desk. He meticulously combed through various documents, each one detailing the intricate web of trade, alliances, and potential conflicts within the realm. The Iron Islands, with its turbulent history, had become a focal point of concern.

His thoughts circled back to the pressing matter of relations between Dorne and the Iron Islands. He had tried and mostly succeeded in hiding the fact that the two regions had been showing far more than just friendly relations due to trade that led to the creation of a portion of the ships and trade of other materials to be made that Otto did not fully understand very much. What he did understand was any relation with the Iron Islands, which several of the small council were suspicious of, and Dorne, who had decades of bad blood with the kingdoms and centuries of further bad blood before the Targaryens had come to Westeros, would not do well for Otto train to paint the Iron Islands as a neutral party. Otto knew Daemon would call for blood the second he saw the reports Otto had in his hands. Yet, in the dim glow of his chambers, Otto pondered the possibility of mending those historical wounds for the greater good of the realm.

Otto was not blind. He knew the Iron Islands were planning something, but he also knew that whatever they were planning was of the long game and should not be of any serious threat to the kingdom. In truth, if the Iron Islands wished to be anything more than an annoyance, they would need another half a decade to build an army and many mercenaries and sell swords to make an army large enough for them to combat all the realm. But it did not mean he could not come up with a plan to end this threat in its infancy and do so in a way that does not outright show others he knew it was a threat by ending the largest contributor to the Iron Island's rise, Dorne.

The notion of betrothing one of the princesses to a Martell emerged as a calculated move. It would be best to marry Princess Rhaenyra so that it would strengthen Visery's position as a King once he sits on the throne, granting Viserys the position of the man who unified the realm. Otto's spies, ever vigilant, had whispered about the birth of Prince Qoren Martell, an heir born around the same time as the princess. The timing appeared serendipitous, a fortuitous alignment of noble births that could serve to forge a new bond between the realms.

If needed, Dorne could influence Princess Rhaenyra in the mentality that the oldest child should inherit despite of gender. While her gender mattered little to Otto, what did was to stop any further rise for Daemon Targaryen. Having Dorne not only influences her resolve to have the throne, in the perception that it is her birthright, but also Drone supporting this as what should be the case so that their way could influence the entire realm would prove an interest. Otto did not think it would be hard to convince the Tullys to support Rhaenyra due to their hate for Daemon and Aemon, and the Vale of Aryan would support Rhaenyra due to family ties, and many Reach Houses had debts with House Hightower. That would at least be four kingdoms in support of Rhaenyra if she marries the Martells and puts forces to her claim, a last-ditch chance to avoid Daemon sitting the throne.

The notion of securing a second betrothal to smooth the intricacies of the political landscape lingered in his mind like a chess move waiting to be executed. One betrothal with Rhaenyra and Prince Qoren would strengthen ties with Dorne, but to fully secure it, another match would be needed, and Prince Qoren was the sole heir with no siblings, cousins, or other individuals of note to marry a royal too.

In truth, Otto was surprised at such a thought. Drone was known for being more....liberal with the sexual prestressed and conquests. Dorne being so open with sex would make one think that the Martells, the embodiment of what Dornishmen were, would have as many kids as a Frey and f*ck like rabbits. He supposed in that regard he should be happy the Targaryens kept close to one another; at least they consolidated their numbers enough where there was more than enough to spare for marriage betrothals, not that King Jaehaerys had suggested or clued Otto in of any potential ones for his daughters, Daemon, or his great-grandsires who were all at least eligible for betrothals.

But with such high numbers of Targaryens, there were many dragon riders. In fact, in Otto's opinion, there might have been too many. Too many people of note with varying opinions of what it meant to be a Targaryen and what it meant to be the last scions of the Dragonlords of old, and the worse part was most of them weren't even old enough to have a choice in the matter of their opinion as of yet. But the thought of Dragonlords brought another thought to Otto. The dragons themselves.

No matter who he had married, the child would have the blood of the dragon in their veins and had the ability to claim a mount, claim a dragon, something that only took three of them to bring the Seven Kingdoms to heel. If a prince or princess had a dragon and then married, the child had a great deal of chance to become a rider. Aemon was an example of this. At first, Otto had thought that with Aemon only being half-Valyrian, the boy would not be able to hatch a dragon egg. He had been right. But then again, other dragon-riders did not hatch eggs, like Daemon himself. And when the boy bounded with Balerion, never had Otto been so wrothful and fearful at the same time. Seeing the destruction of the dragon merely living in the Dragon Pit. Seeing the way it removed the light from the skies as it flew overhead, blocking light over the entire city for some time. Otto had never faced a dragon in combat; he prayed to the gods he never had to.

Aemon was a half-blood, and he still claimed a fearsome dragon. That meant that whatever child the Princesses Viserra, Aerea, Rhaella, Daenerys, Saera, and Maegelle had more than likely would be dragon riders as well. That meant whatever house they married to, outside the blood, had two dragon riders if the dragon in question produced an egg and if the princesses produced a child with enough Valyrian blood to bond. And if the princess had more than one child and the dragon had more than one egg, Whoever they married, the princess two potentially had equal power to Aegon the Conqueror, and that was without worrying about the already established dragons and riders. Gods be good; no wonder King Jaehaerys never spoke of betrothals; the mere thought of other Houses having dragons outside the already difficult royal family was too much. One family having them was one thing; he could try to manipulate the events as he saw fit. Two? Three? Four? That would be too much. Daemon alone, on a whim, might destroy a keep or two. Four Daemons? Otto refused to think about it.

As he weighed the options, Otto dismissed the idea of Prince Aemon marrying into Dorne, an alliance that could potentially grant him the northern and southern realms. Such concentrated power would guarantee Aemon's position and, in turn, Daemon's. He needed to limit Aemon completely while strengthening Rhaenyra for the time being until Viserys had a son, leaving Daemon and Rhaenyra's position mute.

Instead, his gaze settled on House Yronwood, the most powerful House in Dorne after the Martells. Their rivalry with House Martell was well-known, making them potential allies if circ*mstances demanded a change in leadership in Dorne. Marrying a princess to House Yronwood could be a calculated move, establishing a connection with a powerful house that could prove advantageous in the future.

Givin' House Martell an unease seat of power with a powerful vassal House that could usurp them would keep House Martell in check. If worse comes, House Martel could be disposed of, especially due to their few members of note, and House Yornwood could be supplanted. Then, with House Yornwood in power, it would be in a similar position as House Tully and House Tyrell, both Houses seen as less than for being given their position and both Houses overly reliant on their vassal Houses and they would be more at the mercy of their vassals rather than their power being centralized. His House and House of Redwyne were good examples, as his own House was wealthier than the Tyrells, and the Tyrells relied on the Redwyne fleet. If the Yornwoods were to be the rulers of Dorne, the Crown could secretly fund two other houses that wouldleave power not fully in the hands of the Yornwoods, making Dorne far easier to control.

The faint glow of candlelight danced across the dimly lit room as Lord Otto Hightower continued his ponderings. The air was thick with the scent of parchment, and the flickering flames cast shadows that seemed to dance along the walls. Suddenly, a discreet knock echoed through the chamber.

"Enter," Otto called, his voice calm but authoritative. A hidden door creaked open from behind a large painting of the first Hand of the King, Orys Baratheon, revealing a figure in the hidden doorway. It was a woman, a trusted spy in Otto's employ, her features illuminated by the soft glow of the candlelight.

The woman had muddied brown hair that fell loosely around her shoulders, and her hazel eyes held a sharpness that bespoke a keen intellect. Though she was a commoner by birth, her comeliness was undeniable, a trait that Otto acknowledged with a nod of appreciation. He knew that had she not been under his employ, her beauty might have garnered attention from many men in the crowded streets of Flea Bottom.

The woman's presence in Otto's chamber was not coincidental. She had become intimately familiar with the secret pathways in the Red Keep, a network created during the reign of Maegor the Cruel. Otto had entrusted her with the knowledge of these hidden routes, and she knew them by heart. They had shared many private conversations in this chamber, discussing matters that required discretion and secrecy. As the door closed behind her, or rather the painting, the woman stood at attention, awaiting Lord Otto's instructions.

Otto regarded her with a keen gaze. "What have you discovered, Jenny?" he inquired a note of urgency in his voice. The fate of House Hightower and, in his mind, the stability of the realm rested on the information she held.

Jenny approached, holding out a handful of parchment. Otto took the documents and began scanning their contents. Betrothal certificates for Prince Aemon Targaryen. One with Rhaenyra and the other with Laena Velaryon.

He read the over and over and confirmed it to be authentic documentation, while the other seemed rushed in writing. But the information on both confirmed that even the rushed copy did show a case that a true copy exited; the information on it was too precise and detailed. Corlys and Baelon had betrothed Laena and Aemon. Giving Aemon the most powerful man in the entire content of Westeros as an ally.

Viserys had betrothed Aemon to Rhaenyra, and both Daemon and Viserys signed this copy. This means that both Viserys and Daemon knew about the betrothal, and the children likely did not. Otto had to admit the move was the best for Viserys at the time and wise for Daemon as well. By marrying, Aemon and Rhaenyra secured both of their positions and ensured no future dispute as Viserys would be king and Daemon would follow suit, with Viserys' line continuing through the union of Daemon's heir, Aemon, and Viserys' lone children, Rhaenyra. Viserys strengthens his position and secures his daughter, while Daemon ensures the same for his son. Objectively, it was a fine match.

But neither certificate validated or confirmed the other, which made him wonder if neither was done in the knowledge of the other. There were too many questions to be asked. Would Viserys honor one over the other? Which one was more advantageous for Daemon to truly use? Would Daemon even acknowledge the one with Laena even though he did not consent to the match for his son? Would it even be valid as Prince Baelon was not the head of the House nor the father of Aemon, so could not, on a technicality, propose or secure this match? Would he push for both to secure Corlys as an ally for his daughter and nephew?

A scowl crept across Otto's face. The notion of Aemon marrying into such influential prospects was far from ideal. He muttered under his breath, a string of curses aimed at the Targaryens and their tangled webs of betrothals. With at least thrice as much for Daemon himself, even though he was only responsible for one of the betrothals.

He looked up sharply at Jenny. "Are these the originals?" he questioned, the urgency in his tone rising. The implications of the betrothals needed to be fully understood, and having the original documents in his possession was crucial.

Jenny hesitated for a moment before responding. "The certificate for Prince Aemon and Lady Laena is likely the original," she began, her eyes meeting Otto's. "It was hidden in Prince Baelon's room, cleverly concealed. I doubt anyone knows it's there." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "The one for Prince Aemon and Princess Rhaenyra is in Prince Viserys' room. I couldn't risk taking the original, so I made a copy."

Otto was surprised the woman knew how to write but did not question it; he was pleasantly surprised. Otto doubted the copy he had of Lady Laena and Prince Aemon was the original or at least the only copy. Corlys had been eyeing the throne the moment he had married Princess Rhaenys and, according to him, had been robbed of it before, so it was within reason that Lord Corlys had copies of a betrothal agreement that might secure his blood on the throne.

Otto disliked the idea of the Northerns connected to Corlys Velaryon's ships. They were emboldened after the Wildling Invasions; they were weakened for sure since half of the North was put to the torch. But they were encouraged. Otto did not believe the boy did half the things the rumors said he did during the battles, but the boy had a dire wolf and rallied many men to his cause. Northeners care for their own more than outsiders, a respectable sentiment, but one that worked for Aemon far too well since his mother was Northern. It worked far better than it should.

Otto had heard many stories of those whose parents came from the North, and people mocked the children for being Northern when being born in the South, and the North would mock the children for being Southern when they looked and spoke and had the blood of the North. But the North claimed Aemon without a question after the battle. No one would dare question their love for Lyanna's son. Corlys would love nothing more than to claim the boy if he gave him a throne and an army. A weakened army, but one that knew bloodshed better than the other kingdoms and had been tested, something the other kingdoms could not claim after King Jaehaerys brought nearly sixty years of peace to the realm.

Otto's scowl deepened at the mention of Prince Viserys. He weighed the implications of this revelation, his mind already formulating the next steps in his intricate dance of politics and power.

Lord Otto Hightower's mind churned with a mix of frustration and determination. The weight of the betrothals threatened to tip the balance of power in the Targaryens' favor, and that was something Otto could not let stand. He paced around the room, his mind working through the tangled web of political consequences. One betrothal secured Daemon and his line on the throne, while the other secured him a powerful ally. All the brothels were for children still far away from adulthood, far away from this being of any importance, but he would not allow these betrothals to stand for long. He nodded to Jenny and told her to leave and that she would be paid within the fortnight. Once alone, he cursed loudly.

"These betrothals cannot be allowed to come to fruition," Otto muttered to himself, his tone resolute. The prospect of Aemon aligning himself with Rhaenyra Targaryen or Laena Velaryon threatened Otto's carefully laid plans for House Hightower.

He considered his options, contemplating the best course of action to dismantle these betrothals. The idea of convincing Prince Viserys to break them off was unlikely, considering the prince's strong connections to Daemon. Otto knew he needed a more strategic approach.

Lord Otto Hightower, with a mind accustomed to intricate political maneuvers, considered the delicate situation before him. Dissolving the betrothal with Laena Velaryon required a careful approach to avoid raising suspicions, particularly from the Targaryens themselves. As he pondered his next moves, a plan began to take shape in his mind.

Otto knew that timing was crucial. He needed to act swiftly and discreetly, ensuring that his actions didn't draw unnecessary attention. Sending a raven to his trusted informants outside the Red Keep, he tasked them with monitoring the movements of the Velaryons, and he would speak to his informants to keep eyes on the Targaryens, especially those close to Aemon.

His plan involved exploiting the unique circ*mstances surrounding the betrothal. The absence of Prince Baelon and the lack of acknowledgment from the reigning monarch presented an opportunity to question the legitimacy of the arrangement. Otto intended to argue that a betrothal sanctioned by a deceased prince, who was neither head of the House nor father to the child, couldn't carry the weight of Targaryen tradition and royal authority.

Otto considered the potential repercussions. He understood the risk of exposing his hand too early, but the potential rewards outweighed the dangers. The success of this plan hinged on the ability to manipulate the situation without leaving a trace of his involvement.

Aemon's remarkable feats on the battlefield and his bond with the mighty dragon Balerion painted a portrait of a formidable and charismatic heir. The boy's multifaceted talents, including his prowess with the sword and musical abilities, the boy's intelligence that surpassed what any boy his age should know, only added to the allure. Otto recognized that Aemon embodied the strength and legitimacy Daemon needed to secure his position as the future ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.

However, Otto's visceral hatred for Daemon clouded his judgment. The mere thought of a Targaryen rule under Daemon's influence, reminiscent of the brutal reign of Maegor the Cruel, filled Otto with dread. He couldn't fathom allowing someone he despised so profoundly to sit on the Iron Throne, especially when that someone held the promise of securing the Targaryen dynasty for generations to come.

Otto pondered the avenues available to him, contemplating how to exploit the situation without revealing his true intentions. He understood that any overt move against Aemon could backfire, but indirect maneuvers and exploiting existing tensions offered a potential path forward.

Otto understood the need to eliminate Aemon's existing marriage prospects. He considered the potential consequences of these betrothals, envisioning them as pillars supporting the Targaryen ascent. By systematically eroding these foundations, he aimed to weaken the structure and sow discord among the royal family.

Whatever plans he had to dispute, Corlys would not and could not be done in the open. Otto hated to admit it, but Corlys had been in King's Landing longer and had more time to make and grow a network of informants that could track any move Otto made. Otto would need to do something while Corlys was distracted, and more than half of the Red Keep was distracted as well. That would be a tall order since all eyes were on the Red Keep, especially since the king's ability to lead was questioned not only from old age but also for the utter failure of sending troops to the North. Then, to add insult to injury, a prince of the realm, Daemon, drew a sword at the king in his throne room and had yet to be punished. Aemon had also yet to be punished for nearly destroying the Dragon Pit. All eyes were on Jaehaerys' shortcomings and, in turn, Otto's movements due to Otto being the Hand and needing to be the one to pick up the pieces.

All eyes were on the Red Keep to see if there was going to be any form of repercussion for such acts. Most were not focused on Aemon so much as Daemon. Aemon may have nearly destroyed a Rhaenys' Hill to relieve Balerion, but frankly, most figured it was going to happen sooner or later since the dragon had gotten too big, and most did not care so much as most injured from the night of Balerion's escape, had been from the resulting panic and the commonfolk slamming into one another in a stampede. But all eyes were on Daemon for drawing the blade, even if half argued that he did so to protect and defend his son, an honorable act. Eyes were on the Red Keep, and Otto could not disrupt the betrothals if they were. Especially since Otto and Daemon's dislike for one another is so open, and eyes would be on Otto since most would see Daemon's lack of punishment as enough of a thing to draw Otto's ire. Otto could not disrupt the betrothals now, but he would when things were more settled.

However, Otto was not content with mere disruption; he sought to redirect the course of Targaryen alliances to his advantage. To achieve this, he began devising a marriage prospect for Aemon that would serve his interests. The ideal match, in Otto's strategic mind, would be one that not only curbed the Targaryen's ambitions but also strengthened his own position.

Otto pondered potential candidates for Aemon's future bride, carefully weighing the advantages and disadvantages of each option. He considered alliances with Houses that could offer military support, enhance economic ties, or contribute to the overall stability of the realm. The goal was to find a match that would tether the Targaryens to a House aligned with Otto's vision for the realm.

Otto continued thinking of what to do before hearing a knock at his door. "My Lord Hand, your daughter, Lady Alicent Hightower, has requested to enter your room."

"Let her in," Otto responded.

Alicent Hightower entered the room with the innocence of youth; her vibrant smile briefly unburdened by the weight of noble etiquette. Otto, seated at his desk, acknowledged her presence with a nod, granting permission for her to enter.

Alicent, with the enthusiasm only a child could possess, practically skipped into the room. However, as the realization of her noble status dawned upon her, she corrected her posture with a swift curtsy – a charming display of refined manners that bespoke her upbringing.

Otto observed his daughter's transition from exuberance to composed grace, a testament to her early training in courtly behavior. He allowed a small smile to crease his features as she greeted him with all the formality expected in their station.

Alicent curtsied ever perfectly and looked to her father with hope of approval in her eyes. "Good evening, Father. I hope I find you well."

Otto acknowledged her greeting with a paternal warmth, reciprocating the formalities but allowing a touch of familiarity. "And a good evening to you, my dear Alicent. How has your day been?" The girl spoke at length, while Otto was only able to understand every third word due to her fast speech.

Alicent's smile reminded Otto so much of his wife, but she was not here and was currently spending time with her family in Riverrun. Her brother had come to speak to him about several trade possibilities between Riverrun and Hightower, but the rest of the Tullys were there with his wife. He thanked the gods that he, a second son, was able to marry a woman of such high standing. He thought that his duty was merely to find a wife of a powerful family to help strengthen his House, and yet by chance, he was at the perfect place and time for King Jaehaerys to take note of his skills and make him Hand right after Prince Baelon's death.

Because Daemon earned the hate of the Tully by taking away Lyanna Stark, it was necessary for House Tully to marry and get a powerful ally, especially at court, right after the tourney of King's Landing occurred, and Otto made sure he and his House were the best options. He married his wife soon after Daemon did Lyanna. While the pair married before Otto became Hand, the Hightowers had many allies at court, and after Otto became Hand, it was an added boon to the Tullys and the Hightowers.

Otto inclined his head slightly, encouraging Alicent to share more about her day. "And how were your lessons with Septa Myrcella, my lady?"

Alicent, eager to please her father, responded with a sincerity that bespoke her innocence. "Septa Myrcella was pleased with our progress, Father. She taught us about the history of House Hightower and the duties of a noble lady. It was quite interesting."

Otto nodded approvingly, pleased that Alicent was showing interest in the history of their House. "Good. It's important to understand the legacy and responsibilities that come with our name. And what about your time with Princess Rhaenyra? Did you enjoy playing in the garden?"

Alicent's eyes brightened as she recounted the day's joyful escapades with her royal companion. "Yes, Father. We played hide and seek, and Rhaenyra told me stories about dragons. She's very good at it. I hope I was a good playmate for her. We had fun."

Otto, suppressing a smile, assured his daughter that she undoubtedly had been. "I'm sure you were, Alicent. Princess Rhaenyra is fortunate to have a friend like you. Remember, it's crucial to foster strong relationships with those of noble birth. You are a Hightower, and it would be important for Princess Rhaenyra to have a friend from a strong family like ourselves."

Alicent nodded, understanding the weight of her father's words even at her tender age and a wide smile. "Yes, Father. I'll remember."

Alicent then brought forth a silken handkerchief with stitching upon it. "In today's lesson, I made a gift for Gwayne when he returns."

Otto had not stopped his thoughts on his son Gwayne. Gwayne, a year Alicent's junior, had been sent to squire for Otto's elder brother in Old Town. Otto was forced to send his son to squire after hearing of Aemon's ability and notoriety as one of the best, if not the best, squires in the Red Keep. However, Aemon beat every single squire in the field, and being the only squire of the Kingsguard made him stand out. And if one believed the boy had defeated an army alone, which was argued in the capital. Otto disliked believing the words of Aemon's deeds in the North, but the fact that it was argued and a topic of controversy made it spoken of far more, making Aemon's name spread far wider than Otto liked. Aemon's fame was more than enough to give no room for other squires and even knights to ever grow and get any foothold in advancement.

Otto, intrigued by the mention of a present for Gwayne, leaned forward, his gaze fixed on Alicent. "A present, you say? That's thoughtful of you, Alicent. What have you crafted for your brother?"

Alicent beamed with pride, eager to share her creation with her father. "It's a small banner, Father. I stitched House Hightower's emblem on it, just like our home ones. I thought Gwayne might like to have a piece of home with him in Oldtown."

Otto's stern expression softened as he regarded his daughter's efforts. "A small banner? That's a wonderful idea, Alicent. I'm sure your brother will appreciate the sentiment. It's important for him to carry our House's pride with him, even in distant lands."

Alicent nodded, pleased with her father's approval. "Yes, Father. And I even used the colors of House Tully. Mother told me once that some knights who won't inherit from their fathers make their own sigils. I made this to look like our own but using the red, blue, and silver of House Tully."

Otto chuckled, acknowledging the attention to detail. "Very well done, my lady. You have an eye for both tradition and personal touch. I'm sure Gwayne will be honored by such a thoughtful gift. Make sure to present it to him with pride when he returns."

"Yes, Father."

Otto then looked down at his parchment. "And the Princess Rhaenyra, how was she in the lesson?"

"Rhaenyra said she wanted to learn how to make sigils, so we tried. She attempted the Targaryen dragon, but it looked more like a cat, really. She even confused the marron for red and made a marron cat on a black field rather than the red dragon on black!" Alicent smiled and giggled. "Then after, we played in the garden and had tea."

Otto chuckled at the image of Rhaenyra struggling with the sigil. "Well, it's the effort that counts. I'm sure she'll improve with practice."

Alicent continued to speak about her day; for now, Otto was happy to take the reprieve. Alicent began to speak, and Otto took note of everything he thought was important in regard to his daughter's connection to the royals. Or rather, the lack of connection with the Princesses Viserra, Aerea, Rhaella, Daenerys, Saera, and Maegelle. With every story, he noticed that Alicent spent more time with Rhaenyra than the prince or the princess. That gave him pause.

"Alicent, how did the other princess fair when in the lesson and your games?"

Alicent looked to her father thoughtfully. "They don't play with us as much. Rhaenyra and I play all the time, and when we go to play, the princesses go fly their dragons with Prince Aemon.

Seeking more information about the interactions within the Red Keep, Otto turned to his daughter. Otto raised his eyebrow and looked at Alicent far more seriously rather than the curious dotting father she was used to by now. "Prince Aemon, you say? How often does this occur?

Alicent began nodding swiftly as she put her finger to her chin and began to think as if she had never truly thought about it. Otto would not be surprised if she hadn't; children would not observe others' tendencies when focused on their games. "Quite frequently, Father. It seems the princesses have taken a liking to spending time with him, just as Princess Rhaenyra has with me."

Otto began to stroke his chin in thought. "Interesting. And why don't you spend time with the other princesses?

"Prince Aemon and the princesses, soaring through the skies on their dragons. The princesses like flying, and they said it would be better to fly with a bigger dragon so they know how to turn around quickly. And they like getting Aemon angry as he tried to catch them when he's gliding." Alicent got closer as if telling a secret. "I think Prince Aemon lets the princess get away; he's really good at riding a dragon." She then went back to normal as if that were all to say. "Aemon offers for Rhaenyra and me to ride alongside him on Balerion, but Rhaenyra says that Syrax would not like to smell Balerion on Rhaenyra when they do fly for the first time and that dragons have good noses. I don't want to ride the dragons. I'm not a Targaryen; dragons won't like me."

As Otto absorbed this information, a subtle frown creased his brow. The calculated moves of Daemon Targaryen became clearer in his mind. The gathering of dragon riders, especially the potential bond forming between Prince Aemon and the princesses, hinted at a deeper political game. Otto began muttering to himself, not fully realizing his words were out loud, even if no one could hear him. "Daemon's maneuvers are becoming increasingly transparent. He seeks to strengthen Aemon's alliances through these dragon flights. He wants him to grow close to the other princesses." Otto had much to think about and sighed. "Supper is within the hour. Why don't you get ready? We are to have dinner with House Tully; they came all the way from the Riverrun to speak with us. Maybe you can show your Uncle Elmo the sigil you made for your brother. I think he would like the colors." Alicent smiled widely before rushing off to get ready.

As Otto brooded over the developments, a vexing realization took root in his mind. The calculated efforts to intertwine Aemon's fate with various dragon riders suggested a strategic move by Daemon. The prince seemed determined to ensure that Aemon's alliances extended beyond mere blood ties.

Otto's thoughts spiraled into a web of disdain for Daemon. The dragon flights were not merely acts of camaraderie; they were threads in a tapestry designed to secure Aemon's future. The notion that Daemon might be orchestrating a series of betrothals to other dragon riders, thereby fortifying his line with formidable connections, only fueled Otto's resentment.

Otto's disdain for Daemon deepened in his chambers' dim, oppressive silence. It was a masterstroke, a subtle manipulation that transcended the immediate concerns of familial ties. Daemon's plan, whether intentional or born out of instinct, sought to bind Aemon to a network of dragon riders, thwarting any potential claims against Daemon's line.

As Otto brooded in the shadowed corners of his private sanctum, the Red Keep pulsated with the echoing steps of ambition, power, and the silent flight of dragons. The dance continued, orchestrated by unseen hands, and Otto grappled with the realization that Daemon Targaryen's machinations were shaping the destiny of House Targaryen in ways more profound than he initially grasped.

Otto would make sure his meeting with Elmo went well because Elmo would soon become lord of Riverrun, and with the support of Riverrun and the Riverlands, Otto would have some leeway in position. He would need Elmo's aid in disrupting the betrothals, and the man was dimwitted; it would be easy to convince him to aid the disruption of the brothels secretly. The entire Riverlands and the strength of Hightower would be beneficial indeed. He heard his daughter laughing as she got ready, and Otto had an idea. Perhaps his daughter should make sure Aemon's focus is shifted from the princesses in court.

Chapter 18: Death of an Old Dragon

Chapter Text

Red Keep 103 AC

Jaehaerys Targaryen

In the dimly lit chamber of the Red Keep, the air hung heavy with the scent of age and impending departure. Jaehaerys, the Old King, lay on his ornate bed, draped in the regal trappings of a lifetime spent ruling the Seven Kingdoms. The room echoed with the whispers of memories dancing through his mind, a tapestry woven with triumph and tragedy.

How many times had he whispered jests and jokes to Alysanne in these walls? How many times had she told him of court gossip when he had just been crowned at four and ten years of age? How many times had they vowed to one another that the convent they vowed before gods and men would be the foundation that the Targaryen family would see as the greatest reign of King and Queen, dual dragon-riders, to ever be? How many days since he last heard his late wife's voice?

Jaehaerys had been a monarch of unparalleled insight, a ruler whose reign spanned decades, marked by accomplishments that left an indelible imprint on the annals of Westerosii history. He had unified a fractured realm, fostering peace and prosperity through shrewd diplomacy and strategic alliances. His fingers had deftly danced across the cyvasse board of politics, forging bonds that held the Seven Kingdoms in a delicate balance. While also forging the executioner's sword, which now lay before his head. That is what king is now, isn't it? A man who forges the sword that protects his realm and yet is used to end his days. He had learned this lesson long ago: a man is the reason for his own death, whether by not knowing, not preparing, or making a mistake.

The Old King had faced threats from within and without, navigating the treacherous currents of courtly intrigue with a wisdom that earned him the epithet of the Conciliator. His rule had seen the construction of the mighty Dragonpit, a testament to the taming of the once unruly dragons that had wreaked havoc upon the land. The realm flourished under his just governance, and Jaehaerys had earned the respect and admiration of lords and commoners alike.

Yet, for all his achievements, the Old King's personal life had been a tapestry of sorrow. He had outlived most of his children, watching with a heavy heart as the torchbearers of his bloodline flickered and faded. The death of his beloved wife had cast a long shadow over the latter years of his reign, leaving him with the haunting echo of her laughter and the ache of her absence.

As the final chapter of Jaehaerys' life unfolded, the once vigorous ruler now lay frail and feeble on his bed. The oppressive weight of time bore down upon him, rendering his once-mighty frame a mere reflection of its former glory. The majesty of his regal attire and clothing could not conceal the inevitable truth – the Old King was no longer the invincible force that had shaped the realm's fate.

Each labored breath was a reminder of mortality, and the rhythmic pulse of a weakening heart echoed through the chamber. His once-commanding voice now a mere whisper, Jaehaerys could barely move his limbs, the once-mighty muscles now betraying him in his twilight hours. Trapped in the confines of his regal bed, the monarch was a prisoner of his diminishing vitality.

Amidst the shadows that clung to the room, the solitary figure of Stranger himself materialized. A venerable presence, he bore witness to the final moments of a storied life. The old man's eyes, reflecting the wisdom of ages, met Jaehaerys' gaze with empathy and reverence. Daily, he offered companionship to the dying king, a silent witness to the ebbing of a once-mighty flame. The Stranger was nothing more than death, and Jaehaerys had heard it had many faces, and yet it chose the face of a skull. Why would death be anything less than a skeleton? Yet another in his large closet. How he wished death greeted him with the face of his wife; at least then he could pretend it was welcoming, and at least then he could fall for its trap. But he stared at the empty sockets, the abyss with knowledge older than Jaehaerys's very ancestry; he looked at the Stranger and wondered how long the Stranger had been waiting to embrace the Old King.

As the Old King's awareness waned, he knew that today marked the culmination of his journey. The threads of his life were fraying, and the tapestry of his existence was unraveling. In the quiet of that chamber, Jaehaerys, the Old King, prepared to step beyond the veil, leaving the living and joining the dead. How many people in Westeros can say they died of old age? Lived a full life? Not many, he supposed.

Jaehaerys I Targaryen is the name that resonates through the ages as the longest-reigning and perhaps the mightiest and wisest monarch in the storied history of House Targaryen. His ascension to the Iron Throne in 48 AC marked the beginning of a remarkable era that would see the Seven Kingdoms transformed under his sagacious rule.

One of King Jaehaerys' most enduring legacies was the construction of the Kingsroad, a monumental feat that connected the capital of King's Landing to the farthest reaches of the North. This engineering marvel facilitated trade, communication, and unity throughout the realm, solidifying Jaehaerys' commitment to fostering a cohesive and interconnected kingdom.

However, the reign of the Old King was challenging. In the aftermath of the Faith Militant uprising, Jaehaerys undertook the arduous task of reconciling with the Faith of the Seven. The scars of religious conflict ran deep, but through diplomatic finesse and genuine efforts at understanding, the king restored a semblance of harmony between the Iron Throne and the Faith.

The might of House Targaryen was most vividly demonstrated in the series of conflicts known as the Dornish Wars. Jaehaerys, with his formidable dragon Vermithor, rode into battle during the second, third, and fourth Dornish wars, securing victories that solidified Targaryen's dominance over Dorne. His strategic insight and the awe-inspiring presence of his dragon became legendary, leaving an indelible mark on the history of Westeros.

Vermithor, one of the largest dragons in Targaryen history, was the steadfast companion of King Jaehaerys throughout his long and illustrious reign. The bond between dragon and rider symbolized the Targaryen legacy and a testament to the power wielded by the ruling House. Jaehaeyyrs was sad he could fly his dragon. he wished he could fly with Aemon at least once in his life. The boy was better at riding than any man Jaehaerys knew, at least, going from Daemon's perception, and the man was more than certainly biased. But he supposed he would trust Aemon to help find Vermithor a worthy rider one of these days. Maybe Aemon could ride alongside his dragon's future rider like Jaehaerys wished Aemon had done with himself. It was selfish. But a dying man can do such things since he has no need to care for the backlash any longer.

Beyond the battlefield, Jaehaerys earned a reputation as a wise and just ruler. His court was a beacon of intellect and culture, drawing scholars and artists across the realm. His reign was marked by a commitment to justice and fairness, earning him the admiration and respect of his subjects.

Jaehaerys played a crucial role in saving the Targaryen royal family. From it's worst enemy, themselves.

As the years passed, Jaehaerys I Targaryen, the pinnacle of Targaryen rule, left an enduring legacy. The realm he shaped stood as a testament to the indomitable spirit of a king who reigned for over half a century. In the annals of Westerosi history, Jaehaerys' name echoed as a beacon of wisdom, strength, and a bygone era of Targaryen glory. And yet he was alone in this room. And yet he will die alone, just as he was born. Just like Maegor wished him to die. Just like his brothers had died, just like some secret part of him, deep inside his heart, he always knew he would die.

His eyes, once sharp and commanding, now reflected the soft haze of diminishing vision. In a quiet moment of introspection, the Old King called upon the Kingsguard to attend him. "Lord Commander Ryam," Jaehaerys rasped, his voice carrying the gravitas of a lifetime of rule. The Lord Commander, resplendent in the white armor that symbolized their sacred duty, entered the room with a solemn bow. The man had not left the room since Jaehaerys had awakened, and Jaehaerys knew for certain the man did not see the looming figure Jaehaerys saw in the corner.

"Your Grace," Ser Ryam inclined his head, the respect etched into every line of his armored countenance. Beside him stood another Kingsguard, a silent sentinel ready to execute his king's will.

Jaehaerys regarded Ser Ryam with a steady gaze. "Where is my great-grandson, Aemon? I wish to speak with him."

The knight of the Kingsguard lowered his eyes briefly as if collecting his thoughts before responding. "Your Grace, Prince Aemon is currently training with Ser Harrold Westerling. They prepare for a training joust later in the day. The prince is attending to Ser Harrold's armor as we speak."

A nod of acknowledgment followed, and then Jaehaerys spoke with a measured tone. "Summon him to me. I have a desire for his company. I wish to read," Jaehaerys continued, his voice hinting at vulnerability beneath the regal facade. "My eyes are not what they once were, and I would have Aemon fetch a book for us to read together."

Ser Ryam nodded, understanding the king's desire for a simple pleasure in the final days. "It shall be done, Your Grace. Prince Aemon will be here shortly. " Without hesitation, Ser Ryam Redwyne issued an order to one of the Kingsguard standing vigilantly nearby. "Go to the training grounds and bring Prince Aemon to the king's chambers immediately."

As the Kingsguard hastened to carry out his command, Ser Ryam positioned himself beside Jaehaerys, a silent guardian in the twilight of the Old King's reign. Jaehaerys had dozed off several times, not knowing the length between each reawakening but knowing it was not the same moment as before.

A knock resonated through the chamber, echoing the impending passage of time. The door creaked open, and the Kingsguard, clad in the shining white armor of their sacred duty, stepped into the room. The announcement hung heavy in the air like the somber notes of a lament.

"Prince Aemon has arrived, Your Grace," the Kingsguard intoned, delivering the news with a gravity befitting the occasion.

Jaehaerys I Targaryen, the Old King, turned his gaze towards the door, and there, on the threshold, stood Aemon Targaryen – the great-grandson who bore the melancholy burden of lineage. The boy's features, more Stark than Targaryen, drew the Old King's scrutiny. The dark hair and eyes, a stark departure from the silver-gold mane and violet gaze that defined their House, spoke of a convergence of bloodlines and histories.

The recognition of Daemon's features in Aemon's countenance was a bittersweet echo. As Aemon approached, book in hand, Jaehaerys beheld the shadow of a Stark on the young Targaryen's face.

Aemon's eyes, pools of solemnity, met Jaehaerys' gaze. The Old King sensed an unspoken knowing in those eyes, a silent acknowledgment that this encounter bore the weight of finality. Aemon's sad smile spoke of a farewell unsaid but deeply felt.

"How was your day, Aemon?" Jaehaerys inquired, his voice a timeworn melody that carried the weight of years.

Aemon's brooding countenance never wavered as he replied, "I spent time in the small council, rode my dragon with my aunts around the city, and sparred for the rest of the day before being summoned here."

Jaehaerys, ever the observer of skies and dragons, asked, "Did you have a good flight?"

"The skies were perfect for it," Aemon responded, a fleeting glimmer of the Targaryen spirit shining through the solemnity.

The Old King's gaze shifted, the longing evident in his eyes as he spoke words that carried the weight of unfulfilled wishes. "I wish I could have flown Vermithor with you, even if just for a brief moment. I suppose I will need to trust you to find him a future rider." Aemon said nothing, but his eyes said his answer.

Aemon Targaryen's countenance, a reflection of the shadows etched upon his young soul, bore the weight of an inherited seriousness. Jaehaerys I Targaryen, the Old King, observed the boy, noting the proficiency with which Aemon wore his brooding demeanor. In the dance of lineage and circ*mstance, it seemed that Aemon had mastered the art of contemplation at an early age. He had seen it a thousand times; for some reason, he felt as though he could forget if he looked away. He forced himself to remember every wrinkle of the nose, every twitch, every shift of the eye. He would need to tell Alysanne once he saw her again. She would like to know how great Aemon had become and could become once she had left the world.

The court's whispers, ever persistent, had cast their shadows upon Aemon's legitimacy. Born of tragedy, his mother's death in childbirth had fueled the rumors that questioned his true parentage. The disquieting murmurings persisted, attempting to shroud the young Targaryen in uncertainty until the day Aemon claimed Balerion as his own. Yet, the whispers endured, questioning the visual symmetry of Aemon's features with the Targaryen legacy.

In the face of skepticism, Aemon's exploits in the North during the Wildling Invasion faced doubt within the court. The truth of his courageous stand against the invaders was often met with skepticism, skepticism only silenced by the unassailable word of Lord Stark. The intricacies of courtly intrigue had weaved a tapestry of doubt, leaving Aemon to navigate the treacherous currents of perception.

Aemon, wise beyond his years, offered a tender question to the Old King. "Would you like me to summon everyone, Grandfather? To spend time with you?" The selflessness of the offer clashed with the underlying reality of the court's demands.

"No, Aemon," Jaehaerys replied with a soft yet firm conviction. "There is important business to attend to, and I must not delay it. But, if I may be selfish in these final moments, I wish it to be just you and me."

Aemon's lips curved into a melancholic smile, a silent acknowledgment of the intimacy in shared solitude. As the boy moved to sit by Jaehaerys' side, the Old King knew these moments were precious, the sands of time slipping away like grains through his weathered fingers.

Still present in the chamber, Ser Ryam Redwyne awaited further commands. Even amid farewell, Aemon, ever the gracious host, turned to the Lord Commander. "Ser Ryam, would you be so kind as to fetch a servant? We shall have tea and some sweets for the afternoon. I plan to spend the remainder of the day with King Jaehaerys."

The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, a stalwart figure in the room's shadows, bowed his head in acquiescence and left to fulfill Aemon's request. The servant, summoned by Ser Ryam, would soon arrive, bearing the offerings of comfort that accompanied moments of quiet contemplation and shared reflection.

As the scent of tea and the rustle of confections filled the air, Aemon and Jaehaerys settled into the final chapter of their shared narrative. The chamber, hushed in the ambiance of shared moments, held the promise of untold stories. Jaehaerys, his aged eyes discerning the shapes but unable to decipher the words, noticed Aemon's choice of companions for the afternoon. The boy had brought not one but two books and a cyvasse board nestled amidst the offerings.

A soft smile played on the Old King's lips as he recognized the familiar contours of the cyvasse board. Though his vision may falter, the strategic dance of the game was etched into his memory, a legacy of countless matches played in the halls of the Red Keep. Aemon's thoughtful inclusion of the game hinted at a desire for familiar comfort amidst the weight of impending farewells.

"What is the first book, Aemon?" Jaehaerys inquired, the anticipation evident in his voice.

"It's a collection of Valyrian stories and wives' tales," Aemon replied, his words echoing generations past. "One of them speaks about Jaenara Belaerys."

A flicker of recognition passed over Jaehaerys' features, a nod to a time long gone. "I haven't heard the tale of Jaenara Belaerys in many years," he admitted, his mind traversing the corridors of memory. "The last time I heard that story, Alysanne and I were, but children and my mother and father read it to us."

Aemon's smile echoed the shared nostalgia, and with a subtle agreement, he declared, "Then, we shall start with that one."

As Aemon prepared to delve into the Valyrian tales that had captivated the imaginations of Targaryen children for generations, Jaehaerys turned his attention to the second book, a shroud of mystery enveloping its contents.

"And what is the surprise in the second book?" Jaehaerys queried, his curiosity piqued.

Aemon, eyes alight with a mischievous glint, replied, "Ah, that is a secret for now, Grandfather. You shall find out in due time."

The Old King's smile deepened, acknowledging the boy's playful secrecy. As the tea aroma wafted through the chamber and the cyvasse board awaited its players, Jaehaerys embraced shared tales and the comforting familiarity of a game that transcended the boundaries of age and time.

As Aemon delved into the tale of Jaenara Belaerys, the air in the chamber became pregnant with the charisma of Sothoryos. The Valyrian stories painted a vivid tapestry of a dragon rider who ventured farther into the southern expanse than any had dared. Terrax, the dragon companion to Jaenara, became a mythical guide through jungles, over mountains, and across oceans that seemed to stretch into eternity.

The young Targaryen's voice wove a narrative that transported Jaehaerys to a world of unexplored wonders. Aemon recounted how Jaenara had soared over jungles teeming with exotic beasts, crossing landscapes that defied the expectations of even the most audacious explorers. Her journey took her beyond the known realms of Sothoryos into territories where no Valyrian had set foot.

The tale unfolded, revealing Jaenara's return to the Valyrian Freehold after three years of exploration. Her proclamation that Sothoryos was "a land without end" echoed through the chamber. Aemon's words filled the space, conjuring images of endless jungles, vast deserts, and towering mountains that stretched to the horizon.

Jaehaerys, with a wistful smile, envisioned the dreams he and Alysanne once harbored – the dreams of venturing together to Sothoryos and discovering the enigmatic cities hidden within the lush jungles. The desire to unveil the mysteries of the uncharted land had been a shared vision, a testament to the adventurous spirit that bound the Targaryen siblings.

Yet, fate had unfolded differently. The gods had ordained Jaehaerys as king, altering the course of his and Alysanne's lives. The dreams of Sothoryos had yielded to the crown's weight, the responsibilities of rule steering them away from the paths they had envisioned walking together.

As Aemon concluded the tale, the room held the lingering echoes of a land shrouded in mystery. Jaehaerys, though unable to see the words on the page, felt the story's contours etch themselves upon his heart. Sothoryos, a distant and unexplored realm, lingered in the recesses of his imagination, a poignant reminder of the paths untaken and the dreams deferred by the demands of kingship.

With a request from Jaehaerys, Aemon gracefully transitioned to the second book, its pages harboring the echoes of the Old King's own legacy. As Aemon read, the room became an intimate theater, where the deeds and virtues of Jaehaerys I Targaryen unfolded like scenes from a storied drama.

As Aemon detailed the accomplishments, the reforms, and the enduring impact Jaehaerys had on the Seven Kingdoms, the Old King listened with quiet humility. The narrative wove through the intricate tapestry of Jaehaerys' reign, casting light on the myriad ways he had touched the lives of his subjects. The story encapsulated the essence of a monarch whose decisions resonated far beyond the Red Keep, reaching into the homes and hearts of the common folk.

Aemon's words painted a portrait of a ruler who sought not only to maintain the Targaryen dynasty but also to better the lives of those who dwelled within the realm. The smile on Jaehaerys' face, though unseen by the world, reflected the acknowledgment of a life well-lived, of a legacy that transcended the fleeting passage of time.

Yet, in the quietude of the chamber, as Aemon spoke of the lives touched by Jaehaerys' benevolence, the Old King pondered the measure of his existence. He grappled with the dichotomy of a sovereign who, despite shortcomings as a father, had strived to be a benevolent ruler. The questions lingered – had he lived a good life? Had he, in the pursuit of a just and prosperous realm, found redemption for the complexities of his familial relationships?

In the depths of reflection, Jaehaerys found solace in the knowledge that, despite the personal tribulations, the broader strokes of his reign had left an indelible mark on the kingdom. The dichotomy of personal failings and the broader impact on the realm added nuance to the tapestry of his legacy.

As Aemon continued to recount the chapters of Jaehaerys' life, the room became a sanctuary of shared history. In the twilight of his days, the Old King found a peculiar peace in the resonance of a narrative that surpassed the boundaries of his own understanding. The book, a chronicle of deeds and aspirations, was a mirror reflecting the complexities of a life woven into the very fabric of Westerosii history.

In the timeless cadence of a cyvasse game, the chamber resonated with the click of pieces and the murmur of tales. Jaehaerys and Aemon engaged in a dance of strategy and reminiscence that spanned the chapters of a life well-lived. Jaehaerys could not sit up to move the pieces, but he knew the game well and had planned it for years. He would tell Aemon where to move the piece and ask Aemon to announce where he put his own so that the Old King knew the board. In his mind's eye, Jaehaerys knew the board; he could see the pieces and even imagine the smile on Aemon's face when he made a wise move.

But Jaehaerys would not allow Aemon a simple victory; no, the older man would like to keep his victories firmly numbered on his side. Aemon had rarely won a game with him, and even in old age, Jaehaerys wished his great-grandson to remember that the king's mind was sharper than Valryian steel. And with every victory that day, Jaehaerys would hear Aemon curse in Valryian and drink some tea to soothe his nerves before continuing to another match, restarting the cycle all over again. It brought a smile to his face.

As the pieces moved across the board, Jaehaerys spoke of his youth, of the days when he and Alysanne roamed the Red Keep's halls, their laughter echoing through the ancient stones. The stories unfolded like pages of a cherished tome, revealing moments that time had buried in the recesses of memory.

Aemon, the eager audience to the tapestry of Jaehaerys' past, listened with rapt attention. The Old King, fueled by the warmth of shared moments, offered whispers of advice and pearls of wisdom. In the midst of the cyvasse battlefield, the lines between player and storyteller blurred, each move on the board accompanied by a tale from the annals of history.

Aemon's tales spun from the threads of his own experiences interwoven with Jaehaerys' recollections. The boy spoke of the exhilaration of flying upon Balerion's back, a connection to the ancient power that defined House Targaryen. He regaled Jaehaerys with stories of training, of victories won, and lessons learned on the sparring grounds.

The room, bathed in the glow of flickering candles. Jaehaerys, the sage recounting tales of bygone days, saw in Aemon the echoes of his own youth – a spirited, outspoken, and bold young Targaryen. The convergence of generations unfolded in the stories shared and the moves made on the cyvasse board.

In the flickering glow of the chamber, the cyvasse pieces bore witness to the tales of elder brothers and the imprint they left on a young Jaehaerys. As the pieces moved across the board, the Old King spoke of Aegon and Viserys, the elder siblings who shaped the contours of his youth.

"Aegon was a convincing soul," Jaehaerys mused, his voice carrying the weight of nostalgia. "He once persuaded our sister Rhaena to take me on a ride on her dragon. It was a daring escapade, and I felt the wind in my hair like I was flying free." The stories unfolded, each move on the cyvasse board a marker in the tale of Aegon's influence. Jaehaerys shared how Aegon, more than a brother, became a mentor. Aegon's teachings extended beyond the bounds of the courtly and ventured into the realms of swordplay and horsemanship. "He taught me how to swing a sword and ride a horse," Jaehaerys confessed, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "To me, Aegon was the greatest person in the world when I was younger. His strength and wisdom were beacons in my youth." The admission carried a weight of reverence, a testament to the profound impact Aegon had on Jaehaerys' formative years. The Old King, in his candor, acknowledged the qualities he revered in his elder brother. Speaking of their father, Jaehaerys cast a nuanced reflection. "My father, he was a good man, but he had his weaknesses," he conceded. "Aegon was the one who taught me much. How to treat a woman, how to navigate the complexities of our lineage." A quiet admission lingered in the air as Jaehaerys delved into the intricacies of love within House Targaryen. "It was Aegon who dispelled the misconceptions, who showed me that the Faith was wrong about how a Targaryen would love their sister. His wisdom guided me through the intricacies of our family's legacy."

Aemon seemed confused by something, Jaehaerys could not see his face, but he somehow knew. Aemon made a move to remove one piece, which Jaehaerys had quickly capitalized by removing the same piece in turn. "You loved grandmother even before marriage?"

Jaehaerys knew Aemon meant a romantic sort of love rather than familiar. "Aye," Jaehaerys said, mimicking a northern accent. Aemon chuckled. "We did not know if it was a moral thing or not. The faith had tried to damn us all for falling in love, not just Aegon. But Aegon was the one who reminded me that his namesake married both his sisters and that a dragon is drawn towards their own kind. Even if that means of the same blood due to how few of us there are."

The flickering candles in the chamber cast dancing shadows upon the worn tapestries, signaling the passage of time as Jaehaerys and Aemon wove their shared stories. The room, now bathed in a dim glow, bore witness to the ebbing hours that had slipped away unnoticed.

As Jaehaerys turned his gaze toward the dwindling candles, he felt the inexorable pull of time tightening its grip. The air in the chamber grew heavy with an unspoken understanding. Hours spent in the warmth of shared tales had given way to a moment tinged with a bittersweet finality.

Jaehaerys, ever keenly aware of the encroaching shadows, sensed the onset of his imminent departure from the realm of the living. Each breath became a labor, each word an effort. Weakness crept into his limbs, rendering him a prisoner to his own failing body. His body felt so cold, colder than ever he had thought possible. His almost blind eyes could focus on nothing at all; he forced himself to look at Aemon as his eyes dwindled and the lights dimmed. Jaehaerys was glad that the final thing he saw was the dark purple eyes of his great-grandson, the future of their House.

Aemon, the witness to the slow unraveling of the Old King, mirrored the grief in Jaehaerys' eyes. The passage of time had etched lines of sorrow on their faces, tears unshed but lingering in the unspoken spaces between them.

"I used to crave death after Alysanne died," he admitted. "Nothing felt as true. But now...I don't want to die, Aemon," he whispered to his grandson.

Aemon poured water into a glass and pressed it to Jaehaeyrs' lips, but the king did not drink. "You lived a long life, and you will live another five decades, grandfather," Aemon replied. Aemon turned to Ser Ryam. "Get Uncle Viserys! Get my father! Get someone! Anyone! Get the damned Maester!" Ser Ryam rushed to the door and ordered the kingsguard and the servants to get the royal family and the maester. Ser Ryam would not leave this room; a kingsguard swore to protect the king for the rest of their days, whether it was the end of the king's or the ingsgaurd's, and Lord Commander Redwyne had too much respect for the king to leave him in his final moments, Jaehaerys took solace in knowing that.

Jaehaerys whispered to Aemon. "Why is it that now that I am content that, I must lose it so quickly? You were all I could have asked for as my blood, Aemon. You are the Song of Ice and Fire. You are Aegon's dream. And I am so gladdened and happy to have glimpsed you before my death. Alysanne knew, she always knew, that you were special. She did not know of Aegon's dream, but she knew that you would be the best of us. You make us so proud, Aemon. You know that, right? Please tell me you know that."

Jaehaerys could hear the forced reply, the choking back of the sob. "I know."

In the silent communion of shared tears, Jaehaerys turned to Aemon once more after trying to look around the room one more time, his voice a whisper that hung in the air like a fragile melody. "Will you protect our family, Aemon?" The plea, laden with the weight of legacy, sought reassurance in the eyes of the next in line. Aemon, tears glistening in his eyes, nodded solemnly. "I have your word, Aemon?" Jaehaerys pressed the urgency in his voice, echoing the gravity of the moment.

"You have my word, Grandfather," Aemon vowed his promise a sacred oath was sworn amidst the fading candlelight.

Jaehaerys did not have much time, and he forced out his words with harsh breaths. "Protect our family, Aemon. Protect them from the green dragons; protect them from the black dragons and the stags and lions. Your visions scare me, Aemon, but I trust you. We trust you."

Aemon roared in frustration. "Get the f*cking maester!" Jaehaerys did not like hearing such a small boy curse, but Aemon was never a boy, was he? No, Aemon was man-grown before he even took his first steps. How sad was it that Jaehaerys had to entrust the future of the House, not to Viserys or Daemon, but to Aemon, a boy of six.

"My daughters, protect them, Aemon," he said as he felt so weak. Tears streamed down his face as he felt so wrong pushing such struggles on a child. "Viserys is weak. Daemon is too harsh. The kingdoms would dig their claws into them and tear them apart. The dragons must be united. Promise me, Aemon. Promise me. Promise me," he urged with pain.

"On my honor as Stark. On my honor as a Targaryen. I swear this before the old gods and the new: I will protect our family, grandfather. I will protect your daughters. Anyone who dares to harm the dragons, I will show them fire and blood."

Jaehaery relaxed, a soft smile on his face. He did not know he could as such. Aemon was their legacy. Aemon was Aegon's dream; he knew this. His daughters, Aemon, would protect them. Aemon would do right by them.

With a steadying breath, Jaehaerys shifted his gaze to the corner of the room, where Ser Ryam Redwyne, the ever-watchful guardian, stood sentinel. "Ryam," Jaehaerys rasped the effort to speak, which was now a Herculean task. "Bring the sword from the corner."

Ser Ryam, stoic and resolute, acknowledged the command with a silent nod. The room held its breath as the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard moved towards the corner, retrieving the sword that would become both an instrument of legacy and an emblem of transition.

The air in the chamber grew colder, a harbinger of the inevitable. In the dance of shadows and the soft glow of the few remaining candles, Jaehaerys prepared to bid farewell to the realm he had ruled for a lifetime. The vows exchanged, the promises made, hung in the air like a whispered prayer, a testament to the unbroken thread of Targaryen honor and duty.

The chamber, shrouded in heavy silence, bore witness to the passing of a legacy as Ser Ryam Redwyne solemnly presented the Valyrian steel sword, Blackfyre, before Aemon Targaryen. The air hummed with an unspoken acknowledgment of the weight carried by the ancient blade, its history intertwined with the destiny of House Targaryen.

As Aemon unsheathed the legendary sword, its distinct hum echoed through the room. In a voice that carried the weight of centuries, Aemon called it aloud, "Blackfyre." The name, resonating with the echoes of Targaryen history, lingered in the air.

The crossguard had small heads of a dragon on either side of it, with their mouths slightly opened, the skills and the etchings on the crossguard that lead to the center. The diamond-shaped ruby is no bigger than a thumb at the end of the pommel. The ripples of layers of metal on the blade itself, each ripple and wave almost a dark gray, so dark it made the blade nearly black. The handle has two separate locations for the user's hand, with a golden band to separate the black leather handle. The golden band, no bigger than an index finger, had the three heads of the dragons etched into it, one facing forward and the other two facing left and right, respectively. The bastard sword was almost long enough to be a two-handed long sword but was just an inch shy. Jaehaerys could no longer see the blade, but he had it for so long that he knew it better than his no-withering hand.

Jaehaerys, the Old King whose breaths grew labored, turned his gaze towards Aemon. With a voice that carried the weariness of time, he uttered the words, "Have the sword, Aemon. It is yours now."

Aemon, a young Targaryen standing at the crossroads of inheritance and responsibility, hesitated. "It should go to Viserys," he replied, a testament to the internal conflicts that weighed upon his shoulders.

In response, Jaehaerys, the sage on the cusp of departing the mortal realm, offered quiet wisdom. "The sword needs to be wielded by someone worthy, someone willing to protect the family. I know you will do just that. Kill the boy, Aemon Targaryen. Kill the boy and let the dragon be born."

Aemon, grappling with the gravity of the moment, fell silent. The air hung heavy with the unspoken acknowledgment of the mantle now passed to him. In the quietude that followed, Jaehaerys turned his gaze back to the cyvasse board, summoning strength from the wellspring of determination.

Forcing his weakened arms to move, Jaehaerys executed the final move, moving his dragon piece to triumph over Aemon's elephant. The proclamation of victory, a testament to the enduring spirit of the Old King, filled the chamber.

"I won," Jaehaerys declared, pride seeping into his voice.

Aemon, in response, offered a sad chuckle that resonated with the echoes of a passing era. In the space between moves on the cyvasse board and the unsheathed Blackfyre, the room became a tableau of transitions, a bridge between the living and the legacies left behind. Jaehaerys felt Aemon's hand grasp his own, and he could feel Aemon's warmth; Aemon was very warm; everything else was cold. But it was Aemon's eyes that were warmer than his hands.

Aemon's dark eyes made everyone think of the gray snowstorms. To Jaehaerys, they looked like a purple flame in the candlelight. Oh, how kind they looked. Alysanne would have loved to see the boy as he was now. Jaehaerys would have loved to see the boy turn into a grown man with children of his own. Would they have silver hair? Would they look Stark or Targaryen? These were secrets he would go without answering, but he was gladdened by this moment. He was glad that Aemon made an oath to protect Jaehaerys' legacy, Aegon's legacy, and their family's legacy. There never lived a Stark who had forgotten an oath, and Aemon was just as much Stark as he was Targaryen. Then he closed his eyes, and he could no longer see Aemon.

In the ethereal realm beyond the mortal coil, Jaehaerys Targaryen found himself in the company of kin long departed. The deathbed and the frailty of his form had given way to a vision of strength and vitality. Alongside his elder brothers Aegon and Viserys, his sister Rhaena, and his beloved sister-wife Alysanne, Jaehaerys stood tall.

Alysanne, with a warmth that transcended time, took Jaehaerys' hand, their bond enduring beyond the confines of mortality. The spectral gathering moved with an otherworldly grace, heading toward the dragons that awaited them.

As they walked, Jaehaerys turned to Aegon, his elder brother whose memory held the echoes of mentorship and guidance. "Mother is looking for you," Jaehaerys declared, a smile playing on his lips.

Aegon, with his distinctive purple eyes and silver hair, turned back with a mischievous glint. "We planned on riding our dragons together," he proclaimed, the camaraderie of siblings echoing through the vision.

However, Jaehaerys hesitated, a moment of introspection that caught the attention of Aegon and Alysanne. With furrowed brows, they inquired about the source of his contemplation. "Are you alright, Jaehaerys?" she asked him as she touched his shoulder.

"I had a dream," Jaehaerys confessed, his voice carrying the weight of revelation. "A dream where I was old."

The admission lingered in the air, a whisper of foresight that transcended the boundaries of time. In the dreamlike tapestry of their gathering, the vision of an aged Jaehaerys held a peculiar resonance. The dragons awaited, and the future stretched out before them, a realm where the boundaries between past, present, and dreams became blurred.

Daemon Targaryen

In a room heavy with the lingering presence of the departed king, Daemon Targaryen burst in, his urgent steps echoing through the hallowed halls. His eyes, filled with a mix of concern and sorrow, sought out his son, Aemon, the young Targaryen who had witnessed Jaehaerys' final moments.

As Daemon approached, he found Aemon holding the hand of the late king, the silent witness to the passing of an era. Without a word, Daemon enveloped his son in a tight embrace, a silent acknowledgment of the shared loss that bound them as father and son.

In the midst of the embrace, Daemon attempted to decipher the words that escaped Aemon's lips. Amidst the muffled sobs and the weight of unspoken grief, he discerned a peculiar revelation – Jaehaerys had beaten Aemon at the game of cyvasse.

The revelation, an unexpected anecdote in the midst of profound sorrow, drew Daemon's attention to the cyvasse board that stood as a testament to the final moments shared between Jaehaerys and Aemon. A brief inspection, however, revealed a subtlety that escaped immediate notice – Aemon could have won the game in numerous ways, many times over. The realization settled over Daemon like a shroud, an unspoken understanding.

In the silence that followed, Daemon, with a mix of pride and melancholy, recognized the depth of Aemon's sacrifice. The young Targaryen, in his quiet gesture, had allowed Jaehaerys the victory, a final act of love and respect that spoke volumes about the bonds that connected generations within House Targaryen.

In the aftermath of Jaehaerys Targaryen's passing, the Red Keep became a tumultuous sea of emotions, its waves crashing against the stoic walls that had borne witness to the rise and fall of kings. Among the somber echoes, the royal family grappled with the weight of grief, their individual tribulations etched upon their faces.

In the wake of Jaehaerys Targaryen's passing, the Red Keep became a hub of activity, a swirling mix of emotions that enveloped the royal family. Daemon Targaryen, though momentarily uplifted by the news of Aemon receiving Blackfyre, found himself navigating the complex currents of grief and familial duty.

The revelation that Aemon now wielded the legendary sword, Blackfyre, stirred a sense of pride within Daemon. The Valyrian steel, a symbol of Targaryen's power and legacy, had passed into the hands of a new generation. In the midst of sorrow, Daemon's thoughts turned toward the potential for renewal and strength that such a symbol could bring.

The days that followed became a blur of somber rituals and hurried preparations. Viserys, amidst the debates and disagreements that swirled within the court, allowed Aemon to retain Blackfyre, citing it as the dying wish of the Old King. Otto Hightower, a voice of dissent, argued against the decision, but Viserys stood firm.

Daemon, observing the unfolding events, harbored mixed emotions for his late grandfather. While familial bonds compelled a degree of sympathy, Daemon's true concern lay with the preservation of Targaryen's strength and legacy. With Blackfyre in Aemon's hands, a new chapter seemed poised to unfold.

Daemon contemplated the ways in which he could distract Aemon from the weight of grief. The notion of sparring, of engaging in physical combat as a means of catharsis, crossed his mind. It became a potential avenue to channel the young Targaryen's emotions and redirect his focus towards the resilience of the family.

The somber hill outside the Red Keep, bathed in the muted hues of a gray sky, served as the stage for the farewell to Jaehaerys Targaryen, the Old King. A week after his passing, the lords and ladies of the Crownlands gathered to mourn the monarch who had ruled for decades. House Velaryon stood in solidarity, their presence a testament to the interconnected web of noble alliances. Daemon did not recall whether Rhaenys had shed a tear or not.

Clad in garments of mourning, the lords and ladies, Targaryens and their bannermen alike, donned solemn black attire. The air hung heavy with grief, an intangible veil that draped over the assembled mourners, each step on the hill bearing the weight of collective loss.

As the mourners surrounded the pyre, a silent procession of grief, the wind carried murmurs of shared memories and whispered tales. The Red Keep, a silent observer, cast a stoic shadow over the proceedings.

Amidst the somber assembly, a question of great import surfaced – who would be the one to ignite the funeral pyre? Daemon, recognizing the deep bond between Aemon and the Old King, suggested that Aemon be the one to carry out the solemn duty. Otto Hightower, ever mindful of protocol and succession, argued that it should fall to King Viserys, the rightful successor.

The debate, a subtle undercurrent in the mourning air, echoed the complexities of royal tradition and familial ties. In the end, Viserys, the newly-crowned king, stepped forward with a resolve tempered by the weight of his new responsibilities.

A subtle nudge from Aemon, Daemon's son, redirected his focus to the pyre where the Old King rested, a reminder of the solemnity of the occasion. Daemon, feeling the warmth of Aemon's presence, rubbed his son's hair and held him close, a silent assurance in the face of grief.

In the midst of the poignant scene, Aemon, grappling with the profound questions that death often evoked, turned to Daemon. "Why do the gods let good people die?" he asked, his innocent curiosity seeking solace.

Daemon wondered if he should be gentle with his son, but his son was strong; his son had won battles and war, and his son could take the truth just as Lyanna would have. His son was strong like his late wife, and Daemon would not speak to him like a child but as a prince of the realm, a man grew, a man that Daemon knew Aemon was, even if he was in the form of a child.

Daemon, uncharacteristically blunt, responded with a raw truth that transcended the veneer of societal reverence. "Because the gods are all c*nts, that's why they are gods," he declared a stark acknowledgment of the harsh realities that life, death, and the divine often presented. Aemon, perhaps finding a measure of comfort in the bluntness of truth, accepted the response with a silent nod.

Turning his gaze towards his grieving aunts, Daemon noticed Aemon's mirrored expression of sorrow. As Aemon asked if he could go to them, Daemon, with a gentle nod, granted his son permission. Aemon, now free to navigate the currents of familial grief, walked towards his aunts with a determined stride, ready to offer comfort and share in their shared pain. The silent conversations, the tears, and the unspoken connections were shown as the girls hugged Aemon and wept on his shoulder.

Viserys, now the reigning monarch, led Sheepstealer to the funeral pyre with a solemnity befitting the occasion. The dragon, a creature of earthy brown scales and formidable strength, stood in stark contrast to the more majestic and resplendent dragons of House Targaryen's history. As Sheepstealer loomed over the pyre, the air filled with a sense of anticipation.

With a voice just above a whisper, Viserys uttered the word "Dracarys," a command that carried the weight of ancient traditions and the legacy of Targaryen kings. The great dragon responded, breathing forth its muddy brown flames upon the pyre that cradled the Old King's body.

The flames, a fusion of earthy hues and the vibrant reds and oranges of fire danced and crackled as they consumed the silks and memories of a lifetime. The pyre now ablaze.

Daemon, his gaze fixed upon the pyre, watched as the flames flickered and swayed. The crackling of the fire seemed to echo the finality of the moment, a symphony of farewell to a king who had shaped the destiny of House Targaryen.

In the hallowed silence that followed, the hill outside the Red Keep held the remnants of the pyre and the lingering memories of an era now consigned to flames. The flames, carrying with them the essence of Jaehaerys Targaryen, cast a flickering glow upon the faces of those who had gathered to mourn, leaving an indelible imprint on the collective consciousness of House Targaryen.

The funeral pyre, now fully ablaze, cast a somber and ethereal glow upon the gathered mourners. As the flames consumed the pyre, the air became thick with the scent of burning wood and the visual symphony of flickering lights and shadows played across the faces of those in attendance.

The crowd, a sea of bowed heads and clasped hands watched the transformative power of fire as it devoured the remnants of a once-mighty ruler. Each crackle of the flames seemed to echo the memories of a lifetime, the highs and lows of the Old King's reign dissipating into the night sky.

Aemon, having sought solace among his aunts, exchanged embraces and shared silent tears, the warmth of familial bonds providing a fleeting respite from the chill of loss. The emotions were palpable in the air, a shared mourning that transcended the boundaries of noble lineage and rank.

The Targaryen dragons, perched stoically in the background, observed the proceedings with a regal indifference. Sheepstealer, having performed its somber duty, maintained a watchful gaze, its eyes reflecting the flickering flames. The dragons, ancient symbols of power, seemed to share in the collective sorrow that enveloped the hill.

Viserys, the newly crowned king, stood beside the pyre, his gaze fixed upon the flames. The responsibilities of leadership now rested heavily upon his shoulders, and the funeral served as both a farewell to the past and a heralding of a new era for House Targaryen.

The flames continued to dance, their orange and red hues blending into the inky night sky. The crackling of the fire became a backdrop to the whispered conversations and quiet sobs of the mourners. In the silence that followed, the remnants of the pyre became a poignant reminder of the impermanence of life and the indomitable spirit of House Targaryen.

As the last embers flickered and faded, the mourners, their hearts heavy with grief, slowly dispersed. The hill outside the Red Keep, now quiet and bathed in the moonlight, retained the echoes of a funeral that marked the end of an era and the beginning of a new chapter for the storied house of dragons.

As the flames continued to crackle and cast their warm glow, Daemon Targaryen found his attention drawn toward a soft, melodic sound that began to permeate the air. Turning, he discovered the source of the hauntingly beautiful music – his son, Aemon.

Aemon stood amidst the gathering, his voice carrying a tune that Daemon did not recognize, yet its haunting melody resonated with a poignant grace. It was a song known to his aunts and niece, one that held a significance that went beyond the notes and lyrics.

The verses of the song unfolded, a lament that spoke of love, loss, and the passage of time. Daemon watched as each of his aunts and his niece, one by one, joined in the chorus, their voices weaving a tapestry of shared sorrow and remembrance.

The hill outside the Red Keep, once the stage for the funeral pyre, became an impromptu amphitheater where the Targaryen women, bonded by blood and the weight of their shared heritage, lent their voices to the song. Aemon, standing among the women of his family, offered his own rendition, a testament to the resilience that youth brought to the face of loss.

Daemon, listening to the mournful strains of the song, felt a bittersweet pang in his heart. The music became a vessel through which the collective grief of House Targaryen found expression, a cathartic release amidst the embers of the funeral pyre.

As the last notes hung in the air, the hill fell silent once more. The flames, now reduced to gentle embers, provided a backdrop to the shared sorrow and the echoes of a song that lingered like a spectral presence in the night. The Targaryen family, bound by both love and loss, stood united beneath the moonlight, finding solace in the communion of their voices and the ageless melodies that transcended the boundaries of time. The flames crackled ever slightly as they mostly died out.

High in the halls of the kings who are gone

Jenny would dance with her ghosts

The ones she had lost and the ones she had found

And the ones who had loved her the most

The ones who'd been gone for so very long

She couldn't remember their names

They spun her around on the damp old stones

Spun away all her sorrow and pain

And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave

Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave

Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave

They danced through the day

And into the night through the snow that swept through the hall

From winter to summer then winter again

'Til the walls did crumble and fall

And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave

Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave

And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave

And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave

High in the halls of the kings who are gone

Jenny would dance with her ghosts

The ones she had lost and the ones she had found

And the ones

Who had loved her the most

Chapter 19: A New King, A New Tourney

Chapter Text

Harrenhall 104 AC

Corlys Velaryon

Corlys Velaryon, the Lord of the Tides, arrived at Harrenhal with a storm of wrath brewing within him. His journey had taken him from the hallowed halls of the Red Keep, and as he approached the imposing walls of Harrenhal, his anger grew with every step. The occasion was grand—a celebration of King Viserys Targaryen's coronation, marked by a majestic tourney meticulously planned over the past three moons.

Yet, Corlys' arrival was marred by the bitter taste of delay, a delay attributed to one man in particular—the Hand of the King, Lord Otto Hightower. The corridors of Harrenhal, usually filled with the sounds of celebration and anticipation, now echoed with the ominous undercurrent of a Velaryon lord scorned.

The grand tourney, conceived to commemorate the ascension of King Viserys, had been a beacon of excitement for lords and ladies across the realm. Harrenhal, a colossal fortress with a history as storied as any, stood as the perfect backdrop for such a momentous occasion.

However, as Corlys entered the grand halls of Harrenhal, the festivities seemed to take on a muted quality. The air buzzed with tension, and the anticipation that should have been a crescendo of joy was dampened by the Lord of the Tides' late arrival.

Corlys, clad in the regal sea greens and silvers of House Velaryon, cut an imposing figure as he moved through the crowds of nobles. The stormy expression on his face spoke volumes of the frustration and anger that simmered beneath the surface.

His anger towards Otto Hightower was due to the meeting he had just had with the Lord Hand just before coming to Harrenhal. The subject was the marriage between Aemon Targaryen and Corlys' daughter, Laena Velaryon. Initially, Corlys had welcomed the discussion, anticipating that it would shed light on the intricacies of the wedding. This alliance had been forged with the potential to bind two noble houses. The two greatest of the three remaining Valyrian Houses.

However, the conversation took an unexpected turn, plunging into the depths of political maneuvering and the intricacies of Targaryen's legacy. Lord Otto, the Hand of the King, rained dragon fire on Corlys' victory of betrothed for his daughter, which would become the catalyst for Corlys' ire—the Crown did not, and would not, recognize the marriage between Aemon and Laena as valid.

The reason, as explained by Otto, rested on the technicalities of the wedding's origins. The late King Jaehaerys and Aemon's father, Daemon, had not played a direct role in forming the betrothal. According to Otto, this lack of direct involvement rendered the betrothal unrecognized and, in the eyes of the Crown, non-binding.

Corlys, incredulous and betrayed, demanded an explanation for such a consequential decision. The news shattered his expectations for the union between his House and the Targaryens. Once a hopeful exploration of alliances, the conversation now stood as a betrayal of the very conversation he had with the late Prince Baelon. Corlys should not have expected anything less than this; however, he had been distrusting Baelon's words from the beginning. He could not trust the man who took his wife's position of heir to the Iron Throne.

As the realization sank in, Corlys' anger smoldered beneath the surface, fueled by the perceived betrayal of trust and the implications this revelation held for the future of House Velaryon. The Red Keep, a witness to many a political maneuver, now bore witness to the unfolding drama that threatened to cast a shadow over the celebratory atmosphere that awaited in Harrenhal. Corlys was a second away from asking his wife to feed the man to her dragon.

Lord Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, remained unyielding in his stance. He argued that the late Prince Baelon, while influential, lacked the authority to act as the head of House Targaryen, nor was he Aemon's father, meaning he had no right to make the betrothal in the first place. In the intricate dance of Targaryen politics, it was asserted that only the head of the house or the reigning monarch could legitimately organize such significant unions.

The revelation struck a blow to Corlys' hopes, and his frustration deepened as Otto confirmed that the Crown was actively exploring alternative paths for Aemon Targaryen's future betrothal. The realization that the betrothal had not gained the support of the reigning monarch, King Viserys, further dampened Corlys' chances of securing the union between House Velaryon and House Targaryen.

Corlys, unwilling to accept defeat, voiced his intent to bring the matter directly before the king himself. However, Otto countered with the argument that King Viserys was preoccupied with the upcoming tourney and addressing the heightened Greyjoy activity that Corlys had brought to the Small Council's attention. It seemed that the meeting with Otto was granted out of respect for Corlys' status rather than a genuine commitment to promptly resolve the matter.

Despite Corlys' insistence and unwavering belief in the righteousness of the betrothal, Otto proved to be a capable adversary; every protest Corlys gave was countered with no room for debate. The absence of concrete support from both Daemon and King Viserys cast a shadow of uncertainty over the fate of the union between Aemon and Laena. As the contentious meeting drew close, Corlys left the chambers with a sense of disquiet. The echoes of the debate lingered in the air, and the weight of unresolved matters added an undercurrent of unease to the impending festivities at Harrenhal.

Harrenhal, the colossal fortress that stood as both a testament to the grandeur of House Strong and a symbol of the struggles that had unfolded within its shadowy halls, now played host to a spectacle that rivaled the Grand Council of 101 AC. The tourney in celebration of King Viserys Targaryen's coronation had drawn lords and ladies from every corner of the realm, their entourages transforming the ancient castle and its surroundings into a vibrant tapestry of color, heraldry, and ambition.

The atmosphere within Harrenhal was palpable, charged with a potent mix of excitement, ambition, and trepidation. The walls, which had witnessed countless intrigues and power struggles, now echoed with the vibrant energy of a thousand voices, each Lord and lady with their agendas and aspirations converging for this momentous occasion.

The expansive and daunting castle grounds teemed with the attendees' lively activities. Pavilions and tents, adorned with the sigils and colors of noble houses, sprawled across the landscape, creating a visual symphony of heraldry that danced in the breeze. The air buzzed with the sound of polished armor, the clatter of horses' hooves on cobblestone, and the hum of whispered conversations that hinted at alliances, rivalries, and the intricate dance of courtly intrigue.

As the sun painted the sky with hues of amber and gold, the jousting lists, a focal point of the festivities, stood proudly at the center of the castle grounds. Knights in shining armor, their banners billowing in the wind, prepared for the challenges that awaited them. The crowd, a sea of faces representing the diversity of Westeros, gathered around the lists, their collective gaze fixed on the imminent clashes that would unfold in the name of honor, glory, and the king's favor.

The grandeur of the tourney extended beyond the lists, with various other events and competitions capturing the attention of the attendees. Melee fights, archery contests, and displays of martial prowess unfolded in different corners of Harrenhal, offering a spectacle for those who sought the thrill of combat and the mastery of skill.

In the courtyards and feasting tents, the lords and ladies indulged in the splendors of Westerosii cuisine and wine, forging connections and alliances amid the revelry. Musicians played melodies that echoed through the air, and jesters entertained with their antics, creating an ambiance that transcended the political tensions and fostered a sense of communal celebration.

The assembly at Harrenhal, a gathering that transcended the boundaries of individual Houses and regions, became a living testament to the resilience of the realm and the shared desire for unity under the rule of King Viserys. The ancient fortress, once a witness to the shadows of power, now stood as a stage for the grand theater of Westerosii politics and the timeless pursuit of glory, honor, and the favor of the Crown.

The periphery of Harrenhal, once a quiet backdrop to the imposing structure, had transformed into a bustling marketplace as merchants seized the economic opportunities presented by the grand gathering. Like a caravan of ambition, hundreds of stalls and carts laden with exotic goods and essential supplies sprawled across the castle's outskirts, creating a vibrant commerce tapestry that added vibrancy to the proceedings.

The air was alive with the heady blend of scents that wafted from the market stalls—spices from distant lands, the rich aroma of well-tanned leather, and the comforting warmth of freshly baked bread. The shrewd and perceptive merchants recognized the potential for profit amid the convergence of lords, ladies, and commoners and eagerly displayed their wares, beckoning attendees to engage in the age-old art of barter and trade.

Hedge knights and free riders, drawn by the promise of employment and the glint of gold, assembled on the fringes of the marketplace. Clad in mismatched armor and wielding swords of varying conditions, they sought lords willing to pay for their services, hoping to be chosen to fight in the conflicts that often erupted during such monumental gatherings.

Amid the vibrant array of goods and the clamor of negotiations, women and young girls, dressed in their finest garments, arrived with the aspirations of securing powerful and advantageous marriages. Their presence added a layer of romantic tension to the market as lords and heirs discreetly observed the offerings presented before them, contemplating the potential alliances that could be forged in the crucible of courtship.

Laughter and flirtation wafted as romantic liaisons blossomed amid the political maneuvering. The marketplace became a stage for the delicate dance of courtship, where potential matches were assessed, and the future of noble houses hung in the balance.

Against this backdrop of commerce and romantic intrigue, bards and actors sought to capture the attention of the assembled masses. Their performances, ranging from stirring ballads of heroism and love to humorous plays that offered satirical glimpses into courtly life, provided moments of respite from the weighty discussions within Harrenhal's halls. The notes of harps and the echoes of laughter became a counterpoint to the gravity of the council sessions. The marketplace, a microcosm of Westerosii society, thrived with the convergence of ambition, desire, and the timeless pursuit of profit and pleasure.

Several dragon roars broke Corlys from his thoughts as he slowly walked to the window and looked outside. A break in the contemplative silence came as the skies above Harrenhal erupted with the awe-inspiring spectacle of dragons in flight. The majestic creatures, each bearing a Targaryen princess astride, painted the heavens with their elegant dance. Viserra, Aerea, Rhaella, Daenerys, Saera, and Maegella, astride their scaled steeds, soared through the air, a dazzling display of power and grace that captured the attention of those below.

Corlys was used to seeing his lady wife ride her dragon, Meleys the Red Queen, but seeing so many dragons in flight at once, never had there been as many dragon riders as there have been now since the fall of Valyria. The six princesses alone outnumbered the number of dragon riders in the first forty years of Targaryen rule. Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys were only three, and Aenys only claimed his years after his mother's death, Maegor claimed Aegon's mount, Aegon the Uncrowned claimed Aenys' mount after the King had died. Watching six dragons flying in the skies was a treat he doubted any person living had ever seen before.

Corlys' wife Rhaenys rode a dragon; yes, so did his son, but his daughter did not. Laenor gained his dragon, Seasmoke, the same year as when the Lords took away the throne, which should have been his by right, but Laenor had yet to ride his, and here the princess where, some of the youngest dragon riders in recorded history, flying overhead without a care in the world.

The dragons flipped and twirled as they flew and nipped at one another's heels. Some would fly high into the skies and stop flying to give way to a steep, fast drop towards the ground. Corlys had not seen any breathe fire as of yet, and most of the sounds were trills and high squeaks rather than deep threatening bellows and roars. Corlys thought it might best to convince Laenor to go on Seasmoke, despite not riding yet, either ride with the princess or convince them to give him riding lessons. Corlys may have lost one Targaryen betrothal, but finding another for his son to secure further dragon riders for House Velaryon would be for the best.

As Corlys leaned against the window, captivated by the aerial ballet, a thunderous roar echoed through the skies, a sound more ancient and ominous as the castle that cradled it. Balerion the Black Dread, the colossal and formidable dragon, soared into view, his shadow casting a sense of awe upon all who beheld him. The smaller dragons joined him in the dance, their nimble forms attempting to match the sheer might of the legendary beast.

Corlys, standing witness to the celestial display, couldn't help but marvel at the improbable union of a young boy and the most fearsome dragon in Targaryen history. Aemon Targaryen, a mere child of seven, had become the master of Balerion the Black Dread, a creature whose legend surpassed that of any other dragon in recorded history.

The astonishment that gripped Corlys' soul mingled with a tinge of regret as he recalled the betrothal that had promised to bind his house with the mighty Targaryens. The abrupt cancellation of the union, orchestrated by Otto Hightower, had cast a shadow over the once-promising alliance. Corlys, at that moment, watched the dragons soar.

As the dragons continued their dance, the once-celebratory air of Harrenhal now echoed with the bittersweet melody of what might have been—a betrothal severed, a dragon untamed, and a realm entangled in the intricate threads of fate. Corlys Velaryon stood by the window, his gaze fixed on the soaring form of Balerion and the young rider, Aemon Targaryen, who had tamed the legendary Black Dread.

His mind, however, lingered on the events unfolding within the castle grounds. Just an hour ago, Corlys had observed Aemon diligently training in the yard, a testament to the young prince's commitment to honing his martial skills. The image of the boy, with a blunted tourney sword in hand, showcased a prowess that surpassed his years. It was a scene that foreshadowed the potential outcome of a new event at the tourney—a Squire's Tourney, proposed by Prince Daemon and enthusiastically endorsed by King Viserys. But Corlys noticed Aemon had been training with his left hand; he had thought, from Laenor's observing, that Aemon was right-handed, curious.

The concept of the Squire's Tourney had spread like wildfire, drawing eager participants from different corners of the kingdom. Prince Daemon, with the authority bestowed upon him by King Viserys, had organized the event, and the anticipation among the squires and pages was palpable. The rules, carefully crafted to ensure fairness and safety, stipulated that all participants must be younger than twelve, and the weapons used must be blunted tourney swords.

The novelty of the Squire's Tourney had captivated the imaginations of those gathered at Harrenhal, and whispers of excitement rippled through the castle. Corlys, like many others, believed that Aemon Targaryen would effortlessly claim victory. The young prince's training had not gone unnoticed, and his innate skill with the sword, coupled with the advantage of riding Balerion, made him the formidable favorite.

As the sun cast its golden glow over the castle, casting long shadows that hinted at the impending spectacle, Corlys couldn't help but wonder about the implications of this event. Beyond the display of martial prowess, the Squire's Tourney represented a subtle undercurrent of influence and power within the royal family, orchestrated by Prince Daemon with ambitions that extended beyond the tourney grounds. Daemon wished to show off his son, mayhaps to show that through his line, the royal family would be secure, mayhaps due to Daemon being a proud father? Corlys could not tell yet.

The air within Harrenhal buzzed with anticipation, the clash of blunted swords and the cheers of the crowd echoing in the minds of those who bore witness to the unfolding drama. The Squire's Tourney, a blend of competition and political maneuvering, promised to be a chapter in the ongoing saga of Westeros—a tale that would be etched into the annals of history, just like the dragons that graced the skies above.

In the wake of the looming Squire's Tourney, Corlys Velaryon felt a surge of determination to ensure that his son, Laenor, would stand as a formidable contender. The whispers of Aemon Targaryen's legendary feat against the wildling army had spread across the realm, creating an aura of awe around the young prince. While skepticism lingered in some quarters, those who paid attention knew that Aemon's skills with the sword were exceptional for a boy of his age.

Corlys, ever the astute strategist, recognized the importance of preparing Laenor for the upcoming contest. A sense of rivalry had ignited within him, fueled not only by the desire to see his son succeed but also to prove that House Velaryon could produce a warrior worthy of challenging the prowess of the Targaryens.

In response, Corlys instructed Laenor's tutors to intensify the young boy's training regimen, doubling their efforts to hone his swordsmanship. The looming competition against Aemon Targaryen demanded nothing short of excellence from Laenor, and Corlys was determined to ensure that his son would not be outshone. Corlys sought to level the playing field.

As the days led up to the Squire's Tourney, the atmosphere at Harrenhal crackled with anticipation. The courtyard became a training ground, echoing with the clash of swords and the determined footsteps of squires preparing for the upcoming contest. Corlys watched Laenor's progress closely, his focus unwavering as he navigated the delicate balance of encouraging his son's growth while instilling in him the determination to face formidable adversaries.

In the corridors of Harrenhal, conversations buzzed with speculation about the outcome of the tourney. Aemon Targaryen, hailed as the favorite by many, stood as the epitome of youthful prowess. Yet, Corlys Velaryon, guided by a father's ambition and a lord's pride, aimed to carve a place for Laenor among the contenders. The clash of blunted swords in the Squire's Tourney promised not only a display of martial skill but also a subtle game of political maneuvering within the intricate tapestry of Westerosi society.

With a heavy sigh, Corlys Velaryon turned away from the window overlooking the majestic display of dragons in flight. The princesses, astride their scaly steeds, danced through the skies with Prince Aemon, creating a spectacle that transcended the boundaries of ordinary existence. Yet, the weight of reality pressed upon Corlys as he contemplated the rumors surrounding Aemon Targaryen's unconventional training methods. The boy did not care for the tourney much if he stopped training but an hour later to ride dragons with the princesses.

Corlys had heard from Ser Harrold that Aemon practiced with a blunted sword five times heavier than the average weapon, which sparked a flicker of irritation within Corlys. The relentless pursuit of excellence by the young prince seemed to demand a level of preparation that bordered on the extraordinary. A hint of frustration crept into Corlys's thoughts as he considered the adjustments that needed to be made to ensure Laenor's chances in the upcoming Squire's Tourney.

In the corridors of Harrenhal, Corlys made his way toward the training grounds where Laenor would be practicing. The echoes of clashing swords and the rhythmic footfalls of squires resonated through the castle, creating a symphony of preparation for the imminent contest. As Corlys approached, he pondered the possibility of having Laenor train with blades of equal weight to those favored by Aemon.

The feast held at Harrenhal that night unfolded with an atmosphere of revelry and high spirits. King Viserys Targaryen, a man not particularly renowned for his prowess in battle, found delight in the prospect of witnessing men engaged in combat. The fervor of the upcoming Squire's Tourney seemed to animate the king, infusing the event with a contagious energy that permeated the entire hall.

Seated in close proximity to the high table, Corlys Velaryon and his family were privy to the lively exchanges between King Viserys and Queen Aemma. Laughter and conversation flowed freely, reflecting the unity of the Targaryen court. Prince Aemon, surrounded by his aunts—Princesses Viserra, Aerea, Rhaella, Daenerys, Saera, and Maegella shows little emotion.

His eyes were cold, his emotion stoic. Corlys could not find a trait that named him Targaryen save for his dragon. The boy may have had the higher cheekbones of a Valryian, and he could pick out a feature or two from Daemon, but the boy was a Stark. He made no emotion; it was as though he never had one, except for a brooding sadness. He did not look Valryian; if anything, the boy was merely the most comely northern boy that there ever could be. The boy may have had the otherworldly beauty of a Targaryen, but he did not look Targaryen. Laenor could pass for one instead.

Laenor had the coloring and high cheekbones. Laenor looked Valryian, and yet the royal family dared cancel a betrothal between his purebred daughter of unimpeachable Valryain stock. Aemon Targaryen was nothing more than a Stark who could ride a dragon. Nothing more, nothing less.

A Stark in looks. A Stark in his walking and solemness. A Stark in character. The boy was ice-made flesh, while half of his aunts had the fire of Valryians, the other half timid as they laughed and prodded at Aemon. All Targaryens had a spark that made people drawn to them, and while Aemon rarely spoke, listening more than speaking, people were drawn.

When he made a single joke, a single half smile so slim that it was barely there for a flicker of a candle flame, all looked to him; all were ripped from their conversations to listen to the joke that was not even funny for a child. The boy had the fire in him of a Targaryen, buried too deep for anyone to notice until they were already enamored. But he had this fire behind sad eyes and a brooding face. The boy could sing in a sad tone, and women would weep and wish to be the reason to make him happy once more. Daemon Targaryen had made his son into the perfect weapon that would help him make a path to the Iron Throne with no one to question it. Aemon Targaryen was Corlys's best chance at the Iron Throne, and now he had changed tactics.

Observing the dynamics of the room, Corlys noted the interactions between Princess Rhaenyra and Alicent Hightower, the daughter of Otto Hightower. The alliances and connections formed during such gatherings were as crucial to the game of thrones as the jousts and melees that captivated the assembly.

Meanwhile, Prince Daemon, a figure known for his astuteness and strategic thinking, remained contemplative. His silence suggested a keen observation of the room, perhaps assessing the potential competition for the upcoming jousting and melees. Corlys had caught wind of Prince Daemon's arrangement with Ser Harrold Westerling, allowing Aemon to serve as both Ser Westerling's and Daemon's squire during the jousts—a strategic move aimed at imparting wisdom and guidance to the young prince between bouts. Corlys did not know how Daemon was able to begin grooming his son's position to be as elevated as it was without even being there for most of the boy's life, especially since the boy was so young, but Daemon had a skill that Corlys could not refute. That skill was left unchecked since no one had spies to oversee him at Summerhall, and many dismissed him for Viserys and any future children he may have.

As the feast unfolded, the melding of laughter, conversation, and anticipation created a tapestry of courtly intrigue. The grand hall of Harrenhal echoed with the echoes of celebration, setting the stage for both revelry and the impending clash of arms that would define the Squire's Tourney. Corlys saw his children speaking to the children of his own men; while happy they were entertained, he vowed to see his children at the high table, equal to the Targaryens.

Viserys Targaryen

King Viserys Targaryen occupied the high seats of the stadium, his gaze sweeping over the sprawling stadium that stretched before him, filled to the brim with thousands of eager spectators. The anticipation in the air was palpable, a culmination of weeks of preparation leading to this grand event—the Squire's Tourney. Viserys sat surrounded by his family, a regal presence overseeing the spectacle that was about to unfold.

His eyes traversed the assembled crowds, a sea of faces that represented the diverse tapestry of Westeros. The turnout exceeded his expectations, a testament to the careful planning and execution of the grand tourney. The absence of the Iron Islands did not surprise him, given the simmering tensions that had cast a shadow over their relations. Yet, the unexpected presence of Northern houses, including House Stark, intrigued the king.

Aemon's influence on the small council had played a pivotal role in fostering better relations between the North and the South. The fact that some Northern lords found solace in the kinship of their prince, who bore the blood of the North, hinted at the potential for unity beyond traditional divides. Viserys mused on the intricate interplay of alliances and loyalties, recognizing that the dynamics within his realm were as complex and intricate as the threads of a tapestry.

As the king surveyed the panorama before him, a sense of satisfaction washed over him. The stadium echoed with the hum of expectation, a symphony of whispers and murmurs that hinted at the unfolding drama about to grace the tourney grounds. At this moment, King Viserys Targaryen, seated on the precipice of history, awaited the commencement of the Squire's Tourney—a spectacle that would not only showcase the prowess of the realm's young knights but also serve as a canvas upon which the aspirations and alliances of Westeros would be painted.

King Viserys Targaryen, tired of the superficial niceties and greetings, found himself growing weary of the political posturing that accompanied such grand events. The Tyrells, by comparison, had managed to navigate the social niceties with grace. However, the Tullys, with their apparent disdain, drew the king's ire.

The marriage alliances between the Tullys and the Hightowers had not served to mend the rift as Viserys had hoped. The Tullys still regarded the royal family with a haughty demeanor; their desire for retribution simmered just beneath the surface. The intricacies of courtly relationships often concealed simmering tensions, and Viserys could feel the undercurrents of animosity between the royal family and the Tullys, or at least between the Tullys and Daemon and Aemon.

The Lords of the Vale, known for their sense of superiority, were not immune to the king's scrutiny. Yet, Viserys acknowledged that their elevated status was earned through a history of martial prowess and strategic acumen. The Tullys, on the other hand, seemed to draw their pride from more recent alliances rather than personal achievements, further fueling the king's discontent.

Marriages, enforced or not, had done little to foster goodwill, and the tensions between the royal family and certain noble houses persisted. As the social intricacies of the tourney unfolded, King Viserys Targaryen couldn't help but lament the ever-present undercurrents of political discord that permeated the realm he sought to govern.

King Viserys Targaryen's gaze shifted across the assembled company, finding solace in the joyous interactions of his family. Queen Aemma, by his side, radiated regal grace, and Princess Rhaenyra's laughter intertwined with Lady Alicent's conversation, creating a tableau of familial warmth. His brother, Daemon, shared camaraderie with his son Aemon, their laughter and discussions were something Viserys wished for any sons he may have in the future.

Viserys' eyes then turned to his aunts, the young Princesses Viserra, Aerea, Rhaella, Daenerys, Saera, and Maegella. Their animated gestures and gossiping added a lively touch to the royal gathering, infusing the air with the energy of their youthful exuberance. The king reveled in the familial ties that surrounded him, finding comfort in the unity of his kin amid the grandeur of the tourney.

As the festivities continued, a parchment was handed to Aemon, the King's cupbearer, who dutifully brought it to King Viserys. The parchment contained the proclamation for the tourney, a reminder of the purpose and grandeur of the gathering. Viserys took a moment to peruse the words, his eyes scanning the details of the events that would unfold in the coming days. The weight of responsibility mingled with the excitement of the tourney, and Viserys acknowledged the significance of the moment.

With the proclamation in hand, the king felt a renewed sense of purpose. The grand tourney, with all its pageantry and competitive spirit, symbolized the unity and strength of the realm. As the festivities unfolded, Viserys Targaryen, surrounded by family and nobles alike, prepared to preside over the events that would captivate the hearts and minds of Westeros.

Viserys took a deep breath. Being the King to follow up the Conciliator was something no Targaryen would ever wish to be, and yet here he was. Yes, he was king, and yes, he would do everything in his power to prove himself a worthy king. It was not a grand thing to follow right after the man who was without a doubt the best in their family histories, a better king than the conqueror himself. Aegon may have been a grand conqueror, but a good conqueror did not always make for the greatest of kings.

King Jaehaerys was a great king, and Viserys planned to continue such a legacy by following the man who had unified the realms together. Before Jaehaerys was born, the kingdoms were very different. They were conquered by Aegon, then ruled by a weak Aenys, then ruled by a cruel Maegor, both brothers sowing discontent in the realm that brought much infighting and difficulties, and then Jaehaerys had come and righted all the wrongs. It was no stretch to say that without King Jaehaerys, the realms would not be what it was today, and now Viserys needed to keep the realms at peace Jaehaerys and try to improve upon them so that he is not known as a stepping stone between Jaehaerys and potential better King in his son or his son's son.

King Viserys Targaryen stood at the high seats, parchment in hand, his eyes scanning the gathered multitude. The trumpets sounded, readying the crowd for the words of the King. He raised his hand, calling for attention, and the murmur of voices gradually faded. With a commanding presence, he addressed the assembly.

"Welcome, lords and ladies, knights and warriors, squires and bards! Welcome to Harrenhal, the grand stage for this momentous tourney," Viserys proclaimed, his voice carrying across the bustling crowd. "Thank you to Lord Strong and his House for hosting us and helping us orchestrate such an event."

The crowd cheered, and the dragons roared in the distance as if knowing the need for theatrics. Viserys allowed the people to roar and cheer as they screamed in pride for House Targaryen and the hosts of House Strong. In truth, Viserys did not expect such a turnout, such a crowd, but he supposed that this being the first new king in over half a century was nursing was a grand event. He decided that he would play with the pride of each of the regions and use that to help increase further excitement.

"To our honored guests from the Vale of Arryn!" Viserys declared, turning his attention to the Vale lords. The Vale erupted in cheers, each shout resonating with pride. The Vale lords took pride in knowing that it was a Arryn who was queen. Viserys kept an eye on the young lady of the Vale, Aemma's cousin, as she smiled as her knights screamed and cheered.

"From the North, the resilient Starks!" The king's words echoed through the air, met with a resounding cheer from the Northern contingent. Viserys did not believe the North was coming, but he shouldn't be surprised since Aemon was of the North. Viserys was surprised that Lord Stark had stayed in Winterfell, and he sent his brother and nephews in his stead; more surprisingly, Aemon did not seem to like his great-uncle or his cousins very much. Besides that, the Northern Lords had taken to Aemon splendidly, far better than Viserys had suspected, and that was telling. The Northern lords were more than rambunctious and far more rowdy than the other lords displayed, and in an odd way, it was endearing to Viserys.

"The Riverlands, under the banner of House Tully!" Viserys continued, and the Riverlords voiced their pride with boisterous acclaim. Viserys could see the Riverlords were far more numerous in number due to Harrenhal being in the Riverlands. Viserys had been slightly concerned that a lord or two may try and assassinate Daemon or Aemon and had secretly instructed the guards and the Kingsguard to keep an eye on the pair, not that either would take kindly to the idea of needing further protection, especially Daemon who would grow angrier still that Viserys might ever think he could not protect his own son.

"The West, with the might of House Lannister!" The cheers from the Westerlands echoed with a roar that matched their renowned lion sigil. The Western lords seemed to have had their competition with the Reach as usual and had tried to bring as many silken dresses and clothes, golden jewelry, and other accessories to showcase the vast wealth of the mountains filled with gold. Viserys wondered if his brother would try to skin himself a lion if they thought themselves too pompous. Lord Lannister was not here, nor was his heir, Ser Jason Lannister. Pride went with a Lannister like stink did with sh*t, but Lord Lannister was not there to celebrate with his people; no, Lord Lannister had declined and stayed at Casterly Rock.

"The beautiful Reach, with the kind hand of House Tyrell!" the Reach cheered and screamed as the knights slammed their arms into the air and leaped up to their feet. While the Tyrells should have been the ones, the people clapped and cheered the most alongside the Hightowers it seemed as though it was the Hightowers the other lords and knights gravitated to the most and cheered the loudest for, even if their names were not called upon. Viserys took note of that. Otto's time as Hand may have further increased his family position to surpass the number of connections over House Tyrell.

"And the Stormlands, proudly represented by House Baratheon!" The Stormlords shouted their allegiance, completing the ensemble of regional acclamation. The Stormlords were the only ones who cheered as much as the Northern Lords, almost just as rambunctious. The Stormlords roared and cheered as if they were storms themselves.

Viserys took a moment to emphasize the true purpose of the tourney. "This grand event is not only a celebration of my crowning but, more importantly, a tribute to the nearly sixty years of peace under the wise rule of the late King Jaehaerys Targaryen." As his words resonated, Viserys paused, allowing the significance of the moment to settle over the assembly. The air hummed with anticipation, and the king's proclamation marked the commencement of a tourney that would unfold in the shadow of both celebration and remembrance.

King Viserys Targaryen, with a warm smile, acknowledged the assembled lords and ladies, expressing his gratitude for their presence. He stood tall at the high seats, his eyes briefly locking onto his nephew Aemon, who had been a source of inspiration for the plans he was about to share.

"Thank you, my lords and ladies, for gracing Harrenhal with your presence. Your journey, though long and far, is deeply appreciated," Viserys began, his voice carrying across the vast audience. He spoke of his intentions as king, pledging to continue the legacy of King Jaehaerys' good work. As the crowd listened attentively, Viserys revealed his vision for the future. "I plan to enhance the roads King Jaehaerys has built and further improve the infrastructure of our kingdoms so that more tourneys can be had, so that our brave knights may prove themselves and your lands and their strengths. Together, we shall continue to unite the realm just as my esteemed grandfather had dreamed." The king's eyes sparkled with determination as he shared a bold aspiration. "I declare the beginning of a new era, the second age of dragons. Today, at this tourney, you are witnesses to the start of this epoch. Each one of you, lords and ladies alike is now a part of history. Future generations will tell tales of this day, and you will be remembered as those who ushered in a new era for our kingdoms."

With these words, the crowd erupted into cheers, the roars echoing through Harrenhal. The people celebrated, recognizing the significance of the moment and eagerly anticipating the start of the grand tourney. The air buzzed with excitement as the second age of dragons was declared, marking a momentous beginning for the realm. The dragons roared loudly, announcing their presence as they flew over the stadium.

The skies above Harrenhal were ablaze with the vibrant hues of dragons as they soared and played, a spectacle that captivated the hearts of those below. Rhaenyra's dragon, Syrax, painted the air with brilliant yellow scales, her powerful wings beating rhythmically as she danced through the azure expanse. Vēttir, the maroon-red dragon belonging to Viserra, twirled and cavorted around Syrax, nipping playfully at her heels in a display of draconic camaraderie.

Aerea's dragon, Dȳñes, moved with serene elegance, silver-platinum scales gleaming in the sunlight. Rhaella's dragon, Perzys, the warm sunset-orange hues of his scales catching the light, executed aerial acrobatics that mirrored the fleeting beauty of a summer evening. Daenerys' dragon, Averilla, adorned in deep purple and grape-colored scales, soared alongside Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, who trilled and sang, his crimson scales a stark contrast against the azure backdrop.

Maegella's dragon, Jēdar, blended into the sky with its light blue and sapphire coloring, disappearing amidst the clouds like a serene vision. Saera's dragon, Sōna, soared with ethereal grace, its white and pale scales blending seamlessly with the clouds. Viserys' dragon, Sheepstealer, stood out with its brown scales, a majestic presence in the skies. Meleys, fiery red like her elder brother Caraxes, roared with fierce independence, attempting to isolate herself from the group. Seasmoke, the smallest of the dragons, pale and delicate, trilled and sang, seeking attention from the others, but none paid heed to the seemingly overlooked dragon.

The dragons' roars and playful antics echoed through the air, creating a symphony of power and beauty. Each flap of wings, every twist and turn, was a testament to the majesty of these mythical creatures, and the crowds below were left in awe of the magnificent display unfolding above Harrenhal.

As the dragons danced and played in the expansive skies above Harrenhal, their majestic figures cast shadows that danced upon the ground below. The playful roars and trills of the dragons reverberated through the air, creating a symphony of raw power and mythical beauty. The crowd gathered in the tournament grounds, stood in awe, their eyes fixed on the spectacle unfolding above.

Cheers erupted from the onlookers as the dragons executed daring maneuvers, each movement a testament to their incredible strength and agility. The vibrant hues of their scales, illuminated by the sunlight, painted streaks of color across the canvas of the heavens. The dragons weaved and circled, their wings creating intricate patterns against the blue backdrop as if engaged in a celestial ballet.

A collective gasp swept through the crowd as the dragons dove and soared, their roars echoing through the air like thunderous applause. The sheer size and power of the creatures, combined with their graceful movements, left the spectators captivated and breathless. Children pointed with wide-eyed wonder while adults exchanged excited whispers about the awe-inspiring display.

The dragons, seemingly aware of the adoration below, continued their playful antics. Vēttir twirled around Syrax in an intricate dance, while Seasmoke's attempts to gain attention became a source of amusem*nt. Meleys' independent streak only added to her allure, making her fiery red scales stand out against the azure sky.

As the dragons continued their display, the atmosphere in Harrenhal became charged with a mixture of excitement and reverence. The people marveled at the creatures that had once been the harbingers of war, now engaged in a majestic performance high above the tournament grounds. The scene unfolded like a living painting, with the cheers of the crowd echoing as a chorus beneath the soaring dragons.

As the vibrant dance of the other dragons captured the attention of the onlookers, a sudden, thunderous roar reverberated through the air, drowning out all other sounds. All eyes turned upward to witness the awe-inspiring arrival of Balerion, the Black Dread. The colossal dragon soared majestically across the sky, his massive wings casting an ominous shadow that seemed to swallow the entire expanse of Harrenhal. All light was stolen by the shadow of the dragon of equal size as Hightower was tall.

Balerion's black scales, reflecting the sunlight in a way that made him almost indistinguishable from the shadows, created an imposing silhouette against the blue skies. The dragon's sheer size and power were emphasized as he eclipsed the sun itself, enveloping the tournament grounds in an otherworldly darkness. The air was filled with a collective gasp as Balerion's presence dominated the sky, his roar echoing like a proclamation of ancient might. The ground shaking from roar alone.

For nearly a full minute, the spectators stood in hushed silence, their gazes fixed on the colossal form of Balerion as he soared higher and higher, casting his shadow over the entirety of Harrenhal. Nearly for a full minute, there was nothing but shadow as Balerion flew across the land. The once vibrant scene was now transformed into an eerie twilight beneath the blackened wings of the legendary dragon. It was as if the very essence of darkness and power had manifested above, reminding all who beheld him of the ancient and formidable lineage of House Targaryen.

And then, as abruptly as he had arrived, Balerion continued his journey across the skies, leaving the tournament grounds bathed in blinding sunlight once more. The resumption of the natural daylight now intensified in its brilliance, marked the passing of a momentous spectacle that had left an indelible imprint on the hearts and minds of all who witnessed the shadow of Balerion, the Black Dread.

Chapter 20: The Tourney Begins

Chapter Text

Harrenhall 104 AC

Aemon Targaryen

As Aemon swung his sword against the training dummy, the memories of Harrenhal's history echoed in the back of his mind. The ruins of the colossal castle stood as a testament to the might of dragons, and now, Aemon found himself riding the very dragon that had played a significant role in the destruction of Harrenhal.

The Black Dread, Balerion, had once breathed fiery wrath upon the castle, melting the mighty stones and leaving the colossal structure in ruins. Aemon couldn't help but feel a peculiar connection to the history of Harrenhal, knowing that he was now astride the same dragon that had reshaped the destiny of the ancient castle.

Surrounded by the training yard, Aemon swung his sword with purpose, his moves deliberate and focused. Other boys, aged seven to twelve, practiced their skills around him, but Aemon was not engaged in mere displays of bravado. Instead, he heeded the advice of Ser Harrold and his father, Prince Daemon, opting for a heavier sword to build endurance and strength. He decided to continue with Jamie Lannister's advice from the life of Jon Snow and practiced with his left hand, not his primary hand.

Aemon did not use his dominant hand; no, it was his left he was using. A form of training that Jaime Lannister forced him to practice. Jaime had told Aemon in his life as Jon Snow that there was no more vulnerable a moment he felt until he was forced to use his less dominant hand and was no longer the Lion of Lannister but merely the one-handed Kingslayer. Aemon recalled hours in his life as Jon Snow, having his dominant hand tied behind his back and being forced to fight with his less dominant hand.

Harrenhal's training yard bustled with the sounds of clashing steel and the energetic voices of young squires. Aemon Targaryen, at the tender age of seven, found himself amid this youthful commotion. He stood beside a worn training dummy, its straw-stuffed form serving as a makeshift opponent for the young boys practicing their swordplay.

The air was filled with the metallic resonance of blunted tourney swords meeting their targets, accompanied by the occasional laughter and banter of the squires. Aemon, however, stood singularly focused on his training. In his hands, he wielded a sword that was noticeably heavier than his peers. It was a deliberate choice made by Ser Harrold Westerling and his father, Prince Daemon, to build the young prince's strength and endurance.

Aemon swung the weighted sword with determination, his small frame displaying surprising control over the unwieldy weapon. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead as he continued his relentless assault on the training dummy. The heavier blade required considerable effort to wield, but Aemon embraced the challenge, pushing himself to develop the strength that would serve him well in the future.

Surrounded by boys of varying ages, Aemon remained undeterred in his pursuit of mastery. His father's teachings echoed in his mind, urging him to embrace the training difficulties. The other squires might have showcased flashy moves, but Aemon understood the importance of discipline and endurance, knowing that the battlefield demanded more than mere flourishes.

As the sun cast long shadows over the training yard, Aemon continued his rigorous exercise. The clang of steel against the dummy, combined with the determination etched on the young prince's face, painted a vivid scene of resilience and commitment amidst the historic ruins of Harrenhal.

Aemon absorbed the wisdom his father, Daemon Targaryen, had imparted about the dual purpose of appearing in tourneys – not only to showcase skill but to instill fear in potential adversaries on the battlefield. The strategy was clear: make opponents wary before they ever crossed blades, thus potentially causing them to make mistakes in the heat of battle. It was a psychological approach to warfare that Daemon had mastered.

Contrastingly, the approach of his former father, Eddard Stark, was rooted in secrecy and strategic ambiguity. Eddard avoided tourneys to keep his martial abilities shrouded in mystery. The rationale was simple: if adversaries didn't know what Eddard was capable of, they would be at a disadvantage on the battlefield.

Aemon internalized these contrasting philosophies, understanding the value of projecting a fearsome image while appreciating the power of hiding one's true capabilities. However, Aemon found himself in a unique position – he was a boy set to fight in the Squire's Tourney. Unlike the adults, he competed against other boys, which altered his approach.

He chose not to engage in ostentatious displays of skill like some of the other boys. Instead, he underplayed his abilities, allowing the younger competitors to believe his prowess was exaggerated. Aemon recognized that while appearances may have swayed the boys, the discerning eyes of the adults likely saw through his calculated facade. Regardless, he embraced the advantage this misconception afforded him, knowing that he was preparing not to face seasoned warriors but his peers in the Squire's Tourney.

Aemon had trained now with his left hand, and in truth, he was not fully pretending to underplay his skill. Aemon was great with his dominant hand; he did not like to boast, for pride comes before the fall, but his skills, without question, were comparable to the skills of respected knights, but that was with his right hand, his dominant hand. With his left, he was merely better than most squires. So, as he trained with his left hand, he was merely just a bit better than the boys training around him. He thought fighting the tourney with his left hand rather than his right might be best. It was with his right hand that he fought the Wildling Invasion, but with his left hand, they had a chance.

As Aemon surveyed the potential competition on the training field, certain squires stood out. Among them was a young Tyrell boy whose flamboyant moves caught Aemon's attention. While the boy displayed skill, Aemon couldn't help but find his style a bit extravagant. A Lannister squire surprised Aemon by showing more competence than expected, proving that appearances could be deceiving. The two Royce boys, harboring disdain for Aemon likely due to his lineage, appeared skilled, with the older one benefiting from an additional advantage – size.

However, what worried Aemon most was the sheer number of Riverlands participants. Nearly thirty Houses from the Riverlands had sent squires and pages to compete, each harboring a desire to defeat Aemon Targaryen. The challenge became demonstrating his prowess and navigating the intense competition and rivalry among the Riverland squires.

As Aemon finished his training and walked past the Stormland squires, he noticed an abundance of bravado but no particular standout talents. While equally loud, the Westerland squires possess more genuine skill, with some able to back up their boasts.

Interestingly, there were few northern squires, but those present were eager to compete and immediately aligned themselves with Aemon. The squires from the Crowlands followed suit, rallying behind Aemon as well. This alliance inadvertently sparked tension with the Vale and Riverland squires, leading to potential conflicts on the horizon. As the squires from the North and the Crowlands stood by Aemon, the atmosphere became charged with both camaraderie and the promise of impending trouble.

As Aemon continued his training and moved through the ranks of squires, he couldn't help but overhear whispers and taunts from those hailing from the Riverlands and the Vale, naming Aemon a bastard, a baseless claim. The mockery extended to his appearance, resembling a Stark rather than the typical Targaryen features.

Squires, knights, and lords snickered behind Aemon's back; the moniker of Black Prince had returned once more. Some doubted Aemon's fighting abilities and scoffed at the notion that he played a significant role in stopping the Wildling Invasion, let alone doing so single-handedly. Yet, these detractors never confronted Aemon directly, keeping their disparaging remarks to hushed conversations.

However, amidst the skepticism, Aemon found staunch defenders among lords from the Crownlands and the North. These supporters refuted the unfounded claims and stood by Aemon's side, acknowledging his skills and the valor he displayed during the Wildling Invasion.

Aemon had heard several River lords speaking and mocking Aemon behind closed doors. "Have you seen the Black Prince? The Stark bastard flew the Black Dread over a field, heard the dragon burnt a heard of sheep. Won't be long before we see a black-haired Maegor on the throne."

Aemon had heard some Vale lords, those closer in connection with House Royce, speak similarly throughout the festivities. But one had said so at an inopportune time because a Northern lord was close by. Aemon had been walking around the training yard, hidden behind Ser Harrold and Ghost, when he heard the Vale lords speaking to one another. "Black Prince. I heard he's nothing more than a storyteller's fancy. Couldn't fight his way out of a paper basket."

Aemon saw the giant of a man, an Umber with a thick beard. The man roared angrily, and all eyes were on him as he threateningly walked to the Vale lord, who spat the words. "You speak ill of Prince Aemon! You speak ill of Lyanna's son! He fought bravely against the wildlings and earned his place among the dragon riders. Say another word, and I shove me mace so far up your ass you be tasting your own sh*t!"

A Royce came forth to defend the Vale lord as he approached the Umber. "You northern savages would have us believe a child stopped a f*cking invasion. What's worse, you need a child to save your frozen asses or the fact you'd lie about it?"

The fight that followed needed several Targaryen guards to stop it. Aemon would give the Umber this; he waited for the Vale lord to get the first swing with his sword so that it was clear that the Umber was no aggressor before grabbing the man's arm, stopping it mid-swing and then making good on his promise before shoving his mace exactly where he said, killing the man.

Lord Bartimos Celtigar had come up to Aemon later in the day when it was clear where the lines were drawn in the sand for the Vale and Riverlands to despise the North and Crownlands. While Aemon had mostly snippets of his former life flashing through his mind and most information he knew should have benefitted him had already faded from memory, he did know that Lord Celtigar was an older man during the Dance of Dragons and served as Master of Coin, if Aemon's mind was not failing him. "Don't pay them any mind, lad. You've got the blood of dragons and wolves running in your veins. They're just jealous of a true hero." The man was not old, shy of thirty if Aemon took a guess, with silvery hair and amethyst in the eye, a Valryian. And while Aemon knew the Velaryons and Targaryens did not care for the Celtigars very much, Aemon did respect the man and wondered how important he would be in thirty years when the dance began.

Archery Competition

The day of the Archery Competition dawned, and the atmosphere in Harrenhal was filled with anticipation. Aemon seated among the onlookers, watching the archers take their positions. However, the archery competition didn't hold the same excitement for him as a sword fight or a joust might.

King Viserys, too, seemed to share Aemon's sentiment, as he spent most of the time engaged in conversation with Queen Aemma. Their private discussion stole the attention of the royal couple, leaving the archery field as a backdrop to their quiet exchanges.

Amidst the relative lull of the competition, Aemon's father, Daemon, took it upon himself to lighten the mood. Daemon, the master of jests and humor, decided to turn the archery event into a game of wit. He began weaving jokes and jests designed to elicit a chuckle or a laugh. Aemon, despite his efforts to maintain the demeanor of a perfect prince, found it increasingly difficult not to succumb to the infectious laughter bubbling up inside him.

Daemon's jokes ranged from sly quips about the archers' aim to playful jabs at the seriousness with which some lords took the competition. Daemon's eyes twinkled mischievously with every jest, and Aemon felt the urge to burst into laughter. Yet, he fought valiantly to keep his composure lest he reveal his amusem*nt too overtly. It was obvious to most of the royal family that Daemon was trying to make his son crack and laugh. But it was so obvious that the River lords, who made up nearly two-thirds of the remaining archers by the third round, seemed to hate Daemon and Aemon thrice more than when the day started.

As the archery competition progressed, the targets became more challenging, and the field began to thin out. The initial round, with simpler targets, saw most participants advancing, but the real test lay ahead.

"We now move onto seventy-five paces, with fifty archers remaining," the herald announced, eliciting cheers from the onlookers. The distance posed a significant challenge, separating the skilled marksmen from the rest. They then continued for several more rounds.

As the archers took their shots, the field dwindled further. "Fifteen archers eliminated; we move to ninety paces," the herald declared. The tension in the air heightened, and the crowd's anticipation grew with each eliminated competitor.

Daemon and Viserys, previously engaged in conversation, now focused more intently on the competition. With sixteen archers left, including the Fenn, who had caught their attention, each shot became a critical moment. The young Mallister squire showcased precision, as did the Stormlands lad, likely a Selmy, hitting the target dead center.

"Ten archers eliminated, the final six will move on to ninety-five paces," the herald announced, signaling a pivotal moment in the competition. A sense of anticipation and excitement filled the air as the top contenders prepared for the increased distance and the challenges it presented. The crowd watched eagerly as the competition narrowed down to the most skilled archers, setting the stage for a thrilling climax at ninety-five paces.

The air was thick with excitement as the archery competition reached its climax. The crowd, including Viserys, leaned forward with anticipation. All attention was now on the three remaining archers, each representing their respective regions.

The first competitor, Lancel Mallister, took his shot. The arrow hit the target but not in the desired center. A collective groan rippled through the crowd, followed by polite applause acknowledging the effort.

"Now Baelon Selmy, representing the Stormlands and House Selmy," announced the herald. The young man stepped forward, bow in hand, and took his shot. The arrow landed closer to the bullseye than the Riverlands lad but still not quite on target. Applause echoed through the crowd once again.

"Lastly, representing the North and House Fell, Wyman Fenn," the herald declared, signaling the moment of truth for the Fenn. The archer from the North stepped up confidently, drew his bowstring, and released the arrow. The projectile sailed through the air and struck the target with impressive precision, hitting the bullseye.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, we're down to the final three. The distance is one pace," the herald announced, his voice carrying over the excited murmurs of the crowd. The atmosphere was charged with anticipation as the archers prepared for the next round at an increased distance, setting the stage for an intense showdown to determine the ultimate winner.

The tension in the air was palpable as the archers took turns at the increased distance of 100 paces. The competition had come down to a battle of skill and precision among Lancel Mallister, Baelon Selmy, and Jaygen Fenn. Each archer carefully aimed and released their arrows, the crowd holding their breath with each shot.

Lancel Mallister's arrow flew through the air, hitting the target but once again missing the coveted bullseye. Applause and sympathetic murmurs accompanied his effort. Baelon Selmy stepped up next, displaying a focused determination. His arrow, too, found its mark but not with the precision required to secure victory. The crowd acknowledged his skill with a mixture of cheers and encouragement.

Then it was Wyman Fenn's turn. The archer from the North, representing House Fell, drew his bowstring with practiced ease. The arrow soared through the distance, and the collective gasp from the spectators turned into roars of applause as it struck the bullseye. Fenn's accuracy and consistency had set him apart from the rest.

The competition continued, with the archers taking turns at the one hundred-paces distance. The tension escalated with each round, and the crowd's reactions mirrored the ebb and flow of the contest. Lancel Mallister and Baelon Selmy gave their best efforts, demonstrating admirable skill, but Wyman Fenn maintained his dominance.

After five intense rounds, Wyman Fenn emerged as the undisputed winner. His skill, accuracy, and composure under pressure secured the victory, and the crowd erupted into cheers and applause. The herald announced Fenn's triumph, and the archer from House Fell took a bow, acknowledging the acclaim from the crowd. The archery competition had concluded, leaving Jaygen Fenn as the celebrated champion of the day.

Melee

The anticipation in the air was thick as nearly five hundred knights and warriors gathered on the field, their armor glinting in the sunlight, swords gleaming brightly. The atmosphere crackled with the promise of fierce competition and the clash of steel. The mele was a spectacle of organized chaos, with each participant eager to prove their mettle on the battlefield.

Daemon stood at the forefront, flanked by Ser Harrold and three other Kingsguards, creating an imposing presence. The knights from the Crownlands, several dozen in number, formed a formidable force around him. The sheer diversity of armor and sigils on display painted a vibrant picture of the gathered warriors, representing various houses and regions from across the realm.

The melee promised to be a grand spectacle, a chaotic dance of swords and shields. The tension in the air was palpable, and the warriors shifted restlessly, ready for the announcer to signal the start of the matches. The sunlight glinted off the polished armor and weapons, creating a dazzling display that added to the sense of anticipation. The roar of the crowd, eager for the imminent clash, added to the electric atmosphere, setting the stage for a mele that would be remembered for years to come. The herald's voice echoed through the air, carrying the weight of anticipation as he addressed the assembled crowd.

"Your graces, My Lords and Ladies, men and women, I welcome you all to today's event: the melee! Five hundred men will fight for the right to be proclaimed the champion and the prize of seventy-five thousand gold dragons!" The announcement was met with an eruption of cheers and applause from the excited crowd. The herald continued, "My lords, good Sers, the fight is to a yield. Those who deliberately set out to injure an opponent once he's yielded will be dealt with severely. When the remaining two competitors are left dueling, rules apply. If neither of the two men yield, the king will declare a winner or a draw. Now, I wish you all the best. Let the melee commence!" As he spoke, the herald named the regions in attendance, each one eliciting cheers from their respective supporters. "Representing the Crownlands!" The Crownlands cheered passionately, showing their pride. "The Riverlands!" A wave of enthusiasm echoed from the Riverlands contingent. "The Reach!" A cacophony of cheers erupted from the Reach. "The North!" The Northern lords and ladies voiced their approval. "The Westerlands!" The Westerlands roared with pride. "And the Stormlands!" The Stormlands erupted in cheers and shouts.

Each region basked in the acknowledgment, the cheers weaving together into a symphony of excitement, setting the stage for the impending melee. The energy in the air was electrifying as the warriors prepared to engage in a battle that would test their mettle and determine the ultimate champion.

The melee erupted in a chaotic dance of flashing blades, clashing armor, and swirling dust. Aemon observed from his elevated vantage point as the warriors engaged in fierce combat on the field below. Daemon Targaryen stood out prominently, wielding the Valyrian steel blade Dark Sister. Its dark gray ripples created an almost black appearance, capturing the attention of everyone in the vicinity.

Aemon gripped Blackfyre, the other Valyrian steel blade present at Harrenhal, and felt a sense of connection to the ongoing battle. On the field, House Royce and the Tullys clashed, their movements swift and calculated. Meanwhile, Daemon faced off against four opponents simultaneously, showcasing his exceptional combat skills.

Aemon winced at the resounding clash of the False Mountain's greatsword against Dark Sister. Daemon was more than holding his own, displaying a level of skill that outmatched his adversaries. Despite being outnumbered, it was evident that those who faced Daemon were at a significant disadvantage.

The young prince's eyes flitted between different skirmishes, but his focus remained fixed on two figures – Ser Harrold and his father, Daemon. The field was alive with the chaotic symphony of clashing weapons, the grunts of combatants, and the cheers from the crowd as the melee unfolded with both skill and brutality. Aemon absorbed every detail, a mixture of admiration and concern etched on his face as he watched the events unfold below.

Daemon moved through the melee with an effortless grace, each swing of Dark Sister precise and deadly. Aemon watched as his father dispatched opponents with a calculated ferocity, wasting no time in making a Riverlands knight yield. The clash against the Royce man showcased Daemon's ability to anticipate and counter even when caught off guard.

Ser Harrold's battle against a Tarly was equally intense. The two warriors engaged in a dance of blades, each maneuvering to find an opening. Daemon, silent and focused, continued to cut through adversaries with the Valyrian steel blade, demonstrating the disciplined art of combat.

As Riverland knights and men closed in on Daemon, the prince showed little interest in banter or mockery. In the heat of battle, words were unnecessary; actions spoke louder than any jest. Daemon's heavy swings and quick maneuvers left little room for his opponents to regroup. A Riverlands fighter attempted to catch him off guard, but Daemon's swift withdrawal and counterattack showcased his mastery of swordplay.

The young man facing Daemon found himself disoriented by the sudden change in tactics. Daemon's movements were unpredictable, and his swordplay was a blend of strength and agility. In the midst of the chaotic melee, Daemon seized the opportunity, closing in on his opponent before the man could readjust. The clash of steel echoed through the air as Daemon pressed his advantage, a testament to his formidable prowess on the battlefield. Aemon observed with a mix of awe and admiration as his father demonstrated the artistry of combat in every fluid motion.

The melee unfolded in a chaotic symphony of clashing steel, grunts, and the thud of shields. It was a swirling mass of bodies, each warrior seeking to assert dominance over the others on the sprawling battlefield. The sheer number of participants made it impossible to focus on any specific fight, and the clash of weapons and armor created a cacophony that enveloped Harrenhal.

Amid the chaos, the royal family found themselves at a loss, unable to discern individual battles within the tumultuous sea of combatants. Aemon, however, remained the family's keen observer, tracking the movements of his father, Daemon Targaryen, with a sharp eye. The confusion prompted queries from other family members, seeking updates on Daemon's performance.

Aemon became the de facto source of information, responding to the family's inquiries and providing updates on Daemon's progress. The royal family relied on Aemon's attention to detail to gain insights into the ongoing battles. Amid the chaotic spectacle, the importance of Aemon's observations became evident, his role evolving into that of a battlefield correspondent for his family, narrating the ebb and flow of the melee as it unfolded.

Amidst the chaotic sounds of clashing steel, the royal family sat in anticipation, their eyes fixed on the sprawling melee. As Aemon fervently observed the battles, the inquiries from his family members began.

Princess Viserra, ever curious and energetic, leaned forward with an inquisitive gleam in her eye. "Aemon, what's happening? Is Daemon doing well? Who's winning?"

Aemon said nothing for some time as he watched his father duck under a swing from rouge Vale knight, and then Daemon kicked the man to the ground with a front kick to the chest after the dodged swing, leaving him vulnerable. Daemon had no time to capitalize and make the knight yield as a Mallister knight rushed forward and made several swings. Daemon thought it easier to dodge the strikes, making the knight extend each strike, waste more energy just by completing the swing, and then waste further energy by bringing the sword back into a position to defend himself from Daemon's strikes. Daemon was far better than Aemon had ever dreamed of Jon Snow, and that was something since many claimed Jon Snow was the greatest swordsman of his time. Jon Snow may have been leagues faster and stronger than any man who had the right to be in a fight after fighting Others and the dead, but with skill alone, Daemon outclassed Jon Snow.

Aemon, eyes still fixed on the field, responded, "Kepa is holding his own, Ñamar Viserra. He just defeated a Riverlands knight and is now facing off against a Royce. It's a fierce battle." Ñamar usually meant your father's younger sister, your aunt. But in the case of his aunts, his father had no sisters, and his aunts were also his father's aunts; they were his grandfather's younger sisters, so Aemon just went for calling them the same thing his father named them; they were his father's Ñamar, so Aemon called them the same thing.

Princess Aerea was shy and scared, but she was concerned for Daemon; let it never be said she did not care for her family. "How many foes has he bested? Are there any notable fighters on the field?"

Aemon continued to scan the melee as he provided a play-by-play. "Kepa has already bested two opponents, Ñamar Aerea. The Royce seems skilled, but Kepa is holding his ground. Oh, there's Ser Harrold; he's taking on a Tarly, and they're locked in a fierce exchange."

Rhaella was known to be excitable, and Aemon noticed how her eyes switched from fight to fight, not fully understanding what was happening. Aemon even noticed that her neck would snap back and forth every time steel clashed, and since there were five hundred men fighting, it happened faster than a heartbeat, and it happened more repeatedly than a perceived breath. "And what of the others? How does the field look overall?"

Aemon glanced across the melee, gauging the overall situation. "It's chaotic. Warriors from different regions clash, but Kepa and Ser Harrold stand out. The Umber's greatsword is making quite an impact. Never mind, his younger brother grew bored of fighting lesser warriors and challenged him with a mace."

Daenerys looked to Rhaella and tried to keep track of her sister's quick movements but then decided it was best to follow Aemon's vision and look at Daemon. She realized that if she followed Aemon's eyes, she would be able to track Daemon. "Aemon, do you see any knights using any flaming weapons? I remember reading that some Red Priests could use such weapons. Anything exceptional?"

Aemon chuckled slightly. "Not yet, Ñamar Daenerys. It's mostly traditional weapons. But Kepa is showcasing his usual flair, and Ser Harrold's sword is a spectacle. I think Kepa is getting bored of the River Lords. He started showing off more, and he only does that when he wants a man to strike him when he twirls, making the fight closer while also humiliating the warrior by not taking it seriously."

Saera, always seeking excitement, especially after being bored of the archery, looked to the knights, and Aemon thought she paid attention more so that she could know who had the better squires. Aemon thought it might be better to ignore her for a mere second before realizing who he was dealing with and thought that he did not want to get on Saera's bad side. Saera was known to get her way, and Aemon did not want to deal with her persistence any time soon. "Any surprises? Unexpected victories or defeats?"

Aemon grinned, "Well, it's unpredictable. But so far, no major upsets. Kepa is handling the challenges well."

Viserra smiled broadly. "Of course, Daemon is doing well. A dragon is far better than a sheep, after all. No one that field could touch a pure-blooded dragon." Viserra looked so pompous and proud as if she was the one fighting. Saera hit her in the head. "That hurt!"

Saera smiled in response before looking into Aemon's eyes, following it, and seeing Daemon's fight. Aemon suspected that if one of his aunts could learn such tactics, the intelligent Saera, one of the far brighter, would have known about it sooner. "It would seem the dragon can hurt another dragon. You are not untouchable here, sweet sister," Saera smirked. Daenerys hit her herself.

Daenerys smiled wickedly. "Don't hit your sister. It's rude," she said, not finding any hypocritical in her words and actions. Before returning to find Aemon's tracking of his father.

Saera wished to respond kindly to her sister, but being between Viserra and Daenerys, Aemon suspected that she knew retaliation would be swift and harsh. "Hypocrite," Saera returned to Daenerys.

Aemon watched as Daemon and Ser Harrold were pushed back to back as they fought off hoards of men. The numbers dwindled to about less than half as swords and helmets were left on the ground; no man was dumb enough to grab the material when live steel was still being used to fight. Ser Harrold blocked a strike coming from Daemon's left since he was already fighting three men. Ser Harrold grabbed the arm of the man before kicking out the man's leg and putting his blade near the man's throat, forcing the enemy to yield.

Daemon disarmed a man before hitting the man with the handle of Dark Sister on the man's helmet head, leaving the body limp. Daemon did not use precious strikes but, more often than not, made wide circular arcing strikes to keep men from grouping together to strike. If they got too close, Daemon pushed them or kicked them to the side to give him the space to allow Dark Sister's reach and speed of superior Valyrian steel to be used at full.

A man rushed forward with a morning star mace and swung as the chain gave the ball another foot of reach, far more than most morning stars should have had for a chained spiked ball on a stick. Three wild swings and Daemon ducked and sidestepped them all before rolling to the side from a man trying to stab him from the back. Daemon tripped the man so that he could not stop himself from falling face-first into the swinging morning star mace; the man died instantly. Then, as the man fell and the initial man could not bring his weapon back in time for another strike, Daemon placed the Dark Sister at the man's throat, forcing him to yield.

Aemon noticed that a large man with a warhammer came forth and swung the large weapon. "By the f*cking gods," he cursed aloud.

Queen Aemma smacked Aemon on the back of his head as he turned to her. He was rarely hit by his aunt, and Aemon will never admit how much the smack stung. The boy looked to the queen in shock. She looked at him in disapproval, and Rhaenyra covered her mouth, laughing at Aemon. "Aemon! Language!" Queen Aemma chastised as all the girls giggled.

Viserys turned to Aemon. "What do you see, my boy?"

"A riding mountain," was Aemon's only reply.

The man wore the gold and black of Bartheons and had a helm with antlers of a stag. Aemon could only see this as what Robert Baratheon would have been in his prime, a monster of a man, the Demon of the Trident. The man in question was extremely tall, being well over seven feet tall, closer to eight. He had massive shoulders and arms as thick as the trunk of small trees, and a voice like stone broke as he roared out Daemon's name. Aemon would not put it past the man to weigh over thirty stone, nearly all of it muscle, making him near inhumanly strong.

The armor was undoubtedly the heaviest, thickest steel plate armor in the Seven Kingdoms. Dull grey and battle-scarred, his armor is so heavy that no ordinary man could move, let alone fight effectively while wearing it.

Aemon moved forward just enough to show he was paying attention. Everyone seemed to notice this and followed his eye line. Daemon ducked under a large swing of the warhammer before rolling out of the way of a front swing. Daemon, while still on his knee, was able to redirect a blow that would have gotten him with a light strike from Dark Sister to guide the blow away. Daemon was good, but Aemon knew that he would never be able to take on a strike from a man comparable to the Mountain that Rides.

Aemon observed the crowd and the battlefield. "Who in the Seven Hells is that?" Viserys asked.

"A Baratheon bastard, Your Grace," a man, Aemon, did not know who because he refused to keep his eyes away from his father, said. "Eddard Storm. Stag's Furry, the name him."

Viserys returned as those around chuckled and agreed with the king. "I quite like Aemon's name for the man more. The Mountain that Rides."

Aemon was quiet as he watched but waited for some time as Daemon avoided another swing before slashing at the man's armor. While his armor was thicker than a wall of metal, Daemon's blade was Valryian steel, and it left a noticeable cut in the weaker metal. "More like the Mountain the Dies," Aemon said. Everyone turned to Aemon in shock, but Viserys let out a single loud chuckle, almost like an exhale of air.

The clash between Daemon Targaryen and Stag's Furry, the imposing Ser Eddard Storm, from what Aemon would later learn he was named, was a spectacle that drew the attention of all those present. Ser Eddard wielded an enormous warhammer, a weapon as large and brutal as the man himself. Ser Eddard's immense strength and the sheer weight of the weapon made every swing a potentially devastating blow.

Daemon, armed with Dark Sister, moved with an agility that defied the expectations of a man facing such a formidable opponent. The black Valyrian steel flashed in the sunlight as Daemon skillfully parried and dodged the thunderous strikes aimed at him. The warhammer swings created shockwaves in the air, the force of which could be felt even by those at a distance.

Aemon watched the fight and saw how Daemon had to dodge more often than not. In his heart, Aemon no longer just saw a fight between Daemon and Baratheon bastard; Aemon saw what would have been Rhaegar versus Robert. This was the battle that Jon Snow's life had been affected by the most that he ever saw. With each swing, he heard Robert's laughter. With dodge, Aemon heard Rhaegar's harp. This was the fight Aemon never saw but always felt.

Aemon clenched his fists far too tight. While they were in Harrenhal, Aemon did not see the dirt ground but a shallow river. Aemon, with each swing of the warhammer, could see the potential of rubies falling into the waters. With every swing, Aemon would move just enough to show he knew what to do and flinch just enough to show he was far more scared than he let on.

Aemon could almost see Saera kick Viserra's foot in the corner of his eye to get her attention, then point to Aemon. Viserra cursed and saw Aemon's form. Aemon could not see her face, but she placed her hand on his shoulder before traveling down his arm and holding it. Aemon knew she was prideful, condescending, and boastful. Frankly, she had the prideful personality of a Lannister, but she cared for her fellow dragons more than anything else. Aemon was the lone male dragon of their group of seven; she cared for him in her way, a way of fire and passion and quick anger and bitter apologies at the end, but never once would Aemon ever consider she ever hated him. She reminded him of Sansa in that regard. She held his hand tighter as she watched him flinch with every swing. She tightened her grip just enough for her to look up; she would not look him in the eyes; she was too prideful to show she cared, but she did more than enough.

"Aems," he turned to see Saera speaking to him next to Viserra. Her purple eyes looked deep into Aemon's dark eyes. "Daemon will be fine. No one is better." Aemon nodded as Viserra tightened her grip once more and Aemon smiled to the pair before turning back to the fight.

Daemon, relying on speed and precision, tried to redirect the force of Ser Eddard's attacks rather than directly blocking them. Dark Sister danced through the air as Daemon deftly sidestepped, rolled, and maneuvered to avoid the full brunt of the blows. The clash of steel against steel echoed across the battlefield, punctuated by the occasional thunderous impact of the warhammer hitting the ground.

Despite his agility, Daemon struggled against Ser Eddard's overwhelming strength. Each swing of the warhammer forced him to exert himself, and the strain became evident. Daemon's movements were a dance of evasion, his eyes constantly assessing the false stag Mountain's next move. The onlookers were caught in a tense silence, watching the clash between the dragon and the stag Mountain unfold.

It became apparent that Daemon couldn't afford a direct confrontation. Stag's Furry's raw power was too great, and the warhammer weight posed a constant threat. Daemon's strategy shifted to a more defensive stance, using the Valyrian steel to deflect and redirect the attacks. The crowd gasped with each near miss, the tension rising as the two warriors engaged in a deadly dance.

The fight continued with a fierce intensity, and despite the odds, Daemon displayed remarkable skill in avoiding the crushing blows of Ser Eddard's warhammer. The clash between a dragon and a bastard stag unfolded as a testament to the artistry of combat, a display of strength versus speed, and every eye in the arena remained fixed on the enthralling spectacle.

As the fight between Daemon Targaryen and the Baratheon Bastard unfolded, the crowd remained enthralled by the dance of blades and the clash between dragon and mountain-stag. Daemon's agility and speed were evident as he skillfully evaded the bastard stag's powerful strikes. The Valyrian steel of Dark Sister shimmered in the sunlight as it parried, redirected, and deflected the thunderous blows of the colossal warhammer.

Daemon's calculated maneuvers showcased his mastery of swordsmanship, and it seemed as though he held the advantage over the Ser Eddard. The crowd watched in awe as he danced around Ser Eddard, exploiting the openings in Ser Eddard's attacks. The tension in the air heightened, and murmurs of amazement rippled through the spectators.

However, the unexpected occurred when, in a swift and unexpected move, the bastard stag managed to land a devastating blow. The warhammer slammed into Daemon's chest, sending him sprawling backward. The gasps from the crowd were audible as Daemon crashed onto his back, the impact echoing through the arena.

"Kepa!" Aemon screamed as everyone let out a gasp, and the crowd screamed with worry, all save for the Stormlands, the Riverlands, and the Vale, who cheered. Aemon promised himself he would beat every single one of them to the bloody ground in the squire's melee.

Caraxes were roaring. Daemon was in pain, and Carxes could feel it. Aemon heard the screams not only as Daemon was in pain but also as a plea to the only other person that Caraxes liked, Aemon himself, and screamed to protect Daemon. Dragons only care for their riders, and as far as Aemon knew, this was the first time a dragon cared for their rider's child almost as much. After all, Vhagar went to kill Carxes during the dance when they spent so much time together just a decade or so earlier due to Vhagar's previous rider, Laena, being married to Daemon. Dragons were only loyal to their rider, not their line. Caraxes was pleading for Daemon, pleading to Aemon to rescue him through roaring screechings.

Aemon saw it for a blink; Robert had defeated Rhaegar once more. Robert was going to kill his father once more. The Lannisters would then come for his family. Would it be Saera and Viserra, the Lions, who come first? Would it be Aerea and Daenerys? Maegelle, Rhaenyra, and Rhaella? Aemon thought about running to Balerion and taking down every Baratheon and Lannister before they had the chance to harm his family.

Aemon saw the slam of the harmer at the waters; he saw the rubies flying in the skies as he heard Rhaegar's last words: Lyanna. Aemon stood on his foot quickly as he thought of all this in a heartbeat. And when he blinked once more, he was going to leap off the rallying to his father, but Viserra's gripp did not stop, and Maegelle to his left grabbed him just as quickly. Both girls knew Aemon well and knew he would go for the leap, and it seemed Lord Commander Ryam knew the same as he inched close enough to show Aemon he would not make it far.

Aemon heard Balerion roar now in defense of the pain Aemon felt in his heart. The pain was felt in his heart and then in his body. Such sick pain of losing yet another father. Balerion roared, and the castle felt rage from Balerion as they looked to the skies, waiting for the dragon that would never come. Aemon did not rip out of Maegelle and Viserra, but Aemon thought of Balerion burning Harrenhal once more in the name of his father.

As Ser Eddard loomed over the fallen Daemon, ready to deliver a potentially fatal blow, a new player entered the scene. Ser Harrold Westerling, a Kingsguard known for his prowess with a sword, swiftly intervened and placed his sword at Ser Eddard's throat before the man knew he was there, cowardly for a knight, but the three were the last remaining and taking the stag Mountain out while he was not ready secure victory. With a sword at the ready, he positioned himself between Ser Eddard and the fallen dragon, never moving the sword too far away, keeping it clear as crystal that Ser Eddard had already lost a clear message that no further harm would come to Daemon.

The sudden turn of events left the crowd in stunned silence, the collective breath held as they witnessed the aftermath of the intense duel. Stag's Furry, now faced with the threat of another skilled swordsman, reluctantly yielded, realizing that further aggression would be futile as he already had a blade at his throat.

Aemon saw the Kingsguard armor and did not see Ser Harrold, but the knight Aemon craved to meet more than any other, the close to Rhaegar while Jon Snow was alive, Ser Barristan. Aemon saw the white cloak and saw a man much older, a man with a longer beard and graying white beard and hair. The way the winds blew as he held the sword so perfectly straight. Ser Barristian had come to complete the thing he regretted most; he saved his Rhaegar and came to his aid.

The arena erupted into a mix of gasps, cheers, and applause as the realization set in that the dragon had triumphed over Ser Eddard, not through sheer strength but through strategic finesse and the timely intervention of a vigilant Kingsguard.

Daemon and Ser Harrold were the remaining men, and it was clear that Daemon would not be able to continue the fight, so Ser Harrold was named the winner. While many grumbled that Ser Harrold saved Daemon, it was clear that if Ser Harrold had not used that chance, then Ser Harrold would have had to fight Ser Eddard on equal fighting, and Ser Harrold was not going to win that bout with a man nearing eight feet in height and moved far faster than a man of such height, weight, and in a suit of armor thick enough for thirty men should ever move.

The crowd cheered for Ser Harrold's victory. Aemon rushed down to check on his father's son after, thanking the gods that he did not have another father die to a mad, oversized stag with a bloody warhammer.

Jousts

Aemon did not watch the jousts the following day mainly because he watched over his father and double-checked on him. Daemon most definitely had every rib shattered by the single blow. Daemon had tried to laugh off the pain but, in doing so, wince and cursed as just laughing hurt him even further. When he returned from his father being given Milk of the Poopy and going to rest, he had heard many people concerned over the fact that both Balerion and Caraxes were roaring in enraged ever since the injury. Aemon found out that Ser Ryam Redwyne had ridden and won the jousts.

But at the feast that night, many were speaking about how Daemon did not deserve the position of runner-up. The River lords spoke and laughed at how Daemon flew once struck by the warhammer. And it was clear to anyone who knew Aemon that Aemon was not happy. Aemon was serious; he said no words and made no jests, and his dark eyes bore into the bastard stag the entire night. But it was to the River lords and the Vale lords that laughed at it that everyone who knew Aemon well saw actually unhindered rage.

Aemon's connection to Ghost was stronger now more than ever; maybe it was due to him connecting far younger than he had in his previous life. Maybe there was more magic in the air due to the dragons, and this stronger magic strengthened his bonds with Balerion and Ghost. But he could hear them laugh at his mother, at his father, at him. The lords hid their toasts and laughs, but they laughed; only Ghost could hear them. Only Ghost knew, but Ghost was quite as the grave, and Ghost somehow tried to poke at the bond she shared with Aemon and tried to keep Aemon from showing his anger. Ghost nudged Aemon to be as calm as the snow that blankets the North; Ghost's calm, quiet, cold death was absolutely like the snow that coverers everything.

But Balerion roared; Balerion wanted fire and blood; Balerion craved retribution for Daemon's hurt; he craved vengeance for lords mocking the woman who had died to bring his rider in this world, a woman the world was indebted to in bringing Aegon's dream to this world. A woman Aemon was denied to meet in two lives. A woman who had somehow loved a failure of a son that she had never met. Aemon wanted to be had did not like fighting; he did not like killing, but some part of him wanted Blackfyre in hand. One part of him wished to protect his father and mother's honor. He did not care for the title Black Prince. But he would make sure they felt the title used to mock him if that meant they would never disrespect his father and mother again.

The River lords and Vale lords were emboldened. Daemon had fallen, and it was a bastard that had done it. They laughed and jested; they had toasts as they congratulated the bastard who had taken down a prince. Aemon did not care that the man was a bastard, Jon Snow was a bastard, but what truly brought out the loathing was that without fear of Daemon's retribution, the Vale lords and River lords laughed in secret at the whor* Lyanna Stark and the bastard Aemon Rivers. The Black Prince. The Bastard Dragon. The Targaryen Wolf.

Aemon could hear his aunts speak in whispers, never seeing Aemon in such a state. Aemon only saw red, and only a handful of times had he ever been so close to screaming bloody murder; the best example was when he found and captured Ramsay Bolton. Aemon in his head, not that he truly thought about it, only saw Ramsay's face when looking at the mountain of a man without his helmet, and the fact that the man had blue eyes and black hair like Ramsay did him no favors. The men had laughed at his father's failure; the men had laughed throughout the entire tourney that Lyanna Stark was a whor*.

Every person in the feasting hall could hear the distant roar of Balerion calling for war to be made in the name of his master, and only the Targaryen knew how deep the bond between Balerion and Aemon was that one could feel the other's emotion.

Viserys Targaryen

Viserys went to speak to Daemon right after the feast. He had put off this conversation long enough, and while he feared the conversation to come, he was king, and it needed to be hand. He hated to admit it, but it was best for Viserys to have this conversation while Daemon could not strike him. Daemon would slaughter Viserys on any other day, but this conversation would lead to Viserys being concerned about not gaining a welt on his head. Still, Daemon, being nearly restrained with cloth and baggage and being unable to even breathe correctly, as well as the Kingsguard, might keep Viserys alive for another day longer. While Viserys, with three Kingsguards, including Lord Commander Ryam Redwyne, walked to the infirmary, most of the healers and master knew the king was coming and had already left the room in the area.

Viserys walked into the room and saw his brother resting on the bed as he drank wine, despite what the masters had suggested. Daemon had rested lying up, almost sitting as his back rested more on the bedrest than the cushions. Daemon noticed him and offered Viserys his everlasting pompous smile as if daring the world to remove it from the face of the rider of Caraxes.

Daemon's smile stopped once he breathed too hard, and he was forced to have a slight smirk rather than a grin. "The great king of the Seven Kingdoms has come to greet us injured, sorry souls."

Viserys chuckled ever slightly as he walked further on, and the Kingsguard stationed themselves at the door, but the Lord Commander continued walking with Viserys. "I take it the maesters have given you much Milk of the Poppy?"

Daemon scoffed before wincing and reaching for his broken ribs. "As if I'd allow those overgrown, old, grey rats to drug me enough for me not to be able to tell a dragon from a seagull. I sent them off and told them if they come back, I'd use their chains to bind them on Carxes' legs for a fortnight as I take him for a flight."

Viserys chuckled with a soft, fond smile as he sat down just outside, a few steps away from Daemon, preparing for what might as well be a preemptive lunge to come. Viserys loved his brother but would not put it past his brother to strike his King in his son's name. "Of course you did."

Daemon and Viserys enter a calm, quiet moment, something that Visery found few and far between, especially after becoming King. "And Aemon, how's my son after seeing his father be defeated by a f*cking giant made of metal? I saw him just before, but the boy seemed far too tense, more than usual."

Viserys sighed. Viserys did not wish to speak about the fact that Aemon seemed far more brooding and reserved than usual. Viserys had heard some comments that were less than positive, but Viserys could not determine where they came from, and Aemon seemed to wish to rip apart every squire and knight that laughed at Daemon's defeat. "He is your son. He may be quiet and brood, but the boy is your son under all the dark coloring; he has your temper. The boy almost leaped off the ledge to go to you." Daemon looked smiled, and Viserys dreaded what needed to be said next. "Aemon is the reason I wished to speak to you, Daemon."

Daemon turned to Viserys and looked him in the eyes. "When a man comes to me to speak about my son, in your tone of voice, it should give me pause and need for concern. Do I need to be concerned, Viserys?" Daemon said, nearly threateningly. Lord Commander Redwyne shifted enough to remind Daemon that he was present.

"Otto and I have spoken at length," Viserys started.

"That is not how you start any conversation with me, Viserys, unless you want me to burn down a castle," Daemon returned, giving a glare.

Viserys took a deep breath and grew serious; this was a king speaking to a prince. Viserys stopped looking at this as a brother speaking to a brother. "With King Jaehaerys passing away, we have concluded, that a capable dragon-rider in King's Landing is needed. I can no longer go flying around to deal with anything as I'm needed at King's Landing, and someone would be needed to be able to do so. I require you to return to King's Landing permanently."

Daemon was confused, but his face contorted more to curiosity rather than concern. "And of Summerhall? I am building my castle, you know?"

"It's no longer yours. Aemon is officially Prince of Summerhall, and you are Prince of Dragonstone. I need my heir close to me at all times if worse comes to worst," Viserys confirmed.

Daemon began to shift in his position. "Am I not supposed to build Summerhall? If it is to be my son's keep, then should it not be completed, and as the person charged with doing so, should I not be in charge of getting it done?"

"You will return to the Red Keep. Most of Summerhall is complete; only a few more years until its completion, and after speaking to several northern lords, it might be done sooner. Many of them wish to send their second and third sons to the keep. Many in the Stormlands, the Reach, and Crownlands have done the same. The Crownlands and the North seemed to have taken to Aemon after the Wildling Invasions."

Daemon then smiled. "Then I would spend more time with my son. I will be able to train him well and make sure that Ser Harrold is doing his job as my son's sworn shield and knight to train him well."

"No, you will not," Visery replied. Daemon looked at Viserys, and his eyes narrowed. "Aemon is Prince of Summerhall and as we agreed upon before, when you were charged with building Summerhall, there must always be a Targaryen ad Summerhall." Daemon seemed to seeth as Viserys continued. "Aemon is to take up his position as Prince of Summerhall and with a regent of my choosing and, rule Summerhall."

Daemon tried to get up, but his stomach and chest pain would not allow him to. "You want him to be alone. You will allow Otto Hightower to alienate my son, my heir?" Daemon roared. "I understand when our father and grandfather unofficially banished me to Summerhall, but my son has done nothing wrong!"

Viserys saw as Daemon fought the pain and sat up further. The Lord Commander forced Daemon back to bed. "Otto had indeed suggested that King Jaehaery's teachings of Aemon and Aemon's suggestions at the small council meetings showed that the boy was more than ready to at least be present in ruling his castle."

"He is attacking my son! And you are enabling him!" Daemon roared in anger.

"I need you!" Viserys finally returned. "Gods, Daemon, you helped me get the throne when you and Aemon threw your support to me; now I need your help to hold it, Daemon. Sheepstealer might be a strong dragon, but Caraxes fought in the Dornish wars, and the people know the name more. The reputation of Caraxes might keep the other lords from being emboldened to do unsavory things knowing that such a prominent dragon is there."

"That is the reason we have Caraxes at Summerhall!" Daemon screamed. "I did this all to be with my son, and right when I am close to having him, you are making it so I might spend his entire childhood away from him!"

"Balerion is more than a deterrent; after the Dragon's Wroth by Aegon and Visenya for Dorne killing Rhaenys, there is no dragon that Dorne fears more than Balerion. Worse still, the dragon is more than twice the size it was the last time they crossed paths. Dorne at least believes some of what Aemon did in the North from what we gather, and a boy with a dragon that even most scorpions would not hinder much is a dangerous enemy, so they have to their border. Especially after the North, Crownlands, Stormlands, and even some of the Reach wished to send a practical army over to Summerhall. The Stormlands and Reach hate the Dornish more than they are displeased with Aemon, and the North and Crowlands are in love with the boy."

Daemon tried to stand up once more, but Lord Commander Redwyne kept Daemon on the bed. "You want my son by himself, a child of seven, running and ruling a castle, by himself! This is what your Hand wants, the man who hates me, the c*nt will try to hurt me through him, and he will continue to do so. And he wants to hurt me by keeping my son alone and vulnerable to the Dorinish when the Summerhall is not even finished and ready to protect him from the same bastards that would more than willingly send scorpions in his food to kill a boy!"

"Aemon will not be alone," Viserys told him. Viserys sighed as he rubbed his eyes and grabbed the brie of his nose. "You may have your mixed feelings about me and the feelings of rage that our father and grandfather are keeping Aemon from you, and you may think the same thing now, but I do care for you and Aemon, and I will not leave Aemon alone. Otto thought it best to give up only one rider, but I did not agree. A lone dragon in the world is a terrible thing." Viserys smiled before continuing to speak. "What was it you said when we were kids? A dragon seeks out their own."

Daemon looked at his brother. "What do you mean?"

"I will send six dragons and their riders to help support Aemon and his holdings as Prince of Summerhall," Viserys continued. He looked to Daemon with a smile. "Our aunts will join Aemon. As of right now, the main threat to the Seven Kingdoms has proven to be Drone; they have been acting peculiar as of late, more so than the Greyjoys, and having seven dragons at the border is far better a deterrent."

"I will not agree to this," Daemon said with a glare. "You want children with dragons to rule over a land that could easily be turned into a war front?"

Viserys hated that Daemon had made a fair amount of sense with the question. Dorne might have been acting strangely over the last number of years. However, the walls, Daemon had finished the Dragon's Gate, which should protect Summerhall from any Dornish invasion, and it had proven capable the last several times Daemon provoked the Dornish. "As you know, our uncle at the citadel nearly passed a few moons ago. The man is merely in the fourth decade of life, and he nearly dies because of a fever, but he survived. I wrote to the citadel and have convinced them to make maester Vaegon the maester of Summerhall."

Daemon's eyes were filled with so much anger that for a split second, Viserys saw them merely as balls of dragon fire, and when he blinked, his brother's violet eyes looked far more wrathful, directed at Viserys, something that Viserys had only seen directed at their father and grandfather. "The man is a gray rat; he left our family. He abandoned us to those f*cking books, and you want him to raise my son in my stead!"

Viserys felt like he was stuck between a boulder and a mountain, waiting for the rest of the rubble to crush him. There was no winning this argument. Viserys should have never allowed it to become an argument; he was meant to inform Daemon of his decision and leave, not debate over something Viserys already decided. "Maester Vaegon has dealt with dragons before. He may have never claimed one, but he could aid Aemon with managing the castle. He is the archmaester of mathematics and economics; he has studied dragon in length, could help teach the children Valriyan in length, is adept in both Westorsii and Valryian histories, and has been instructed to teach them everything about the Reach, Stormlands, and Dorne as needed, he has studied more than you and me and has more chains than more than three-fourths of his peers when he is less than half the age of a master with equal status. I choose the best option to aid Aemon. I am in an impossible situation Daemon! I need to keep King's Landing secure, and I need to ensure that Summerhall is secure! I am doing the best I can, and you should be proud to know that I trust your son enough to handle Summerhall without your help. He has proven himself capable, and I need you to do the same as Prince of Dragonstone. I need my heir by my side, and I need the Prince of Summerhall in f*cking Summerhall!"

"I will not have it," Daemon said once more. This time, he was able to get to his feet before the Lord Commander pushed him down with difficulty.

"This is not up for debate. This is an order from your king, not a request from your brother," Viserys said. He stood up and turned before walking out of the room with his Kingsguard, allowing Daemon to soak and digest his words.

Chapter 21: A Son's Rage

Chapter Text

Harrenhal 104 AC

A Gray Rat

House Hightower had always been the chiefest supporter of the Faith and the Citadel; both were stationed and claimed their focal point in Oldtown ruled by the Hightowers, and many maesters and septons came from said family, after all, and generations of good relations allowed close ties with both. A powerful connection that allowed House Hightower to know most things done in most castles keeps towns, and villages. This was partially the reason for the late King Jaehaerys to name a Hightower to the position of Hand and the following reason why the Tullys married one of their daughters to a second son, Lord Otto Hightower, current Hand of the King, even if the man was not Hand at the time.

So when maester Jonothor Tully, a distant Tully cousin, was asked by the Hand, a man he claimed loose kinship with, to overlook Prince Daemon should he ever be injured during the tourney, it was with no complaint. It was in his heart, a selfless act to help Hightower's interest in the crown and the closer ties with House Hightower and the royal family, and in turn, do the same for House Tully. At least he would have thought such things if not for the letter between the pair three months prior, which raised suspicions. Even further, when he was told that it was Daemon who he was asked to help if the prince was injured. The entire Riverland hated Daemon and Aemon, and Hightower was no friend to them either. So it was clear that the Lord Hand knew something was going to happen to the prince; Maester Jonothor confirmed it when the prince was nearly killed by the Baratheon bastard.

The Lord Hand had sent him a letter three moons beforehand, telling him that a medicine he would allow maester Tully to name was a poison based primarily on Milk of the Poppy. Maester Tully was confused about such a poison being based on a commonly used medicine for painful ailments. Milk of the Poppy is used to numb the pain; it also confounds the mind, and the Lord Hand wanted more minor similarities of the mind's decreased abilities; while not full-on delirium, he wished the mind to be malleable. With several molds, plants, vegetation, leaves, flowers, and a combination of cordyceps, a fungus that maester Tully despised but wrote a dissertation upon, Tears of Lys, which leaves no trace, and a Long Farwell, primarily for its long-time to activate and lack of outward tells of it being in the person, rather than the absolute death, a poison was made like no other. He was told larger portions had more immediate results, but the results were more drastic and far more noticeable.

Maester Tully would never use the poison without a test, as he wrote back, even if it was made not even a year ago in the Citadel and had yet to be used by a soul; he would especially not use it first on a prince of the realm. But it was true and clear that the intended target of use was Prince Daemon, especially since the Lord Hand had never written him until the poison was made and did not write much else but practice with the poison until he asked for maester Jonothor to look over Prince Daemon.

He did test it on unwilling and unknowing subjects; the results were interesting. A poison that addled the mind enough to confuse reality and a dream-like state that confused previous memories, dreams, and thoughts. It is a poison that did not start quickly but took time, even weeks or months, to begin working, and the more it is used, the worse the poisons affect the mind. There were no outward tells of it being in the person but increased cruel, rasher thought, and cold, prideful, more animalistic, and primal tendencies to those around said subject that makes the person act more on impulse, but it does not kill the targetted individual. It makes the target slowly resent the person they care for most as a byproduct, not as a main purpose, and isolate the victim in question. And if the Lord Hand wanted to give this poison to Daemon, the Lord Hand either wanted Daemon to resent his brother, King Viserys, or his son, Aemon Targaryen.

While maester Jonothor may claim distant kinship with the man, primarily so that he can have a more favorable position should he ever be transferred closer to the capital and due to the ability to have favorability should he return to the Cititdel which the Hightowers highly fund, he was no fool, he was a maester. While a maesters could be a fool, a fool can not be a maester. Master Jonothor concluded that the Lord Hand paid the Baratheon bastard to injure Daemon, kill him if possible, but injure him nonetheless, and use the new poison on Prince Daemon. Injure him so that the master can begin using this new poison, just enough of it to show results after he leaves the tourney and blames any changes on the almost death of the prince at the tourney. Maester Jonothor did not doubt the grand maester was firmly in Lord Hand's pocket and would continue to position Daemon. If he started the same day the injury was given, it would take no more than a day for at least some results, a month before his tendencies begin to draw attention by those close to him, a several more for those outside of the norm for to notice and all could be traced back to the moment was first, truly, nearly killed in battle, the man was only three and twenty years of age and was born into a long peace, this was more than likely his first instance of near death if not for Ser Harrold saving his life.

Maester Jonothor disliked Daemon; he disrespected his House and his people by taking away the She-bitch, Lyanna Stark, and then sullying her by fathering his Black Bastard on her. But master Jonothor was no fool; he knew to anger the riders of Caraxes and Balerion, respectively, was more foolish than drinking a thousand viles of the Strangler and expecting no results. But in castles and keeps, there are no dragons. In skies and open lands, the dragons are gods among men. In castles and keeps, the Targaryens are merely men. Maester Jonothor chose to support the Lord Hand, poison the prince, and hopefully, the Lord Hand knew exactly what he was doing. A battle between Caraxes, Daemon, and King Viserys' Sheepstealer, a larger dragon, was not something he would like to think of. Even worse if it were Caraxes and Balerion. A bloody dread it would be.

Viserys Targaryen

He had told Aemon what was to happen right after the tourney was over: he was to go to Summerhall and act as Prince of the lands and castle. Viserys had even admitted to the boy that, on his behalf, he had spoken to several of the lords and ladies of the Stormlands, Reach, Crownlands, and North to send further aid to lands and castles. Viserys then explained that, in secret, he had already been planning to build a city to the north of Summerhall, allowing Aemon to name said future town in hopes of finally making a great city in the Stormlands, which it was sorely lacking. Viserys will admit that he thought it would be best for any future great city to be developed under the control of House Targaryen.

Aemon was understandably angry and went to his father later in the day to speak to Viserys' injured brother. Viserys did not know what Aemon was told or said, but Aemon's eyes were as sharp as Valyrian steel and as dark as midnight. Then, when he returned, Aemon seemed to have come to some sort of conclusion to whatever thoughts he had about the situation.

Aemon was angry and did not say anything for some time before asking for something in return for never having the chance to be with his father; it hurt his heart to be told the situation. Viserys agreed to whatever he requested and had made an oath before the request was made. He regretted doing so. Aemon asked to be able to send word to all portions of the Seven Kingdoms that any bastards that come to the lands should be named legitimate. Viserys nearly choked and coughed up his own beating heart when he heard this.

He had shot down the idea, citing that if all were made legitimate, it could, in fact, harm session rights through all of the kingdoms and put many true-born children in danger of their birthright. Aemon was smarter than Viserys gave him credit, which was saying a lot because he knew Aemon was taught and retained the information far better from his lessons with King Jaehaeyrs.

Aemon suggested that any who wish to be legitimized must swear off all possible rights and claims they may have had if they were true born, making the newly legitimate bastards have no rights to their trueborn sibling's claims and be able to start a new in the new city. Aemon then said it might help increase the city's population much more quickly. Viserys was hesitant, and Aemon offered another contingency: they could only be named legitimate after spending ten years in the city. By then, the people will more than likely have grown roots in the city, making it grow that much more and making the population constant rather than people moving in, being made legitimate, and moving back to their place of origin. Viserys knew that Aemon had thought of this before; he did not know why, when, or how, but Aemon had thought of it before, and Viserys agreed to those terms. He wrote down a written proclamation in agreement and would allow Aemon to take it to Summerhall after the tourney.

Squire's Melee

Never had he seen Aemon like this; the boy made no sound; he made no utterance. His face was cold, and his eyes looked past the crowd as if seeing history itself play out before him. Aemon's eyes were staring at the Stranger itself, and Viserys, for his life, thought that the Stranger would blink first. This was not the face of a Targaryen warrior wanting to fight and thirst for vengeance; this was not the face of a Daemon. This was the face of the kings of Winter waiting for the winter storms to freeze the corpses of their enemies. Viserys had heard some of the talks of the Black Prince, and he saw the toasts, and he thought it best to speak to Daemon on what to do for his son. But when Daemon heard of Aemon's cold face, he said that Aemon would prove himself andthat Aemon would show all that he was the son of the Rouge Prince.

Even after the feast for the day of the Squire's Melee, Aemon made no sound; he spoke to no soul; it was as though the boy was an Other himself and was marching the army of the dead. Viserys had hoped that during the tourney, Aemon could make friends with Laenor, seeing as they were the only two boys who could ride dragons and the fact that one day both might lead their respective Houses, but Aemon during the last day or so did not ever speak. It was as though Aemon was replaced with Ghost, and Viserys did not like the notion of Aemon taking a cold-blooded predator of the North that could rip the throats of those deemed a threat or prey as a role model.

His daughter was terrified of speaking to the boy, his aunts Saera, Viserra, and Daenerys were the only ones with enough nerve to speak to him. Viserys had never met a member of his kin act as such. Targaryens were passionate if angry; they screamed words that were made of dragon fire itself. But Aemon, it was unnerving, and those dark eyes looked almost black even in the candlelights; they did not shine. If eyes were windows to the soul, Viserys would not like Aemon's eyes to be the same black as the emptiness of death, the same black as Balerion's.

The squires of each kingdom walked into the stands, and each kingdom screamed when each boy was called upon and celebrated. But Viserys swore, to both the old gods and new, that everything was quiet when Aemon stepped up. No word needed to be said, and no cheer was announced. The only thing that broke the silence was the roar of Balerion. A roar of living thunder, a roar of a volcano come alive, the roar of destruction of death brought into flesh and blood. This was what announced the presence of the heir to Summerhall and Winterfell. And the Northern lords roared; never had he heard them so loud, never had heard them scream like demons of ice, and yet they did so for the Stark bearing the name Targaryen. But Aemon's face was stone. Aemon looked like the stone statues he claimed resided in Winterfell. And for the first time, Viserys regretted allowing Daemon to make this melee because now he felt as though he had sentenced every Riverland squire, every page from the Vale, and every lad from the Stormlands to their death.

King Viserys Targaryen stood at the elevated platform, his regal presence commanding attention. The stadium, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun, sprawled out before him, the stands packed with spectators eager for the spectacle about to unfold. The atmosphere buzzed with excitement, anticipation radiating from the assembled lords, ladies, and common folk who had gathered at Harrenhal.

Viserys addressed the multitude with a voice that carried authority and charisma. "Welcome to the Squire's Melee! The boys before you represent the best of Westeros, the rising stars destined for knighthood, the future leaders of our realm. Today, you will witness their skills and witness the birth of a new tradition, the Squire's Melee." His words resonated through the air, mingling with the cheers and murmurs of the crowd. The sun cast a warm glow over the ancient castle, and the banners of the great houses fluttered in the breeze. The colors of Westeros painted a vibrant tapestry against the backdrop of Harrenhal's towering walls. The spectators, from lords and ladies in their finery to common folk in the stands, awaited the commencement of the squire's melee with bated breath. "Tourneys may come and go, but what transpires here today is unique—a new chapter in the annals of Westeros. Every one of you gathered here will be part of something unprecedented that will be recounted in tales for generations to come."

As Viserys paused, the crowd responded with fervent cheers and applause, the chants echoing across the stadium. The energy in the air was palpable, and the anticipation for the squire's melee reached a crescendo, setting the stage for a memorable and historic event in the heart of Harrenhal.

The announcer and host of the games stood up proud and tall as he continued after Viserys sat down. "It is my great honor to start this melee. May the melee commence! "

Aemon Targaryen, devoid of the imposing Blackfyre but with a quiet determination in his eyes, stepped away from the safety of the Crownland squires and northern warriors. His cold and unwavering gaze surveyed the approaching horde of Riverlands and Vale squires who had seemingly allied against him. The tension in the air was palpable as the stadium held its collective breath, awaiting the clash that was about to unfold.

The other squires, sensing the gravity of the situation, hesitated for a moment as Aemon walked towards them, seemingly unperturbed. His every step exuded a quiet confidence bordering on arrogance, and his eyes, piercing and focused eyes locked onto each aggressor in turn. Aemon, a boy of noble blood, faced the challenge head-on, his demeanor betraying no fear.

Aemon closed the distance, surrounded by the hostile squires who had chosen to make him the target of their onslaught. Viserys, observing from his vantage point, could feel the weight of the moment, a tense silence descending upon the stadium as the imminent clash loomed.

As Aemon reached the outskirts of the approaching group, the tension snapped. The Riverlands and Vale squires launched themselves at the young Targaryen, their blunted tourney swords raised, but Aemon met their aggression with an unwavering resolve. The first blows landed, and the melee erupted into a chaotic dance of blades, the clash of steel ringing through the air. Aemon, navigating the onslaught with surprising agility, became the focal point of a swirling storm of combat, a lone figure standing against a tide of adversaries.

As the much larger squire, fueled by aggression and perhaps overconfidence, charged toward Aemon with a fervent scream, the tension in the air reached a fever pitch. "Black Prince!" was the only scream the boy made.

Aemon's cold eyes turned irritated. Viserys knew that for many, Aemon had only one emotion, brooding, but for those who knew him more, they all could agree that his eyes are the only tell of what he is feeling if he is not guarded. And while Aemon is fighting, he focuses more on the blades than schooling his features to appear impassive.

Aemon, displaying a poise beyond his years, met the incoming strike with practiced ease. His blunted tourney sword deflected the blow to the side with a swift and controlled movement, showcasing an unexpected level of skill for a boy his age.

With the squire's blade momentarily diverted, Aemon seized the opportunity to strike back. He brought his free hand into play in a fluid motion, delivering a forceful punch directly to the charging squire's face. The impact echoed through the stadium, a collective gasp rising from the spectators as the larger opponent crumpled to the ground, his battle cry replaced by a stunned silence.

Undeterred by the quick dispatching of his first assailant, Aemon immediately shifted his focus to the next threat, then the next, and the next, and a fourth. Another squire, perhaps sensing an opening, approached with renewed determination. Aemon, however, remained composed, his movements calculated and precise. The boy was taller and had more of a sticky build than most his age, and it was clear the boy was at least twice the age and higher than Aemon, a common occurrence throughout the Squire's Melee so far.

Viserys looked at the Riverland squire and could not fully tell what House the boy was from. But the glare in the boy's eyes indicated he was either from Riverrun or was closely tied with the Tullys. "I suppose it would be too much to ask for a mere second to grasp my breath?"

"Black bastard," the boy said. The entire crowd heard it, and Viserys was going to intervene. Viserys saw his daughter and his aunts all show a level of anger that could only happen to Targaryen women, a dragoness of their family was more fiercely protective than a lioness with her cubs. Viserys had no doubts in his mind that the female portion of the Targaryen family would have sent the squire to bed with one of their dragons to see if the boy had either sh*t the bed in fear or was eaten before that could come to pass.

"Naming your prince a bastard outright is a damnable offense, good ser," Aemon said calmly. Viserys was proud of his nephew, keeping his head level and not succumbing to the obvious baiting and mocking, something Viserys knew Daemon would have done easily. "I'm sorry, but in truth, your life would be forfeit if I so chose."

Viserys heard a gasp or two, but none from the royal box. Viseyrs noticed the Riverlords; instead of being ashamed of having their squire name a prince of the realm a bastard, they seemed to have a satisfied smirk. Viserys was not the best at the game of thrones, but he was born and raised in King's Landing and was far better than a lord of f*cking marshes! He would have their heads. Aemon may have been his nephew, but for the last number of years, he was the man raising Aemon. Aemon was quiet and brooded often; he was not like Viserys or Daemon, but Viserys raised Aemon like his son while Daemon built Summerhall. And in his heart, someone had just disrespected his son; someone named his son a bastard! But then Daemon's words returned to him. Aemon would handle this, and Viserys knew that stepping in now would disrespect Aemon's skill; he would stay quiet and wait until this was over.

Viserys knew that Aemon was angry with him and that he would not forgive easily; Aemon was kind, if not quite; he was generous, if not determined. And while Aemon had much patience when one truly angered him, it would take time, long lengths of time, until Aemon exploded in anger, and due to his brooding and quiet nature, his anger exploded with no warning. Viserys had heard so many rumors and words about the names they called Aemon, and no matter what, he could not determine their origins, but Aemon would not care. In his heart, Viserys knew Aemon would explode on this day.

"As if you could hurt me, you black-haired c*nt dropping," the Riverland squire countered to Aemon.

Aemon's eyes narrowed ever slightly; Viserys could see Aemon struggling to hold back his rage any further; the boy showed nothing; only the royal box could see the rage building. "Why do you hate me so much? Not once have I ever met you, and yet you curse my name and call me a bastard."

"My cousin was to marry the Stark whor*, and yet your father and mother dishonored themselves and our House. Your father has already been given his rights. Beaten in Harrenhal, in the Riverlands, the same lands he disrespected. Beaten by the bastard son of a House that was born from Targaryen bastards. All that is left now is to beat his bastard son," the squire said.

Aemon's sword stance changed; instead of squatting down with his blade pointed at the now-confirmed Tully squire as if ready to lunge. Aemon stepped back as he raised his sword, the tip pointed upwards, as he looked far more relaxed in his guard. Instead of before, where Aemon had one hand on the handle to point it, now he had both hands on the handle as he held the sword up to the skies. He thought once more and kept his feet at the same stance but lowered the sword from pointing to the skies and pointed it just above the head of the squire and moved the sword directly in front of him rather than just at an angle outside his guard.

Aemon kept his eyes level with the taller and stronger squire. "A man does not condemn a child for the sins of his father," Aemon said cooly. "On behalf of my father, who is injured, my mother, who has passed, and on behalf of the House Targaryen, I apologize," Aemon returned.

Viserys smiled; the boy was honorable. Viserys waved over Ser Harrold. Once the knight came forth, Viserys spoke. "You did well with Aemon, good Ser."

"That was not my work, You Grace," Ser Harrold told him.

"And what do you think the source is?" Viserys asked in interest.

Ser Harrold looked to be thinking before smirking as if he had come to the correct joke. "Proper breeding, Your Grace." Viserys laughed and allowed Ser Harrold to return to his post.

Viserys turned back to the fight and looked at the Riverland squire as he spoke. " I do not need the pity of a bastard Stark, the son of a northern whor*."

The Northen lords roared in anger and screamed in disagreement. Each one calls for blood and vengeance. If there was one truth, it was the Starks were respected and loved in the North, and no woman loved or respected more than Lyanna Stark, the woman who defied the odds to love the man she loved. She embodied Northern women's wildness and their determination born from the survival of many winters and harsh storms. Viserys did not think the Tully square would survive the tourney. The boy was locked in a melee with the son of the woman he disrespected.

Aemon took several breaths. "With respect to House Tully, I will not take your life. But for the disrespect to my mother, I will let you decide... will I take your tongue for disrespecting her with your words or your hands for taking up arms against her son?"

The Riverlords screamed in protest at Aemon's words. God be good; his nephew would start a war between the North and the Riverlands. Viserys would support his nephew. He would not allow these slights against his brother and his brother's wife to stand. And he would have the tongue of the squire in question. VIseyrs looked to his wife, and she nodded in approval.

"Prince Aemon Targaryen!" Viserys screamed out loud, stopping all fighting and speech in the crowd. Aemon's anger toward Viserys was slightly displaced as he turned to Viserys and kneels perfectly as a knight should. Gods, Viserys wished to knight his nephew already for showing such honor, even if his anger toward Viserys was strong. He turned to the Tully squire. "What is your name, boy?" Viserys could not hold back as he spat out the last portion. Gods, how he hated himself and how he failed Daemon and Aemon, but he would not allow anyone, man, woman, child, or elder, to disrespect his nephew, his son in everything but in name, in such a way without the realm knowing they angered their King!

"Carron Tully, Your Grace," the boy said, not noticing Viserys rage.

Viserys leaned down the railing and looked down on the boy. Viseyrs would put a f*cking end to this, for Daemon, for Aemon. He would show the realm where the lines were drawn. Yes, he would fail Daemon and Aemon for the realm, and he knew it would happen over and over again. But he would not lie down and watch the people disrespect his brother and his brother's son!

"Well, Carron Tully, may I remind you that Aemon Targaryen is a prince of the blood. Naming a prince a bastard out loud, in front of every lord and lady in the realm, ensuring that all saw and heard you do so, eliminating all shadows of doubt, would more than give me and my nephew the right to claim your head. Defiling the royal family in any way, shape, or form is enough cause for me to call a headsmen."

Carron Tully's smug smile turned into a fearful face, almost like a prey that had just been caught. Viserys knew not what went through the boy's mind, but all members of House Targaryen, even the Velaryons they named kin, seemed to stand tall, waiting to release their wroth on the boy. Viserys was sure the boy did not see the royal family, but in their place, the dragons each one rode. Carron's head snapped back to Aemon, and Viserys saw the moment he realized once more the boy rode the dragon of Aegon the Conqueror himself.

"Lords and ladies, as King of the Seven Kingdoms, and an uncle to a disrespected nephew, I will allow the disrespected party to name the punishment for a transgression all in attendance could not put into question in doubt transpired!" Viserys said allowed. He had to thank King Jaehaerys for teaching him what words to use if this should transpire. "Prince Aemon name your punishment!"

Aemon looked at the boy, the boy's life quite literally in Aemon's hands as he tightened his sword. Viserys knew that Aemon would personally let the boy go, but he was a prince and was disrespected. There was no escaping punishment. Viserys knew Aemon wished to forgive him, normally, but Aemon was angered by Viserys, Daemon's injury, the conversation Daemon had with his son, and the disrespect to the mother Aemon would never know. Aemon wanted blood, and his position as a disrespected prince forced Aemon to claim no mercy, no matter how much he wished for it.

"I should kill you outright," Aemon said out loud. "Put your head on a log and cut it off with Blackfyre. He who passes the sentence must swing the sword." The Northern lords and squires roared in agreement as the Riverlords tried to protest. "But it was my mother's honor that was disrespected; that is what I care for. And it is my mother's honor I will redeem. And I will not regain my mother's honor by lopping off the head of a squire while his bound in chains. I will regain my mother's honor through honorable means."

Viserys smiled at this. Viserys felt for a second that this was the type of pride a father should feel for their son. This was the pride that Viserys would feel for his future son. He was happy, and he felt such pride for Aemon. "Your verdict, Prince Aemon!" Viserys was forced to ask to ensure that his intent was laid bare before the people.

"Trial by combat," Aemon said stoically, no emotion shown. "And if you choose anyone but yourself as your representative, I will choose f*cking Balerion as my champion."

Viserys was surprised by that. Smart move, but surprising. The boy had no way for the River lords to intervene and have his cousins and family fight on his behalf. "Your words, Carron Tully."

The boy hesitated; he did not think Aemon would claim his head as penance. The boy more than likely had never killed before. Aemon had. While many doubted Aemon won the Wildling Invasion by himself, none doubted he fought in it.

"I-I accept, Your Grace," Carron replied. He readied himself before Aemon before growing co*cky once more, seeing that Aemon was but half his size.

"Bring forth live steel for the pair," Viserys said.

"Just one, Your Grace. I could win this with a blunted sword," Aemon said seriously. His glare did not leave Carron.

Someone came forth and brought the blades, but Aemon turned him down as he looked on to Carron, who accepted his. Carron seemed to grow more serious; Viserys knew in Carron's head the boy thought there would be victory over Aemon. Carron thought that his family would be avenged for Daemon's disrespect. He was wrong. Carron held a long sword with both hands, while Aemon had a bastard sword, the blunted tourney sword. Viserys noted that Aemon had now noticed Aemon used the bastard sword just like Blackfyre.

Carron rushed forward with a great speed that was similar to a knight rather than a squire. As the Carron swung his long, live sword towards Aemon, the young Targaryen adeptly blocked the strike with his own weapon. He swung thrice with overhead strikes, not long, heavy, horrible swings, but far more agile with less than a blink with a following swing. Aemon blocked all strikes as he took a step to the left, and Carron did the same to his own left as they continued striking and blocking one another as they walked in a circle. Aemon took a step back as his blade was kept in front of him. Viserys noticed Aemon kept his eyes lower, not to Carron's blade but near Carron's waist. Viserys may not know much about fighting, but he knew this was not wise.

"What's the matter, bastard?" Carron said. The boy was getting prideful. Viserys assumed the boy figured that if he was already in a trial by combat for the transgression, it could not get worse. If he loses, he dies; if he wins, the transgressions mean nothing. "You are not looking me in the eye. Afraid?"

Aemon struck thrice with quick swings. Carron dodged one and blocked the other, but Aemon's third was so quick that Carron was barely able to take a step back as the upward slash nearly hit Carron in the jaw. Carron stumbled back as he had taken a large step back that unbalanced him from avoiding the slash.

Carron grew angry and rushed forward with a large downward slash. Aemon blocked the strike while taking a step back. Instead of going for a wide strike, Aemon twisted his wrist so the blunted sword was now on the opposite side of Carron's live blade. Carron tried to block by doing similar. The pair went back and forth, turning their wrists with close strikes rather than wide-spacing slashes. The pair twisted their wrists as they made small slashes right after moving their blades to the vulnerable side. Aemon allowed Carron's live blade to slash as he blocked the strike and allowed the blade to graze down the blade and get caught in the crossguard before Aemon came close and punched Carron in the face with enough force for the squire to sprawl to the ground. It was clear Aemon had the upper hand the entire time.

Carron tried to get up, but he sent Aemon a glare as Aemon did not try to move to the live sword in the ground nor try to capitalize. Aemon's low gaze was just the right amount to look coldly at Carron, and neither Aemon's low gaze nor head moved the entire time. "This is where a trout's eyes meet the eyes of a dragon."

Viserys could not help but laugh at the comment. Viserys could saw the satisfied smirk come from Rhaenys' face, and even his aunts and daughter laughed loudly, while half of his aunts tried to hide their satisfaction. But Viserys did notice that Lady Alicent seemed concerned over the fight. He did recall her mother, Lord Otto's wife, being a Tully. The poor girl must be so distraught, her family fighting her close friend.

Carron rushed to the sword and made for a wild, large, arcing swing. With a dancer's grace, Aemon sidestepped the retaliatory swing, evading the attack seamlessly. Simultaneously, he struck the charging squire in the arm, delivering a precise blow that disrupted the opponent's balance.

Carron, now off-kilter, found himself stumbling to the ground under Aemon's strategic assault. Aemon left the boy to rise up once more as he charged Aemon with the live sword. Aemon sidestepped at an angle, tapped his blunted blade on the live steel thrice, redirecting the blade subtly to the side before Aemon turned his own blunted sword, the handle towards Carron, and rammed the pommel into Carron's gut, forcing the squire on his knees. The boy dropped his live steel.

"You think strength and height are your allies?" Aemon said loudly to the boy, loud enough for all to hear. "They make you slow; they make you easier to strike."

Carron could not breathe. Viserys did not know how Aemon could end a fight to the death if his blade had its sharpness dulled almost as much as a stick. But Viserys remembered something his father had told Daemon when they were training as boys, and Daemon was going to stab Viserys instead of slash as Viserys expected; their father had to step in before Daemon unintentionally harmed Daemon. The edge of the blade was dull, but the point of the sword was more than enough to pierce a weak spot.

Aemon, taking the time, lunged forward and rammed the blunted sword through the boy's eye. The boy breathed heavily twice before Aemon unsheathed the sword from the boy's head, and the boy collapsed dead. No words were said. The gods made their choice. Viserys asked for the boy's body to be removed. Aemma suggested that the melee be stopped, but Viserys replied that men die in melees; these boys would know death and protect the realm; they would not fear death. He would not allow the boys to shy away from something all of them would eventually do; most of them were nearing twelve and would soon be knights, and he made sure to say this to crowed, even allowing some of the squires to leave early but none did even if the Riverlands were disheartened.

Once the fighting restarted, Viserys witnessed a clash between a Selmy squire and a Bracken contender. The Selmy, adept with the sword, demonstrated precision and technique, while the Bracken wielded his blade with a ferocious intensity. Viserys watched as the Bracken swung wide and harshly down. Selmy dived to the side as he waited for the Bracken to miss the strike and use the time between the Bracken readjusting to slash at the boy's head. Bracken was able to ready his sword and sing once more. Selmy was able to block the strike and redirect it to the side with a circular motion before finishing the circle close to the Backen's neck, causing the Bracken to concede due to the sword being ready to slash it.

Amid the Riverland tumult, a Blackwood and another Bracken squire engaged in a fierce contest. The Blackwood, armed with a blunted sword, showcased agility and swift strikes, contrasting with the Bracken's deliberate and calculated movements. Bracken went off with a long slash, but the Blackwood stepped back and rested forward with a lunge that was easily deflected by the Bracken. Bracken was able to move Blackwood's sword in a way that left the boy wide open, and instead of going to a punch to the face, Bracken kicked the poor squire in the balls. House Bracken laughed loudly as House Blackwood called for blood.

In the Reach quarter, a Mallister squire faced off against a Tarly challenger. Tarly was able to go for a strike, but Mallister was able to block the strike, twist the sword in a circular motion of the wrist, and move the strike to the outside of their guard as Mallister was able to enter the inside of the guard where Tarly was vulnerable and trike to strike at his chest. Tarly ducked under the strike for his chest and lunged forward to Mallister's legs; using Mallister's forward movement and Mallister's legs, Tarly was able to pick Mallister up and, using the movement, flipped Mallister to his back. Tarly spun around in that same motion and placed the tip of the sword where Mallister landed with practiced ease as the boy was not on his back, winded, and unable to counter with a sword near his head.

A notable bout occurred between a Florent and an Ashford squire in the Reach section. The Florent exhibited intricate footwork and precise swordplay, while the Ashford countered with a combination of agility and calculated strikes. The engagement encapsulated the distinctive martial traditions of House Florent and House Ashford.

In the Crownlands quadrant, a Buckler squire and a Cafferen contender engaged in an evenly-matched duel. Buckler went for a vertical slash doward while the Cafferen blocked the strike and stepped to the side, outside Buckler's guard. Cafferen lunged for a strike at Buckler's helm, but Buckler was just barely able to lower himself out of the strike, take a step into Cafferen's guard in the same motion and elbowed the Cafferen's jaw before grabbing a knife at his side and place it into Cafferen's exposed armpit, that from whar Daemon had told him once, had an artery.

The ensuing chaos of the melee brought forth a coordinated assault as five Riverland squires rushed toward Aemon in a desperate attempt to overwhelm him. Aemon's response was swift and masterful, showcasing a level of combat proficiency beyond his years.

The first Riverland squire lunged at Aemon with determined aggression, only to find his attack deflected and countered with a precise strike from Aemon's blunted sword. The impact was sharp, and the squire stumbled backward, momentarily disoriented. Before he could recover, Aemon swiftly closed the distance and, with a calculated series of strikes, incapacitated his opponent with a display of controlled force.

As the Riverland squires pressed on, undeterred by their initial failure, Aemon continued to weave through their attacks with remarkable agility. His movements were a dance of martial finesse, each swing of his blunted sword landing with intentional precision. Aemon utilized the blunted weapon not just for defense but as a tool to dismantle his adversaries efficiently, leaving them disarmed and incapacitated one by one.

Then, three Vale squires joined the fray, seeking to exploit any perceived weakness in Aemon's defense. However, the young Targaryen remained steadfast. He parried their strikes with fluid grace, countering their advances with calculated strikes of his own. Aemon's blunted sword became an extension of his will, each movement a testament to his innate combat prowess.

Two Stormland squires followed soon after, drawn into the escalating skirmish, and met a similar fate as their Riverland and Vale counterparts. Aemon's proficiency with the blunted sword became increasingly evident as he expertly navigated the battlefield, deflecting attacks and turning the momentum of the melee in his favor.

Aemon's dominance in the melee unfolded like a relentless teacher imparting a lesson to his students. The stadium, once filled with the cacophony of battle cries, transformed into a spectator's arena of astonished silence, broken only by the resounding echoes of Aemon's skillful strikes against his opponents.

As the Riverland squires regrouped for another assault, Aemon faced a trio of opponents with a mix of determination and trepidation. The crowd watched in awe as Aemon, a mere boy among young men, prepared to engage in yet another display of unparalleled skill.

The first Riverland squire, a burly lad with a confident demeanor, lunged at Aemon with a powerful overhead strike. Aemon's blunted sword met the attack head-on, the impact sending vibrations through both weapons. Displaying remarkable agility, Aemon sidestepped the next swing effortlessly, exploiting an opening in his opponent's defense. With a lightning-quick counter, Aemon delivered a precise strike to the squire's midsection, leaving him momentarily winded. The efficiency of Aemon's movements stood in stark contrast to the Riverland squire's unwieldy attempts.

The second Riverland squire, armed with a two-handed grip on his blunted sword, aimed for Aemon's flank with a sweeping motion. Aemon responded with calculated precision, parrying the strike with a well-timed block. Seizing the opportunity, Aemon deftly maneuvered around his opponent, delivering a swift series of strikes to vulnerable points. The crowd marveled at the elegance of Aemon's technique as he neutralized the Riverland squire's offense with minimal effort. The efficiency of his movements became increasingly apparent with each exchanged blow.

The third Riverland squire, perhaps sensing the challenge that lay ahead, adopted a more cautious approach. Aemon, however, remained unfazed. As the squire circled, seeking an opening, Aemon expertly anticipated his adversary's next move. A feigned retreat drew the Riverland squire into a false sense of security, and in a split second, Aemon reversed the momentum. With a precisely executed series of strikes, Aemon disarmed his opponent, leaving the squire defenseless against the impending conclusion. The crowd erupted in cheers as Aemon, a testament to his mastery, emerged unscathed from the encounter.

Viserys, seated high above the melee, observed Aemon with a mixture of astonishment and unease. The boy, usually full of youthful exuberance, had transformed into a cold and calculated figure on the field. Aemon's every movement seemed deliberate as if he were orchestrating a complex dance rather than engaging in a melee with fellow squires.

The expressions on Aemon's face were absent of emotion, his features locked in an unwavering composure. His eyes, however, betrayed a sharp and keen focus, meticulously tracking the movements of every squire around him. Aemon's gaze remained fixed, motionless yet penetrating, as if he could see through the very intentions of those who sought to challenge him.

What truly perturbed Viserys was the apparent restraint Aemon exhibited. The boy, capable of swift and decisive victories, seemed to deliberately prolong the engagements. Viserys could almost sense a subtle arrogance in Aemon's approach, an unspoken message to each opponent: "I could have defeated you sooner if I wished."

Aemon's movements were fluid and economical, displaying a mastery that transcended the skills of his adversaries. The squires attacking him, driven by ambition and bravado, were unwittingly participating in a lesson taught by a young maestro. Aemon's cold demeanor conveyed not only his proficiency but also a sense of detachment, as if he were showing the limits of their abilities in a clinical demonstration.

Viserys, unversed in the intricacies of swordplay, couldn't pinpoint the specific techniques Aemon refrained from using. Yet, he sensed an unspoken challenge issued by the young Targaryen. Aemon's controlled performance conveyed a silent message to the squires and the spectators alike: there was a vast chasm between their skill and his own, and he chose to reveal only a fraction of his true capabilities.

In the northern section of the melee, a young Stark squire faced off against a Vale counterpart. The northern lad, wielding a sturdy tourney sword, displayed disciplined footwork and a focused gaze. His Vale opponent, agile and quick, sought to outmaneuver him. The clash was marked by precise strikes and nimble dodges, reflecting the distinctive combat styles of their respective regions.

Amidst the fervor of the melee, Crownland and Riverland squires engaged in a heated duel. A Crownlander, proud and determined, locked blades with a Riverlander wielding a blunted sword. The fight showcased the contrast between their approaches, with the Crownlander favoring powerful strikes and the Riverlander relying on swift and evasive maneuvers.

In this clash, a Northern squire encountered a young Western. The northern squire, true to his Northern roots, exhibited resilience and a steadfast defense, countering the western squire's aggressive onslaught. The duel portrayed the inherent rivalry between North and West, as each squire sought to prove the supremacy of their respective regions.

As Aemon continued to effortlessly dispatch opponents, Viserys couldn't shake the feeling that this was not merely a melee but a carefully orchestrated exhibition, a display of Aemon's prowess intended to leave an indelible mark on the minds of those who bore witness.

The insults thrown at Aemon reverberated through the arena, each jeer striking a nerve. The Riverland squires, displaying their hostility, labeled Aemon as a Targaryen bastard, while the Vale squires coined him the "Black Prince." The Stormlander squire, with a hint of mockery, taunted Aemon about his father's encounter with a Baratheon bastard during the adult melee.

However, it was the vile words spoken by the Riverland squire about Aemon's mother, Lyanna Stark, that proved to be the catalyst. The derogatory reference to Lady Lyanna as a "northern whor*" ignited a fury within Aemon that had been restrained until that very moment.

Viserys, witnessing the transformation in his nephew, saw Aemon's controlled composure shatter. The cold, calculating demeanor was replaced by an eruption of anger, a visceral response akin to the famed Targaryen temper. Aemon's eyes, once impassive, now blazed with intensity.

For the first time, Aemon ceased holding back. His movements became swifter and more aggressive, and each strike with the blunted tourney sword carried an unmistakable force. The squires who had been challenging him were met with a sudden onslaught, their attempts at mockery drowned out by the resounding clash of steel.

Aemon's actions mirrored those of his father, Daemon, whose reputation for unbridled ferocity in battle was well-known. Viserys could almost sense the echoes of Daemon's influence in Aemon's every strike, as if the anger coursing through the boy had awakened a latent connection to the Targaryen warrior spirit.

As Aemon faced the insults head-on, Viserys couldn't help but feel a mixture of concern and pride. The boy had inherited not only the Targaryen name but also the indomitable spirit that defined his family. The sudden outburst marked a stark departure from the restrained demonstration Aemon had initially displayed, revealing the depth of emotion and loyalty Aemon held for his mother's honor.

Aemon's movements were far faster than a boy's should be, they were far more brutal than a boy of his age should be, and the anger he had was far more than a boy's should be. Even when brutal, Aemon's skill was a dance of steel as he engaged in a fierce duel with the squire who dared to mock his mother. The Royce squire rushed forward and swung twice at Aemon, who dodged both times with a backward lean and a sidestep. The Royce squire swung a third time, but Aemon deflected the strike easily, sending the Royce squire toward the direction of the deflection as he carried the momentum. The squire, continuing his direction towards the left of Aemon, was left vulnerable to an elbow to the face that sent him back dazed. Viserys knew in his heart because he had seen Daemon do it more than once that if Aemon had actually put force into the elbow rather than allowed the squire to rush into it, the squire would have dropped limp to the ground. The blunted tourney swords clashed in a rapid exchange, the sound of steel on steel echoing through the arena.

Blocking a strike with precision, Aemon swiftly sidestepped, avoiding a counterattack, and retaliated with an overhead strike aimed at the squire's head. However, the opponent proved resilient, raising his own sword to block Aemon's attack successfully. The overhead strike from Aemon was locked in a stalemate with the horizontal block of the sword from the Royce squire.

Refusing to relent, Aemon maintained the pressure, pushing the squire into a desperate defense. Sensing an opportunity, Aemon, with his free hand, deftly seized the end of the squire's sword. The squire, caught in a precarious stalemate, struggled to resist Aemon's strength. Aemon, recognizing the squire's vulnerability, intensified the pressure on the stalemate. Simultaneously, he moved swiftly forward, causing his cross guard to collide with the squire's. The impact disrupted the squire's grip, forcing him to loosen his hold on the sword.

Seizing the moment, Aemon expertly sidestepped, closing the distance between them. In a decisive move, he executed a precise kick, sweeping the squire's legs from under him. The squire tumbled to the ground, losing both his footing and his sword in the process.

With newfound control, Aemon stood over the fallen opponent, now armed with two swords. The shift in dynamics was palpable, and Aemon, driven by the recent insults against his mother, was poised to make a statement. The crowd, witnessing the calculated maneuvers of the young Targaryen, erupted into a mixture of gasps and cheers, amplifying the intensity of the moment.

Viserys, observing Aemon's adept use of two swords with a sense of awe, couldn't fathom where his son had acquired such a unique and extraordinary skill. The mastery of dual-wielding swords was an unparalleled feat in the known realms, and Viserys was at a loss, not knowing anyone in the Red Keep, the North, or any other kingdom that possessed this particular expertise.

The art of dual-wielding was a rare and intricate discipline, with very few individuals known to have honed such a technique. Viserys was aware of the legendary sword of the Morning tradition among the Daynes, but even their mastery was bestowed upon a chosen one worthy of the title. To witness Aemon wielding two swords simultaneously, not just proficiently but with exceptional skill, left Viserys marveling at his nephew's prowess.

The distinctiveness of Aemon's technique set him apart, not only from his peers but also from any known swordsmen in the realm. It was a display of unorthodox brilliance that went beyond conventional training, hinting at a unique and extraordinary source of knowledge. The crowd, too, recognized the rarity of such a skill, with gasps and murmurs spreading among them as they bore witness to the unprecedented spectacle.

Viserys had heard Aemon had trained with his left hand before, but he did not think the boy was good enough to use one sword in his off-hand and a second sword with his primary. Viserys had seen for the longest time that Aemon was able to train with his off-hand; he trained in front of all squires in attendance not even a day before, only showing his skill with his left hand so that he could be underestimated, even if none of the adults believed that was all Aemon was able to do. Aemon was far too good; Viserys would have offered the boy a position within Kingsguard when the boy was older if not for the fact that Aemon was Daemon's sole heir.

As Viserys continued to watch Aemon, the realization dawned that his nephew had ventured into uncharted territories of swordsmanship, showcasing a level of mastery that transcended the norms of combat; the boy was using two swords, something he did not know a single Kingsguard was able of and did not think it something they can teach another. The mystery surrounding Aemon's dual-wielding abilities only deepened, leaving Viserys in awe of the exceptional skills displayed by the young Targaryen prince.

As the numbers dwindled, Viserys began to realize that only a dozen remained on the field – Aemon, Laenor, and ten squires, predominantly hailing from the Riverlands and the Stormlands. Aemon, with a certain deliberate calmness, approached the remaining contenders, and it became apparent that these squires had no intention of facing him individually; instead, they surged forward as a collective, all ten attacking Aemon simultaneously.

Aemon's strategy was swift and precise. He employed wide, arcing strikes with his blunted tourney swords, creating a barrier that prevented the squires from grouping up and overwhelming him with sheer numbers. Each swing served a dual purpose – not just to ward off the attacks but also to maintain a perimeter, ensuring that the squires couldn't coordinate their strikes effectively.

The young Targaryen Prince displayed unparalleled agility as he blocked one squire's strike with one sword, swiftly dodged another attack, and seamlessly transitioned to counter a third assailant. The squires, though numerous, found themselves outmatched in skill and strategy. Aemon's ability to navigate the battlefield with calculated precision allowed him to control the flow of the fight, preventing the squires from forming a cohesive assault.

As the melee unfolded, the crowd's attention intensified, marveling at Aemon's mastery in handling multiple adversaries simultaneously. The spectacle transcended the boundaries of typical tourney combat, resembling more of a dance where Aemon dictated the rhythm, and the squires struggled to keep pace. In the midst of the chaos, Aemon stood as a singular force against the tide of opponents, a testament to his exceptional combat prowess and strategic acumen.

Aemon's movements were a symphony of calculated precision. As the squires closed in, their blades aimed at him from different angles, Aemon adeptly wielded his pair of blunted tourney swords. With his left sword, he blocked a strike that targeted his back, creating a barrier that seamlessly absorbed the force of the blow. Simultaneously, his right sword was poised in front of him, ready to deflect any incoming attack.

The speed of Aemon's responses was almost supernatural. In the blink of an eye, he shifted his weight, pivoted on his feet, and lunged forward. Blocking another incoming strike with his left sword, he swiftly transitioned to trip the squire in front of him. Aemon's movements were a dance of defensive maneuvers and counterattacks, each motion executed with fluidity and grace.

As the squires continued their assault, Aemon maintained a constant rhythm of blocking and striking. He demonstrated exceptional coordination between his two swords, ensuring that one was always positioned to defend while the other was poised to retaliate. Aemon's ability to multitask in the chaos of the melee was a testament to his advanced combat skills, leaving the squires struggling to keep up with the young Targaryen's relentless onslaught.

The crowd watched in awe as Aemon seamlessly weaved through the melee, his dual swords a blur of motion. The precision and speed of his movements showcased a level of mastery that surpassed the expectations of a typical squire's melee. Aemon's performance was a spectacle, and the spectators couldn't help but be captivated by the display of skill and finesse unfolding before them.

A squire lunged towards Aemon's back, aiming for a vulnerable spot, but Aemon swiftly countered with his left sword, intercepting the strike just in time. Simultaneously, his right sword swung in a calculated arc, delivering a counterstrike to a different adversary. The swift motion continued seamlessly as Aemon pivoted to address the new threat behind him.

Another squire, seeing an opportunity, attempted a strike from the side. Aemon's left sword moved to intercept the incoming attack, creating a protective barrier. With precise timing, he adjusted his stance and, with a swift maneuver, tripped the squire who had attacked from the rear. Aemon maintained his composure, ready to face the next assailant.

As the squire's melee continued, Aemon demonstrated an exceptional display of skill, facing a multitude of opponents simultaneously. His movements were a harmonious blend of offense and defense, as he strategically engaged each adversary in a choreography of swordplay.

One squire after another lunged towards Aemon; their attacks met with precision and calculated counterstrikes while all the squires stopped coming at him one-on-one and chose to crowd him and attack at the same time. Aemon seamlessly transitioned between blocking and striking, using the dual-sword technique to maintain control over the chaotic battlefield. His left sword became a steadfast guardian, deflecting incoming strikes, while his right sword, wielded with finesse, found its mark in each counterattack.

A squire from the Riverlands, fueled by aggression, swung his sword with determination, aiming for Aemon's side. However, Aemon sidestepped the attack effortlessly, delivering a quick slash with his right sword that sent the squire stumbling backward. In the midst of this, another squire from the Stormlands attempted a swift strike from the rear, only to be met with a well-timed block from Aemon's left sword.

The dance continued, with Aemon's adversaries growing more desperate as they realized the futility of their coordinated efforts. A quick parry, a swift strike, and a precise kick led to the gradual elimination of squires, one by one. Aemon moved with an almost preternatural awareness, exploiting every opening and flaw in their attacks.

In the final moments, as only a handful of squires remained, Aemon's mastery became increasingly evident. Each movement was deliberate, and each strike was executed with a finesse that belied his age. The crowd watched in awe as Aemon, the Black Prince, held sway over the battlefield, proving himself a force to be reckoned with even among the most talented squires of Westeros. Until there were two, Aemon and Laenor. And sadly, no, the fight was far less spectacular than the notion that Aemon was able to wield two blades at once. Leanor was good, on that Viserys could understand, but he was merely good for a squire, which was a great ability for a boy that was still too young in the eyes of most to be named a squire, but Aemon was something that one only hears about when reading stories and books. Even when Aemon dropped the sword from his dominant hand and fought using his left, he still had the advantage.

Aemon found himself facing the last opponent, Laenor Velaryon. The realization that both remaining squires hailed from the Crownlands added a layer of significance to the confrontation, a symbol of regional pride and prowess. Viserys, observing the scene, felt a surge of kinship and pride, knowing that his family, and by extension, his realm, had produced the last two standing competitors. It was a moment of shared pride with those gathered, a testament to the martial strength of the Crownlands. Aemon used but one sword to fight his cousin.

As Laenor approached with a determined strike, aiming for Aemon's head, the tension in the air escalated. Aemon, however, remained composed, ready to face the oncoming attack. With a precise block, Aemon intercepted the descending sword, guiding it along his crossguard in a fluid motion. Aemon did not move his feet to block the strike. He merely moved his wrist at an angle as if moving his left hand to his right shoulder, and the blade was easily able to block the strike and set it aside. The blades clashed briefly, creating a resonating sound that echoed through the arena.

Aemon's quick thinking turned the situation to his advantage. As the Laenor's blade was set aside rather easily, it left Laenor's face exposed. As Laenor's sword became entangled with Aemon's crossguard, Aemon smoothly sidestepped to the left, exploiting the opening created by the stalemate. Laenor, caught off guard by the unexpected maneuver, found himself momentarily exposed on his left side.

Seizing the opportunity, Aemon launched a swift and calculated lunge. His blade aimed for Laenor's head, a strike that could have marked the end of their duel. However, Laenor managed to recover just in time, stepping back to evade the incoming blow. The crowd reacted with a collective gasp, appreciating the skill and intensity of the exchange.

Laenor Velaryon pressed on, his determination evident as he executed a second overhead slash, aiming to break through Aemon's defenses. Aemon, however, expertly intercepted the strike, seamlessly guiding Laenor's blade into a stalemate. The crowd held its collective breath, eyes fixed on the locked blades.

Rather than disengaging immediately, the two squires remained intertwined in the stalemate. Unexpectedly, Laenor exploited the close quarters and thrust his blade forward, narrowly missing Aemon's face. Yet, Aemon was prepared for such a move.

Anticipating the thrust, Aemon responded swiftly. He pushed his sword toward the direction of the lunge, simultaneously sidestepping away from the oncoming blade. Laenor, caught off guard by Aemon's deft maneuver, found himself overextended and off-balance.

Seizing the opportunity, Aemon capitalized on Laenor's vulnerable position. As Laenor stumbled forward, expecting resistance, Aemon deftly sidestepped in the opposite direction. In one fluid motion, Aemon redirected the momentum of his opponent, setting the stage for a decisive strike.

With Laenor now off balance, Aemon aimed for a decisive blow. Despite Laenor's efforts to block the strike, Aemon executed a quick and precise wrist movement, spinning his sword in a circular motion. The maneuver disarmed Laenor, sending his sword clattering to the ground. Aemon raised his sword and laid the tip of the sword on Laenor's shoulder.

"I yield," Laenor said, knowing full well it was not needed, for the results spoke for themselves.

"Fair match, cousin," Aemon said calmly.

"You still beat me, Aemon," Laenor pointed out.

"Yes, but you lasted longer than all others today, cousin," Aemon offered as he lowered his blade. Aemon walked over to the dropped blade himself, picked it up for his cousin, and offered it to him. Laenor looked to the blade, nodded his head, took the blade, and offered his forearm to shake. Aemon's smile was slight, but everyone with the blood of the dragon knew that his smile was a soft and rare thing. Aemon clasped his forearm and brought his cousin in for a hug.

The crowd erupted into cheers and applause as Aemon stood victorious, having outmaneuvered his skilled opponent in a display of exceptional swordsmanship. The duel between the two Crownland squires had reached its conclusion, leaving a lasting impression on those who bore witness to their remarkable skill.

Viserys could see words being exchanged with the pair but did not know what they were. Laenor looked shocked but seemed glad before nodding in determination. Aemon released the hug before lifting Laenor's arm alongside his own. People roared and cheered.

Summerhall 104 AC

Aemon Targaryen

Aemon did not wish to celebrate his victory. There was no point to it. Who could celebrate taking the life of another man? But Aemon did not think of such things. His thoughts were on his injured father. The second father had taken a Warhammer to the chest by a Baratheon. The gods were cruel.

The flickering candlelight cast a warm glow in Harrenhal's infirmary, illuminating the still figure of Prince Daemon Targaryen lying in a bed, heavily bandaged and nursing broken ribs. Aemon Targaryen, his son, sat in a chair nearby, weariness etched on his young face. The festivities of the tourney had come to an end, leaving a hushed air in the infirmary.

Aemon struggled to keep his eyes open as he listened to the steady rhythm of his father's breathing. The injuries Daemon sustained during the melee were severe, a testament to the fierceness of the competition. Yet, despite the pain, Daemon seemed to radiate a quiet strength, even as the master was using a medicine that Aemon had never heard of almost thrice a day.

As exhaustion finally took its toll on Aemon, he drifted into a fitful sleep, his body hunched over in the chair. Unbeknownst to him, Daemon stirred, his fatherly instincts awakening even in his weakened state. With aching movements, Daemon managed to reach for a blanket and gently draped it over his sleeping son. Aemon, oblivious to this small act of paternal care, slept on.

In the quiet of the infirmary, father and son shared a silent moment, bound by duty and the unspoken understanding that their paths diverged come morning. The burden of responsibility weighed heavily on both, yet in that shared solitude, there lingered a connection — the bond between a Targaryen father and son, each destined for their own journey in the vast tapestry of Westeros.

The night before Aemon's departure from Harrenhal was laden with a bittersweet air. The lingering echoes of the tourney's festivities had now faded, replaced by a solemn gravity as father and son shared a final feast. In the torchlit hall, surrounded by the remnants of celebration, Daemon and Aemon spoke in hushed tones, their conversation a blend of fatherly advice, familial warmth, and unspoken understanding.

As the night wore on, the flickering candles cast shadows on the worn faces of the Targaryen family. Daemon, still nursing his injuries, bore the weight of his role as father and mentor, imparting wisdom and guidance to his son. Aemon, in turn, absorbed the lessons, aware that the road ahead held challenges and responsibilities beyond the tourney grounds of Harrenhal.

Morning came too soon, and Aemon, his belongings packed and his resolve steeled, bid farewell to his father and Harrenhal. The journey to Summerhall stretched before him, a three-week odyssey across the diverse landscapes of the Seven Kingdoms.

The party, nearly five thousand, an army, due to all the people hearing of Aemon's ability having the ability to legitimize others, that accompanied Aemon comprised a formidable assembly. Six princesses, each with their own distinctive spirit, added a touch of vibrancy to the procession. The men from the North, Stormlands, Crownlands, and Reach formed a diverse tapestry of loyalty and camaraderie, their banners fluttering in the wind as they set forth on the winding paths toward Summerhall.

The days unfolded with a rhythmic cadence — a journey marked by the changing landscapes, the camaraderie among the travelers, and the unspoken weight of Aemon's purpose. Through bustling towns, serene meadows, and dense forests, the party moved steadily southward.

As Summerhall drew near on the horizon, the air crackled with a mix of anticipation and uncertainty. Aemon, now at the threshold of his destiny, felt the weight of his family legacy and the responsibilities that awaited him. The journey, with its trials and revelations, had sculpted him into the man he was to become, a Targaryen poised on the brink of a future that only the Seven Kingdoms could unveil.

As the party drew closer to Summerhall, the white marble castle emerged like a mythical vision against the backdrop of the Red Mountains. Positioned between two imposing peaks, it stood proudly, a testament to Targaryen's grandeur and ambition.

The architectural essence of Summerhall bore striking resemblances to both the Red Keep and Dragonstone, embodying the storied legacy of House Targaryen. The white marble, gleaming like freshly fallen snow, offered a stark contrast to the rugged terrain of the Red Mountains. Carved into the very heart of the mountains, the castle seemed to grow organically from the landscape, its foundations firmly rooted in the ancient stones.

Seven resplendent drum towers, each progressively larger and more pristine than the Hightower itself adorned the castle's skyline. These towering sentinels, reminiscent of Dragonstone's angular structures, reached towards the heavens, proudly displaying the mastery of Targaryen craftsmanship. The towers were taller than the Wall itself. Nearing a thousand feet in height, the towers were made to outdo Hightower in every way and then truly anger the Hightower family by making seven, one for their Andal gods, and this was to be a seat of the Valryians that cast them out of Essos. Aemon knew Daemon had fun designing this to anger the Hightowers. Gods be good, Aemon knew Daemon was going to go all out with the castle, but he didn't also think he was going to have co*ck measuring contest with the Hightowers.

The outer walls, high and impregnable, circled around the heart of Summerhall, forming a protective barrier. Along the northern perimeter, where the sprawling grounds of Summerhall stretched, the potential for a future city was evident, the spaces between the seven walls hinting at a canvas yet to be painted. The seven walls circled around the northern face of Summerhall, wrapped around the east and west, and connected themselves to the mountains that Summerhall was between. Leaving the Dragon's Gate protecting Summerhall from the south, each one of the Draogn's Gate was as tall as the seven circular walls that surrounded the other front. The walls that protected the north, east, and west of the castle and stopped at the mountains were more than enough to fight a city between and Aemon knew it would not be heard to make more if needed.

Dragon motifs adorned every facet of the castle, a vivid celebration of the Targaryen connection to the mythical creatures. Small dragons framed gates with their intricate designs, dragon claws held aloft torches that flickered in the shadows, and archways and staircases took the form of sinuous dragon tails.

At the heart of the grand structure rose a massive tower, the central keep of Summerhall. Taller and wider than any other, it reached for the skies with a dome crowning its pinnacle. This tower, a majestic testament to Targaryen might, stood as the very soul of Summerhall, overlooking the realm from its elevated vantage point.

As Aemon approached Summerhall, he couldn't help but marvel at the transformation that had taken place in the lands surrounding the castle. A once barren and desolate landscape had given way to a flourishing forest, filled with vibrant trees and lush vegetation. The forest acted as a natural buffer, creating a picturesque path that led to the gleaming white marvel that was Summerhall.

The Red Mountains provided a majestic backdrop, their rugged peaks framing the castle like the ancient sentinels of the realm. Against this dramatic natural canvas, the white stones of Summerhall appeared to radiate celestial grace, as if the castle itself were a divine gift from the heavens.

Summerhall was between two of the largest peaks, which was not saying much because the castle itself, from east to west, was nearly a mile wide, not including the outer seven walls nor the possible city. Aemon really wondered how much Daemon wished to piss off every other castle and family with his pride. While the drum towers were larger and wider than Hightower, there was one detail Aemon did not miss that put a smile on his face. Because Summerhall was built on the mountain, between the two highest peaks, it was as though it was made of the red mountain, disregarding the fact the castle was made of white marble. The castle, because it was made into the mountain, resembled Casterly Rock. With the towers made to be higher than Hightower and the castle being made on a mountain, Aemon had no doubt in his mind that the castle alone was at least of equal height to Casterly Rock, but knowing Daemon, it was taller. The castle was second in length and width only to Harrenhall, had towers taller than Hightower, and was on a mountain, making it taller than Casterly Rock. The castle was so high up and so tall that the white marble added to it, making it look like a castle from the gods themselves.

Daemon made this castle with the idea of outshining every other keep in the Seven Kingdoms. It may have been beautiful, but Daemon kept in mind that this castle was meant to be a fortress force, and while Aemon did not know all the details yet, he had no doubt his father made this castle a fortress better than all others. Aemon's thoughts were on the fact that if this castle was made the way it was in the lifetime of Jon Snow and was still active in his lifetime, then when the Targaryens fell during Robert's Rebellion, then the Targaryens would have had a far better chance at holding back Robert.

Aemon's eyes traced the contours of the castle, taking in the meticulous craftsmanship that Daemon had poured into its creation. Summerhall, under the vision of his father, had indeed become a masterpiece. Surpassing all but Harrenhal in size, towering over the Hightower, and rivaling the beauty of Highgarden, Summerhall stood as a testament to Daemon's determination.

Though Aemon recognized that some work remained, a few more years of effort required to bring the castle to completion, he couldn't help but feel a surge of gratitude toward his father. Daemon's ambition had transformed Summerhall into the most beautiful castle Aemon had ever beheld, a beacon of Targaryen strength and splendor amidst the rolling landscapes and ancient mountains.

A day after they settled in, Aemon had to start acting as Prince of Harrenhall, and he got the news. The Greyjoys have attacked.

Chapter 22: Kings of the Sunset Sea

Chapter Text

Casterly Rock 104 AC

Tymond Lannister

Tymond was a tall, slender, broad-shouldered man in his sixties. His arms were thin and withered due to the number of years he had written with quill more than used his sword from being locked in his solar, he wished he had more time training in the training yard like when he was young. Tymond had kept his head shaved ever since his golden hair started going grey, but he grows out bushy golden side-whiskers. Tymond had pale green eyes flecked with gold, and yet when he looked in the mirror a few weeks ago, he noticed his eyes were growing a milky pale, alongside a decreasing vision, his eyes would fail him a soon.

Tymond Lannister, the aging lord of Casterly Rock, surveyed the expansive halls of his ancestral seat with a mixture of pride and foreboding. The weight of years bore heavily on his shoulders, and as he gazed upon the grandeur of the Rock, he couldn't shake the inevitability of his mortality.

In times such as these, he envied the House Targaryen more so than most, not because of their wealth, nor dragons, nor power, and status but because their future was more secure than any other house. A young king, a young heir, a young spare, and the spare was battle-tested, and even if most claims were not believed, the boy had fought and won a war, something most living knights and lords could not claim. At least for now, the House of the Dragon was secure, while the House of the Lion was divided at best.

Five wives had graced his life, and each time, the halls of Casterly Rock echoed with the cries of a newborn son. Yet, fate had been cruel, and with each birth came the haunting wail of mourning. His sons, destined for greatness by birthright, had met an untimely demise, leaving Tymond to confront the harsh reality of succession.

In the quiet moments of reflection, Tymond pondered the future of his house. The Lion of Lannister must be more than a symbol; it requires strength, cunning, and mastery of the game of thrones. Tymond could not ignore the looming reality that his cousin's son, Ser Jason Lannister, would be the heir apparent. Despite his greatest wishes and deepest regrets.

The aging lord harbored doubts. Jason lacked the qualities befitting the lion's pride. He saw in the young man a foolhardiness that set him apart from the cunning and strategic thinking required to lead the Lannisters. Maegor the Cruel had his cruelty get in the way of his loyalty, and Jason would have his recklessness get in the way of his vanity, a dangerous thing that had destroyed many Houses before. Tymond grappled with the certainty that his house might be led by one ill-suited for the challenges ahead.

As the shadows of Casterly Rock lengthened, Tymond faced the brutal truth: the legacy of the Lions of Lannister rested on the frail shoulders of a successor who may prove inadequate to the task. The weight of pride clashed with the reality of uncertainty, casting a somber hue over the once-golden halls of Casterly Rock.

While the House of the Dragon had their fire-breathing mounts to assert their dominance over the entirety of the realm, all the kingdoms would not dare strike against a weakened Targaryen if the dragons could burn down keeps, especially when both the Black Dread, Balerion, and the Dragon Queen, Vhagar, were still in play to melt down entire castles, families, and their histories to nothing. Dragons were too powerful, and with them, no man was willing to capitalize on a weakness that could possibly come from Targaryen, who put reckless vanity before sound principles as Ser Jason would do. But they were not Targaryens; they did not have dragons. Dragons covered up a weakness in the House Targaryen; no man would strike, but Houses such as Reyen and Tarbeck would strike against House Lannister if Jason was left unchecked in his reckless vanity. Jason would end their House, or at the very least, begin events that could lead to such events.

His thoughts were resolute; Ser Jason Lannister would not inherit the mantle of leadership. Instead, Tymond focused on Jason's younger twin, Tyland Lannister. The decision was unconventional, for Tyland had not pursued the path of knighthood with the same enthusiasm as his brother. Yet, the sharpness of his mind captured Tymond's discerning gaze. Tyland could be the Lion's mind, while Jason was the Lion's strength.

Tyland possessed a cunning intellect that far surpassed the average expectations for a young lordling. As Tymond dipped the quill in ink, he reflected on the rumors that had reached his ears. Whispers of Tyland's concealed connections at court, his deft maneuvering in the shadows, and the possibility of an eventual seat on King Viserys' small council tantalized the aging lord.

Lannisters had little space at court, and King Jaehaerys, King Maegor, King Aneys, and King Aegon ensured that those who sat on the council were mostly either from the Crownlands and Stormlands or, if not then ensured that any increase in power in court was only done by those very kingdoms. The Lannisters had little to no friends at court, and neither did the Reach until Otto Hightower. Even the Vale had little strength at court, and they had an Arryn queen. The Targaryens had given some positions but ensured no roots could be made in the court for anyone outside of the Crownlands and some Stormlords.

The only ones to have weaseled their way through was House Strong of the Riverlands, and even so, it was mostly due to Viserys. Viserys was giving opportunities for the other kingdoms to advance in court, and House Lannister would act before the opportunity closed, especially since Daemon seemed to care more for those of Valyrian decent and no man in the Seven Kingdoms could decern what Aemon liked, a terrifying thing to admit about a Prince of the blood, especially one so young, the boy would be dangerous in both politics and warfare when he came of age. All the Crownlands North loved the boy, and the Stormlands respected strength even if half did not believe the claims of the prince during the Wildling Invasion and yet had almost no friends at court. With no public allies and yet the strength ties with his aunts, who held six dragons, the boy was already becoming something that House Lannister would not publically anger, better a false friend than a blatant enemy, especially for the boy who rode the Dread. It was concerning that the House Targaryen was training players of the game so young.

Tyland may be their sole way of entering the court, and Tymond would capitalize.

The once tranquil ambiance within Tymond Lannister's lordly chamber was abruptly shattered by the urgent clamor of bells reverberating through the air. The ominous tolling stirred a sense of foreboding within him, and before he could even dip his quill into the inkwell, a cacophony of screams and cries reached his ears.

Rushing to the window, his eyes widened at the apocalyptic scene. The city of Lannisport, a jewel nestled against the craggy cliffs, was now a vision of chaos and devastation. The flames, crimson, and orange, painted the night sky with hues as vibrant as spilled blood and twilight sunsets. The once picturesque city was engulfed in an inferno that consumed everything in its greedy grasp.

He heard the screams, even so far away; he heard the burning, even if he was not even close to it. He cursed once he saw. The city of flames looked more so as though it came forth from the guts of the deepest parts of the seven hells. For a brief second, he wondered if demons would dance at this choir of screams and orchestra of burning wood and stone.

The conflagration did not discriminate; it devoured the bustling port, its maritime treasures, and the heart of Lannisport itself. The searing flames illuminated the darkness, turning night into an eerie imitation of day, casting long shadows that danced against the backdrop of destruction.

Tymond's breath caught in his throat as he beheld the calamity. The city that had thrived for generations under the golden lion's rule now succumbed to the relentless embrace of fire. Panic and despair echoed through the streets, mingling with the crackling of flames to create a symphony of chaos.

Lannisport, the jewel nestled beneath Casterly Rock, lay engulfed in a sea of flames. The inferno raged unchecked, its tendrils reaching high into the night sky, casting an eerie glow that transformed the darkness into a fiery panorama. Like blood, the vivid hues of red and orange, mingled with the hues of sunset, painted a surreal tableau that both captivated and horrified.

The port, the ships, the streets—no part of the city was spared from the relentless advance of the inferno. The once bustling thoroughfares now writhed in the grip of consuming flames, turning the familiar landmarks into unrecognizable silhouettes against the backdrop of chaos.

Screams of panic and anguish wafted through the air, carried by the billowing smoke that rose in ominous columns. The desperate cries of those caught in the throes of the conflagration mingled with the crackling of the flames, creating a cacophony of despair that seemed to pierce the very heart of Tymond.

As the night sky blazed with an unnatural radiance, Lannisport transformed into a vision of hellfire. Tymond's mind raced, grappling with the magnitude of the catastrophe unfolding below. The city, once teeming with life, now stood as a testament to the capricious cruelty of fate.

In that moment, the legacy Tymond had contemplated moments earlier seemed insignificant against the city's agonizing descent into chaos. The quill that had poised to script the future of House Lannister now lay forgotten on the table as the flames danced with evil glee, rewriting the destiny of Lannisport in tongues of fire.

The choice of his heir could wait; for now, the lion must rise to defend its den.

The dissonant symphony of chaos continued within Casterly Rock, infiltrating the heart of Tymond Lannister's ancestral seat. The once-secure stronghold now echoed with the screams of terror and the ominous clash of swords, a nightmarish cacophony that disrupted the tranquil halls. The aggressors were now inside. Never had Castlerly Rock been taken before.

Tymond, a ruler hardened by years of governance, felt a chill run down his spine as the realization dawned upon him—Casterly Rock, thought impenetrable, had been breached. The fortress that symbolized Lannister's strength and resilience was now facing an internal threat, an assault from within its hallowed halls.

The lord hurriedly moved through the corridors, guided by the anguished cries and the metallic resonance of clashing steel. Shadows danced on the walls as the flames of chaos flickered in the dimly lit passages. Questions raced through Tymond's mind - How had the assailants breached the defenses? Why had the Rock's stalwart guards not detected the impending danger? How could a f*cking army appear from nowhere?

As he approached the source of the disturbance, the once-familiar halls became a labyrinth of uncertainty. The security of Casterly Rock, taken for granted through generations, now seemed like a fragile illusion shattered by the grim reality of intrusion.

Tymond's heart pounded as he braced himself for the sight that awaited him. The clash of swords grew louder, each strike a testament to the violent upheaval unfolding within the heart of the lion's den.

Tymond heard the sound of the door creaking open and noticed his squire, an orphaned boy he had brought in a year prior. The boy's smile never left his face as if he knew something Tymond did not. The boy opened the door further, revealing more men behind him, Ironborn.

Tymond Lannister's world seemed to contract as he faced the ominous figures in his study. His squire, once a trusted confidant, had been a traitor, leading an unholy alliance of Ironborn invaders into the heart of Casterly Rock. Betrayal hung in the air like a malevolent specter, and Tymond could almost taste the bitterness of it on his tongue. This is what mercy gives you.

The squire, wearing a vicious smile that hinted at the dark machinations at play, entered the room, followed by the Ironborn reavers. The steel in Tymond's spine remained unyielding even in imminent danger. The room that had been a sanctuary for contemplation and rule was now a stone coffin for the elderly man, and all knew it.

Tymond's hand instinctively reached for a knife on the table—a futile gesture against the armed Ironborn but a testament to the indomitable spirit of House Lannister. The cold glint of the blade mirrored the stark reality closing in around him. It was a dire situation, and Tymond knew he was standing on the precipice of death.

The Ironborn, eyes filled with the predatory hunger of invaders, closed around Tymond. In that fleeting moment, the lord of Casterly Rock steeled himself for the inevitable. He was ready to face his end as a lion of the Rock, a defiant figure in the face of betrayal.

As the room plunged into an eerie silence, broken only by the distant sounds of chaos within Casterly Rock, Tymond Lannister, with a knife in hand, prepared to meet his fate head-on, determined to leave a legacy that would echo through the annals of House Lannister's storied history. He roared as he rushed forward, knife in hand. He knew in his heart this debt would one day be paid in full.

Ser Jason Lannister

Jason was a tall, handsome man with curled hair the color of beaten gold, flashing cat-green eyes, and a smile that cut like a knife, or at least he had been told as such by the maiden he had taken to his bed. He had ridden in tourneys and fought in melees. He wished to go to Harrenhal to compete, but he was told by the dear head of his family that he would remain at Casterly Rock. Not once had ever known true war, until today.

Casterly Rock, once a bastion of strength and prestige, was plunged into chaos. Ser Jason Lannister, hastily donning his armor, rushed through the corridors of the ancestral castle, the echoes of screams and clashing swords reverberating through the stone halls. The acrid stench of burning flesh lingered in the air, a grim reminder of the violence that had befallen the stronghold.

The origin of the onslaught remained shrouded in confusion. Reports had reached Ser Jason that the Ironborn invaders had infiltrated Casterly Rock through the labyrinthine sewer network. Once the initial breach was established, chaos ensued in the courtyard. The invaders, seizing control, opened the imposing Lion's Mouth gate, unleashing a torrent of a thousand raiders into the castle's heart.

As Ser Jason navigated the corridors, the once-proud halls of Casterly Rock were now battlegrounds, stained with the blood of both Lannister defenders and Ironborn assailants. The clash of swords, the armor clangor, and the wounded's screams created a dissonant symphony of chaos.

Now a theater of conflict, the courtyard saw the mingling of corpses as the defenders fought valiantly against the Ironborn onslaught. Each inch of ground was contested, and the bodies of fallen warriors bore witness to the intensity of the struggle. The ravages of war marred the once-majestic halls.

Casterly Rock, a symbol of Lannister's power, was under siege. The stronghold, built into the very heart of the Rock, echoed with the tumult of battle as defenders and invaders clashed in a desperate struggle for control. The fate of Casterly Rock hung in the balance, and Ser Jason fought against the tide of Ironborn invaders, determined to defend his ancestral home.

The corridors of Casterly Rock turned into brutal battlegrounds as the clash between the Lannister defenders and Ironborn invaders unfolded with unrelenting ferocity. Swords, spears, and axes became instruments of death, their metallic symphony echoing through the once-stately halls.

The Ironborn, driven by a desire for chaos and destruction, sought to wreak havoc upon Casterly Rock before the Lannisters could muster a cohesive counteroffensive. Every step brought them closer to achieving their goal, and the castle walls bore witness to a grim tableau of brutal combat.

The fighting was gruesome, marked by close-quarters struggles where men fought tooth and nail for survival. The metallic scent of blood permeated the air as blades cleaved through armor, flesh, and bone. The clashing of weapons created a cacophony of desperate screams and the guttural sounds of warriors grappling in life-or-death struggles.

Axes swung with devastating force, cleaving through defenders with ruthless efficiency. The cruel efficiency of the Ironborn's assault left no room for mercy, and the defenders fought grimly, knowing the fate awaited them if they failed.

Spears thrust and parried as the defenders sought to repel the Ironborn onslaught. Each hallway and chamber became a theater of brutality, where combatants grappled in a deadly dance that left no room for compassion. The desperation of the defenders fueled their resistance, but the relentless advance of the Ironborn cast an ominous shadow over the ancestral home of House Lannister.

Amidst the chaos, the invaders, encouraged by their initial success, set fire to the castle's chambers. Flames licked at the stone walls, turning once-grand rooms into infernos. The crackling of burning timbers joined the battle symphony, adding an eerie undertone to the brutal tableau.

The clash of arms and the gruesome killings became an indelible part of Casterly Rock's history. The once-proud castle, renowned for its impregnability, now faced the onslaught of the Ironborn, leaving scars that would linger long after the battle's end. The fate of Casterly Rock hung in the balance, and as defenders and invaders clashed in this brutal struggle, the very essence of the stronghold faced an uncertain future.

In the dimly lit corridors of Casterly Rock, the Ironborn invaders, clad in salt-stained and weathered armor, moved with predatory precision. Led by, from what Jason had heard, Crann Greyjoy, a seasoned reaver known for his cunning, they reveled in the chaos they sowed within the once-impregnable fortress.

As the Ironborn advanced, they encountered Lannister defenders desperately trying to halt their advance. In one narrow passageway, a fierce skirmish unfolded. The Ironborn, armed with axes and swords, clashed with Lannister soldiers valiantly wielding their weapons to defend their home.

Jason watched as five guards held back a dozen Ironborn with their shields. The long body-sized shields held back the swords and hammers. One axe cleaved through a slightly open gap between the shields and was able to go straight through the neck of a defender, resulting in the now-dead guard falling limp. Once he fell, there was enough of an opening for an Ironborn to rush through and cut into another guard; in doing so, that guard was killed instantly, and another Ironborn came through; they soon made quick work for the guards. They outnumbered once the line collapsed.

A ruthless scene played out as an Ironborn warrior, bearing the sigil of the Kraken on his chest plate, swung a double-bladed axe with relentless force. The Lannister defender, already wounded and cornered, fell under the savage blows, his armor unable to withstand the relentless assault. The Ironborn showed no mercy, their eyes reflecting the cruel determination to inflict as much damage as possible.

Elsewhere, an Ironborn raider with a jagged-edged spear engaged in a harrowing duel with a Lannister knight. The knight's polished armor gleamed dully in the dim light as he desperately parried the thrusts of the Ironborn spear. Despite his skill, the relentless attacks of the Ironborn warrior soon found a gap, and the cruel point of the spear found its mark.

As the Ironborn pressed on, their ruthlessness became evident in their interactions with the helpless inhabitants of Casterly Rock. A group of Ironborn marauders cornered a small household in the castle's heart. The invaders, driven by the infamous reaving culture of their people, showed no mercy. They plundered valuables, desecrated family heirlooms, and left destruction in their wake.

The invaders, guided by a desire for chaos and pillage, set fire to chambers and rooms with wanton abandon. Flames danced and flickered, casting eerie shadows on the stone walls. The once-grand tapestries that adorned the castle now became fuel for the ravenous inferno.

Amid this turmoil, the Ironborn reveled in their destructive prowess, their actions etching a tale of brutality within the heart of Casterly Rock. The ancestral home of House Lannister faced a dire threat, and the invaders, driven by a ruthless determination, sought to leave an indelible mark of devastation in their wake.

An Ironborn warrior wielding a double-bladed axe in a dimly lit corridor confronted a Lannister swordsman. The Ironborn, adorned with a Kraken sigil on his chest plate, swung his formidable weapon with unmatched ferocity. The Lannister defender, though valiant, found himself overwhelmed by the relentless assault. The double-bladed axe cleaved through armor, leaving a trail of destruction.

A skilled Ironborn with a jagged-edged spear engaged in a deadly dance with a Lannister knight. The knight's polished armor gleamed dully as he parried the swift thrusts of the Ironborn warrior. Despite the knight's efforts, the spear found its mark, exploiting a gap in the defenses and delivering a fatal blow.

In a chaotic melee, an Ironborn reaver wielding a brutal war axe faced off against a Lannister soldier armed with a sturdy longsword. The clashing of steel echoed through the corridor as the two combatants vied for dominance. The Ironborn's savage swings with the heavy axe proved effective, creating openings that led to a decisive victory.

In a narrow passageway, an outnumbered Lannister soldier faced multiple Ironborn assailants. Despite his valiant efforts, the Lannister found himself at a disadvantage. The Ironborn closed in, coordinating their attacks to overwhelm the cornered defender, their weapons cutting through armor and flesh.

Amidst the chaos, an Ironborn warrior clashed with a Lannister fighter in a fierce skirmish. The combatants exchanged rapid sword strikes and parries, each seeking an opening. The Ironborn's unrelenting assault proved too much for the Lannister, and the battle ended with a decisive blow that left the Lannister sprawled on the cold stone floor.

Armed with a wickedly serrated axe, an Ironborn reaver reveled in the destruction as he roamed through the castle chambers. The reaver unleashed a brutal onslaught by encountering a group of Lannister household members. The cruel swings of the axe left devastation in their wake, adding to the chaos within the heart of Casterly Rock.

As Jason Lannister rallied his men in a desperate attempt to push the Ironborn invaders back, he found himself face to face with an Ironborn warrior wielding a massive battle axe. Ironborn's strength is evident as the initial clash of weapons threatened to overpower Jason. With agility and determination, Jason narrowly dodged a lethal swing and counterattacked. Despite being pushed to his limits, he managed to disarm the Ironborn and secure a hard-fought victory.

In the chaotic courtyard of Casterly Rock, Jason engaged in a skirmish with a nimble Ironborn fighter armed with dual short swords. The Ironborn's swift strikes and agile maneuvers tested Jason's defensive skills. Dodging and parrying with precision, Jason managed to wear down his opponent's defenses. A well-timed strike from his longsword resulted in a calculated victory, providing a momentary respite in the ongoing battle.

Determined to regain control of Casterly Rock, Jason confronted an Ironborn reaver near the Lion's Mouth gate. Armed with a brutal mace, the reaver aimed to block Jason's advance. The clash of their weapons echoed through the stone corridors. Jason exploited an opening in the Ironborn's defense using his strategic insight. Despite the relentless resistance, Jason skillfully disarmed and incapacitated the Ironborn, securing a crucial victory at the gate.

Ser Jason Lannister, his armor tarnished with blood and ash, fought against the tide of Ironborn invaders within the halls of Casterly Rock. The once-majestic castle echoed with clashing steel, anguished cries, and the crackling of flames. The Lion's Roar, Jason's ancestral sword, gleamed with an intensity that mirrored the desperate determination in his eyes.

"Form ranks! Push them back!" Jason's command struggled to rise above the chaotic din as Lannister men-at-arms rallied around him. They formed a makeshift shield wall, attempting to regain control of the passages that had fallen into the hands of the Ironborn. The flickering torchlight played upon the Lannister lion sigils, momentarily casting shadows that danced upon the walls.

The Ironborn, undeterred by the counteroffensive, fought with an unyielding brutality. Their war cries mingled with weapons clanging as they pressed forward, determined to hold their ground within the Lion's den. Jason's attempts to coordinate his men met with mixed success, the chaos proving a formidable adversary.

"Drive them back to the sea! Seal the Lion's Mouth!" Jason's voice roared through the tumult, his eyes searching for an opening amidst the swirling melee. He led his men with a calculated ferocity, a desire burning within him to cleanse Casterly Rock of these invaders and avenge the desolation wrought upon his home.

The skirmishes continued in fierce bouts, with Lannister and Ironborn forces locked in a deadly dance. The labyrinthine passages of Casterly Rock became both battleground and tomb, the stones bearing silent witness to the clash of iron and the evisceration of noble legacies.

As Jason fought through the turmoil, he envisioned a strategic withdrawal, forcing the Ironborn invaders toward the city of Lannisport. He hoped to corner them near the Lion's Mouth gate, leaving them no option but to face the wrath of the Lannister forces or the relentless waves of the Sunset Sea.

However, the success of such a plan hung in the balance, contingent on the cohesion and resilience of his men. The smoke-choked corridors and dimly lit halls of Casterly Rock became the stage for a desperate struggle, where the fate of House Lannister teetered on the edge of the abyss, awaiting the outcome of the tumultuous clash between Lion and Kraken.

The Pyke

Dagmer Greyjoy

Dagmer Greyjoy, the seasoned reaver, stood on the cliffs of Pyke, gazing out across the turbulent sea. The salty wind tousled his weathered hair as he patiently awaited the ravens that would bring tidings from his kin scattered across the Iron Islands. His plan was set in motion, a carefully orchestrated symphony of chaos meant to engulf the targeted regions simultaneously.

On his head was the crown made of driftwood bark, fashioned together with string and twine; it was crude but more than enough. King was crowned King of Salt and Rock, the first King of the Iron Islands since House Hoare. Salt king was an ancient title among the Ironborn during the Age of Heroes. Each of the Iron Islands had both a Rock and a salt king. While the rock king ruled the island itself, the salt king commanded at sea whenever the island's longships sailed.

His nephews and brothers had tried to claim his position when the kingsmoot had begun, claiming that they were of the same house and had equal rights to such claims, forgetting that it was he who had planned and had all the sleepless nights preparing for what was to come.The f*cking c*nts!But in the end, he was chosen. What is dead may never die. But two of his nephews did not try to fight him, the two he trusted more than enough to send to the most important raids for the first steps. Crann and Harwyn. Crann to Lannisport and the Lannisters. Harwyn to Seagard and Mallisters.

He thought it smart enough. A Lannister king repealed an Ironborn invasion by hanging captured Ironborn one by one until his craven ancestors abandoned the cause. Seagard was only made to fight back against the Ironborn. Who better to take the first steps to take the Riverlands back into Ironborn rule once more than the man both leal and named after the King that brought Seagard to heal the first time?

The Ironborn longships, with his nephews, brothers, and sons at their helms, had been dispatched to strike five different locations. Dagmer's strategy was one of precision and simultaneity, a calculated assault meant to sow confusion and maximize the impact of their reaving.

Each fleet had sailed its course, avoiding detection and anchoring in hidden coves or remote inlets for a week of covert preparation. The eighth day of the eighth month was the designated moment for their synchronized attacks, a simple numerical cue for his kin, some of whom were not known for their strategic brilliance.

Dagmer, with his experience etched into the lines on his face, knew the importance of coordination in their raids. As he waited on Pyke's cliffs, his eyes scanned the horizon for any sign of returning ravens. The anticipation hung thick in the salt-laden air, and the rhythmic crashing of waves against the rugged shoreline provided a steady backdrop to the impending storm.

The Ironborn culture thrived on the thrill of the reave, and Dagmer Greyjoy, a stalwart leader of the sea-faring warriors, had orchestrated a symphony of chaos that would soon echo across the seas and shores. The success of their raids hinged on the execution of this intricate plan, and Dagmer's piercing gaze remained fixed on the western skies, awaiting the first flutter of black wings that would herald the arrival of news from the reavers under his command.

Dagmer Greyjoy's hand tightened around the letter from his nephew, Crann Greyjoy, as he read the confirmation of the success of their raid on Lannisport. The initial plan had been to target the port and cripple the Lannister fleet, but Dagmer, always one to seize an opportunity for chaos, had urged his kin to escalate the assault. The decision to set the entire city ablaze had been strategic, ensuring that the flames of destruction would leave a lasting mark on the lands of House Lannister.

The ravens brought news that the Ironborn had indeed wreaked havoc upon Lannisport. The fires had consumed not only the port but the heart of the city itself. It was a testament to the Ironborn's ferocity and the unyielding nature of their raid. Dagmer, a veteran of many such reavings, felt a surge of pride in the mission's success.

Crann's note detailed that while the assault on Casterly Rock had not resulted in its capture, the Ironborn had dealt a significant blow to the seat of House Lannister. Many of the defenders had fallen, and fires raged within the formidable walls of the castle. The report indicated that the Ironborn had left their mark on Casterly Rock despite not claiming the castle for themselves, sending a clear message of their strength and ruthlessness.

He had hoped, even if not for long, that the Lannisters would have to focus on consolidating their power and protecting their people before formulating all strategic counters. Burning ships and ports would give the Ironborn the entire Sunset Sea, but the Lannister still had a powerful land force. If they found a way to send those forces to any future and potential targets of the Ironborn, then that would be a sure defeat for the Ironborn. By burning the city, the lions would be so focused on licking their wounds and trying to save face with their horrible failure of keeping the Ironborn out of Casterly Rock.

Crann had confirmed that Tymond Lannister was dead. And from what the Dornish had told him, Crann's heir, Jason, and the heir's twin, Tyland, would be arguing over what to do next before getting anything done. Dagmer suspected Jason would want blood, but Tyland would say that they needed to assess and fix the damage done before doing so. Whatever the option, the Ironborn were the first to attack and somewhat succeeded in taking down Casterly Rock. With the Rock and Lannisport a blaze, it would take far longer before they can retaliate; with the brothers arguing, it would take even longer, and with no ships, still longer.

Dagmer, standing on the cliffs of Pyke, a grim smile playing on his lips, understood the implications of their actions. Dagmer was proud of Crann; the boy, the youngest of his nephews, was an idiot, but he was far more intelligent than the rest of his brothers and nephews. He was glad he put Crann in charge of attacking the Lannisters; even if he didn't take the Rock, which Dagmer knew was a failed idea at the start, the boy did far better than he would have hoped. The chaos they had sown would resonate throughout the Westerlands, and the Ironborn's reputation as fearsome reavers would only be further solidified by the flames of Lannisport and the assault on Casterly Rock. The ripples of their deeds would spread across the seas, leaving a lasting impact on the fate of the Iron Islands.

Dagmer reveled in the precision with which his plans unfolded. The chaos of the Wildling Invasion in the North had served as a timely distraction, leaving the once formidable region weakened and seemingly incapable of mounting an immediate counteroffensive. Seizing this opportune moment, Dagmer had dispatched a portion of his fleet to strike at the heart of the North, targeting strategic strongholds before their lords could marshal their forces for retaliation.

The aftermath of the Tourney of Harrenhal further played into Dagmer's hands. Many North Lords and other nobles were still returning to their keeps from the grand event, taking their time to gather their forces. Swiftly, the Ironborn infiltrated these castles, burning and raiding ruthlessly. The absence of critical defenders allowed Dagmer's reavers to exploit vulnerabilities and amass spoils.

While the lords were delayed in their return, Dagmer's forces acted swiftly, aiming to inflict as much damage as possible before the inevitable reprisal. The element of surprise and chaos in the realm gave the Ironborn an upper hand in their raids. Dagmer's strategic foresight had set in motion a series of calculated strikes that would weaken the Westerlands, destabilizing its defenses and leaving the region vulnerable to further Ironborn incursions.

All the Targaryens were returning by land rather than by dragon, which meant they would only find out about the attacks after they were done. This was the best chance he had to do as much destruction as possible before they could regroup and strike back. And even if the dragons were ready to counter faster than he assumed, he had been given many gifts by the Dornish, and the Targaryens had no friends in the Free Cities or their sell swords

He will admit most of the scorpions would be going to Summerhall; the only way he could truly win this war was if the Summerhall was destroyed and the Martell's were able to make it through and began attacking the Reach and Stormlands. Currently, he had the chance to take the Riverlands if all went to plan; the Westerlands would be out of the war for some time to recuperate, and the North could not attack back yet, which meant three of the Seven Kingdoms could do nothing for at the very least two months. He would attack the Stormlands enough to make it difficult for them to regroup and consolidate power to push the Ironborn back, long enough for the Martells to win at Summerhall and lay siege to an entire kingdom and part of the Reach. If they do not take Summerhall, it is more similar to the Ironborn burning and destroying than trying to create their own kingdom.

With three kingdoms out of the war, Westerlands, Riverlands, and North, the Stormlands and Reach worrying over themselves, and the Targaryen yet to get to King's Landing to even hear of what has happened, he might have succeeded in the perfect start to all this. But it would not last; it would not hold unless the Martells take Summerhall. Spending almost all the scorpions he had built to Summerhall was not a thing he did happily, but they needed that victory to stand a chance in this war, especially when the Westerlands, Stormlands, and North regrouped. One of those kingdoms was enough to hold his own at bay; two was enough to ensure his defeat, and three was enough to eradicate the Ironborn.

He would have failed drastically if he had not bought so many sell swords to make his own forces equal to two kingdoms. It was good that the sell swords came along. They sell swords fought daily in Essos, while most soldiers in Westeros were as green as summer grass. The army of sell swords would outclass the other forces, and it would help the Ironborn drastically.

To think this all came about because word had spread that Daemon Targaryen had a child connected to the North, with an army of about forty thousand, and the same boy claimed the Conqueror's dragon. The boy's mere birth drove Summerhall to be made, and the Dornish felt threatened, all this from one babe that now will control the same castle that terrified the Dornish.

Seagard stood as the only immediate threat, its stout defenses, and vigilant Lord Mallister making it a formidable adversary. However, the Ironborn commander was confident that, with the element of surprise and well-coordinated assaults, Seagard, too, could be brought to heel.

The potential challenges from the Velaryon and Redwyne fleets did not escape Dagmer's consideration. Knowing that swift and decisive action was required, he had devised plans to neutralize these threats, ensuring that the Ironborn dominance at sea would remain unchallenged.

As the Ironborn reaved and pillaged, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake, Dagmer Greyjoy stood at the helm of a meticulously orchestrated campaign. The Iron Islands would once again be feared across the seas, and the realms of men would bear witness to the unyielding might of House Greyjoy.

Riverlands

Harwyn Greyjoy

The Ironborn fleet, led by Harwyn Greyjoy, cut through the tumultuous waters of the Sunset Sea, facing the wrath of three storms that assailed them with fury and determination. The dark clouds hung low in the sky, and the sea roiled beneath as the ships surged forward, tossed by the relentless winds. Rain lashed against the faces of the Ironborn sailors, their silhouettes barely visible against the tempestuous backdrop. The clouds passed through his dark hair as his blue eyes scanned the waters around him.

Harwyn stood on the prow of his flagship, theKraken's Fury, his salt-streaked hair whipping in the wind. He felt the surge of power beneath him as the ship navigated the tumultuous waves. The sails strained against the gusts, and the crew worked tirelessly to ensure their vessels weathered the storms unscathed.

As they sailed relentlessly, Harwyn contemplated the significance of Seagard and the Riverlands. His uncle had let his brother Crann take Lannisport, but his uncle Dagmer allowed Harwyn to take the only other imminent threat, Seagard, the castle made to hold back the Ironborn. Harwyn laughed when his uncle told him why he chose Harwyn to take Seagard. He told Harwyn that Seagard had only ever fallen once, and it was by the man Harwyn was named after, Harwyn Hoare, one of the last Kings of the Iron Islands. His uncle Dagmer was now King of Salt and Rock, King of the Iron Islands. Harwyn would return the Riverlands to his uncle and give House Greyjoy the name King of the Isles and Rivers like House Hoare once had.

He sought to emulate the legendary Harwyn Hoare, who had once brought Seagard to its knees. It was a feat etched in the annals of Ironborn history, and Harwyn Greyjoy aimed to leave an indelible mark of his own.

The Ironborn fleet, now numbering two hundred longships, sailed with predatory grace. Each ship bore the fierce sigil of House Greyjoy – the golden kraken – as a proclamation of their intent. The crashing waves and deafening thunder were a cacophony of nature's fury, matching the brewing storm within the hearts of the Ironborn.

As they approached Seagard, Harwyn could almost taste the salt in the air, a prelude to the salt-stained victory he sought to achieve. The men, hardened by the tempests and driven by the legacy of their forebears, prepared for the impending raid.

Harwyn Greyjoy's eyes gleamed with a predatory hunger as he envisioned the siege to come. The Riverlands would feel the iron grip of House Greyjoy once more, and Seagard would bear witness to the resurgence of the ancient wrath that the Ironborn had long been known for.

The fleet closed in on Seagard, the outline of the coastal stronghold obscured by the relentless rain. Harwyn's heart pounded in tandem with the crashing waves, a rhythmic symphony that heralded the coming storm – one that would echo through the pages of history as the Ironborn sought to reclaim their dominion over the seas.

Harwyn Greyjoy, a seasoned reaver and commander, stood atop the prow of his flagship, theKraken's Fury, as the fleet of two hundred longships sailed through the tempest towards Seagard. The Ironborn, no strangers to the ways of the sea, embraced the storm's fury as their own, a fitting prelude to the chaos they intended to unleash upon the Riverlands.

The relentless rain cascaded down upon the men, their faces masked by salt water and the wild fervor that fueled their Ironborn spirit. Harwyn, with an air of confidence, surveyed the imposing fleet that trailed behind him, the banners of House Greyjoy flapping defiantly in the wind.

Harwyn's strategic mind plotted the course of their conquest. Ten thousand Ironborn warriors, seasoned and resolute, stood aboard the longships, their weapons honed and their spirits unyielding. The plan was meticulous – take Seagard and hold it as a foothold in the Riverlands, a gateway to further dominance.

As the fleet sailed south of Seagard, Harwyn envisioned a two-pronged assault. One part of the Ironborn force, numbering a thousand strong, would disembark and ravage Oldstones, spreading chaos and terror along the way. The intent was to leave a scorched path in their wake, a testament to the Ironborn's unyielding wrath.

Simultaneously, the main force would continue its march towards Seagard. Harwyn aimed to capitalize on the Mallisters' absence, most of their forces still in route from Harrenhal. The element of surprise and the fierce determination of the Ironborn were their greatest weapons.

Once Seagard was under Ironborn control, Harwyn envisioned establishing a stronghold – a vantage point from which they could exert influence over the Riverlands. The swift and agile longships would navigate the Blue Fork, facilitating a swift and unexpected arrival.

Harwyn Greyjoy, with his eyes set on conquest, envisioned a Riverlands brought to heel. The Ironborn, undeterred by the storms that raged around them, embraced the chaos, for they thrived in chaos. The Riverlands, unsuspecting and fragmented, would soon feel the force of the relentless kraken, rising once again to assert its dominion over the waves and the realms beyond.

Truly, he planned to make Seagard his own seat for the time to reclaim the Riverlands as it was right before the conquest. Then, if possible, send men to take as many hostages from the Riverlords as possible, something he did not tell his uncle in-depth, and use the hostages as leverage to add the Riverlands forces to their own. If half the Riverlords comply, holding off any potential attack from the Westerlands or the North would be beneficial.

Harwyn Greyjoy's appointment to lead the first strike against the Riverlands had not been universally well-received among the Ironborn. His unconventional background, marked by time spent in the Stepstones and Free Cities, raised eyebrows and skepticism among those who adhered more closely to the Ironborn way of life.

However, his uncle Dagmer, who held strategic acumen in high regard, saw potential where others hesitated. Harwyn's extensive connections, forged through his travels, were a trump card that could tip the scales in their favor. Among these connections were the notorious sellsword companies, the Second Sons and Bright Banners.

Harwyn had leveraged these relationships to secure additional reinforcements—an impressive two dozen sellsword companies, swelling the Ironborn forces by an extra twenty thousand men. The news of this substantial boost had ripples of disbelief through the Ironborn ranks. Harwyn reveled in the irony of his unconventional path paying dividends for his people.

The fleet sailed through turbulent waters, the sails of the longships billowing in the stormy winds. Harwyn, standing tall on theKraken's Fury, laughed heartily. He knew that this unexpected alliance with sellswords would be a game-changer. The Ironborn, with their legendary naval prowess and the newfound strength of sellsword legions, now had more than a fair chance at achieving their ambitions in the Riverlands.

As the Ironborn fleet sailed steadily towards their destiny, the horizon tinged with an ominous red glow from the burning Lannisport, Harwyn Greyjoy's laughter echoed over the tumultuous waves. The unpredictable winds of fate were with him, and the Ironborn would make their mark on the Riverlands.

It took them no more than three days for them to reach Seagard. Many of his men wished to attack outright, but the fools did not realize that Harwyn had a plan. It is one thing to raid a village or a city. It was another thing to conquer a castle, and that was why his uncle Dagmer had chosen Crann and Harwyn to take the lead in the first strikes. But Crann had the easier thing in truth, his brother's only goal to achieve success was to burn a port, and its fleet, while Harwyn had to take an entire f*cking castle made to repel the very concept of Ironborn.Lucky c*nt.Then again, he supposed, Harwyn would win far more glory once he succeeded.

Harwyn led his men to the edge of the city and killed a few dozen guards on the outskirts before ordering some of his men to change into the clothing of the guards and enter the city. Harwyn knew that this should not have been easy, at least the first steps to his plan, but Lord Mallister and a portion of his men had gone to Harrenhal, and due to most of their Riverlords wishing to show Prince Daemon and Prince Aemon their strength, from hurt pride, many of their castles had far lesser numbers than they should have and to make matters easier, many of them had taken longer in areas near Harrenhal to negotiate more dealings and trades with one another in person. He would not let this chance pass him. Using Seagard, the stronghold made to fight against Ironborn, against the Mallister who ruled it, would be such a beautiful thing.

Under the cloak of darkness and with the city of Seagard enveloped in shadows, Harwyn Greyjoy orchestrated a strategic plan to set ablaze most of the outer portions of the city. Utilizing the cover of the night and the chaos of the ongoing storm, Ironborn raiders moved stealthily through Seagard's narrow streets.

Harwyn had ordered his men to target specific locations, primarily focusing on the peripheral areas of the city. The chosen spots were carefully selected to create an impression of a natural disaster, and the flames were set near blacksmith shops to give the appearance of accidental fires caused by forge mishaps.

As the fires erupted and began to consume the structures, a sense of panic swept through Seagard. The wind, fueled by the storm's fury, carried the scent of smoke and the distant crackling of flames. Panic spread like wildfire among the city's residents, and word of the disaster traveled swiftly.

Complicating matters for Seagard, a significant portion of its defenders were away with Lord Mallister, who was participating in the tourney at Harrenhal. This absence left the city with a diminished garrison to respond to emergencies.

With the chaos of the fires distracting Seagard's defenders, Harwyn saw an opportunity. He ordered a portion of his forces to infiltrate the city and engage the depleted garrison. Seagard's desperate response to the infernos left the castle vulnerable, and the Ironborn took advantage of the situation to strike at the heart of the city.

As Seagard's defenders scrambled to combat both the fires and the Ironborn assailants, Harwyn's plan unfolded with calculated precision. The storm, the fires, and the chaos in the streets all played into the Ironborn strategy. The night belonged to the Greyjoys, and the flames of Seagard illuminated their path toward conquest in the Riverlands.

In the narrow streets of Seagard, chaos reigned as the Ironborn clashed with the city's defenders. The flickering flames from the strategically ignited fires cast an eerie glow, creating shifting shadows that danced along the cobblestone paths. The stormy weather added to the tumultuous atmosphere, with rain-soaked streets making footing treacherous for both attackers and defenders.

Ironborn raiders, armed with axes, swords, and shields, emerged from the shadows, taking advantage of the confusion caused by the fires. Seagard's defenders hastily assembled to counter the unexpected assault, brandished spears, swords, and makeshift weapons.

The sounds of clashing steel echoed through the narrow alleys, accompanied by shouts of battle and the occasional scream of agony. Sparks flew as weapons met in a deadly dance, with Ironborn warriors displaying their maritime prowess against the Riverland forces.

The fires, strategically placed by Harwyn Greyjoy's forces, continued to spread, casting an ominous glow that painted the scene in hues of orange and red. The flickering flames created an ever-changing battlefield, where visibility was compromised, and combatants had to contend with both their adversaries and the encroaching infernos.

Amid the chaos, the Ironborn pressed forward, exploiting the weakened defenses and the distraction caused by the fires. The defenders, facing the dual threat of attackers and flames, fought valiantly to protect their city. Swords clashed, shields blocked, and the storm raged on, intensifying the dire situation.

The narrow streets of Seagard were transformed into a gruesome battleground as the Ironborn raiders showed no mercy in their assault. Rain-soaked cobblestones became slick with blood, making each step treacherous for both attackers and defenders. The flickering flames from strategically ignited fires cast an eerie glow, revealing the horrors unfolding in the night.

Ironborn warriors, wielding axes and swords with brutal efficiency, descended upon the city's defenders. The clash of steel echoed through the winding alleys, accompanied by the screams of the wounded and dying. The stormy weather only intensified the brutality of the conflict, with flashes of lightning briefly illuminating the macabre scenes.

Seagard's defenders fought desperately to protect their homes and loved ones, but the Ironborn onslaught proved relentless. Axes cleaved through armor and flesh alike, leaving gruesome wounds that oozed blood in the rain. Swords found their marks with deadly precision, and the clash of shields reverberated with each violent impact.

In the midst of the chaos, the Ironborn showed no hesitation in executing captured defenders. Mercy was a foreign concept in this brutal conflict. The streets ran red with the spilled blood of Seagard's valiant defenders, and the fires continued to spread, consuming buildings and casting long shadows that twisted and contorted in the night.

As the battle raged on, the Ironborn raiders displayed a savage determination, driven by a desire to instill fear and chaos in the heart of Seagard. The screams of the wounded and the clash of arms painted a horrifying tableau, where every corner held the potential for a brutal confrontation.

Harwyn Greyjoy, a formidable figure amidst the chaos, wielded his weapon with a terrifying proficiency, leaving a trail of carnage in his wake. In the narrow streets of Seagard, his Ironborn followers matched his ferocity, and the fight for the city became a gruesome spectacle.

With a powerful swing of his greatsword, Harwyn severed an unfortunate defender in half, the blade biting through armor, flesh, and bone. The two halves crumpled to the ground in a grotesque display.

Harwyn swiftly closed in on another opponent, using his sword to disarm the defender with a deft maneuver. The clatter of dropped weapons echoed through the chaos as the now defenseless man stumbled backward.

Opting for a change of weapon, Harwyn seized a nearby axe and, with a swift motion, embedded it in the skull of an unfortunate defender. The weapon stuck fast, leaving the man crumpling to the ground with a fatal blow.

Harwyn's approach was relentless. He used his shield to bash an opponent off balance before delivering a powerful overhead strike with his sword, the blade descending like a deadly executioner's axe.

As defenders rallied against him, Harwyn displayed remarkable agility, dodging strikes with calculated movements. In a moment of opportunity, he countered with a series of rapid slashes, leaving his adversaries struggling to parry the onslaught.

In the tight quarters of Seagard's streets, Harwyn acquired a spear discarded by a fallen soldier. With a thrust that demonstrated both precision and brutality, he impaled an unsuspecting defender who had approached from a blind spot.

Harwyn used his shield as a weapon, slamming it into an opponent to create an opening. Seizing the opportunity, he drove his sword through the exposed area, ensuring a swift and lethal conclusion.

Ironborn warriors, fueled by Harwyn's brutal example, surged through the streets like a tidal wave of death. House by house, street by street, they encountered resistance from the desperate defenders attempting to protect their homes.

Fires, intentionally started by the Ironborn or resulting from the chaos, spread rapidly through Seagard. Wooden beams crackled and buildings collapsed, adding to the pandemonium. The city was gradually transforming into a hellish landscape of flames and crumbling structures.

The remaining defenders found themselves cornered, their numbers dwindling rapidly. In close-quarter combat, the Ironborn's ruthless efficiency was on full display. They showed no mercy, cutting down anyone who dared stand against them.

Ironborn warriors, emboldened by their successes, became a marauding force. They moved from house to house, breaking into homes and dragging out any defenders they found, subjecting them to a merciless end.

The defenders, outnumbered and overwhelmed, mounted fleeting pockets of resistance. Despite their bravery, the relentless advance of the Ironborn left them with little chance. The Ironborn's cold determination left no room for negotiation or mercy.

Harwyn, directing his forces strategically, ensured that key locations in Seagard fell into Ironborn hands. These strategic points included bridges, gatehouses, and watchtowers, consolidating the raiders' control over the city.

As the chaos continued, the defenders fought with the desperation of those facing impending doom. Yet, each clash echoed the inevitable conclusion – the Ironborn were systematically eradicating any resistance with a ruthless efficiency that bordered on brutality. But he saw the castle of Seagard would not send more men to stop it.

Harwyn looked around him and saw the fires converging into one another. The smoke rose high, higher than the keep, and reached the skies. As the winds from the seas pushed the smoke, they pushed it back towards land in the direction of Segard castle. "Set more f*cking fires! The smoke's going into the castle."

"Harwyn!" Harwyn followed the sound to a captain of one of the longboats. "They ain't gonna open the gates just because a little smoke enters their castle. We ain't gonna smoke them out like a hunter does a f*cking fox den."

Harwyn wondered if every person in the Iron Islands who did not have Greyjoy blood was an idiot. Actually, on second thought, the only two of his family that had half a brain were his uncle and brother, so the name and blood Greyjoy were not an absolute saving grace. "Who said anything about smoking them out? I don't know about you lot, but I can't see a damn thing when smoke's in my eyes. And if I can't see, I can't f*cking counter what's coming, now can I?"

The captain then looked to Harwyn to see if he was still the idiot. Harwyn was one more idiot comment away from cutting the man down then and there. "How do we get in closer to the castle then?"

Harwyn pointed around them. "Is this not a city? If there's a city, there's a bloody tavern. Where there's a tavern, there is alcohol, wine, ale, things that burn. Make a trail to the walls and burn anything and everything in front of them. I want a dozen men with hooks and spikes to climb through the back of the castle while the men are worried about the front smoke and flames. Once inside, they could open the gates, bring down a ladder, something to get us in!"

As instructed, men grabbed as much oil and wine as alcohol. They grabbed anything that could and would burn, sheets, cloth, ale, wine, wood, anything, and everything. With so few men to defend the city and the castle, there was no way for Segard to stop them from making the fire. Seagard had less than a quarter of Harwyn's numbers. Harwyn commanded ten thousand men, Seagard had less than two thousand, even at full strength. They would fall.

Once the bone fire was made, a flaming wall that blocked out all sights of the city, doubled as a way to stop the arrows flying towards them. Seagard would be smoked out; even if no one came out from the castle, they'd mostly choke and be distracted enough for Harwyn to send the other men.

Harwyn waited for the smoke to obscure the entire castle before making the next orders. "Send men in them now. They can't see anything!"

The chosen Ironborn, shadows in the flickering glow of fires, crept through the city's narrow alleyways, evading notice amidst the turmoil. Their mission was clandestine, to disable the guards and secure the gates for the impending onslaught.

Armed with daggers and a mastery of stealth, the Ironborn silently approached the unsuspecting guards. One by one, they fell victim to swift, silent strikes, ensuring that no alarm could be raised to thwart the impending breach.

With the guards dispatched, the Ironborn swiftly set to work securing the gates in an open position. The creaking mechanisms, lubricated by the blood of the fallen guards, allowed the invading force to pour into the castle unhindered.

As the gates remained ajar, a dozen Ironborn warriors stationed themselves strategically, holding the entryway against any desperate counterattacks from within the castle. Their mission was not only to conquer but to establish a foothold for the broader assault.

With the gates secured, Ironborn's main force stormed into the castle. The dimly lit corridors echoed with the sounds of clashing steel and dying cries as the defenders, caught off guard, attempted to mount a last-ditch resistance.

Harwyn, with a keen eye for strategic advantage, directed his forces to key locations within the castle. Towers, courtyards, and chambers were seized to establish control over the heart of Seagard, solidifying the Ironborn's grip on the castle.

From their newfound stronghold within the castle, the Ironborn expanded their reach throughout the city. The flames that raged around them were now tools of destruction, engulfing vital structures and fanning the flames of chaos. Seagard had fallen overnight. And with ten thousand men, he would be able to secure Segard far better than the skeleton crew that remained from the Mallisters.

With a stronghold of ten thousand men, Harwyn would be more than able to secure the other twenty thousand coming from his connections in the Free Cities; they were set to come within the next three days. His uncle had planned this well; that is what would happen when they had five years to plan. The Kingdom Isles and Rivers would be reborn once more. But he supposed if his brother did his job well and destroyed the Lannister fleet, a new name would be needed. Greyjoys, king of the Sunset Sea, that didn't have that bad of a ring to it.

Chapter 23: Krakens and Spears

Chapter Text

Summerhall 104 AC

Aemon Targaryen

Aemon sat in his solar in Summerhall before the large table with maps, battle plans, and letters. He looked to the hills, valleys, shores, and beaches and the figures of the possible movements of potential allies and the Ironborn themselves. The Ironborn were showing strategy, which they normally did not show. His mind was swirling with the chaos that had unfolded in his absence—three weeks, he reckoned since he last set foot upon these rugged islands. The journey from Harrenhal to Summerhall took three weeks, and with nearly five thousand men at his back, it set up what Aemon knew would be months of conflict. Three weeks, and in that time, the Greyjoys had dared to stir the simmering cauldron of rebellion. Three weeks later, the continent was at war, and now, months after the beginning of this war, Aemon had to focus on his own lands, which he had only recently acquired.

The timing was as cunning as it was cruel. They had chosen their moment maliciously, waiting until the great lords of the Seven Kingdoms dispersed from their councils and feasts, scattered like leaves in the autumn wind. It was a calculated gamble, seizing opportunity when all the lords were too far away to join together as one great army and yet waiting until they were far enough away from their keeps to make it impossible to claim back territories lost in a short time. Aemon could almost admire the audacity of it were it not for the devastation that now swept across the Iron Islands.

In their absence, the Greyjoys with their Ironborn had struck like a storm unleashed upon unsuspecting shores. Castles and keeps alike had felt the wrath of their onslaught, the Ironborn reavers descending upon the lands of their foes with a ferocity born of centuries of salt and sea. In Jon Snow's life, Aemon has dealt with Ironborn a lot. They had no rhyme or reason, were harbingers of chaos, pillaging, and raiding, and had no plans save for the barest of things to start campaigns. And yet here, Aemon was looking over battle plans and notes that spoke otherwise, and it angered him to know that the Ironborn were acting in a way that was so very much not like Ironborn; they were cunning for once. Aemon knew the carnage firsthand, the smoke of burning villages and the cries of the wounded still echoing in his ears.

They had struck hard, and they had struck fast, leaving devastation in their wake. It was a gambit, a bid for power writ large upon the canvas of war, and the Greyjoys had played their hand with all the savagery of the Ironborn reavers of old. But Aemon knew this was the opening gambit that would claim many pieces, a game where the stakes were nothing less than the fate of the Seven Kingdoms.

Aemon wondered if this rebellion would benefit Viserys like the Greyjoy Rebellion, which benefited Robert Baratheon. Aemon did not remember much of this event, except for a few key things he needed to, the battle of the Straits of Fair Isle being one of the most important things he had forced himself to recall after several sleepless nights of trying. He did recall a snip of understanding from the life of Jon Snow that most thought Robert's control of the kingdoms was weak at best until he was able to secure the Crownlands, Riverlands, North, Stormlands, Westerlands, and Redwyne fleet to fight the Ironborn for their rebellion. That war shows that Robert had, for certain, at least five of the kingdoms at his beck and call. Aemon recently wondered why the Vale did little during the Greyjoy Rebellion when the Hand was an Arryn. If Viserys won this war, it would show he could fight for the crown like Jaehaerys had done during the Dornish Wars. But Aemon did not know what Viserys was doing; he did not even know if Viserys knew the realm was at war yet.

In the dimly lit confines of his study within the nearly finished halls of Summerhall, Aemon sat hunched over a desk made of black dragon bone and white weirdwood bark, his eyes tracing the intricate script that danced across the parchment before him. Most of the furniture of Summerhall, whose stones were as white as driven snow, was made of dragon bone, so dark it looked black due to the high amounts of iron found in the bones and weirdwood bark that matched the driven snow and the stones of the keep. The furniture of Summerhall was expensive; Aemon supposed he could fund the creation of two more Summerhalls by selling the furniture, and Summehall, without the bones and still unfinished, was shaping to be the most extravagant, largest both in size and height and most fortified castle in the Seven Kingdoms. Aemon did not know how his father had found enough dragon bone to furnish the entire castle. Aemon did hear from several workers that Daemon was able to secure the bones from dead dragons recently found buried near Valryia, including one that belonged to the dragon of the self-proclaimed Emperor of Valyria, Aurion; no last name has ever been recovered, one of the few dragonlords who survived the Doom of Valyria. The dragon was estimated to be twice as large as Balerion, a terrifying creature. Aemon supposed most of the dragon bone furniture came from the dragon's remains.

The flickering candlelight cast eerie shadows upon the worn stone walls, painting the room in an ethereal glow as he delved deeper into the grim tidings that maester Vaegon had delivered. Aemon looked under the table to see Ghost, who contrasted greatly with his white fur against the dark, barely illuminated room and the black dragon bone and white weirdwood table. Ghost pushed his head into Aemon's open palm as if trying to calm his master before the boy thought of flinging himself from the window out of pure frustration. Aemon turned to the side to see the fireplace was buried a little lower than he liked; he cared not for the heat; being of the North and having Valyrian blood made sure the boy had a high tolerance for both heat and cold, but Aemon needed the sound of the crackling flames and the burning wood to clear his mind and give him some comfort.

Aemon looked to the side and saw his left of cooked steak, which was brought to him an hour ago, and he dropped it to the ground for Ghost to eat; the wolf moved from under the table; Aemon had forgotten the white beast was near the size of a full-grown horse. While the wolf ate, Aemon walked to the flames and threw another log.

The Ironborn, that seafaring scourge of the western shores, had unleashed a fury unlike any seen in recent memory. Lannisport, the jewel of the west, had been reduced to cinders, its proud spires now naught but smoking ruins. With Lannisport and the Lannister fleet burnt, there would be no instant retaliation for future raids. Casterly Rock, that impregnable fortress withstood the ravages of time and war, had not been spared the Ironborn's wrath, its mighty walls now scarred by the flames of destruction.

With ruthless efficiency, the Ironborn raiders had seized Seagard, establishing it as their foothold in the heart of the Riverlands. From there, bolstered by twenty thousand sellswords and ten thousand of their kin, they had launched a relentless campaign of terror and plunder, laying waste to the fertile lands that had once flourished under the protection of House Tully. Aemon had even heard a report or two that they had captured the Blackwood and Frey heirs, killing a decent portion of the remaining Freys. Aemon suspected that they would use the hostages to keep the Blackwood and Freys from joining future battles, but Aemon did not know.

Entire villages had been put to the torch, their inhabitants fleeing in terror as the Ironborn descended upon them like avenging spirits from the sea. Keeps and castles, once bastions of strength and power, now stood as little more than crumbling husks, their once-proud banners torn and tattered in the wind.

And yet, for all their might and fury, the Ironborn's cunning proved their greatest weapon. With thirty thousand warriors at their command, they had swiftly overwhelmed any attempts at retaliation by the other lords of the realm, striking with a speed and precision that left their foes reeling in disarray. While thirty thousand were currently in the Riverlands doing God knows what, another thirty-five thousand were Ironborn pillaging, reading, and moving closer to the Stormlands. Aemon accounted for twenty thousand sold swords, meaning the Ironborn had forty-five thousand men, almost twice as many men as he recalled them having in Jon Snow's lifetime. Aemon decided the increase of numbers was due to a combination of a lack of battles for men to die to overall through the Seven Kingdoms and the fact that the few times they did pillage, the Ironborn claimed many salt-wives to bear their children, or as most would think of them, bastards with their father's name.

With thirty thousand men taking the Riverlands and not allowing the Riverlands to contrate their power to repel them, it was more than likely the Tullys would never regain their position without outside help, like what happened with House Hoare during the Conquest where Aegon the Conqueror had to destroy House Hoare for the Riverlanders to regain their holdings. Aemon would admit it was rather difficult to reclaim a territory easily invaded when there were no natural differences, unlike the Vale, which had mountains and ranges, or the north, which had a cold so horrible only a Northman could tolerate it. For lack of a better word, the Riverlands are f*cked until someone could help. And with another army of thirty thousand pillaging other lands, it forces everyone to look to themselves.

The fall of the Twins, that ancient seat of House Frey, was a stark testament to the ironborn's prowess. With ruthless efficiency, they stormed the fortress, slaughtering its defenders and scattering its forces to the wind, leaving most of the Frey's dead. By seizing control of this crucial crossing, they had effectively cut off the North from the rest of the realm, ensuring that no aid would come from that quarter should the other lords seek to rally against them.

As Aemon poured over the reports, his heart heavy with the weight of the carnage unfolding across the realm, he knew that the game had changed. The Ironborn had thrown down the gauntlet, and now it fell to the lords of the Seven Kingdoms to answer in kind. But whether they could muster the strength and unity needed to stem the tide of Ironborn aggression remained to be seen.

In the shadowed chambers of Summerhall, Aemon sat amidst a labyrinth of ancient tomes and weathered parchments, his keen eyes fixated upon the grim tidings that Maester Vaegon had unveiled. The Ironborn, those relentless reavers of the western seas, had cast their net of chaos far and wide, their depredations sparing neither the icy shores of the North nor the fertile lands of the Riverlands.

Ghost sat by Aemon, devouring the stake, as if they had been together every day since Aemon arrived at Summerhall. While the Ghost appeared quiet and serene, the wolf's eyes were scanning the entire area and picking up on everything. The white fur nearly matched Summerhall's white marble. But Ghost's ruby eyes were what really set him apart. The dire wolf was nearly perfectly invisible on the ground while Ameon scratched the wolf's ear. The only thing that made him contrast with the room was the black table and the darkness of the room.

Ghost made no sound, rarely did. However, Ghost seemed thrice more protective than usual since he was not used to the new lands of Summerhall. However, Ghost knew the war was coming, and he would keep an eye on those who would harm Aemon. Aemon had Balerion for the skies and could destroy fields and armies in open combat, but Ghost shined the most in castles with corridors and restrictions.

As Aemon fingers traced the lines of ink upon the parchment, Aemon's mind recoiled at the scope of the devastation wrought by the Ironborn. In three months since the tourney, the Riverlands and the North, the kingdoms closest to the tourney, had been hit harder than Aemon would have ever thought possible. Bear Island had borne the brunt of their fury, its stout defenses tested against the relentless onslaught of iron and salt. Yet even as the men of the North rallied to defend their ancestral lands, they found themselves harried and hindered by the vastness of their numbers.

For the northern lords, their unity had become their strength and curse. As they marshaled their forces to march southward, their ranks swelled to the size of a small army, a formidable host that stretched from horizon to horizon. Yet in their unwieldy size lay a fatal flaw, for the Ironborn had discerned the chink in their armor, striking with smaller, nimbler forces that danced like shadows upon the wind.

Many of the Northern lords were still south when the Ironborn took the Twins. While Aemon had not doubted the portion of the men still beyond the Twins could hold off the Ironborn, they would not be quick enough to defend multiple attacks if they were done vast distances apart. The North was nothing if not vast, meaning every time the Ironborn struck, no one knew their next target, and the men would need to run themselves ragged to reach the target, only to be late. The Northern lords south of the Twins would need to find a way to invade the North themselves, only to find a good enough position to hold the Ironborn back and then push them back. The Northern lords needed to both be invaders and defenders of their lands to push the Ironborn out.

With ruthless efficiency, the Ironborn raiders had descended upon the northern lands, their longships slipping like phantoms through the icy waters of the Narrow Sea. They eschewed pitched battles in favor of swift and surgical strikes, their goal not conquest but plunder and pillage. From the wilds of the Wolfswood to the craggy cliffs of Cape Kraken, they left naught but ruin and desolation in their wake, claiming treasures and taking salt wives as they went.

And yet, even as the Ironborn preyed upon the North, the North had not fully recovered from the Wildling Invasion since most of the lands had been put to the torch. The Wildling Invasion, that age-old specter of northern nightmares, had swept down from beyond the Wall, its savage hordes descending upon the beleaguered lands like a ravenous tide. The northern lords, already stretched thin by the Ironborn incursions, found themselves hard-pressed to both invade their own lands and somehow defend it and push the Ironborn back, their once-mighty realms weakened and fractured by the twin storms of iron and ice.

In the somber halls of Summerhall, Aemon's mind was a tempest of worry and frustration, each passing moment bringing fresh waves of concern crashing against the shores of his consciousness. The absence of his father, Daemon Targaryen, and the rest of the royal entourage in King's Landing weighed heavily upon him, a shadow cast over the realm by their conspicuous absence. King's Landing, that teeming metropolis of intrigue and ambition, seemed eerily quiet; no words were coming in or out of the capital, and that unreeved Aemon to no end.

Aemon knew all too well the nature of his uncle Viserys, that mercurial King whose good intentions often paved the road to ruin. Even now, he could envision Viserys lingering in the hinterlands of the realm, his heart set upon visiting every keep and holdfast in a misguided attempt to demonstrate his concern for the welfare of the Seven Kingdoms. And yet, for all his noble aspirations, Viserys' wanderlust served only to further destabilize the fragile balance of power that held the realm together. Viserys was doing nothing, Aemon knew his uncle would wish to do much, but the lack of words from King's Landing did nothing to help.

As Aemon poured over the reports that littered his desk like so many broken shards of hope, his frustration boiled over. "f*ck!"

Ghost looked to his master and turned his head just enough to show his concern. Aemon waved off the dire wolf, but the longer he looked over the reports, the more he wished to merely leap on Balerion and burn all the Iron Islands to the ground. Aemon stopped to think of his words. He could do that. It would be so easy. Balerion, at less than half of his current size of over eight hundred, almost nine hundred feet, was able to melt Harrenhal. It would be easy for the dragon to melt the Pyke, and every keep on the Iron Island, he would not be surprised he could melt most of the islands to leave them even less hospitable. It would be long, with many passes to burn the islands, but he could do it, especially since all the Ironborn forces were reliving the mainland; that had to mean no one was protecting the islands. Aemon had the dragon and the power to end this war. Burn them all.

Aemon stopped his thoughts.Burn them all. He thought to himself and wanted to vomit; those words, is this how the Mad King slowly degenerated? All that power to the head, and he thought himself a god. But Aemon could save countless lives by burning the castles and keeps of defended lands, forcing all the Ironborn back to their homes in fear of their lands being destroyed. But it would not be men in the castles in keeps. It would be women. It would be children. Aemon would kill the innocent to condemn the aggressors. Aemon would do no such thing. He would not care about the power he had if he lost himself to it.

"Ambition without power is meaningless. Power without ambition is useless. But without honor, a man will lose himself to both as punishment and gain neither as a reward," Aemon said aloud to himself.

He did not recall who told him this. Was it Tyrion? Was it Margaery? Was it Arianne? Was it something he realized himself after all of Jon Snow's failures that piked up so high they reached higher than the Iron Throne and yet made nothing as grand or important as a result? No longer did Aemon have the answers to most of the questions he had for his life as Jon Snow. But he knew this statement was true.

Ambition without power is meaningless. Peter Baleish had ambitions but no lands, wealth, or armies. Ambition alone would gain him nothing, but by gaining the first two, he became a true threat in the game of thrones.Power without ambition is useless. Ned Stark had an alliance of blood from the Tullys and the Arryns and secured a marriage for his daughter, who would connect the Lannisters and Baratheons. Yet, instead of securing his line and his position as protector of the realm, given to him by Robert Baratheon on his deathbed, he squandered it by not having the ambition to square either Renly Baratheon or Peter Baleish, whom either one would have made sure Ned won the game of thrones.But without honor, a man will lose himself to both as punishment and gain neither as a reward.Theon Greyjoy had the power of the Iron Islands and the ambition to conquer Winterfell, but the honorless man lost both and eventually became Ramsay Bolton's creature.

"I will hold on to my honor," he told himself softly. "It might be the only thing I still retained from my life from Jon Snow." He then turned down to see Ghost finish his steak and looked up at Aemon in confusion. "One of two things, I suppose," he said, scratching the wolf once more.

Aemon looked back to the maps and continued to mull over the acts of the Ironborn. Using their longships to navigate the winding rivers of the Riverlands, the Ironborn had struck at the heart of the realm with a precision that bordered on the uncanny. From the headwaters of the Blue Fork to the fertile plains of Fairmarket, from the bustling streets of Harroway town to the salt-sprayed shores of Saltpans, they had left a trail of destruction in their wake. And when they arrived at Riverrun, that ancient seat of Tully power, they had not sought to conquer it through force of arms but rather through the relentless pounding of siege engines and the searing heat of dragonfire.

But while the Greyjoys had started the rebellion within three weeks and made crippling moves within those first weeks, the true damage was done within the following three months. In just three months, the Iron Islands had managed to accomplish what many thought impossible: the conquest of an entire kingdom. Armed with nothing but steel and cunning, thirty thousand men had torn through the Riverlands like a scythe through wheat, laying waste to all that stood in their path. It was a testament to the iron will and indomitable spirit of the Ironborn and a chilling reminder of the fragility of the realm that Aemon held so dear.

As he contemplated the grim reality before him, Aemon could not help but wonder what other horrors awaited the Seven Kingdoms in the days to come. The Ironborn had proven themselves formidable adversaries, their thirst for conquest matched only by their cunning and ruthlessness. And with the royal family scattered to the winds, the realm's fate seemed more uncertain than ever.

The reports that crossed Aemon's desk painted a harrowing tableau of devastation and bloodshed, each line of ink a testament to the relentless advance of the Ironborn reavers. Oldstones, that ancient seat of the long-forgotten kings of House Mudd, had been reduced to rubble and ash, its crumbling ruins echoing with the anguished cries of the fallen. The Greyjoys, their sails black against the pale moonlight, had descended upon the ruins like vultures upon carrion, their axes and swords gleaming in the flickering torchlight as they plundered and pillaged with wanton abandon.

Fairmarket, that bustling hub of trade and commerce, had fared no better beneath the ironborn's heel. The streets ran red with blood as the raiders swept through the town like a tempest unleashed, their savagery matched only by their greed. Merchant stalls lay overturned, their wares scattered and trampled beneath the iron-shod boots of the invaders, while the cries of the wounded mingled with the crackling roar of flames that consumed all in their path.

Harroway town, that once proud bastion of riverfolk defiance, had become a charnel house of horror and despair. The Ironborn, their longships looming like specters upon the mist-shrouded waters of the Trident, had struck with a ferocity that left the defenders in shock and disbelief. From the docks to the town square, the streets ran slick with blood as the raiders cut down all who dared to stand in their path, their laughter echoing like the mocking caw of carrion crows as they reveled in the slaughter.

And then came Saltpans, that humble fishing village nestled along the shores of the Bay of Crabs. The Ironborn, their sails billowing in the salty sea breeze, had descended upon the village like a swarm of locusts, their thirst for plunder matched only by their lust for blood. The villagers, their faces twisted in terror, had fled before the onslaught, their homes and livelihoods left to smoke in the wake of the ironborn's passage.

Aemon did not want to even consider the number of women they had taken to make their salt wives. He did not even wish to think of how many of them had known nothing but rapes and beatings since being captured back when the war had begun over three months ago. Then, knowing the Ironborn, they would make sure the women were bred to have the next generation of Ironborn to continue the horrible acts that were committed on their mothers. Aemon respected the cultures of the Seven Kingdoms; he had ruled them as Jon Snow and had come to understand them, all save for the Ironborn; he could never come to see them as anything other than vile people.

But it was not just the towns and villages of the Riverlands that felt the Ironborn's wrath. No, the raiders had set their sights upon the ancient castles and kept that dotted the landscape like so many sentinel sentinels of stone and steel. Darry, that stout fortress of Tully allegiance, had become a battleground of blood and fire as the Ironborn laid siege to its walls, their battering rams and catapults raining death upon its defenders.

Raventree Hall, the seat of House Blackwood, had fared little better beneath the Ironborn's onslaught. The defenders, their ranks bolstered by the fierce loyalty of their vassals, had fought tooth and nail to repel the invaders, their swords and spears flashing in the dim light of the moon as they clashed in a desperate struggle for survival. Yet despite their valor, they could not hold back the tide of iron and salt that surged against their walls, and Raventree Hall fell to the invaders' merciless assault.

And then there was Riverrun, that mighty fortress that had stood as a bulwark against the tides of war for centuries untold. The Ironborn, their banners black with golden kraken, had descended upon the castle like a ravenous pack of hyenas, their siege engines reducing its mighty walls to rubble and ruin. That gave Aemon the most pause; since when did Ironborn use siege weapons? There was little doubt in Aemon's heart that someone was aiding the Ironborn once that tidbit of information was revealed. The defenders, their hearts heavy with the weight of impending doom, had fought with a desperation born of desperation, their screams of defiance drowned out by the thunderous roar of the Ironborn's onslaught.

But perhaps the hardest-fought battles were yet to come, for the Ironborn had set their sights upon Seagard and Stone Hedge, the ancestral seats of Houses Mallister and Bracken, respectively. The defenders, their spirits battered but unbroken, had rallied to defend their homes with a courage born of desperation, their swords and spears flashing in the flickering torchlight as they clashed with the Ironborn invaders. Yet despite their courage, they could not stem the tide of iron and salt that surged against their walls, and Seagard and Stone Hedge fell to the invaders' relentless advance.

And so the Riverlands burned, its fertile fields stained crimson with the blood of the fallen, its proud castles and keeps reduced to smoldering ruins beneath the ironborn's merciless assault. Aemon could only grimace in horror and disbelief as he read the reports before him, his heart heavy with the weight of the carnage that had befallen the realm. The Ironborn, with their steel and savagery, had unleashed a storm of fire and blood that threatened to consume all in its path, leaving nothing but death and despair in its wake.

Aemon was tired and needed a break; even if Jon Snow had done these same strategies and long nights over war tables, Aemon Targaryen was far too young to be doing so to such lengths. With a frustrated sigh, he threw the papers back on the table so that he may have at least a minute to look at anything other than the ink on the paper. Hence, his eyes settled on everything that was his solar, looking for everything in the dark candlelit room.

Silks and tapestries of vibrant hues hung from the walls, their intricate designs depicting scenes of valor and romance; each thread spun with the skill of master artisans. Rare books and manuscripts, their pages yellowed with age, lined the shelves that lined the chamber, their contents a trove of knowledge and wisdom gleaned from ages past.

But it was not just the trappings of learning that adorned the solar, for scattered throughout the room were pelts of exotic animals, their fur soft to the touch and their colors a riot of hues dazzled the eye. From the sleek black fur of a panther to the golden sheen of a lion's mane, each pelt spoke of a world beyond the confines of the castle walls, a world of untamed wilderness and savage beauty.

The walls, crafted from blocks of white marble stone, seemed to gleam in the soft light that filtered through the arched windows. Their smooth surfaces were adorned with intricate carvings and bas-reliefs, each depicting scenes of Targaryen glory and triumph, a testament to the storied history of the house that ruled from the Iron Throne.

And yet, for all its splendor, it was the furnishings of the solar that truly set it apart. The table and chairs, crafted from the rarest of materials, were a study in contrasts, their surfaces fashioned from the polished black bone of long-dead dragons, while their legs and arms were carved from the pale white bark of weirwood trees. It was a striking juxtaposition that spoke of the union of fire and ice, of power and grace, that defined the essence of House Targaryen.

As Aemon surveyed the room, his gaze lingering on the treasures that adorned its every corner, he couldn't help but feel a pang of admiration for his father, Daemon Targaryen. For all his faults and flaws, Daemon had possessed a vision of grandeur that had transformed Summerhall into a castle of unparalleled beauty and extravagance. And as he stood amidst the splendor of his solar, Aemon couldn't help but feel a swell of pride in the legacy that he had inherited, a legacy that spoke of power and prestige, of dragons and destiny, that would endure long after he had passed from this world.

Aemon sighed heavily, his frustration evident as he ran a hand through his midnight-black hair. He fixed his black clothing, the garbs far less extravagant than a prince should be wearing, especially one who ruled Summerhall, which was easily the most extravagant castle in the Seven Kingdoms, even if it was not finished yet. The weight of the reports before him seemed to press down upon his shoulders like a leaden cloak, each line of ink a reminder of the chaos that had befallen the realm.

Just then, a polite knock sounded at the door, drawing Aemon's attention away from the mountain of parchment before him. With a resigned nod, he called out, granting entry to the visitor beyond. The heavy wooden door creaked open, revealing the figure of maester Vaegon, his aged features lined with wisdom and concern.

"Come in, maester Vaegon," Aemon greeted, gesturing for the maester to approach. Vaegon was a middle-aged man, his short silver hair catching the light as he stepped into the room. His lilac eyes held a depth of knowledge gleaned from years of study, and the many chains adorning his neck jingled softly as he moved. Aemon had never truly spoken to Jaehaerys' lone surviving son before the man had become the first master of Summerhall. Still, Aemon would admit the man was cunning, more than deserving of the position of archmaester during his time in the Citadel.

"Your Grace," Vaegon began, his voice grave as he crossed the room to stand before Aemon. Aemon would still need to get used to the term 'Your Grace' because now that he was the royal of the highest rank in the area, he would be referred to as such for the rest of his time here. Even if his aunts were around, Aemon was the lone male royal and ruler of Summerhall; he would be referred to as 'Your Grace' unless the king himself came; even if Daemon had come, Aemon would still have the title since he was Prince of Summerhall. "I bring tidings from the Riverlands. The Greyjoys have tightened their grip upon the region, their Ironborn raiders wreaking havoc upon its lands with impunity."

Aemon's brow furrowed in concern as he listened to the maester's report. Aemon had hoped for a mere half hour of thought relating to anything but this damned rebellion, but it seemed the gods hated him. "Tell me, Vaegon, what news do you bring of our efforts to push back against these Ironborn?"

The maester shook his head solemnly. "I'm afraid the news is grim, Your Grace. Despite the valiant efforts of the Riverlanders, their attempts to repel the Ironborn have met with little success. Skirmishes and battles have erupted across the roads and outside the towns, but each attempt to dislodge the Ironborn has failed."

"Seven hells, Vaegon," Aemon growled, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "How could the Ironborn have gained such a foothold in the Riverlands?" Aemon say that the maester was going to enlighten him but Aemon raised his hand to stop him. "It was rhetorical, master Vaegon. It's not hard to wage a war in the Riverlands when you have more men than Riverlands overall and are not allowing them to converge together to fight back."

Vaegon sighed heavily, his features lined with concern as he recounted the grim details. "Your Grace, the battles have been fierce and bloody, with losses mounting on both sides. The Riverlords have fought valiantly, but their efforts have been in vain. Most of those who have survived the onslaught have retreated to the safety of Harrenhal, seeking refuge within its formidable walls."

Aemon's brow furrowed in consternation. "And what of my father, Prince Daemon, and the king? What are they doing to address this threat?"

Vaegon shook his head sadly. "I'm afraid His Grace has deemed it too risky to send Prince Daemon and Caraxes against the Ironborn. With the invaders entrenched in keeps and towns filled with innocent civilians, the risk of collateral damage is too great. If Caraxes were to unleash his flames upon them, innocent lives would surely be lost alongside the enemy."

Aemon gritted his teeth in frustration, his mind racing about strategy and retaliation. "And what of the movements of the Ironborn themselves? Have there been any recent developments?"

The maester nodded, reaching for a scroll on the nearby table. "Just this morning, I received word via raven that during the first three weeks of the Greyjoy Rebellion, the Ironborn launched a host of longboats to attack a portion of the Velaryon fleet. Their aim was true, Your Grace, and they inflicted significant damage."

Aemon's eyes widened in alarm. He did not know that, and if the information had been only received three months after it happened when Driftmark was not truly that far from Summerhall, then it meant that ravens were being shot down and letters werebeing intercepted. "Was the entire Velaryon fleet destroyed?"

Vaegon shook his head grimly. "Thankfully not, Your Grace. Though a bit more than a third of the ships were lost to the flames, most remain intact. But make no mistake, the Ironborn have shown themselves to be formidable adversaries, and their reach extends far beyond the shores of the Riverlands."

Aemon stood at the window of his solar, gazing out at the sprawling expanse of Summerhall's northern walls. He had christened this bustling enclave "Summertown," a nod to the storied Winter town of Winterfell. Though Aemon couldn't help but acknowledge the lack of creativity in the name, he felt a deep pride in honoring the castle that he would one day could inherit, a castle whose legacy echoed that of the great stronghold in the North.

The walls stretched high into the sky, their gleaming white marble towering above the surrounding landscape. Aemon couldn't deny the thought that flickered through his mind - the temptation to sell off the extravagant furnishings and precious marble to fund the construction of more practical defenses. Yet, even as the notion danced at the edge of his consciousness, he pushed it aside, knowing that to do so would be to dishonor the legacy of his father, Prince Daemon, who had poured his heart and soul into making Summerhall a beacon of Targaryen splendor.

As Aemon watched, his attention was drawn to the movement below, where guards ushered a group of weary travelers through the gates. Turning to Maester Vaegon, who stood at his side, Aemon inquired, "How many refugees have sought shelter within our walls, Vaegon?"

The maester's expression was solemn as he replied, "Another thousand souls have arrived in the past three days, Your Grace."

Aemon nodded thoughtfully, his mind quickly calculating. "And how many does that make in total?"

Vaegon paused, his brow furrowing as he considered the numbers. "Including the recent arrivals, over fifty thousand refugees have sought refuge within Summertown since the onset of the rebellion almost four months ago."

Aemon's gaze returned to the bustling activity outside, where the newcomers mingled with the residents of Summertown, seeking solace and safety within its protective embrace. "More than the largest of towns," he remarked quietly, a note of sadness in his voice. " Summertown is already a city." Aemon's brow furrowed in contemplation as maester Vaegon delivered his report; the weight of responsibility was heavy upon his shoulders. The maester's words painted a picture of both triumph and tribulation, of challenges met and challenges yet to come. Aemon then asked how many men they had to protect the city and the keep.

"Five thousand men, Your Grace," Vaegon began, his voice steady as he relayed the news. "The soldiers you led from Harrenhal have seamlessly integrated themselves as either the City Watch of Summertown or the castle guards. With their presence, they have managed to maintain peace and order within the walls, despite the influx of refugees. They oversee a population of fifty thousand with ease."

Aemon nodded, a glimmer of pride shining in his eyes at the efficiency of his men. "And how does our City Watch compare to that of King's Landing?" he inquired, curious to know more about the state of affairs in the capital.

Vaegon's expression turned thoughtful as he considered the question. "In terms of numbers, Your Grace, the City Watch of King's Landing is less than half of ours, two thousand men make up the City Watch of King's Landing. However, King's Landing boasts a population of five hundred thousand souls, far surpassing the fifty thousand here in Summertown."

Aemon's lips tightened in concern at the news. "Why, then, is the number of refugees continuing to increase?" he asked, his mind racing with possibilities. Aemon sized before slamming his fist on the dragon bone and weirdwood table. "The castle is still being built, and before I took over, we began filling our food stocks and reserves. We can not afford to take everyone; we risk running out!"

Vaegon's reply came swift and sure. "A portion of the sellswords that fled the Riverlands have made their way into the Stormlands, where they have begun raiding settlements and villages. With no major cities to protect them, the commonfolk have fled to the closest safe haven they can find - Summertown."

Aemon's jaw clenched in frustration at the plight of the Stormlands. "How many people reside in the Stormlands?" he queried, his voice tinged with concern.

Vaegon's response was grim. "Approximately three and a half million, Your Grace. Forty thousand soldiers are scattered across the entire kingdom, Your Grace."

"And yet everyone is coming here? The keep isn't even a fully garrisoned city does not keep yet. I would have finished setting everything within a few more moons, but with food stocks already running low and having to monitor a few thousand people when, I planned not to open the town until I finished building. There are bigger cities with better-fortified walls."

"Your Grace, that may be true, but the City Watch of Summertown alone, as previously stated, is more than twice in number to King's Landing. If two thousand men protect five hundred thousand, our number of City Watch, which is more than double, would be capable of protecting several ten thousand common folks that are significantly smaller, even if it reached seventy thousand in size within the next year, far easier to protect. The commonfolk feel safer, more secure."

Aemon's gaze hardened as he processed the information. Aemon had thought of the only other city equal in size to King's Landing. "And what of Oldtown?" he asked, turning his attention to the ancient city that lay to the south.

"Oldtown is situated off the bay, Whispering Sound," Vaegon explained. "The smallfolk are wary of castles and towns directly connected to rivers and open water, fearing that the Greyjoys may use such routes to reach them. As a result, many have chosen to seek refuge in Summerhall instead."

Aemon's lips quirked in a wry smile at the irony of the situation. "It seems the longer this rebellion persists, the more likely Summertown will become a major city in its own right."

Vaegon nodded in agreement, his eyes reflecting the gravity of the situation. "Indeed, Your Grace. And it seems your reputation precedes you."

Aemon raised an eyebrow inquisitively. "How so?"

The maester's lips twitched with amusem*nt. "The rumors that you single-handedly ended an entire wildling army, Your Grace. And the idea of you riding Balerion the Black Dread certainly doesn't hurt your chances."

Aemon showed no emotion, he turned to the fires of the fireplace and stared at the flames for some time. "Well then," he mused, "it seems the people have chosen their refuge wisely. If only the wise decision didn't also act as a poison that will kill them the longer they take it." Turning to maester Vaegon, who stood nearby, Aemon sought solace in conversation. "How fare my aunts, Vaegon?" he inquired, his voice heavy with concern.

The maester's expression softened as he replied, "Princesses Viserra, Aerea, Rhaella, Daenerys, Saera, and Maegella are all doing well, Your Grace." He paused, his eyes alight with pride. "Princess Daenerys has taken to flying her dragon more frequently, patrolling the skies and easing the minds of the commonfolk. Princess Maegella, meanwhile, has sought solace in the sept, praying alongside the Septons and the people to offer comfort in these troubled times."

Aemon nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. "And what of Princesses Saera and Viserra?" he asked, curious about his younger sisters' endeavors.

Vaegon chuckled softly. "Ah, well, the squires have been rather smitten by their presence. The lads have acted quite unlike themselves around such beautiful Valyrian princesses."

Aemon's frown deepened; if he did not have the need to rule both a city and a castle, he would have dealt with the squires in a spar to ensure they knew who the knights they followed worked for. It would be even worse due to the fact he had a feeling that, if memory serves, both Viserra and Saera were rather difficult alongside squires and had a scandal or two in the lifetime of Jon Snow. "And Rhaella and Aerea?" he inquired, his gaze drifting to the maester again.

Vaegon's expression grew thoughtful. "Rhaella, much to my surprise, has been remarkably calm of late. She has even joined Maegella at the sept, offering her prayers alongside the commonfolk." He paused, his eyes twinkling with amusem*nt. "As for Aerea, she has spent time in the kennels and stables, soothing the horses that are not yet accustomed to the presence of dragons. They are doing what they can to help in their ways," he remarked, a note of admiration in his voice.

Aemon's stoic features gave way to a smile so faint that it looked more like a ghost than the wolf near Aemon's feet, his gaze softening with affection. "Indeed, they are. And you should be proud of them, uncle. Your younger sisters seems to be doing well."

Vaegon's smile faltered slightly as he glanced around the room, the weight of his responsibilities settling heavily upon him once more. "I fear there is still much to be done," he admitted, his voice heavy with exhaustion.

Aemon sighed. Vaegon was an intelligent man, a Targaryen maester, he may have almost been made a king instead of having maester vows, but he was no maester Aemon. The man was far younger, more pompous, and more recluse. Aemon supposed it was how all maesters were when they lived for years in the Citadel instead of leaving after being learned and chained to a respectable amount. "I would think you able to take a compliment on your sister's behalf."

Vaegon said nothing for some time before looking out the window and to a lone dragon flying across the skies, Daenerys' dragon, Averilla, with a rich palette of deep purple and grape colors. It roared in the skies enough for both to look and stare at it instead of each other. "I was never there for them. I never met them. I only knew them after we met here in Summerhall. Difficult to feel proud of someone who is a stranger to you."

Aemon thought about it for some time before responding. Aemon sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose in exhaustion. "I suppose you are right. On some level, all maesters are."

Vaegon's brow furrowed in concern as he regarded his nephew. "You have not slept in days, Your Grace. You must rest if you are to be useful to the town and the castle."

Aemon sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "Perhaps you are right, Vaegon. But there is still so much to do."

The maester placed a comforting hand on Aemon's shoulder, his voice gentle. "The burdens of leadership are great, but you do not carry them alone, Your Grace. We will face these challenges together, as we always have."

Aemon nodded, a flicker of hope kindling within him at the maester's words. "Thank you, Vaegon," he murmured, his weariness momentarily forgotten in the warmth of his uncle's support.

Aemon and maester Vaegon were deep in conversation, their voices low as they discussed the pressing matters facing Summerhall. But their discussion was abruptly interrupted by a sharp knock at the door, followed by the announcement that Princess Daenerys sought entry. Aemon's brow furrowed in curiosity as he wondered aloud what his young aunt could possibly want at such a time.

"Let her in," Aemon instructed the guard, his tone firm yet tinged with curiosity. Moments later, Princess Daenerys Targaryen entered the room, her presence commanding despite her tender age of nine. Her short silvery hair framed her delicate features, and her lilac-colored eyes held a mixture of anger and concern as she stepped forward, clad in riding leathers stained purple to match the dragon she had just been riding outside the window.

Aemon greeted her with a nod, his expression shifting. She did not look happy; she looked nearly frightened. Aemon felt a sadness in his heart; children should not have such terror in their faces and try to hide it. But Aemon supposed he was child. No, he wasn't; even though he did not recall his past life much, he did recall enough pain and sorrow, enough to no longer be a child, even if he was trapped with only the memories of one. Aemon walked over to Daenerys and, with no words, opened his hands as she rushed into his arms, frightened and scared. Daenerys was loud, brave, and adventurous; she should never be scared.

She wept on his shoulders. "Don't tell the others I'm like this. Please don't tell them, Aemon. I'm the big sister. I shouldn't be scared," she whispered into his ear. She was slightly taller than Aemon's seven-year-old frame.

Aemon hugged her tighter and promised her he would not breathe a word. "What is it, Daenerys?" he asked, his voice steady yet tinged with a hint of apprehension.

Daenerys wasted no time in getting to the heart of the matter. "I saw Dornish and Greyjoys," she declared, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and defiance.

Aemon's demeanor turned cold and calculating as he absorbed her words. "Where?" he demanded, his voice low and intense.

Princess Daenerys hesitated for a moment before responding. "A few thousand sellswords and Greyjoys were coming from the northwest, but the entire army of Dornish soldiers is marching south toward the Dragon's Gate. I couldn't count how many. It was like the sea, Aemon, a sea of swords and spears," she explained, her eyes locking with Aemon's. She cried she cried so hard. Aemon held her tight, and she cried into his shoulder; Aemon wanted to cry for her. He felt the tears in and the tightening of his throat, but he would not succumb to the tears. He was the Prince of Summerhall and the castle, his people, and his aunts; they needed him to be strong. Balerion roared in anger; Aemon's emotions were felt even if they were not shown by the boy in question. The roar from the often isolated, quiet, aggressive dragon was enough to alert all of Summerhall that something was wrong with Aemon's best decisions.

Aemon's jaw tightened, his face betraying none of the anger and fear that churned within him. Instead, he turned to Vaegon, his voice devoid of emotion as he made his decision. "Prepare Balerion," he ordered, his tone firm and unwavering. "I will ride out to meet the Greyjoys and burn their entire host. They can't have sent more than seven thousand Ironborns and a thousand sellswords. The Riverlands are their stronghold, and if they branch too far with too many forces, they lose everything. Eight to ten thousand men would be burned easily on Balerion." Turning back to his young aunt, Aemon pressed for more information. "How long until they reach Summerhall?" he inquired, his voice edged with urgency.

Daenerys didn't hesitate. "The Greyjoys will be here within a week, and the Dornish are already at the Dragon's Gate," she replied, her words heavy with the weight of impending doom.

Aemon's mind raced as he considered their options. "How many men defend the Dragon's Gate?" he asked Vaegon, his voice clipped and precise.

Vaegon's response was grim. "Two and a half thousand soldiers from Blackhaven and the now-extinct House Dondarrion, we have yet to send any of our men to the Dragon's Gate," he answered, his voice tinged with concern.

Aemon's eyes narrowed as he processed the information. "If the Dornish have their full army, that's fifty thousand soldiers," he murmured, his mind racing with the implications.

Vaegon shook his head, his expression troubled. "That can't be right. Dorne has only shown the ability to raise twenty-five thousand troops," he pointed out, his tone laced with doubt.

Aemon's gaze hardened as he considered the implications of his uncle's words. "It would be twenty-five thousand if half of Dorne didn't support the Martells," he countered, his voice firm with conviction. "Years of antagonism and preparation have brought them to this moment. Building Summerhall and my father were really good reasons for them to have been prepared for years. They knew this was going to happen."

Vaegon looked to Aemon and did not agree. "There is no proof of the Martells and the Greyjoys working together. No proof the Martells knew the Rebellion was going to take place."

Vaegon opened his mouth to protest further, but Aemon silenced him with a pointed look. "Princess Daenerys saw both the Greyjoys and the Martells coming at the same time. That's proof enough," he declared, his voice ringing with certainty. Turning back to Daenerys, Aemon laid out his plan. "The Dragon's Gate will hold long enough for me to return," he stated, his voice resolute as he prepared to face the coming storm head-on.

Aemon's voice rang out with authority as he called forth the guards, his words echoing through the chamber with a sense of urgency. The guards swiftly entered the room, their expressions grim as they awaited their prince's command.

"I want all of the City Guard to prepare for a siege and for battle," Aemon declared, his tone firm and unwavering. "The Dragon's Gate must be fortified and defended at all costs." The guards nodded in silent acknowledgment, their eyes reflecting the gravity of the situation as Aemon continued to speak. "The Greyjoys are coming from the North, and the Martells from the South," Aemon explained, his voice tinged with urgency. "If the Greyjoys breach our defenses, they'll open the door for the Martells to march through and into the Seven Kingdoms and make another Dornish War. We cannot allow that to happen."

Maester Vaegon interjected calmly, his voice steady despite the mounting tension in the room. "But Your Grace, every kingdom is already at war," he pointed out, his tone measured.

Aemon's expression hardened, his gaze piercing as he countered Vaegon's assertion. "Not like this," he replied, his voice laced with determination. "Yes, the Riverlands have fallen, and the seas have been taken by the Greyjoys. But the conflict has not spread beyond the Sunset Sea. What we're seeing in the other kingdoms is merely anarchy, with bandits posing as Greyjoys to raid without consequence." He paused, his eyes blazing with conviction as he continued. "The Greyjoys have only established themselves in certain regions - the Riverlands, parts of the North, parts of the West, the Stormlands, and the northern edge of the Reach. But if Summerhall falls, both sides of the Seven Kingdoms will be plunged into all-out war, rather than it being mostly concentrated on the western half."

Vaegon nodded in agreement, his expression grave as he acknowledged the gravity of their situation. "Indeed, Your Grace. Summerhall is our last line of defense against a complete Dornish invasion."

Princess Daenerys Targaryen, her eyes ablaze with determination, turned to face Aemon, her voice filled with resolve. "What do you want me to do?" she demanded, her tone firm and unwavering.

Aemon regarded his young aunt with a mixture of admiration and concern, knowing full well the dangers that awaited them beyond the castle walls. "I want you to stay here, Daenerys," he replied, his voice gentle yet resolute. "It's too dangerous out there."

But Daenerys refused to back down, her gaze meeting Aemon's with fierce defiance. "I will not stand idly by while you defend the castle," she insisted, her voice sharp with determination.

Aemon sighed, realizing the futility of arguing with her. He glanced at the others in the room, silently seeking their counsel, before finally relenting. "No Daenerys."

Daenerys turned to Aemon, her fearful eyes now fully enraged. "This is my home as well!"

Aemon conveyed no sympathy. Daenerys was too young to prepare for war. "I will not allow you or any of your sisters to fight in the war, Daenerys. I will not put my blood at risk."

Daenerys roared in anger. Her silver hair is no longer pristine but derived, and she moved animatedly. "I will not sit by while you wage war. You might rule Summerhall, but I want to fight for it."

Aemon stood tall. Not once since they first met did Aemon show no emotion and show his callousness, but he'd rather show this here, make her hate him for the rest of her life rather than she be dead for the rest of his. "You will stay here. You already gave us the warning; that was more than enough."

Daenerys then snapped in anger, her eyes blazing with fury. "I will not be left alone again!" Aemon looked to her in the eyes. There was no true anger but frustration. "We were sent away to Bravos. We to be alone, only having each other! We never get to meet our mother! Then we come back, and my father looks to you more than us! Then he dies! Then Viserys sends us away from the Red Keep that our father abandoned us in! You are the only one who didn't leave us. This is the first time since my father died that I feel like I could have a home, and I will not let it fall without fighting myself!" she screamed with her fists tightening.

Aemon looked at her defect, his eyes cold and stoic. Then he sighed after looking into her fearful eyes. "Very well," he conceded, his tone resigned. "But I want you and your sisters to take your dragons and burn a path around the north of the castle. Dig trenches no less than twenty feet deep, fourteen in total, each two hundred feet apart. The dragons will be able to breathe fire with enough force to upturn the earth below, and even if your dragons are younger and weaker, all six together should be able to make a new trench every hour so, and if done enough times, they will be as deep as needed, and the earth will be molten rock, stronger, and sturdier than they are now." As he spoke, Aemon's voice carried the weight of his responsibility, his mind already racing ahead to the logistics of their defense. "If the Ironborn come with siege weapons," he continued, his voice firm and decisive, "those trenches will either halt their advance or slow it down enough for us to mount a defense."

With his orders issued, Aemon turned to the guards; his expression determined as he prepared to face the coming storm. Together, they would fortify their defenses, standing as one against the tide of chaos that threatened to consume them. As they prepared for battle, Aemon knew that their only hope lay in unity, courage, and unwavering resolve.

Chapter 24: The Black Burn of Summerhall

Chapter Text

Summerhal 104 AC

Aemon Targaryen

Aemon stood within the confines of Summerhall, his mind swirling with a tumult of thoughts and concerns as he received reports regarding the status of the Dragon's Gate. It was said that the formidable structure had held firm against the onslaught of the Dornish army, its walls standing tall and unyielding against the tide of attackers.

The news brought a sense of relief to Aemon, tempered by the knowledge that their respite would likely be short-lived. The Dornish were a tenacious foe, and while the Dragon's Gate had proven capable of withstanding their initial assault, it was only a matter of time before they regrouped and launched another attack. But it was an entire army marching straight into a single path, while not narrow by any stretch of the word, it was narrow for an entire army to fit through and archers could shoot them down from both sides of the elevated mountain walls.

Yet even amidst the chaos and uncertainty, Aemon found pride in his father's foresight and ingenuity. Daemon Targaryen had overseen the construction of the Dragon's Gate with meticulous care, ensuring that it was not only formidable but virtually impregnable. It was a testament to his father's strategic prowess and dedication to defending their home.

The Dragon's Gate served as the last line of defense against the might of Dorne, its imposing presence acting as a bulwark against the advancing forces. While Aemon harbored doubts about its ability to hold off the entire Dornish army indefinitely, he knew that it afforded them precious time - time he intended to use to deal with the looming threat posed by the Greyjoys.

With the Dragon's Gate standing firm, Aemon could focus on repelling the Ironborn invaders and safeguarding the realm from their plundering and pillaging. It was a daunting task, to be sure, but one that Aemon approached with a grim determination born of duty and necessity.

As he gazed out at the sturdy walls of surrounding Summertown from his solar window and overlooked the city at large, Aemon knew that their fate hung in the balance. But with the strength of their defenses and the courage of their people, they would stand firm against the storm that raged around them, ready to face whatever trials lay ahead in the tumultuous days to come.

Aemon stood amidst his advisors and commanders, the weight of leadership heavy upon his shoulders as he issued orders for the defense of Summerhall. In his life as Jon Snow, he lived a contradiction, he wished for Winterfell, and he always wanted it no matter how much he thought otherwise, he wanted to be Lord of Winterfell and yet he loved Rob far too much to ever harm him or wish him pain. He wanted the position and then he grew to hate the leadership, he hated war, he hated having to sentence those to death and now he had everything he wanted from Rob that he grew to hate, and then some. At the age of seven Aemon had to worry not only about a keep that had yet to be finished but over a hundred thousand lives in a city just at the base of said keep while worrying about siege and war. His voice rang out with authority as he directed his men to bolster the defenses of the Dragon's Gate, the formidable barrier between them and the advancing Dornish forces.

Ghost sat by Aemon's side like he had every day since Aemon had come to Summerhall. Ghost seemed calm and made no noise, but the wolf's eyes looked at everything and did not miss anything. The white fur is almost matching the white marble of Summerhall and the pieces of weirwood bark in the furniture. But it was the red eyes that gave Ghost away. The dire wolf camouflaged almost perfectly on the floor while Ameon scratched the wolf's ear. Aemon scratched the wolf's ear as he spoke to his advisor.

"I want another four thousand men stationed at the Dragon's Gate," Aemon commanded, his tone firm and decisive. "We must ensure that all seven walls are adequately protected to prevent the Dornish from breaching our defenses."

Maester Vaegon, ever the voice of reason, interjected with caution. "Perhaps it is not wise to deplete the ranks of the City Watch, Your Grace. Moving another four thousand men to the Dragon's Gate depletes most of the guards in both Summerhall and Summertown," he suggested, his brow furrowed in concern. "We cannot afford to leave the city nor the keep undefended."

But Aemon waved off Vaegon's concerns with a determined gesture. "From what we've heard, the Greyjoys will be at Summerhall in another four days," he countered, his tone resolute. "And Princess Daenerys reports that they are in open fields, making them easier targets for Balerion. I do not like to speak of what my dragon can do but I have seen entire landscape burn in a black blaze and turn the very area into one of the seven hells." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the assembled company as he laid out his strategy. "With the Greyjoys approaching and the Martells already at the Dragon's Gate, we cannot afford to delay," he continued, his voice tinged with urgency. "I will use Balerion to burn the Greyjoys, and the forces we won't need in the city can be deployed to bolster the defenses of the Dragon's Gate. A few thousand Greyjoys is no threat compared to the entire might of Dorne. The same principality that had fought both the Reach and Stormlands before."

With his orders issued and plan in motion, Aemon steeled himself for the challenges ahead. The days ahead would be fraught with danger and uncertainty, but he was determined to do whatever it took to defend his home and protect the realm from the ravages of war. It was moments like this that three men came to mind more than any other. His honorable Uncle Ned gave him a false understanding that the world was black and white and that honor should never be questioned. He thought of the Old bear, Jeor Mormont, who had gifted Jon Snow his sword Long Claw, and by rights claimed Jon as much as his successor as a son was. He thought of his uncle maester Aemon. He wondered what they would do in his position. Two of them never had to defend an entire city while worrying about the siege and dwindling food for nearly sixty thousand people in a city, a city that has not yet been completed and its defenses not fully set. Jon Snow wanted to show his importance and learned how daunting a task it was, Aemon Targaryen knew of the pressures and hated every second of it but had to survive so that he could secure ways to fight against the Long Night later. Aemon truly hated everything now. He looked to the sword in the other side of the room, the sword he was not large enough to wild just yet. He would have loved to bring Blackfyre to battle but it was useless while he was to small to use it, even if Valyrian steel was so light that he could lift the blade.

Aemon had to tell Ghost to stay behind in the room because the other dragons, the dragons of the six princesses, were not taking to Ghost as much as Balerion put up with him. Ghost was almost killed several times, and Balerion only kept the other dragons in check due to Aemon caring for the wolf even if Balerion did not. Aemon had the feeling that Balerion would not do so another time. Dragons care for their own. Ghost was no dragon, but to Balerion, Aemon was, and Balerion would care just enough about the things that Aemon cared about to not allow the wolf to die so easily.

As he walked, Aemon's mind buzzed with thoughts of strategy and preparation, his every step a testament to the weight of responsibility that rested upon his shoulders. He had left his advisors to carry out his orders, trusting in their competence and dedication to the defense of their home, while he made his way to the Dragoncaves, where the dragons resided.

The Dragoncaves, the network of caves already established, slightly at the very least, for the dragons to stay. Aemon had allowed Balerion to enter first so he could make the caverns wide enough for himself, making it far more than enough for the dragons of his aunts. Balerion had been using his own fires for quite some time and melted much stone, It as a week into that that Aemon learned that there were gold veins, diamond veins, and other precious metals in the caves inside the Red Mountains, meaning that the entire mountain range the Summerhall was built upon was made of gold and precious stones. The lowest of the mountains in the Red Mountains was taller than the mountain that Casterly Rock was made upon and that lone mountain had enough gold to fund House Lannister since the Age of Heroes, for thousands of years. If Aemon had multiple mountains of equal worth, he would make good work of it for Summerhall, and Summertown, and to fund the resources to fight the Long Night. He would be happy to spend said gold on the city when the war was finished.

If not for the war with the Greyjoys Aemon would have had the caves explored already and new secret entrances and exits built, like Maegor the Cruel had done, securing a way for future Targaryens to live and escape, avoiding the Tragedy of Summerhall that had occurred before Jon Snow's birth. No fool would dare entirely without his leave since those caves were connected to Summerhall itself and had dragons lurking inside, maybe he could even build new rooms inside the caves as the Reyens did in Castamere. But for now, he had to walk into the Dragoncaves and go see his dragon that had made such large caves for the gold and precious metals and materials to be found in the first place, and Balerion was a temperamental dragon to be sure.

Aemon's footsteps echoed softly against the cool, damp walls of the hidden tunnels that wound their way through the heart of the mountains beneath and surrounding the white stones of Summerhall. The air was thick with the scent of earth and stone, the only illumination coming from the faint flicker of torchlight that danced along the ancient stone walls.

As Aemon's footsteps echoed through the damp, wet caves, the flickering torchlight cast eerie shadows upon the rugged walls, illuminating the vast expanse of the Dragoncaves with a dim, flickering glow. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and ancient stones from the Red Moutains, the sound of dripping water echoing softly in the distance.

The caverns were a labyrinth of twisting tunnels and cavernous chambers, their walls lined with jagged stalactites and stalagmites that seemed to reach out like gnarled fingers from the darkness. The torches that lined the passageways provided only a meager illumination, their feeble light barely penetrating the gloom that shrouded the depths of the caves.

And there, amidst the darkness and shadows, stood Balerion the Black Dread.

The dragon was a behemoth of immense size, his massive form filling the cavern with his presence, the dragon of eight hundred feetin nearing nine hundred had made a space for himself just as large as the space in King's Landing's Dragon Pit. His scales gleamed like polished obsidian in the dim torchlight, their glossy surface reflecting the flickering flames in myriad shifting shadows. His wings were spread wide, spanning the length of the chamber, while his powerful claws scraped against the stone floor with a low, menacing growl.

As Aemon approached, Balerion turned his massive head, his blood-red eyes narrowing with a predatory gleam. His jaws, capable of devouring mammoths in a single bite, parted slightly, revealing rows of black razor-sharp teeth glinted in the dim light. A deep, rumbling growl emanated from the depths of his throat, a sound that sent shivers down Aemon's spine.

Balerion the Black Dread loomed over the cavernous expanse of the Dragoncaves like a living mountain, his immense form stretching upwards to towering heights that seemed to pierce the heavens. His body, over eight hundred feet tall from the tip of his snout to the end of his powerful tail, was a sight to behold, dwarfing everything in its path with its sheer size and magnitude.

His wings spread wide in the cavern's dim light, were a formidable sight to behold, their span twice the size of his massive body. Each wingbeat, while slow as if he were waking from deep sleep, sent gusts of wind rippling through the chamber, stirring up clouds of dust and debris as they swept through the air with a thunderous roar.

Balerion's head, crowned with jagged horns that jutted out from his skull like twisted spires, was a fearsome sight. His eyes, blood-red orbs that glowed with an otherworldly light, were three times the size of Aemon, a seven-year-old boy, their piercing gaze filled with a primal intelligence that seemed to pierce through to the very soul.

His mouth, lined with rows of black, razor-sharp teeth larger than two grown men standing atop one another, gaped open in a silent snarl, revealing the cavernous maw within. With each breath, a deep, bellowing rumble emanated from the depths of his throat, the sound echoing through the cavern like rolling thunder right next to Aemon, its sheer force enough to send tremors rippling through the ground beneath his feet.

Aemon stood before the mighty Balerion, his eyes fixed upon the towering dragon with reverence and determination. Taking a deep breath, he spoke in the ancient tongue of High Valyrian, his words echoing softly through the cavernous depths of the Dragoncaves.

"Enemies are coming, Balerion," Aemon began in Valryian, his voice steady despite the tremors of uncertainty coursing through him. "Enemies who seek to harm our home, to bring chaos and destruction to the land we hold dear."

Balerion growled in protest, his massive form shifting restlessly as he regarded Aemon with a wary gaze. But Aemon pressed on, his words filled with conviction as he laid out his vision for the future of their home.

"I want this city to be a new Valyria," Aemon declared, his voice ringing with determination. "A place where the flames of our ancestors burn bright, casting aside the darkness that threatens to engulf us. The rebirth of the place you were born. Aegon's dream, his dream was of ice and fire," Aemon continued, his gaze unwavering as he met the dragon's piercing stare. "And now, as the Long Night approaches, we must ensure that our fire burns brighter than ever. The Long Night will bring ice," Aemon explained, his voice tinged with urgency. "And to counter it, we need more fire. We need Summerhall to be the center of the fire of Valyria. Dragons must return to Summerhall," Aemon declared, his voice echoing through the cavern with a quiet intensity. "For in their flames lies the key to our survival. Summehall can not fight against all of Dorne without you. House Targaryen will fight for Aegon's Dream, Summerhall will protect that dream, but I need you to protect Summehall."

As Aemon approached the massive form of Balerion, he couldn't help but feel a surge of anticipation coursing through his veins. The dragon, towering above him like a living mountain, regarded him with curiosity and skepticism, his blood-red eyes flickering with an otherworldly light.

With a soft chuckle, Aemon reached out to pat Balerion's scaled flank, the smooth surface warm beneath his touch. Through their bond, he could sense the dragon's reluctance and underlying determination beneath his gruff exterior.

With a deep breath, Aemon began the arduous climb up the ladder that led to Balerion's back. Each rung seemed to stretch on for eternity; the climb made all the more challenging by the sheer size and bulk of the dragon beneath him.

As he ascended, Aemon couldn't help but marvel at the enormity of Balerion's form. His scales gleamed like polished obsidian in the dim light of the Dragoncaves, their glossy surface reflecting the flickering torchlight in myriad shifting shadows. His wings, folded tightly against his massive frame, seemed to stretch outwards for miles, spanning three times his towering height.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Aemon reached the summit of Balerion's back. With exhilaration coursing through him, he settled himself into the saddle that rested upon the dragon's broad shoulders, his hands gripping the reins with a firm grip.

And then, with a mighty leap, Balerion sprang into action. With a powerful thrust of his massive wings, he propelled himself upwards, his form soaring towards the opening near the top of the mountain with breathtaking speed. The winds from each beat of the wings were strong enough to topple trees from their roots.

As they burst through the exit, Aemon felt the rush of wind against his face, the sheer exhilaration of flight coursing through his veins. Below them, the world stretched out in all its glory, a patchwork of fields and forests, rivers and mountains, stretching out as far as the eye could see.

Balerion spread his wings wide with a triumphant roar, catching the air currents beneath them as they soared through the skies. And as they flew towards the horizon, towards the looming threat of the Greyjoys and the impending battle that awaited them, Aemon couldn't help but feel a sense of pride and determination.

As the winds began to rush past him, Aemon felt an exhilarating rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins, and he hated that the blood in his veins pumping so much energy for fighting had such a familiar feeling to him. Aemon Targaryen did not like killing, but it must be done. In truth, if Aemon had his way, he would sit in the dining halls of Summerhall and play the harp, as Rhaegar had done in the streets of King's Landing. He did not like to play the harp earlier in the life of Jon Snow, but he did learn it and have some connection to Rhaegar more than just brooding and isolation. But when blood covers one's hands more often than tears of the mourning of a widow, then a man wishes to give meaning to life with his hands to negate the lives they had taken so early. It came to be that Jon Snow and Aemon Targaryen in this life were more like Rhaegar than even he cared to admit, and he disliked being like the man who helped lead to the end of House Targaryen. Aemon never liked killing; he liked singing.

With each beat of Balerion's massive wings, the air whipped past them with incredible force, sending Aemon's black wolf's fur cloak billowing out behind him like a banner unfurled in the wind. The sheer speed at which they were traveling was dizzying, the ground below them blurring into a mosaic of colors as they soared through the skies with breathtaking speed.

With a firm grip on the reins, Aemon guided Balerion through the air with practiced ease, his movements fluid and precise as he turned the massive dragon towards the looming threat of the Greyjoys on the horizon. The sensation of banking sharply mid-air was both exhilarating and terrifying, the world spinning around him in a dizzying whirl as they veered off course toward their destination.

As Balerion roared into the skies, his mighty voice reverberated like a thunderclap, causing the earth to tremble beneath them. The sheer force of his roar sent shockwaves rippling outwards, stirring up clouds of dust and debris as they soared through the skies.

But to Aemon's surprise and confusion, Balerion's roar was met with a chorus of six other dragons, their roars echoing through the heavens in response. Aemon's heart skipped a beat as he realized that there should not be any other dragons in the skies besides Balerion, yet here they were, their presence a mystery that left him both concerned and intrigued.

Turning his gaze towards the source of the roars, Aemon's eyes widened in astonishment as he beheld the sight of six dragons and their riders soaring through the air alongside them. Each dragon, nearing a formidable fifty feet in size, radiated an aura of power and majesty that left Aemon breathless with awe.

Viserra's dragon, Vēttir, shimmered in a deep maroon-red hue, his scales gleaming in the sunlight like polished rubies. Aerea's dragon, Dȳñes, dazzled with silver-platinum brilliance, his scales catching the light and reflecting it in a dazzling luminescence display.

Rhaella's dragon, Perzys, bathed in the warm tones of sunset orange, his fiery presence casting a warm glow upon the surrounding landscape. Daenerys' dragon, Averilla, displayed a rich palette of deep purple and grape colors, her scales shimmering with an otherworldly luminescence.

Maegelle's dragon, Jēdar, was adorned in light blue and sapphire, his form gliding gracefully through the air with an elegant belying his immense size. And Saera's dragon, Sōna, was a creature of ethereal beauty, her scales shimmering in shades of white and pale, her presence imbued with otherworldly grace.

Each dragon was only a fraction of Balerion's staggering size of over eight hundred feet, yet they moved with a speed and agility that belied their massive bulk. As they soared through the skies alongside Balerion, their wings beating in unison.

Amidst the roaring winds and the loud cries of the dragons, Aemon's voice pierced through the tumult, his screams echoing across the skies as he confronted his aunts. "What in the Seven Hells are you all doing here?!" Aemon bellowed, his words carried by the wind so that all six of his aunts could hear him.

Saera, shot back a fiery retort. "It was Daenerys' idea to join you," she screamed, her voice barely audible over the howling winds.

Daenerys, her eldest sister, shouted back in protest. "Don't you dare pin this on me!"

Saera screamed back to Daenerys over the harsh winds. "You manipulated us all into helping, made us feel guilty for leaving Aemon to fight alone!"

Daenerys scoffed. "You didn't need much convincing, Saera. You were getting your dragon before I convinced the others to join us."

Aerea, the third sister, added her voice to the fray. "I'm not letting those Krakens try to take a home I just moved into! It's not fair. First, we are brought to Volantis. Then, we are forced out of Volantis. Then we come to the Red Keep. Then, we are forced out of the Red Keep. I'm sick of moving around and would like to stay still from now on."

Maegelle and Rhaella, the more reserved sisters, spoke in calmer tones. "We want to build a better, grander sept in Summertown," Maegelle said, her voice carrying over the wind. "But we need to defend it first, make sure the town is safe."

Viserra chimed in with a mischievous grin. "And it's bound to be more entertaining than watching the squires pretending they're too young to fight. A dragon would prove far more interesting than boys playing war."

Aemon cursed. "And girls playing war is better?"

Viserra laughed loudly. "Come now, nephew, a pureblood Valyrian should be able to face off anything the Krakens have. With ease, Aegon brought House Hoare down before; the Krakens weren't even the best of the Ironborn Houses, and Aegon beat their best. Proof pure Valryian blood reigns supreme."

Balerion roared in protest, which caught Viserra's eyes. "Bloody hell. All of you might be smarter than you should be, but you seem to forget that Balerion was the one that burned down Harrenhal. Aegon wouldn't have been able to take down the Ironborn without the dragon I am currently riding. I wonder, Viserra, has your dragon taken to battle before?"

Viserra smiled widely, the Targaryen smile that always looked so forced, which Aemon thought was something bound in their blood since they had to act fake in front of all the courts. The smile that showed no teeth, the smile that Viserra purposely squinted into her eyes as if trying to pass the wrinkles and folds near the eyes of a true smile. It looked true to anyone other than a Targaryen, but to Aemon, it looked more fake than a dragon made of wood and stone. "Anything you can do, I can do better. I can do anything better than you," she said in a sing-song voice.

Aemon's frustration boiled over as he shouted for them to turn back. "You might hate me, Viserra. You may mock my mother was not Valyrian. But remember that it was this half-blood that fought off an army before."

Aerea smiled widely, not the false smile but a wide, feral smile, more like an old Stark than a proper Valryian princess. This was interesting, because for the last four months, Aerea had gone from being a prim and proper, terrified and shy girl to the rebirth of Arya herself. Safe to say, between her and Daenerys, they were the ones Aemon spent more than half his time with now. "She doesn't hate you. She's too proud to say that her nephew is far more fun than the squires she and Saera spent their time with."

Aemon turned to Aerea, looking at the ride's carefree smile. "Those same squires will be knights that could keep all six of you alive."

Viserra laughed loudly. "So can a dragon. And dragons are drawn to dragons, nephew, even half-bloods." She said with a truer smile.

But Saera met his glare with defiance. "What are you going to do to make us turn back, Aemon?" she challenged, her voice unwavering.

Aemon clenched his jaw, his gaze flickering between his determined sisters. "I'm not taking you," he insisted, his voice tinged with desperation.

Daenerys shook her head vehemently. "You're not taking us," she corrected, her tone resolute. "We're taking ourselves, and we're joining you. Aemon, we're not leaving you," Daenerys insisted, her voice firm with determination.

Aemon's eyes blazed with frustration as he shouted over the wind. "I won't have you risking your lives in battle! None of you have ever ridden a dragon to war!"

Rhaella, the ever-calm and quiet, was the one to respond. "Neither have you."

Aemon wanted to curse at them. His memories may fail him of his past, but he knew he was a grown man in a child's body. These were children readying for war. Gods be good. All he could think of was the Dance of Dragons. Aemon did not recall the name of the child, but he swore several of Rhaenyra's children, none older than Jon Snow, had died in combat when he went to the Wall. These were children. "I brought Balerion to the Wildling Invasion!" Aemon screamed over the winds.

Daenerys screamed in joy as the winds rushed past her; Aemon doubted she thought of this as a battle for her family but an excuse for her own enjoyment and riding a dragon; it was clear to Aemon that the eldest aunt was the ringleader of all this, and with Viserra and Saera as her support it was easy to get two devout future septas, at least if Aemon could recall in his life as Jon Snow, to believe it was gods work to protect their home, it would be easy to get all six to do something after five already agreed. Saera was known for getting her way in both lives, and with Daenerys bold enough to make the decision, it was a recipe for disaster.

Saera spoke, belittling and condescending, "You brought the dragon and rushed beyond the Wall without it. You fought an entire army of one hundred thousand without a dragon."

Aerea stepped forward, her gaze unwavering. "And we won't have you facing danger alone," she countered, her voice resolute.

Viserra scoffed her prideful and mocking scoff. "Speak for yourself, sweet sister. I reminded our nephew that he may have brought a dragon to war before, but he had his dragon for a lesser time than we had. He would need someone to show him how outclassed he is."

Aemon rolled his eyes at Viserra. "Viserra, thank you for gracing us with your beauty and lack of empathy. It makes me feel so happy I'm risking my life to defend yours," he said sarcastically, just for Daenerys to laugh loudly.

Saera looked to Aemon, her purple eyes gazing into Aemon, waiting for him to counter her. As with all the girls they knew, Aemon would never nor could ever refuse them. "One hundred thousand with no dragon. Three thousand with seven dragons, the odds seem firmly in our favor."

Aemon shook his head vehemently. "I've already lost too many loved ones," he argued, his voice thick with emotion. "I won't lose anymore."

Saera stepped forward, her eyes blazing with defiance. "And we won't lose you, Aemon," she declared, her voice unwavering. "You're the only one who hasn't abandoned us yet."

Aemon screamed in rage. "I made a promise to Jaehaerys!" he screamed, tears almost spilling from his eyes. All he could see was Margaery Tyrell and Arianne Martell; he saw his children; he saw the corpses of the Others and the army of the dead. He wanted to cry, but he screamed in rage, in deep pain. "I promised I would protect you! All of you! I can't protect you here! I can't protect you there!" His voice was hoarse; his voice was weak, so harsh was the scream that it broke with every syllable. "Why do you wish me to fail at a dying man's wish? Why do you wish me to fail to protect the one thing I care for?"

Saera was the one who screamed in anger. "He abandoned us!"

Aemon could see the rage Margaery and Arianne had for a split second when he told them he would prepare for war. Aemon did not know the dead were rising again, but he had dreams that said something was coming. His wives called him mad; they thought him Aerys, and somehow, they still loved him even if they thought he should be killed before he used his dragon, like Aerys would have if he was alive. Aerys with a dragon. That was what his wives thought of him in the end. Only his children thought him sane still, for only a dragon truly understood dragon dreams, like Daenys the Dreamer, Aegon the Conqueror, Daeron the Drunken, Daemon II Blackfyre, Maester Aemon, Rhaegar the Last Dragon, and so many others not fully confirmed, only Targaryens true believed the prophecies of other Targaryens. The women he loved thought him mad like the grandfather that burned his other, had his uncle suffocated, and raped his grandmother every day for decades.

"He loved you!" Ameon found himself screaming. "Gods, his dying wish was for me to protect you. He trusted me with it. Not my father! Not Viserys. Not Aemma! Me! He trusted me with you, and I will not fail the man who was our greatest king."

Viserra took her sister, Saera, argument. In Jon Snow's life, he supposed two of the ones to despise Jaehaerys the most. "He was a horrible father!"

Aemon then screamed in rage. "Aye! He was!" Aemon screamed, conceding the point. "He left you! He took away my father! He failed his family, but he chose you in the end! He chose you and asked me to love and protect you in his stead! And I wish to honor him. I wish to keep you alive. I am doing that! I am fighting. You don't need to!" All the girls turned to Aemon; they had never seen him show such emotions, such vulnerability. Aemon was strong. Aemon was resolved. Ameon was stoic. Aemon was a warrior. And Aemon supposed they all forgot Aemon was younger than them. Aemon's heart clenched at her words, his resolve faltering in the face of their unwavering loyalty. "But I can't bear the thought of losing you; I made a promise to King Jaehaerys," he confessed, his voice barely a whisper amidst the chaos.

Daenerys stepped forward, her expression softened with compassion. "You won't lose us, Aemon," she said gently, grasping his hand. "We'll face this together, as a family."

Aemon hesitated, torn between his desire to protect them and his need for their support. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he relented. "Fine, you can come," he conceded, his voice laced with resignation. "But you have to promise me one thing."

The princesses nodded in agreement, their expressions solemn. "Anything, Aemon," they chorused in unison.

Aemon fixed them with a stern gaze. "You have to promise to follow my lead and do exactly as I say," he said firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument.

The princesses exchanged a knowing glance before nodding in agreement. "We promise," they vowed, their voices filled with determination.

They drew closer; from Aemon's guess, they were only a few minutes' flight from reaching the Greyjoys and sellswords. As the winds howled around them, Aemon raised his hands in a gesture of peace, hoping to quell the rising tension among his sisters.

"What do you mean, Aemon? What does that mean?" Daenerys' voice cut through the air, her tone tinged with concern.

Saera's voice was sharp with urgency. "Stay still and wait for Aemon's next move," she commanded, her eyes fixed on her nephew.

Aemon took a deep breath, trying to calm the turmoil within him. "You'll stay here and observe," he announced, his voice steady despite his turmoil.

Aerea's reaction was immediate and fierce. "And let you face the Greyjoys alone?" she exclaimed, her voice rising in disbelief.

Aemon held up a hand, trying to placate her. "I said you could join me," he conceded, his tone firm. "But you won't be attacking."

Aerea's eyes flashed with frustration. "But you've never led a dragon into battle before!" she protested, her voice tinged with fear.

Aemon met her gaze, his expression resolute. "Balerion has," he countered, his voice unwavering. "He's been at war before, and I trust his instincts. He avoided scorpion fire from Dorne during the Dragon's Wroth, and he killed a dragon beforeMaegor the Cruel killed Aegon the Uncrowned when they fought in the skies. I trust Balerion." Turning to face his aunts, Aemon's voice was firm. "You'll observe and learn," he declared, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Saera's voice was filled with concern. "But Aemon, you may need our help," she argued, her eyes pleading with him.

"If I need help, I'll signal you. But for now, you watch." Aemon shook his head, his resolve unwavering. "Sending inexperienced dragons and their riders into battle will only get us all killed," he insisted, his voice tinged with sorrow.

As Aemon urged Balerion forward, the massive dragon's powerful wings beat against the rushing wind, propelling them forward across the vast expanse of the open field. The landscape stretched out before them, a sprawling vista of lush greenery and rolling hills that seemed to stretch on endlessly.

In the distance, Aemon could see the distinctive banners of House Greyjoy flapping in the breeze, their ominous presence casting a shadow over the serene landscape. A sense of unease settled over him as he surveyed the scene before him. Just about five thousand men marched towards Summerhall and would reach the keep and Summertown in a few days they would lay siege to Summertown only had a force of one thousand men, due to most going to the Dragon's Gate, to combat the five thousand men of the Greyjoys.

The clearing where the Greyjoy army stood starkly contrasted with the countryside's tranquil beauty. It was a scene of organized chaos, with soldiers bustling about and preparing for battle. The air was thick with tension, the anticipation of conflict hanging heavy.

Aemon took a deep breath, steeling himself for the task ahead. He had done this before, had wielded Balerion's fiery breath as a weapon of war. But despite his experience, a pang of guilt gnawed at his conscience. There was no honor in killing men with a dragon, but it was a necessary evil in times of war.

As he guided Balerion closer to the enemy, Aemon couldn't help but feel a sense of dread creeping over him. The weight of responsibility pressed down upon his shoulders, the fate of Summerhall resting in his hands. But with determination, he pushed aside his doubts and prepared to face whatever lay ahead.

As Aemon and Balerion drew closer to the Greyjoy group, Aemon's keen eyes scanned the scene before him with a mixture of curiosity and concern. The sight that greeted him was unexpected: the Greyjoy forces were accompanied by several wagons, an unusual sight for a raiding party known for their hit-and-run tactics.

A sense of unease gnawed at Aemon's gut as he tried to make sense of the situation. Why would the Greyjoys bring wagons to a battle? It didn't fit their usual modus operandi of swift and merciless raids. But Aemon pushed aside his confusion, focusing on the immediate threat before him.

Panic swept through their ranks as the Greyjoys caught sight of Aemon and Balerion soaring overhead. Men shouted and scrambled to prepare for battle, their movements frantic and disorganized. Aemon could see the fear in their eyes, the realization dawning on them that they were about to face a dragon's fury on the open field.

A sense of grim determination settled over Aemon as he guided Balerion closer to the enemy. He knew that in an open field, no army stood a chance against the might of a dragon. With Balerion at his side, he felt a surge of confidence coursing through his veins.

As they closed in on the Greyjoy forces, Aemon tightened his grip on Balerion's reins, readying himself for the onslaught. He knew that the fate of Summerhall hung in the balance, and he was prepared to do whatever it took to protect his home from the impending threat.

As Aemon surveyed the enemy army stretched out before him, he couldn't help but feel remorse at the prospect of unleashing Balerion's fiery wrath upon them. But war was a cruel and unforgiving mistress, and honor often died on the battlefield. There was no honorable battle. It was death, it reeked of sh*t and rot and fires and yet it must be done.

The golden kraken banner rose high in the force of five thousand; a large portion of men were Greyjoys, and a portion were the sellswords, but Aemon could tell that it was the sellswords who were guiding the force upon horses. The sellswords had fought battles before and new war, and having nearly the entire rule of Jaehaerys be free of battle meant the only forces that knew true battle were the North due to the wildlings and the Greyjoys for their raids, but raiding was not sieges and wars.

The sellswords were on horseback while the majority of the force of Greyjoys marched forward. The sellswords had been to wars and had done sieges, and Aemon hated to admit it but his men were not as well prepared since only a portion had been to war in the North. The majority of Greyjoys and sellswords step one head of another. Aemon noticed carriages being pulled by carts. The legions are almost straight-line, shoulder to shoulder, with ten men in each row. Stray men on horseback, keeping everyone in step and in line.

The carriages being drawn were pulled by two horse carts, pulling the large, cumbersome carts, the carriages covered with a cloth to cover whatever was inside. He knew that whatever was in the carts had to be important enough for the Greyjoys to waste time, effort, and energy to bring said carts with them to siege a castle with seven dragons, one of them being the Black Dread.

With a heavy heart, Aemon steeled himself for the inevitable conflict, knowing that the fate of Summerhall hung in the balance. He took a deep breath, his chest tight with anticipation, his mind focused on the task.

"Dracarys," Aemon commanded, his voice steady despite his turmoil.

In response, Balerion roared with a deafening intensity, reverberating like thunder. His massive jaws opened wide, unleashing a torrent of black flames that seemed to swallow the landscape whole. It was as though a black sun had been pushed through the heavens in a single massive hole. The force of a geyser of flames of the night came forth as wide as a hundred feet in radius, and when it slammed into the ground the explosion of flames stretched ten times the initial size.

As Balerion unleashed his torrent of black flames upon the enemy army, the initial impact was cataclysmic. The flames crashed into the earth with an explosive force, sending plumes of fiery debris hurtling in all directions. He had dived down with the flames to add more force and speed to the initial eruption of black flames. While Balerion was slow when soaring or gliding compared to the younger dragons, save for one not even thirty years of age, Balerion's size added to his dives, making him reach speeds that no other dragon could dare to attempt, that also made turning such a large beast difficult when reaching such speeds.

The shockwave from the explosion rippled through the air, sending soldiers flying like rag dolls and casting chaos and devastation in its wake. The force of the impact was so great that it seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth, leaving a smoldering crater in its wake. Earth, rocks, people, horses, everything that was near the initial slamming of black flames into the ground below was sent careening in every direction in an explosion of fires and flames, dirt and dust and smoke.

The flames that erupted from Balerion's mouth were a sight to behold, a seething mass of black fire that danced and flickered with an otherworldly intensity. They consumed everything in their path, turning the once verdant field into a charred wasteland in seconds. As Aemon and Balerion descended upon the enemy army, a wave of black flames erupted from the dragon's gaping maw with a ferocity unmatched by anything Aemon had ever witnessed. The flames surged like a torrential geyser, engulfing everything in their path in a swirling sea of darkness.

The heat radiating from the flames was intense, a searing wave of heat that washed over Aemon and Balerion as they soared above the battlefield. The roar of the flames was deafening, drowning out all other sounds and filling the air with a cacophony of destruction.

As the inferno raged below them, Aemon couldn't help but feel a twinge of remorse for the lives lost in the blaze. But he knew that sacrifices must be made in war and was willing to do whatever it took to protect his home and people from the encroaching threat.

The ground quaked beneath the onslaught, the very earth itself trembling as the flames erupted from the ground in an explosion of fire and earth. The flames soared hundreds of feet into the skies, engulfing the battlefield in a towering inferno that blazed with an intensity that seemed to defy the heavens.

Amidst the chaos and destruction, the screams of the wounded and dying mingled with the roar of the flames, creating a cacophony of terror that echoed across the battlefield. It was a scene of unimaginable horror, a harrowing testament to the awesome power of dragonfire unleashed upon mortal men.

The flames danced and flickered with an otherworldly intensity, their inky blackness casting an eerie glow across the battlefield. As they washed over the unsuspecting soldiers below, the air was filled with the sickening scent of burning flesh and scorched earth.

The carnage that followed was nothing short of horrific. Men screamed in agony as the flames consumed them, their bodies writhing and contorting in the searing heat. The once verdant field was transformed into a charred wasteland, littered with the smoldering remains of those unlucky enough to be caught in Balerion's fiery onslaught.

Limbs twisted and blackened, flesh charred beyond recognition as the flames mercilessly devoured everything in their path. The air was thick with the stench of death and despair, a tangible reminder of the brutality of war.

As Aemon and Balerion made their first pass, a third of the enemy army was left burning in their wake, their cries for mercy drowned out by the inferno's roar. It was a scene of unimaginable horror, a grim testament to the destructive power of black dragonfire unleashed upon mortal men.

"Seven hells!" Aemon cursed allowed. "I need more practice!" Aemon had gotten rusty. He had pulled the reigns too much to the right and, by doing so, could not decimate the whole army in a single run. Balerion was more than able to do such things. Balerion could burn down entire keeps, and castles in less than a dozen passes when Aegon the Conqueror rode him. An entire castle was nothing but melted ruins in less than a dozen turns of the dragon, but Aemon had pulled the reigns too much to the right, had pulled them too early, he should have waited a bit longer, and he would have beat the army of five thousand in a single pass.

As Balerion soared through the skies, his massive form casting a shadow over the battlefield, Aemon felt a surge of anticipation coursing through his veins. However, his excitement was tempered by the realization that Balerion's sheer size slowed him to maneuver. The dragon's wings beat heavily against the air as he struggled to execute the sharp turn necessary for the next pass. The beating of the wings made harsh winds that uprooted trees and men alike.

It seemed to take an eternity for Balerion to complete the turn, while also trying to gain more height for another diving passing of black flames, each moment stretching out agonizingly as Aemon watched with growing impatience. Finally, with a mighty effort, the dragon shifted his course and began to angle back toward the enemy forces below.

But as Balerion descended for the second pass, Aemon's heart sank at the sight that greeted him. The wagons that had been innocuous before were now revealed to be armed with Dornish scorpions. Resembling oversized crossbows mounted on wheeled platforms, bristled with menacing spikes and coils of tensioned sinew.

Aemon cursed under his breath as he realized the danger they posed.

Scorpions were notorious for their ability to pierce even the toughest dragonhide, and with Balerion's massive size making him an easy target, the consequences could be catastrophic. Lesser dragons would be easily brought crashing from the skies by such formidable weaponry. The scorpions, a dozen or so, loomed ominously on the battlefield, their presence casting a pall of dread over Aemon's heart. He knew that the battle's outcome could be disastrous if they were allowed to fire upon Balerion unchecked.

As Balerion descended toward the enemy forces, the scorpions sprang into action, their massive torsion arms unleashing bolts of death toward the sky. Each bolt was as thick as a man's thigh and three times the length of an average soldier, hurtling through the air with deadly accuracy.

Aemon's heart pounded in his chest as he watched the bolts streak toward them, his hands tightening around Balerion's reins in a desperate attempt to guide the dragon out of harm's way. But Balerion, with his keen instincts and swift reflexes, seemed to anticipate the danger even before Aemon could react.

With a powerful beat of his wings, Balerion twisted and turned in mid-air, evading the deadly projectiles with a grace that belied his massive size. The bolts whistled past them, slicing through the air with a deadly swiftness.

As the scorpion bolts continued to rain down upon them, Aemon worked in tandem with Balerion, his shouts of warning mingling with the dragon's roars of defiance. Together, they danced through the sky, dodging and weaving through the deadly barrage with a skill born of desperation, a difficult task for such a large and slow dragon.

Each near miss sent Aemon's heart racing, the adrenaline coursing through his veins as he fought to keep himself and his dragon out of harm's reach. But despite the overwhelming odds stacked against them, Aemon refused to give in to despair, his determination burning bright even in the face of imminent danger.

Balerion, the Black Dread, soared through the air with the weight of ages upon his massive wings. Yet, for all his power and majesty, he was burdened by his immense size, his movements slow and ponderous compared to the swift and deadly projectiles hurtling toward him.

As the scorpion bolts were unleashed upon them, Balerion's colossal form seemed to fill the sky, as he blotted out the sun, a prime target for the deadly weapons below. The bolts whistled past him with alarming speed, their deadly tips gleaming in the sunlight as they sought their mark.

Aemon's heart leaped into his throat as he watched the bolts draw nearer, each threatening to strike the mighty dragon and bring him crashing to the ground below. With a desperate cry, Aemon tugged at Balerion's reins, urging him to move faster, to evade the deadly barrage that threatened to end their lives in an instant.

Aemon's breath caught in his throat as he watched the bolts draw nearer, their deadly tips glinting in the sunlight as they closed the distance between them and the dragon. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Aemon knew they were running out of timeand that one false move could spell disaster for them both, or more specifically, him. Balerion more than likely would survive a few hundred scorpion bolts, unless one went straight through his eyes, but Aemon, the scorpion bolts were larger than Aemon and would kill the boy in an instant.

But just as all hope seemed lost, Balerion shifted his massive bulk with a sudden burst of speed, narrowly avoiding the deadly projectiles by the narrowest of margins. Aemon let out a sigh of relief as the bolts sailed harmlessly past them, their deadly intent thwarted by the dragon's quick reflexes.

Balerion soared through the skies with Aemon clinging desperately to his back. As they evaded another barrage of scorpion bolts, a scorpion bolt was unleashed toward them, aimed directly at Aemon rather than the massive dragon. Aemon's heart skipped a beat as he saw the bolt hurtling toward him, its deadly trajectory threatening to cut him down in an instant. With a surge of panic, he braced himself for the impact, knowing that the bolt was too large to be avoided.

But before disaster could strike, Balerion roared in fury, his massive form quivering with rage as he rose higher into the sky. The scorpion bolt, intended for Aemon, struck the dragon's thick scales with a resounding clang, shattering upon impact.

The force of the blow caused Balerion to roar louder than ever before, a deafening sound that echoed across the battlefield like thunder. His eyes blazed with wrathful fire as he turned his gaze upon the source of the attack, his immense form radiating with primal fury.

Time seemed to stand still for a moment as Balerion hovered in the air, his anger palpable and his rage a force to be reckoned with. With a mighty flap of his wings, he unleashed a blast of searing black flame toward the enemy below without his command, his roar echoing across the battlefield as he unleashed his wrath upon those who dared to challenge him.

Aemon's mind raced with disbelief and awe as he processed what had just occurred. He had always known Balerion was a formidable beast, but he had never imagined the extent of the dragon's resilience against such deadly weaponry. The scorpion bolts, massive in size and designed specifically to pierce dragon scales, had been aimed at Balerion with deadly precision. Aemon had braced himself for the worst, convinced that they would not be able to evade the onslaught.

Yet, to his astonishment, the bolts had struck Balerion's immense form and shattered upon impact like mere pebbles against a towering mountain. The dragon's scales, thick and impenetrable, had deflected the deadly projectiles with ease, leaving both Aemon and Balerion unscathed. Aemon was overcome with a mixture of shock and gratitude. He had underestimated the true strength of Balerion's defenses, unaware of the dragon's remarkable resilience against such formidable foes.

As he gazed upon Balerion's majestic form, bathed in the glow of his flames, Aemon felt a newfound sense of awe and respect for the ancient creature. Balerion was not just a dragon; he was a living fortress, an unstoppable force of nature that had defied the odds and emerged victorious against all who dared to challenge him.

As Aemon uttered the command, "Dracarys," adrenaline coursed through his veins. Balerion, ever obedient to his rider's will, responded with a deafening roar that reverberated across the battlefield.

Suddenly, a torrent of flames erupted from the gaping maw of the ancient dragon. The black was the depths of the night swirling with an intensity that seemed to consume all light around them. It was as if the very essence of darkness had been unleashed upon the world, a manifestation of primal fury and unrestrained power.

The sea of black flames surged forth like a tidal wave, engulfing everything in its path with an insatiable hunger. The air crackled with heat, and the ground trembled beneath the onslaught of infernal wrath.

As the flames consumed the landscape, they left behind a trail of devastation in their wake. The once verdant fields were now reduced to ash and cinder, the scorched earth serving as a grim testament to the ferocity of Balerion's breath.

Amidst the chaos, the unfortunate souls caught in the path of the dragon's fury met a fate as gruesome as it was swift. The roar of the flames drowned out their screams, their bodies consumed by the relentless firestorm that swept across the battlefield.

Limbs were charred and twisted, flesh melted away like wax before a flame, and the stench of burning flesh hung heavy in the air. It was a scene of horror and carnage, a tableau of death painted in shades of black and crimson.

Yet, amidst the devastation, Balerion soared triumphantly, his wings outstretched as he continued to rain down destruction upon his enemies. He unleashed another wave of black fire with each breath, his roar echoing across the battlefield like a herald of doom.

As Aemon commanded Balerion to unleash his fiery wrath upon the enemy, a vast sea of black flames erupted from the dragon's gaping jaws. Dark as the abyss, these flames surged forth with an unstoppable force, engulfing the entire landscape in their sinister embrace.

The once serene fields were now transformed into a nightmarish realm of fire and ash, as far as the eye could see. There was nothing but an ocean of black flames, flames of night from east to west, from north to south. There was nothing but flames. There was no land, trees, grass, or green, just a black inferno. A black hell brought upon Westeros. The horizon shimmered with the intense heat, casting an eerie glow that illuminated the desolation below. There was no blood. There was no corpse. There was no life. There was no hope. This was destruction. This was death. This was fire. This was dread.

As Balerion soared through the air, his massive wings beating against the fiery storm, the flames danced and writhed in a macabre display of destruction. The very earth trembled beneath the onslaught, consumed by the relentless fury of the dragon's breath.

Amidst this infernal inferno, there was naught but black flames, swirling and churning with a malevolent energy. The air crackled with heat, and the sky was shrouded in a veil of darkness as if the very essence of night had descended upon the world. As Aemon surveyed the devastation from atop Balerion's back, he could only marvel at the dragon's power beneath him. At that moment, the entire landscape was nothing but a vast, black sea of flames stretching out to the horizon in all directions.

With the enemy defeated and the battlefield ablaze, Aemon urged Balerion to turn back, his heart heavy with the weight of what he had wrought. As they soared back towards his waiting aunts, Aemon could only hope their presence would bring solace amidst the chaos and destruction surrounding them.

As Balerion descended upon the scorched battlefield, his massive form casting a shadow over the desolation below, Aemon's aunts turned their gaze towards the dragon and his rider, their expressions etched with a mixture of shock and awe. There was no need for words as they beheld the devastation wrought by Balerion's black flames.

He found his aunts standing by the dragons, just a few ways away, looking over the black sea of flames on a small hill. They stood there as Aemon climbed down Balerion's back and looked back at the destruction he had brought with him just to pass on Balerion's back. Not even Rhaegal could have done the carnage Balerion had done. Balerion was known throughout history as the greatest dragon in written history, and Aemon, now calmer and clearer of mind to assess what had happened, stood in shock. Nothing existed but the black flames. There was no land. It looked like Westeros was made only of black flames, like the sun of flame, a land of black hell fire.

Daenerys the tense silence with a concerned inquiry. She rushed to Aemon and hugged him before checking him over. She even lifted his arm to check under it and placed her head on his chest to hear if his heart was beating far too quickly, which it was, but was manageable. "Aemon, are you alright?"

Aemon offered a reassuring nod, though his eyes betrayed a hint of weariness. "I'll be fine once we secure the Dragon's Gate," he replied, his voice tinged with determination. His other aunts came over just a second later than their eldest sister; they were just a bit taller than Aemon and looked him over just as fiercely.

As Maegelle and Rhaella whispered prayers to the Seven Faces of God, seeking solace amidst the chaos, Saera, Aerea, and Viserra remained silent, their faces sad and contemplative. Aemon found solace in their silence, grateful for their understanding of the grim necessity of their actions.

Aemon was thankful that he had rushed in alone. All of them would have died. Balerion took too long on the second pass; all the girls would have been shot down then. Hopefully, they all knew that. He hoped they knew this was no game. Judging how the most outspoken of them, Saera Aerea and Viserra were in shock, and Daenerys, their ringleader, was far more concerned about Aemon's well-being rather than continuing to show her strength, Aemon would guess they understood the gravity of what was happening here now.

Breaking the heavy silence, Aemon addressed his aunts with urgency. "Do you understand now? This is no game. If we fail here, death does not claim just us but all of Summerhall and Summertown."

Viserra was the one who spoke first. "We could have died. The scorpion bolt almost hit you. It could have hit you."

Aemon walked up to her before opening his arms as his aunt hugged him fiercely. They may have each of their faults, but in truth, all seven knew that they were all they had for however long they stayed together at Summerhall and Summertown. A dragon alone is a terrible thing, and while most strong Targaryen women would hate to admit it, without a male Targaryen, there was no telling what the other men around them would do to them when in castle halls and their dragons were too far away. Aemon, even as a child, had Ghost, and both were their insurance and the only one who had stayed with them all the more once he had returned from the North.

Viserra looked to Aemon, ready to cry as the flames crackled behind them. Aemon looked to the eyes that spilled over with tears. These girls were just that, nine-year-old children. They were small girls who should never go to war, and yet they had to because the Grejoys and Martells wanted to bring it to them. Viserra hugged Aemon strongly; she hugged him so hard that Aemon thought his ribs would crack and his lungs would burst.

Viserra, the same as Rhaenyra had told him, had mocked the very idea that Aemon was a Targaryen when they were younger for lacking the coloring and that dragon was the one that hugged him the hardest. She was a proud girl. Aemon knew this. Targaryen women were women of pride, beauty, and passion when raised with one another. But Viserra had it worse than most.

She cried with full force once she comforted Aemon, who was fine. She spoke so fast that Aemon barely had time to register one word before the next came to follow. "You're one of us; you can't leave us again! Do you understand me? I am older than you! You are my nephew; listen to me! Do you understand me? You listen to us from now on. You will not do anything without me saying so! You will not go do that again. I promise you are Targaryen. Did you have fun proving me wrong? Don't do it again! You listen to your aunt. I'm older. I'm smarter!" she screamed at Aemon.

She was a child. She was frantic. She was scared. Aemon could not leave her grasp as he turned to see his aunts. They all looked just as frightened. Aemon's stoic face had his lips slightly upturned. He waved them over, and his aunts rushed to him for a deeper hug. They stayed like that for some time before Aemon and his aunts remounted their dragons.

"We must fly to the Dragon's Gate to the south," he declared, his tone resolute. "There is much work to be done and little time to spare." With a firm resolve, Aemon spurred Balerion onwards, his companions falling into formation behind him as they prepared to face the challenges ahead.

"But we won't be able to help you. They have scorpions. If the Greyjoys had a few then that means the Dornish have a hundred times more," Daenerys then replied.

"Balerion would be more than a match. The Dragon's Gate is a large single path, the only way for any army to come north from Dorne. It is the only path for an army of fifty thousand, which means they would be marching in formation. Far more uniformed than the Greyjoys were. And we saw what Balerion could do to them. What he gave them."

Rhaella was the one who spoke, quiet and religious as she was sent a prayer before speaking. "He gave them fire and blood. And he'll do it again."

As Aemon and his aunts took to the skies atop their dragons, a sense of urgency gripped them all. With the memory of the devastating battle still fresh in their minds, they soared towards the Dragon's Gate with determination etched upon their faces.

The wind rushed past them as they flew, whipping through their hair and billowing their garments. Each beat of their dragons' wings propelled them forward with a sense of urgency, the urgency of impending danger.

As they approached the first three gates, Aemon noted with relief that each wall appeared intact, standing strong against any would-be invaders. However, as they neared the fourth a cacophony of screams and cries pierced the air, shattering the relative calm of the skies.

A sense of foreboding gripped Aemon's heart as he scanned the horizon, searching for the source of the chaos. His instincts told him they were racing against time to reach the Dragon's Gate, where their aid was desperately needed; an entire army of fifty thousand would be fighting a group of barely four thousand. With grim determination, Aemon urged Balerion onwards, leading the charge towards the heart of the tumultuous fray.

Seven gates, each separated by a distance of two thousand yards, stretched across the terrain like an unyielding barrier. Each wall was evenly separated among the only paths that led from the southern portion of Summerhall to the heart of Dorne. The lone path went through the mountains, making natural walls on either side just enough for two or three platoons of men to walk through shoulder to shoulder. The Dragon's Gate walls were constructed of red stone that bore a striking resemblance to the rugged mountains surrounding Summerhall, the walls of the Dragon's Gate exuded an aura of strength and resilience.

Each wall, towering nearly two hundred feet in height, stood as a formidable obstacle to any would-be invaders seeking passage from Dorne to the northern kingdoms. The strategic placement of these walls, coupled with their sturdy construction, made the Dragon's Gate an impregnable fortress capable of withstanding even the most determined assault.

The natural walls of the mountain that kept the army solely walking toward the Dragon's Gate were elevated high enough that archers and soldiers from Summerhall and Summertown could pick men off one by one as they walked from one gate to the next alongside the men already at the gates fighting. Especially the longer one walked through the Dragon's Gate, the more damage they did to themselves, and the gates themselves held the army back long enough to be picked apart as well as forced the men to exhaust themselves before reaching the next gate in a series of seven, leaving them a shadow of themselves even reach the fourth gate and nonexistent as a threat by the time they reach the fifth.

But, from what Aemon gathered, the information of its completion was false and meant that this was far more of a struggle for the men operating them than it should be when completed. Meaning, that the majority of the fifty thousand troops had made it to the fourth wall.

The significance of the Dragon's Gate was not lost on Aemon or his companions. It served as the only viable route for an entire army to traverse from Dorne to the northern realms, a fact made possible by the legendary deeds of Daemon Targaryen and his dragon, Caraxes.

Through a combination of dragonfire and sheer force of will, Daemon had rendered other known paths impassable, ensuring that the Dragon's Gate remained the sole conduit between the two regions. As Aemon and his aunts approached this formidable stronghold, they knew that the fate of the northern kingdoms hung in the balance, and it was their duty to defend it at all costs.

As Aemon and his aunts observed from a distance, the scene unfolding before them was chaos and violence. The air was thick with the sounds of war drums and the clash of steel as an army of over forty thousand Dornish soldiers descended upon the second gate of the Dragon's Gate.

Aemon's heart pounded in his chest as he watched the massive force of Dornishmen march inexorably forward, their banners fluttering in the wind like dark omens of impending doom. He could see the glint of steel as their ranks bristled with weapons, ready to spill blood in the name of conquest.

But it was not the sight of the Dornish army alone that sent a chill down Aemon's spine—it was the sight of the trebuchets that accompanied them. Massive war machines, their wooden frames creaking under the strain of their payloads, stood poised to unleash destruction upon the second gate of the Dragon's Gate.

Aemon's eyes widened in realization as he understood the true intent of the Dornish assault. They weren't merely seeking to conquer the fortress—they aimed to obliterate it, rendering it nothing more than a pile of rubble and dust.

With a sense of urgency, Aemon urged Balerion forward, his hands gripping the reins tightly as he guided the dragon through the skies with deft precision. The trebuchets unleashed their deadly payloads, hurling massive boulders through the air with devastating force.

Aemon's heart raced as he maneuvered Balerion skillfully to avoid the incoming projectiles, the air around them filled with the thunderous sound of impact as the boulders crashed into the ground with earth-shaking force. Each near miss sent shockwaves reverberating through the air, a constant reminder of their peril.

Through it all, Aemon remained focused, his eyes scanning the battlefield for any sign of weakness in the enemy's defenses. He knew that the fate of the Dragon's Gate—and perhaps the entire realm—rested in their hands, and he was determined to do whatever it took to emerge victorious.

As Balerion soared over the wall, his immense form casting a shadow that seemed to blanket the battlefield in darkness, all eyes turned skyward to the awe-inspiring sight. Aemon gripped the reins tightly, his heart pounding with a mixture of fear and exhilaration as he guided the dragon toward the massed ranks of the Dornish army.

Unlike the Greyjoys, who had only a handful of scorpions to defend their position, the Dornish had deployed hundreds of deadly siege weapons and scorpions, their ranks bristling with the ominous contraptions. Aemon's jaw clenched as he realized the magnitude of the threat they faced—the Dornish were not merely content to breach the Dragon's Gate; they sought to obliterate it.

Balerion roared defiantly as he soared through the sky, his wings beating with powerful strokes that sent wind gusts whipping through the air. The Dornish soldiers below screamed and shouted, pointing skyward as they caught sight of the massive dragon bearing down upon them.

The ground trembled beneath them as Balerion closed in, his sheer size and ferocity casting a pall of darkness over the battlefield. It was as if night had descended upon the day, shrouding the land in a cloak of shadow and foreboding.

As Aemon and Balerion approached the Dragon's Gate, the battlefield erupted into chaos. All eyes turned skyward as the massive dragon soared overhead, his wings beating with thunderous force that stirred up clouds of dust and debris below.

The trebuchets, massive siege engines designed to hurl projectiles of enormous size, ceased their relentless barrage against the walls and turned their attention to the airborne threat. With a deafening roar, the trebuchets launched their deadly payloads—a barrage of boulders larger than houses hurtling through the air with terrifying speed.

Simultaneously, the scorpions swiveled to target Balerion. A team of Dornish soldiers manned each of these monstrous contraptions, their faces set in grim determination as they prepared to unleash a barrage of deadly bolts.

The air was filled with the whistling of projectiles as the trebuchets and scorpions unleashed their fury upon Balerion. The ground shook beneath Aemon's feet as the massive boulders hurtled towards them, their impact sending shockwaves rippling through the earth.

Balerion roared defiantly as the onslaught descended upon them, his scales gleaming black in the sunlight as he soared through the sky. Aemon gritted his teeth as he guided Balerion through the storm of projectiles, his hands gripping the reins tightly as he steered the dragon with all the skill and determination he could muster. Each near miss sent a shiver of fear down his spine.

Balerion the Black Dread, mighty and unyielding, stood firm amidst the storm of projectiles that rained down upon him. The trebuchets hurled their colossal boulders, and the scorpions unleashed their deadly bolts, yet the dragon remained unmoved. His scales, black as the depths of night, proved impervious to the onslaught, deflecting the blows with an almost casual indifference.

As the boulders and bolts struck Balerion's armored hide, they shattered upon impact; their force dissipated against the impenetrable barrier of the dragon's scales. The dragon's roar grew louder with each blow, a primal symphony of rage that echoed across the battlefield like thunder.

The screams of the enemy soldiers filled the air, mingling with the sound of splintering wood and crumbling stone. Despite their best efforts, the assault of weapons proved futile against the dragon's might. The Dornish forces, once emboldened by their superior numbers and formidable siege weapons, now cowered in terror beneath the shadow of the Black Dread. Their cries of defiance turned to panicked shouts as they realized the futility of their efforts. With each passing moment, the resolve of the Dornish faltered; their hopes of victory dashed against the unyielding scales of the dragon.

As Aemon uttered the ancient Valyrian command, "Dracarys," a primal roar erupted from Balerion's mighty chest. With a thunderous bellow, the dragon unleashed his infernal breath upon the unsuspecting army below.

The flames pouring forth from Balerion's maw a swirling vortex of black fire devoured everything in its path. The flames danced and writhed as they surged forth, casting an eerie glow upon the battlefield. As Balerion unleashed his torrent of black flames upon the tightly packed ranks of the Dornish army, the air was rent asunder by the deafening roar of the inferno. The black fire surged forth like a relentless tide, engulfing everything in its path with unyielding fury.

The heat from the flames caused the stone to melt and turn to magma. The molten rock fell to the ground as a thick liquid. It fell slowly and glowed red hot due to the flames. The space between the gates of the Dragon's Gate was so vast that Aemon did not need to worry about melting the man-made walls melting, but the walls of the Red Mountains themselves, the same walls that blocked movement left or right and only allowed for armies to go forwards or back. Black flames were the call. Molten rock and burnt corpses were their answers. The rock turned to liquid, and those lucky enough not to get directly burned by the flames died of heat stroke nearly instantly, began hacking and breathing heavily as the smoke filled their lungs, or were trapped and killed by molten rock.

With nowhere to flee and no escape from the path of destruction, the Dornish army stood helpless before the relentless advance of the black flames. The natural walls of the Red Mountains made a single path and there was no escape left or right. The men tried to rush back to Dorne in the south while Balerion had come from the north, but the dragon was faster. The flames came from a maw a hundred feet wide, and when they touched the ground, the flames reached a thousand feet wide; the heat radiated ten times the number alone. There was no escape, only death. Only death. Only a black death.

The ground erupted in a maelstrom of fire and ash as the flames consumed everything in their path. The air was thick with the acrid stench of burning flesh, mingling with the choking smoke from the inferno. The sheer magnitude of the devastation was staggering to behold. As far as the eye could see, the landscape was consumed by a swirling vortex of black fire; each burst more ferocious than the last. The Dornish army was engulfed in a sea of flame; their desperate cries drowned out by the roar of the conflagration.

The roar of the flames echoed across the landscape, drowning out the sounds of battle with their deafening fury. The air crackled with heat as the black inferno consumed everything it touched, reducing stone and steel to ash in its relentless onslaught.

The sea of flames swept across the ranks of the Dornish army like a tidal wave, engulfing them in its ravenous embrace. Men screamed and writhed as the inferno consumed them, their flesh blackening and blistering in the intense heat. A straight line that left not even ash behind. As the sea of black fire raged on, it left naught but destruction and despair in its wake, a stark reminder of the unstoppable force that was Balerion the Black Dread.

The mountain walls that framed the Dragon's Gate, deformed and melted further before the eyes of those who bore witness to the tumultuous spectacle. The solid stone, weathered by the ages and hardened by the passage of time, yielded to the searing heat of the dragonfire. At first, there was nothing but a faint shimmering, an ominous prelude to the impending doom.

The stone walls began to liquefy like wax before a blazing inferno. The once-sturdy foundations crumbled and buckled under intense pressure, their ancient bonds shattered by the overwhelming force of the dragon's wrath. Rivulets of molten magma cascaded down the sheer rock faces, their fiery embrace devouring everything in their path with an insatiable hunger. The air was filled with the acrid stench of burning stone, a testament to the sheer intensity of the heat that now consumed the mountainside.

As the walls melted away like wax under the relentless assault of the dragonfire, the very fabric of the landscape was transformed into a hellish tableau of destruction and chaos. The once-imposing barriers that guarded the path through the Dragon's Gate now lay in ruins, their molten remnants serving as a grim reminder of the awesome power unleashed upon the world.

With each passing moment, the intensity of the conflagration only grew, the flames spreading like a ravenous beast hungry for destruction. Entire units were engulfed in the inferno, their once-proud banners reduced to ash in the blink of an eye.

The air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and burning flesh, a toxic haze that choked the lungs and stung the eyes. Amidst the chaos, the sounds of battle were drowned out by the crackling roar of the flames, their fury unrelenting and all-consuming.

Soldiers fled in blind panic, their ranks shattered by the relentless onslaught of the black fire. Those unfortunate enough to be caught in its path were incinerated in an instant, their bodies reduced to charred husks amidst the smoldering ruins of the battlefield.

As the flames continued to rain down from the heavens in an unending torrent, the once-mighty army of Dorne was reduced to zero but ash and cinder. The ground itself seemed to tremble beneath the weight of the devastation, bearing witness to the awesome power of dragonfire unleashed upon the mortal realm. Fifty thousand men dead by the flames of one dragon. No one would doubt that Aemon had caused this, no one would question later if Aemon had done such deeds at Summerhall nor the Wall after that day.

It would be a week later when the flames died, and the area cold enough for a man to walk through without dying of heat exhaustion; it would be a month later when all the heat left the area. But the message was clear as the mountain walls that made the path to the Dragon's Gate showed the molten magma and now retired rock that looked like the drippings of wax. Aemon and Balerion had made the point that Daemon had constructed. To walk through the Dragon's Gate was death. For while a normal army of a few thousand held an army of fifty thousand at bay, and while the Dragon's Gate was made to wither any force to the point that they would be no threat to Summerhall should they come from the south, there was one thing that all seemed to forget about the Dragon's Gate that neither father nor son had forgotten.

Dragons ruled Summerhall.

Any man could hold the Dragon's Gate. But a man did not make the Dragon's Gate, nor was it constructed to merely hold men at bay. The Dragon's Gate was made as a kiln, it was an oven, and it was the dragon's fire that would be used to cook and melt any army that came to it. This was Daemon's vision. This was Aemon's result. This was the will of the Targaryens of Summerhall.

Chapter 25: Tides and Storms

Chapter Text

Summerhall 104 AC

Aemon Targaryen

Aemon stood atop the battlements of Summerhall, the warm breeze carrying the scent of charred earth and victory as it swept through the air. It had been a month since the harrowing clash between Balerion and the Dornish forces, a conflict now etched into the annals of history as the Black Burn. As the fifth month of the Greyjoy Rebellion dawned upon them, Aemon contemplated their next course of action amidst the smoldering ruins of war-torn lands.

Aemon had thought that the Greyjoys and Dornish had many scorpions, more to strike down younger dragons. Maester Vaegon words carried weight, for he had gleaned intelligence that suggested the Dornish scorpions had been depleted in the inferno of battle, their numbers dwindling to insignificance. Yet, Aemon remained wary, his mind plagued by doubts and uncertainties.

As the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the scarred landscape, Aemon's thoughts turned to the future. Though the road ahead was difficult, he remained determined to see his people through the trials ahead.

The Dornish had retreated to Dorne, and over the month that followed the Black Burn, spies and paid-off commonfolk had told them that Dorne had lost a bit more than half of their numbers in the Black Burn, closer to thirty thousand men were burned, left as brunt, rotting corpses. The Dragon's Gate proved the perfect deterrent against Dorne as long as a dragon rider held it. The entirety of the Dornish army had marched through the one passageway since Daemon had made it near impossible to get through any other, Carxes managing to make each other path, save for the Prince's Pass, near impossible to march an army through and the fact it was foolhardy to go through the Prince's Pass, especially since the Reach was already in a state of emergency that meant men were already mobilized and ready to kill before they made it to the heart of the Reach. Since the Greyjoys had sent men and sellswords to the Stormlands and made most occupied, it allowed Dorne a chance to have a foothold if they made it past Summerhall.

Aemon had burned too much of the army for Dorne to dare try so again, at least for another decade or two. Due to their confirmed retreat and confirmation that no alterations were made on their part, Aemon could reuse his resources and relocate them to strengthen Summerhall enough that he could focus on learning what was happening in the rest of the Stormlands and outside the kingdom in question.

From what Aemon had gathered, his father, Daemon, had finally had enough and mounted Caraxes and flown to where there seemed to be a large number of Greyjoys and sellswords and went on to the attack against Viserys' wishes; as soon as Daemon was healed enough to mount the dragon, but word has suggested his father still pained from cracked ribs. Aemon had doubts about the medicines the maesters were giving his father, Daemon's Dance, whichthey called it, but Aemon, while finding the name familiar, did not recall how he knew of the medicine.

After this, Daemon burned the Riverlands, a smart move that would not endear him to the people. Daemon fully burned the crops and fields. He burnt every tree and forest; the Riverlands were in flames. And from what Aemon heard, fires had occurred across each of the keeps and castles, specifically in their granaries and storage vaults. Aemon did not know where the rumors arose, but he knew that every castle in the kingdoms that were not under siege, unlike Storm's End, heard the same rumor; Daemon had paid many cutthroats and assassins to set the storage vaults aflame. One thing was for certain: the Riverlands were being controlled by the Greyjoys, but Daemon Targaryen was destroying them.

Aemon began turning back and leading back to his solar. Aemon had grown tired, bags under his eyes like they often were in the later years of Jon Snow. He rarely slept now, but Aemon did not care, he had far more important things to worry of.

Aemon's meticulous preparations extended beyond the battlefield, encompassing the intricate dance of dragonflight itself. He knew all too well the tactics of the Greyjoys, their cunning, and guile honed through years of covert warfare. They lurked in the shadows, striking swiftly and retreating into the populace's safety, a strategy designed to thwart the use of dragons and avoid the loss of lives by cowering behind the innocent and making any attack seen as a grievous act. As Aemon no doubt thought his father, Daemon, would say,plans made by c*nts for c*nts.When they should up to pillage a village, Aemon would deal with them before they came to start their assault.

Recognizing the need to adapt to this elusive foe, Aemon embarked on a rigorous training regimen with his aunts; they wished to be of use, and Aemon would make sure they knew how to do as such if they learned how to fly and master it before the Dance of Dragons, all the better, after all, there were only two real noteworthy dragon riders during it, Daemon and Aemond, while the others had dragons, the pair were the worst threats. Aemon began imparting the skills and knowledge to wield their dragons effectively in combat. With each passing day, he led them to the skies, teaching them the art of aerial combat with unwavering patience and determination.

Amidst the azure expanse of the heavens, Aemon schooled his aunts in the nuances of dragonflight, instilling in them the importance of height and speed as their most potent weapons. With practiced precision, he demonstrated how the fiery breath of their dragons could be harnessed to create updrafts, propelling them skyward with unparalleled swiftness.

As they soared through the skies, Aemon drilled them relentlessly in the delicate balance between altitude and velocity, showing them how to leverage these two vital elements to their advantage. In the crucible of the air, he forged them into formidable aerial warriors, their bond with their dragons growing stronger with each passing moment.

Gaining height meant sacrificing speed, and gaining speed meant sacrificing height. Diving down gained speed; gaining height meant losing speed.

It took his aunts an entire week to realize that when Balerion was chasing any one of their dragons the most important thing was to climb higher, not diving down to gain speed. By diving down, a smart tact in any other scenario save for such a drastically larger dragon, Balerion gained far more speed due to high weight plummeting down. Balerion would waste more energy climbing due to his size, and the smaller dragons could escape if Balerion held back his breath and didn't breathe black flames at the ascending dragons, Aemon made sure to demonstrate that fact once they learned that diving down was the worst option with a larger dragon.

When soaring, they thought themselves faster, but by Balerion diving and rising, in what others thought were strange patterns, but to the trained eye it looked more like an ocean wave, or a moving ripple, Balerion more than began to make up for his lack of speed, the diving would give him more than enough energy to soar just a bit faster, catching up with most other dragons. But it was not something Aemon would show off as of yet to hide in attacks against other dragons.

For a month, they trained tirelessly, honing their skills to a razor's edge, until they were ready to take to the skies and face their enemies with confidence and resolve. With Aemon's guidance, they stood poised to confront the Greyjoys on their terms, ready to unleash the fury of their dragons upon those who would threaten their homeland. At the very least, they would be better than Viserys and Rhaenyra, who had never used their dragons for combat, likely being better than Aegon the Usurper would be once the Dance began.

In the wake of the Black Burn, the ravages of war continued to spread across the lands of Westeros like wildfire unleashed upon a dry field. Aemon, burdened with the weight of his newfound responsibilities, surveyed the tumultuous landscape with a heavy heart. The Stormlands, once proud and stubborn, now lay besieged and beleaguered, their fate hanging in the balance as the forces of chaos closed in from all sides.

Storm's End's walls could not withstand the relentless assault of the enemy, as most of the Stormlands were being raided and being stopped from reconverging to plan the counter-offensive. For five long months, the castle had endured the ceaseless pounding of siege engines and the relentless onslaught of enemy forces; its defenders stretched to exhaustion as they fought tooth and nail to hold back the tide of invaders.

But Storm's End was not simply a castle; it was the beating heart of the Stormlands, the very soul of its people. Without the guiding hand of House Baratheon, due to a five-month-long and exhausting siege, to rally them to arms, the lands of the Stormlands languished in disarray, torn apart by internal strife and external aggression. From every corner of the kingdom, reports of skirmishes and battles reached Aemon's ears, painting a grim portrait of a realm teetering on the brink of collapse.

Aemon sat at his makeshift war table, the flickering light of torches casting dancing shadows across the maps and documents spread out before him. His eyes traced the lines on the map, marking the armies' positions and the fleets' movements. Storm's End, that ancient seat of House Durrandon power, then House Baratheon, stood as the most important task Aemon needed to address. Its defenders were brave, but their strength was waning, and without aid, they would surely fall.

But there was another option, another path that lay open to him. The Arbor, that verdant isle held by House Redwyne, boasted a formidable fleet and strategic position that could prove pivotal in turning the tide of the war. With their ships at his disposal, Aemon could launch a swift and decisive offensive against the Greyjoys, striking at the heart of their power and forcing them to retreat.

Aemon had gathered from ravens, made public by the Redwynes, whatever ravens could make it to the main continental Westeros that said the Arbor had heard and prepared for a Greyjoy invasion of the Arbor. They confirmed the Greyjoys were interested in conquering the Arbor and taking the Redwyne fleet to full control the Sunset Sea without opposition. Still, a storm had kept the Greyjoys off course, and a merchant ship spotted them early enough to inform the Redwynes. Aemon did not doubt that the Greyjoys still held interest in the Arbor; after all, House Hoare had control of the Arbor and even put an altered version of the Redwine sigil on their sigil for House Hoare. The Greyjoys wished to mimic the control House Hoare had, and it was not too much of a guess for them to claim the Arbor just as well as they did Seagard and the entirety of the Riverlands.

Yet the choice weighed heavily on Aemon's mind. To save Storm's End was to secure the Stormlands and rally their forces to his cause, but it would take the time that he feared Storm's End might not have. On the other hand, to aid the Redwynes was to seize the initiative and launch a daring counterattack against the Ironborn. Still, it risked leaving the Stormlands vulnerable to further assault.

With a heavy sigh, Aemon reached a decision, his hand trembling slightly as he reached for his quill. The ink flowed across the parchment, sealing the fate of nations with each stroke. Whatever the cost, whatever the sacrifice, Aemon knew that he must act swiftly and decisively if he hoped to save the realm from the chaos that threatened to consume it.

While Aemon was looking through the papers and the writings on both the Arbor and Storm's End, he heard a roar, several, each the window. Through the dusty windows of his war room, Aemon caught a glimpse of the tumultuous skies outside. There, amidst the swirling clouds and shimmering sunlight, danced six majestic dragons, their massive forms weaving intricate patterns through the air. Aemon's heart quickened as he recognized the distinctive shapes of the dragons, each one bearing the sigils of his aunts.

The dragons sparred with one another in a breathtaking display of aerial acrobatics, their sleek bodies twisting and turning in a deadly dance. Aemon's eyes traced the graceful arcs of their movements as they dove and climbed with unparalleled agility. His aunts rode atop their dragons, their figures silhouetted against the backdrop of the endless sky. With practiced skill, they guided their mounts through the intricate maneuvers, each a masterful display of the bond between dragon and rider.

He called forth a servant, and when they entered, he noticed the steward a few years Aemon's senior, a bastard from the North who had been fathered by some Manderly on a Glover, making Aemon his cousin through Aemon's grandmother being a Glover. The boy had the typical muddied hair of the North, but his eyes were blue, as blue as the icy waters near White Harbor; he was a good lad, solemn like Aemon but a kind boy a few years older than Aemon. Aemon ordered him to summon Maester Vaegon and his aunt, the princess. He told the servant he did not care for any excuses or arguments; he did not care if they argued that they were riding their dragons, and he wanted his aunts and the maester in the study as soon as possible. Before the servant left, he told the servant that Saera and Viserra were to come straight here like the rest of them; he did not care if they reeked of a dragon or needed to fresh up; he needed them in his study now.

As Aemon sat in his study, the anticipation of their arrival weighed heavy on his mind. He looked through several notes of the siege done on Storm's End. Storm's End should survive; the food stocks should not have run dry yet, but five months of siege would be difficult for anyone. Likely Aemon, having a city with over three hundred and fifty thousand souls in it would run out of food far before, Aemon had to make many dealings and had to personally oversee shipments with Balerion to get food into the city. Aemon recalled that Stannis Baratheon had survived a year under siege by the Tyrells during Robert Rebellion; there was no doubt in his mind that the current Baratheons were just as stubborn to survive.

The Greyjoys were not fighting like Ironborn usually fights; they were far too strategic for Aemon's liking. But he supposed dealing with sellswords and Martells for years before the fight ever happened would influence the fighting tactics. Dealing with living dragons that destroyed direct open-field combat meant that they needed more tact than the Greyjoy Rebellion from Jon Snow's time, not that Aemon recalled the details anymore; he recalled only three things besides the fact it happened, and two of them turned out differently.

He recalled the Greyjoy's attack on Lannisport in Jon Snow's life but never Casterly Rock. He recalled the Mallisters of Seagard, but the invasion was repelled; they did not succeed and used Segard as a stronghold. But there was one thing Aemon did recall, and it was something Aemon needed to make sure did come to pass: The Redwyne fleet was able to stop the Greyjoys at Straits of Fair Isle, then the royal fleet, led by Stannis Baratheon, was able to strike the Greyjoys while the Redwyne blockade stopped the Greyjoys. Aemon had to make this happen; that needed to happen; there needed to be a swift and decisive first counter to give hope to people.

He glanced at the door, waiting for the familiar sound of footsteps heralding the entrance of his aunts and Maester Vaegon. Finally, the door creaked open, and they entered the room individually. Aemon's eyes swept over each of them in turn. Vaegon's chains rattled while Aemon noticed that his aunts were still in their riding clothes, and Saera and Viserra seemed slightly angry that they could not change; Saera hid her anger well, unlike Viserra.

"Maester Vaegon," Aemon acknowledged with a nod as the elderly maester entered, his robes swishing softly as he moved.

"Your Grace," Vaegon replied with a bow, his weathered face bearing an air of deference befitting his station. He walked closer to Aemon at the table, and Aemon noticed he kept a small distance away, not getting too close without Aemon's invitation.

Daenerys followed, her eyes alight with excitement as she approached Aemon. "Aemon!" she exclaimed, her voice filled with eagerness. She wore her riding leathers dyed purple to match her dragon.

Saera entered. Next, her greeting was measured and composed, a practiced facade masking any deeper emotions. "Good day, Aemon," she said evenly, her gaze meeting his with calculated precision. Her riding leather was dyed a pearl white to match her dragon.

Viserra swept into the room with confidence; her chin held high as she regarded Aemon with a mixture of pride and defiance. "Nephew," she said simply, her tone tinged with arrogance. Her riding leather maroon, deep red in coloring, Aemon did not miss that she walked far more sensually than her sisters.

Aerea came in, her expression tired from her recent exertions with her dragon. She nodded to Aemon, her attention already wandering to the next task as she found a pitcher of water and rather than waiting for the permission of the Prince of Summerhall she rushed forward poured herself a glass, and downed it quickly. Aera's riding leathers were field more of a silver coloring, just off of the white of Saera.

Maegelle followed, her voice soft as she offered a gentle blessing. "May the gods watch over you, Aemon," she murmured, her eyes shining sincerely. Maegelle's riding leathers were a light blue in coloring, matching the blues of the skies.

Last to enter was Rhaella, her demeanor shy as she greeted Aemon with a quiet smile. "Hello, Aemon," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. Her riding leathers were more orange in coloring, while Rhaella did not mean to; it reminded Aemon of the orange of the Martells, almost like a mock, but Rhaella was too timid to mock a soul.

As Aemon sat at his desk, quill in hand, he listened to the chatter of his aunts and maester, their voices filling the room with lively energy. Aemon returned their greetings with a nod, his gaze sweeping over each of them with fondness and determination. "Thank you all for coming," he said, his voice steady as he addressed his family and trusted advisor. With a faint smile, he glanced up at them, his attention divided between his task and their conversation. "How was the dragon flight, my ladies?" Aemon inquired casually, his voice calm amidst the rising tide of chatter.

Area, Daenerys, and Viserra immediately launched a spirited debate, each claiming superiority in dragon riding. Their voices overlapped, creating a cacophony of arguments and boasts that filled the room. Daenerys began arguing for her being faster than either of her sisters.

"Daenerys, you're an idiot if you think your dragon is faster than mine," Aerea declared, her tone laced with playful challenge. She then turned to Aemon. "Daenerys almost crashed into the mountainside."

"I've beaten you both in a race before, so I think that settles it," Daenerys continued, a mischievous glint in her eye. "If I just said the word, you would have been a roasted pig," she said arrogantly.

Aemon could see that Aerea wanted to slit her sister down the middle. "Pig! You're calling me a pig? How about the three of us get back outside again, and I'll make you squeal instead?"

Viserra scoffed, her confidence unwavering as she countered, "Speed isn't everything, dear sister. Beauty and grace are equally important; my dragon is the most magnificent."

The bickering continued, each aunt vehemently defending her skills and the prowess of her dragon. As the argument peaked, Saera interjected, her voice cutting through the chaos with a sharp clarity.

"Enough!" she commanded, her tone firm and authoritative. "Aemon summoned us for a reason. Let us not waste his time with petty squabbles." The room fell silent, the tension dissipating as Saera's words hung in the air. Aemon nodded in agreement, grateful for her intervention.

Viserra leaned closer to Daenerys, "I thought you were the eldest; shouldn't you be the one to take charge?" In response, Daenerys shouldered her sister hard enough for her to almost collapse on the table where Aemon was writing his note. He picked up the melted wax fast enough, without much thought due to how common the occurrence was, so the wax did not spill on the page.

"Indeed," he said, setting aside his quill and pointing to his aunts. "I called you here to discuss our next course of action."

Aemon heaved a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping with the weight of responsibility as he scanned the papers before him. With practiced precision, he finished the letter he had been writing, carefully sealing it with red wax and impressing his sigil upon it.

"We must act swiftly,"Aemon stated firmly, his gaze meeting those of his assembled companions. He began speaking in Valyrian, ensuring that what he said was being kept secret."The time has come for us to move against the Greyjoys."

Saera also spoke up in Valryian, quickly picking up on the necessity, paying the most attention to Aemon's letters and writing of the war outside Summertown and Summerhall."I was under the impression you wished to stay here and manage the influx of refugees."

Aemon sighed once more; he was growing tired; he had not rested much over the last five months and the last month or so after the Black Burn of Summerhall, as it was being stylized, or to most of the Stormlands from what he had overheard had been calling it the Fifth Dornish War, even if it was but one battle and conveniently forgetting Aemon had burned Grejoys before he had fought the Dornish army single-handedly."I had hoped. I wished to keep you here and only act when the Grejoys or some Dornish that wrapped around the Red Mountains got too close, but things change. Maester Vaegon just yesterday confirmed that Summertown official had over three hundred fifty thousand souls living behind the walls."

Maegelle and Rhaella had looked at one another and nodded. Maegelle, the braver of them, spoke up. "We had noticed far more people coming to prayers and far more people near the orphanages and on the streets when we go in the evenings."

Daenerys, the most confused, was the one he replied. "But over three hundred thousand? That is halfway to reaching the populace of King's Landing!"

"Summerhill pushed back an invasion on both fronts simultaneously," Saera pointed out as if everyone was an idiot for not coming to an easy answer.

Maester Vaegon chose then to speak,"One of the armies was the entire Dornsih force, and Prince Aemon defeated them in a single fight. That alone confirms some of what was believed during the Wildling Invasion. We have more dragons and dragon riders than King's Landing. Prince Aemon has Balerion, the dragon that conquered Westeros, the largest dragon in the Seven Kingdoms. Aemon fought off two armies, one of one hundred thousand, the other of fifty thousand, single-handled on both accounts. It is easy to understand why they flock to Summertown. Without question, it is the most secure city in the kingdoms."

Aemon massaged the bridge of his nose. "Over the last month, the number of Summerhall has increased by two hundred thousand, and now food stores will be destroyed within two months, let alone another five that we have survived already. If we don't act now, Summerhall and Summertown would be nice decorated tombs, more so than a fortress that fought off two invasions at once. We must act now, or I doom everyone."

Vaegon nodded in agreement, his expression grave as he added, "Indeed. The Targaryens of Summerhall has proven resilient in the face of adversity. It falls upon us to lead the charge against the Greyjoy threat. This keep was the only one to make any strike against the Greyjoys and succeed."

Aemon's brow furrowed in concentration as he considered their options. "Most other noble families remain paralyzed by fear, holed up in their castles and unwilling to risk open combat," he continued. "However, we have received word from King's Landing that the Greyjoys have taken hostages from many Riverlands houses."

Saera's eyes widened with realization; her voice edged with concern as she spoke up. "Are they using the hostages to force compliance, or are they simply using them as submission and to make them docile?" she asked, her mind racing through the implications.

Aemon nodded solemnly in response. "Both and neither," he confirmed. "They are using the hostages to force the other Houses to comply under penalty of death for the hostages. The Greyjoys employ every tactic, bolstered by sellswords and an alliance with the Riverlands. They now possess an army equal to three kingdoms due to the number of sold swords, the entire might of the Iron Islands, and the Riverlands."

Maegelle spoke up while gesturing a hand sign to the gods, no longer speaking Valryian, mostly from shock. "Gods be good."

Saera then looked to Aemon as he finished a secondary letter and placed the wax and the family sigil. Aemon looked at each of his aunts and cursed under his breath before addressing them all. "We will act quickly. You will carry out my orders and move immediately after this conversation. If the Martells have spies in these walls, and I do not wish for them to relay this back to the Greyjoys, you will leave as soon as you exit this room. Understand?"

Viserra looked shocked, being the quickest to have realized. "You're sending us out?"

Daenerys cheered before hopping from foot to fight before Saera leveled a glare that sopped the eldest sister. "He's finally sending us out! We're finally doing something. Aren't you happy?"

Saera sighed; she was tired of Daenerys; she had been irritating her all day, at least it looked as such to Aemon. "What are you planning?"

Aemon stood from his table with both letters in hand. "You will leave in groups of two. Aerea and Daenerys, you two are to fly to Storm's End and hand Lord Baratheon this letter. You are the best fliers of your sisters, and I fear there might be some opposition since it is under siege, but reports say there are no scorpions, and frankly, Greyjoys are known to pillage and raid; they are terrible at sieges. It's sh*te, at best, and easy for the pair of you to handle. Alleviate the siege and help lord Baratheon begin to regroup and considerate the forces of the Stormlands to push back the Greyjoys and push them all back to the Riverlands." Aemon handed the letter to Lord Baratheon to Aerea."You're the best flier for your group; honestly, if not for my birth and the fact you already had a dragon, there is no doubt Balreion would have been your mount. You are in charge."

Daenerys looked happy for her sister and hugged her before realizing this was a serious thing again, and before returning to being a proper princess. "We're going to Storm's End!" she screamed gleefully. Aemon had sadly forgotten that his aunts were only nine years of age, to his seven years of age. The group, save for Maester Vaegon, were children playing at war. Aemon smiled, knowing full well that the Grejoys had no chance of harming the pair. There was little danger for the dragon riders since their dragons were more than old enough for arrows to break on their scales, being able to move in the way of incoming arrows to protect their riders, and there were no scorpions to harm the dragons.

Aemon then turned back to his aunts."Viserra and Maegelle, you are taking this letter to Driftmark to speak to Lord Corlys. He will be more difficult to deal with because he already has dragon riders and is not in direct threat, but he will want vengeance for a third of his fleet being destroyed. But I know something that he does not."

Saera looked confused, "And that is?"

Aemon smiled before looking at the flame on the candle, the same flame melting the wax he used for the letters. "Where they will attack next."

Everyone looked in shock as Aemon kept that information close to his chest; even if in Valryian, he would not risk saying suck things allowed, the letter should be more than enough to intrigue Lord Corlys, and the reasoning for the accuracy would be more than enough for Lord Corlys to think the words true. Margaery Tyrell and Arianne Martell had shown him that an arrogant man with a thirst for vengeance was easy to manipulate with a little push in the right direction. Corlys wanted vengeance; Aemon knew where the Greyjoys would be. There was no doubt Corlys cared more for retribution than the fact a child would be the one supplying him the information, and a child is the one to tell him what to do without outright giving the order.

Margaery and Arianne had taught him enough, even if he could not recall the memories outright, where he understood that there were politics in war just as much as bloodshed. If Jon Snow's wives did not teach him this, Rob Stark's mistake and death surely did. He needed to be subtle, and it was easier to sneak something through when anger was high and pointed at something else. Aemon is merely pointing Corlys' anger at the Greyjoys' future location, and Aemon will attack with Corly's wroth in mind.

Aemon then spoke once more. "If done correctly and Lord Corlys accepts the letter, he will be able to get his vengeance while the Greyjoys are preoccupied." Aemon gave the letter to Maegelle, hinting at who would take the lead. Viserra's pride was more than hurt, and she glared at Aemon and Aemon turned to her in response. "While you are the better speaker and charmer of the two, I need subtly and kindness, not your blatant pride. I'm sorry. You could focus on isolating Rhaenys and Laena and entertain them while Maegelle gives the letter. Rhaenys is cunning and has a more cold-hearted ambition compared to Corlys' current wrathful pride. Laena is leaning close to Rhaenys's teachings, and I don't think Laenor is smart enough to deal with these things. Focus on Corly's hurt fleet, but do not try to belittle him; just make sure he reads the letter."

Saera straightened up, and so did Rhaella, knowing they were the only ones who remained. "Where will we go?" Saera asked.

"You will rule," Aemon replied evenly. Saera and Rhaella looked confused.

"You're leaving us here and leaving yourself," Saera realized.

"I will not say where I am going, but I need to intercept the Greyjoys before they make their next attack. Once it takes place, we will be able to push them back, making their offensive the first true strike back, and then we will be able to hold them back enough for the Velaryon to do as I am asking them to. But I need dragons here in Summerhall and Summertown,"Aemon replied. "I trust you, Saera, to rule in my stead; you have more than enough wit, and where you lack maester Vaegon could aid you."Aemon then turned back to Rhaella. "Most of the peoples in Summertown are devout from the Reach and Stormlands. They have already come to see you as just as devout and as a princess. They see you as a leader of the faith, even if you are not. They think the same of Maegelle, but I cannot have both of you leave the city. I need one to appease the people, and I need one to rule Summerhall and Summertown. You two are the best option. Until the last battle is to be had, you two will rule. There must always be a Targaryen in Summerhall."

Saera then looked Aemon in his eyes, her purple peering in his dark. She was beautiful, but her face was in a scowl; the pair both knew that her glare and that of her sisters were the only ones that could affect him. Saera calmed her scowl; both knew she cared for him too much to second guess the words of the head of the Targaryen of Summerhall in front of others. "What if after we leave? You want to keep at least a single Targaryen in Summerhall and yet if I leave with Rhaella there would not be one."

"Vaegon is a Targaryen, even if he is a maester," Aemon said calmly before turning his eyes to all in this room."From the moment I stepped foot in Summerhall I told you that Summerhall is important, not only for us but for the rest of Westeros. In the North, there must always be a Stark in Winterfell, and here there must always be a Targaryen in Summerhall. But we will not cower behind these walls, the world at large fears dragons, and we will make sure that they have a reason for it."

No words needed to be said. Aemon was giving them a chance, each a chance, to prove themselves, using their strengths to their advantage. Area and Daenerys were strong-willed and great riders; they would release the Baratheons and his aunts' strong wills would not be crushed by the strong wills of the Baratheons of Storm's End. Viserra was good at gossiping and charming; she would charm Rhaenys and Laena long enough for Maegelle, who is calm and kind, to push Corlys to take action. Saera was cunning; she could handle ruling while Aemon was gone; the people loved Rhaella and would keep them calm while five of the seven dragons leveled the city.

Aemon watched them go, his expression resolute as he prepared for his journey to the Arbor. Though he had not divulged this plan to the others, he knew that aiding the Redwynes would be crucial in their efforts to counter the Greyjoy threat.

With determination, Aemon made his final preparations before setting off; his mind focused on the tasks ahead. As he mounted his dragon and took to the skies, he knew the challenges ahead would be formidable, but he was resolved to face them head-on in pursuit of victory.

Driftmark

Viserra Targaryen

Viserra Targaryen, astride her dragon Vēttir, soared through the stormy skies towards Driftmark. Vēttir's scales shimmered in a deep maroon-red hue, reflecting the muted light of the storm clouds above. He propelled them forward with each beat of his colossal wings through the driving rain.

Viserra's attire mirrored the coloration of her dragon, her red maroon riding leathers clinging tightly to her form as she braced against the buffeting winds. Despite the discomfort of the storm and the unrelenting pace at which they flew, Viserra maintained an air of fierce determination, her prideful spirit refusing to yield to the challenges that lay before her.

As the rain lashed against her face and soaked through her clothing, Viserra's thoughts seethed with frustration. She despised the relentless downpour, the way it soaked her to the bone and obscured her vision.

She resented the lack of respite, the absence of time to rest and tend to her needs. But above all, she envied that Aemon, her nephew and Prince of Summerhall, had demanded her presence on this mission.

Viserra harbored great pride in her abilities as a dragon rider, but she chafed at being ordered about like a mere servant. She longed for the freedom to chart her course, to pursue her desires without the burden of Aemon's commands weighing upon her.

Yet despite her inner turmoil, Viserra remained resolute in her duty. With a fierce determination burning in her heart, she urged Vēttir onward through the storm, determined to fulfill her mission and prove herself worthy of her Targaryen blood.

Despite her unwavering loyalty to her cousin Aemon, Viserra couldn't shake the gnawing sense of injustice that gnawed at her soul. She longed for the opportunity to rule and wield power as her sister Saera did, to command the respect and obedience of those around her. It annoyed her that Aemon's lack of political acumen left them vulnerable to manipulation, and she couldn't help but resent that Saera seemed to excel in exploiting this weakness to make herself the one to rule Summerhall while he left; she knew for a fact she had conned Aemon into it, and looked as though she submitted to his will to make it look as though she did not relish in being the one to lead. Aemon may have made the decision, but Saera had made sure she was the only option to leave on his behalf.

She couldn't help but feel jealous as she compared her situation to that of her sister Saera. While Saera possessed a keen intellect and a natural talent for manipulation, Viserra found herself constrained by Aemon's authority and sense of duty. She longed for the opportunity to wield power and influence like Saera, to shape events according to her desires rather than being beholden to the whims of others.

As she struggled to maintain her grip on Vēttir's reins amidst the buffeting winds, Viserra couldn't shake the feeling of frustration that gnawed at her from within. Despite her affection for Aemon, she couldn't help but resent his lack of political acumen and reliance on others to navigate the complexities of governance.

As the storm raged around her, Viserra's thoughts were consumed by a fierce determination to prove herself and demonstrate her cunning and strength of will. She gritted her teeth against the biting wind, her grip tightening on Vēttir's reins as she urged him forward through the storm.

Beside her, Maegelle Targaryen rode astride her dragon Jēdar, the magnificent creature adorned in light blue and sapphire hues. Viserra looked sideways at her sister, her concern evident in her expression. Despite their differences, Viserra harbored a deep affection for Maegelle, and she couldn't bear the thought of any harm coming to her amidst the storm's fury.

With a silent nod of reassurance, Viserra offered Maegelle a brief smile before returning to the task. Together, they would weather the storm and emerge stronger for it, their bond as sisters and dragonriders unbreakable in the face of adversity.

Viserra strained her eyes against the driving rain as she guided Vēttir towards Driftmark, the looming fortress growing larger on the horizon with each passing moment. The maroon dragon's powerful wings beat against the storm, his roars echoing through the tempest as if challenging the very elements themselves.

Beside her, Maegelle clung tightly to the reins of Jēdar, her dragon matching Vēttir's strides with graceful determination. The two sisters shared a silent understanding amidst the chaos, their unspoken bond serving as a source of strength in the face of adversity.

As Driftmark drew nearer, Viserra's heart quickened with anticipation, her mind racing about the tasks ahead. With a determined nod, she signaled to Maegelle, and together, they began their descent towards the castle's courtyard.

The dragons' thunderous roars filled the air as they landed, the sound reverberating off the ancient stone walls of Driftmark like a clarion call. Viserra dismounted gracefully from Vēttir's back, her movements fluid despite the fierce winds that threatened to buffet her off balance. She reached out a hand to assist Maegelle, and her sister's grateful smile was a silent acknowledgment.

As they approached the guards stationed at the entrance of Driftmark, Viserra's keen senses pricked at the sound of an unfamiliar roar echoing from within the castle walls. The noise was deep and guttural, unlike anything she had heard from Vēttir or Jēdar before. It was as though someone had dragged wood and stones over fiery burning tiles, as if some had scratched metal on burning coals.

Viserra's gaze pierced through the driving rain, her eyes narrowing as she caught a glimpse of a dragon looming in the distance, obscured by the storm's fury. As the creature drew closer, its form gradually took shape amidst the swirling mists, revealing itself as none other than Meleys, the Red Queen.

Meleys was a sight to behold, her scales ablaze with a fiery hue that seemed to dance and shimmer in the dim light of the storm. Her massive wings stretched outwards, casting a shadow over the landscape below, while her powerful muscles rippled beneath her crimson scales with each beat of her wings. But for some reason, the left wing did not open as wide, almost as if Meleys was trying to keep the wing closer to the body for protection.

The dragon's eyes glowed with an intense inner fire, reflecting the untamed spirit that burned within her. Meleys exuded an aura of power and majesty, her presence commanding respect and awe from all who beheld her.

Viserra's heart skipped a beat as she beheld the magnificent creature, apprehension swirling within her. She knew all too well the destructive potential that lay dormant within a dragon of Meleys' caliber, and the thought sent a chill down her spine. But then she thought of why the dragon was grounded at Driftmark's castle? Why was she not further away? Why was Meleys not flying around? Was she hurt? That would be the only answer to why the dragon was not flying around. It would be the best reason for why Meleys' favored her wing.

There had only been one time in the entire continent's history and far too sparingly in the Valyria Empire that lasted nearly five thousand years that something other than a dragon injured a dragon, let alone killed one. Rhaenys somehow failed so drastically on the dragon's back that Meleys was injured; the only other time a scorpion injured a dragon happened to Rhaenys' namesake, the Conqueror's wife. Viserra vowed never to name her future daughter Rhaenys if the name was so cursed that both women with the name, riding a dragon with the letter M begging their name, were able to be shot by a scorpion; the shot is near impossible at best and quite literally impossible at worse.

Viserra took pride in knowing she was the superior dragon rider.

The only truly vulnerable part of the dragon to be injured in a kill was the eyes or the roof of the mouth; dragons fly too high to be shot in the eye, and dragons only open their mouth to roar or breathe fire, making it impossible to fire at the right time when dragons were far more than wise enough to close their mouth before the shot is fired. Somehow, Rhaenys allowed Meleys to be shot at where the wing met the shoulder, and now the dragon would not fly until she was healed. Viserra was disappointed in her niece and laughed loudly to herself. Maegelle smiled gently, but her eyes held the glare that showed she knew what Viserra was thinking and disliked her openly laughing.

But Meleys was still a dragon, a large dragon. A dragon, when fully healed, capable of killing Viserra's or Maegelle's own, and for that Viserra was concerned. Despite her misgivings, Viserra kept her thoughts to herself, unwilling to voice her concerns aloud. Instead, she swallowed her fear and steeled herself for whatever challenges lay ahead, determined to face them head-on alongside her sister and their allies.

The guards stood at attention as Viserra and Maegelle approached, their imposing figures clad in the sea green and silver of House Velaryon. There was a palpable reverence in the air as the princesses drew near, their identities unmistakable given the unique dragons that accompanied them. The doors before them were dark in color, the stones that made Driftmark just as dark, and the stones damp from the storms and the fact that the castles were closer to the waters than in Dragonstone, even if Dragonstone as an Island was smaller in size.

The guards knocked thrice before opening the doors; a man with a deep voice and strong resolve was the one to introduce them to the Velaryon family. Viserra had to reassure herself; this was her first time speaking to another family without any support. Maegelle would do this with her; they would officially start the game themselves, just as Aemon had done when he took Balerion. She loved her nephew, but she wished to strangle him for making them do this just minutes after giving them a warning; two hours was not enough time to ready her mind to speak to the Sea Snake when he had dragons himself to not be belittled or bullied into position.

"We present to you, Her Grace, Princess Viserra Targaryen, and Her Grace, Princess Maegelle Targaryen of Summerhall," one of the guards announced, his voice carrying through the grand halls of Driftmark.

This was the first time Viserra had been referred to as 'Her Grace'; the royal with the highest position in the area was given it, and while Rhaenys was older and closer to Viserys in suggestion, the princess was married and counted a Velaeryon more so Targaryen if royalty did not allow Targaryen women to give up their name to the house they marry into and did not allow outside ladies to take the name Targaryen when they married into the Crown. Viserra and Maegelle only retained their position as 'Your Grace' because they were not married and were closely associated with Aemon, who was heir to the Prince of Dragonstone, technicality at its funniest.

Upon entering the throne room, Viserra and Maegelle were greeted by the sight of the entire Velaryon family assembled before them. Lord Corlys sat upon his ornate throne, flanked by his wife, Princess Rhaenys, and his children Laena and Laenor. The throne faced the fires as he sat looking at the flames, his family. Standing already looking at the door. The room was illuminated by the flickering light of the hearth fires, casting a warm glow upon the gathered nobles. The walls were adorned with trophies and artifacts from Lord Corlys's legendary adventures, each a testament to the wealth and prestige of House Velaryon.

Lord Corlys rose from his seat as the princesses entered, his expression of welcome and respect. His smile was false; even Viserra could see that, but only due to spending time in King's Landing, lesser lords and ladies would have thought it more genuine than fresh water at a lake. "Welcome, Princess Viserra and Princess Maegelle," he greeted them warmly. "It is an honor to receive you in our home."

Maegelle stepped forward, her demeanor calm and composed as she addressed Lord Corlys and the rest of the Velaryons gathered in the throne room. "My lord Corlys, Princess Rhaenys, Lady Laena, Lord Laenor," she greeted each of them respectfully, her voice soft yet carrying an air of confidence.

Lord Corlys's eyebrows raised in mild surprise at their unexpected arrival. "I was not aware of your visit to Driftmark," he admitted, his curiosity piqued.

Maegelle explained, her words measured and precise. "Our journey here was decided only a short while ago at the behest of Prince Aemon Targaryen. We traveled hard and rode ourselves raw when the storm came upon us. Forgive us. We are tired and weak from flying through such a tempest."

Viserra added on to help her sister's story. "We can't all be as good as Daemon or Aemon on dragons, can we?" she chuckled. She then turned to her sister, showing her commonly known dislike for lordly words and talks. Her sister Saera may be witty and has been known to be cunning publically. Still, Viserra chooses to make it look as though she disliked such things, mostly to see if people would leave her in rooms they would otherwise send her away from and, as a result, gain knowledge, she might otherwise not know. Luckily, such theatrics were enough for her to leave now under the pretense of finding things like this boring and her being soaking wet. "I'm sorry to say, but I'm wet and tired; Maegelle is more than enough to be Aemon's steward for the day; I need a bath."

Laenor laughed outright; Lord Corlys and Lanea chuckled, but Princess Rhaneys, the only one with suspicions, narrowed her eyes. "Forgive us, Ñamar; mayhaps you could come to the fires to warm and dry before I send for a servant to aid you to the room. It would be best to rest here rather than fly through the storm. Evenexperienced and wizeneddragon riders should avoid flying through them, let alone ayoung princess."

Viserra already disliked her niece, Princess Rhaenys. Frankly, she despised most of her family outside of those already at Summerhall, a thing she and Saera could agree on. Viserys was spineless. Daemon was ruthless and ambitious. Laena was not as smart as the rest of Viserra's sisters, who had to grow up strong due to not being in Westeros for the first part of their lives. Laenor seemed to be thrice the fool. Rhaenyra seemed to like the Hightower far too much. Aemma seemed too docile for a dragon. Aemon was too f*cking honorable and too solemn, but his honorable code was more than enough to endear himself to her and her sisters. Viserra had a feeling that his honorable streak would not last long due to this damned war; a Wildling Invasion and a Greyjoy Rebellion would do that to him. And now, Viserra could fully understand that Rhaenys was just a c*nt.

Rhaenys practically called her and Maegelle foolish little girls riding through a storm as if they had any say when it started or stopped. And Viserra was doing all those to give the Velaryon's the chance for vengeance, for the Velaryon's benefit. Viserra decided then and there that she would not like Rhaenys for the rest of her life, which was an interesting thought. She may have prided herself on being pure Valyrian, but it seemed anyone that wasn't her sisters and Aemon just squandered that privilege of her liking them; not that Aemon was a pure Valyrian, she had mocked him ruthlessly on that regard, hoping that he may at least grow some thick skin while lesser Houses call him Black Prince, but at least he had the Conqueror's dragon to make up for that fact. He was able to stop one war alone and hold off an entire kingdom's army.

She decided then and there that most in the world all either used a c*nt to their benefit, had a c*nt, or was a c*nt. Rhaneys was one of the few who fit into all three categories, and with that same thought, she realized that Aemon was in none of the categories. She would need to make sure he did not fall for a woman who would use their c*nt on him. Gods be good. She loved her nephew, but he was an idiot.

The mention of Prince Aemon's name seemed to intrigue Lord Corlys even further, and he leaned forward attentively. "And what, may I ask, would prompt Prince Aemon to send you to Driftmark, especially through a storm?" he inquired.

Before Maegelle could respond, Viserra interjected, her tone casual yet calculated. "We've traveled far, and I must admit, the flight has left me feeling rather fatigued," she remarked, glancing at Princess Rhaenys and Lady Laena. "Perhaps one of you could show me a room to rest in; Maegelle can handle this on her own."

Maegelle, to her credit, knew Viserra very well. They might not act it, but they spent more time together than Viserra did any of her sisters save for Saera, and Maegelle played along well. Just enough to try and cover up the obvious display. "Abandoning me already?"

"I am not the one who wished to leave Summerhall," Viserra returned. On that she did not lie and was enough to cover herself once more.

Lord Corlys's voice cut through the air as he posed a question to the room, his brows furrowed in contemplation and wanted to get the answer to his question. "Why would Prince Aemon dispatch the princesses of Summerhall to Driftmark?" His gaze lingered on Viserra and Maegelle, searching for answers.

Viserra observed that neither Princess Rhaenys nor Lady Laena seemed inclined to depart from Lord Corlys's side. She knew Aemon and Maegelle would not like her to speak, wanting Maegelle to be more subtly but with Rhaenys not leaving and her being suspicious of Viserra and her sister being far more cunning than nine-year-olds should be subtly would not work; they needed to be blunt, needed to get Corlys angry enough to make a rash decision and point the anger towards where Aemon wanted

With a subtle shift in her demeanor, Viserra directed her attention to Lord Corlys, her words laced with a calculated edge. "It seems, my lord, that your esteemed fleet has suffered a rather severe blow," she remarked, her tone both casual and pointed. "A third of your ships, gone in an instant. And yet, here we are, House Velaryon seemingly idle in the face of such aggression."

Princess Rhaenys did not suspect such a blunt response, and it took her surprise long enough for Lord Corlys to be the only one to respond. Aemon may have been terrible at politics, something royals should not be, but his blunt northern habits were such a rare thing that they caused adept players of the game to be surprised long enough for her to capitalize. He was an idiot, but he was good when he did not know what he was doing, and by that same logic, he was good at what he was doing more often than not.

Lord Corlys bristled at the implication, and his irritation was evident in his response. "Since the attack, I have been tirelessly sending ravens and deploying our ships to retaliate against the Greyjoys," he retorted, his voice tinged with frustration.

Undeterred, Viserra pressed on, her gaze unwavering. "Forgive me, my lord, but it appears you are more preoccupied with gazing into the flames than utilizing your resources to combat our enemies," she countered, her words carrying a subtle challenge.

Princess Rhaenys interjected, her voice calm yet firm. "Just yesterday, I incinerated two Greyjoy ships," she stated, conveying a hint of pride.

Maegelle, ever observant, seized upon Princess Rhaenys's admission, decided to change tactics, and supported her sister; both knew that Viserra was far too dominant to allow someone else to lead anything, and now Maegelle needed to support rather than lead. "And did you encounter any scorpions during your encounter?" she inquired, her eyes narrowing slightly. Princess Rhaenys's silence spoke volumes, confirming Maegelle's suspicions. "I see," Maegelle remarked, exchanging a knowing glance with Viserra. "My sister and I have faced the Greyjoys in aerial combat and have proven ourselves adept at evading their scorpion bolts."

Viserra said, "Meleys is grounded; you were shot down, weren't you?" Rhaenys once more said nothing, but this gave Viserra the chance to have a triumphant smirk. "Daemon and Aemon have a gift on the dragon's back, comparable to Aegon the Conqueror himself, and Aemon has Aegon's dragon. Easy enough to learn how to fly in combat from such a good source. We know how to fight back, and we offer you the chance to do the same, especially since the only dragon rider of note on Driftmark is grounded. The other dragon rider has a dragon smaller than our own and has half the knowledge of how to use it."

Corlys bristled, angry again; Viserra belittled his wife and son. Viserra knew she was making an enemy of Corlys, but frankly, her nephews had Caraxes and Balerion, she and her sisters had dragons larger than Laenor's, and Meleys and Seasmoke were of no concern to her. She just hoped Saera and Daenerys wouldn't kill her for the way she was handling this.

Viserra resumed her verbal sparring with Lord Corlys, her words sharp and pointed. "House Velaryon has been grievously slighted, and yet we remain unaware of the Greyjoys' next move," she stated, her voice ringing with conviction. "Sending Princess Rhaenys into the fray alone, atop Meleys, will achieve little when our enemies have demonstrated their ability to harm our dragons. And frankly, Meleys being grounded means the only chance you have to strike back is with the same ships that have just been reduced by one-third."

Maegelle changed tactics with a sigh and decided to reward Viserra's words with more tact and generosity. "Lord Corlys, we have seven dragons at Summerhall. Aemon repelled assaults by the Ironborn and an entire Dornish Invasion by himself. My sisters and I have been taught enough to avoid the little scorpion fire that remains, and our dragons may be smaller, but it makes it thrice as hard to hit when they fly in the skies. Balerion has proven to be resistant to scorpion bolts."

Lord Corlys looked on in curiosity. "Excuse me?"

Rhaenys picked up on this as well. "Balerion is resistant to scoprion bolts?"

Viserra smiled widely before adding to her sister's information. "Bounced off his scales like arrows fired at a castle's stone walls. Broke on his scales as the winds pushed them across the skies, and that was before he burned the scorpions that were fired."

Maegelle took the lead once more and grabbed her sisters gently, a small nudge to remind Viserra that it was Maegelle that Aemon wanted to take the lead on this. Viserra was subtly infuriated by the slowness, but she riled up Lord Corlys and Rhaenys enough to point their anger at her and for Maeglle to easily sneak her way to being the one they would listen to.

Maeglle spoke with a soft smile. "Aemon believes he knows where the Greyjoys will strike next. He believes it might be best for you to use your ships to get the vengeance. After all, your ships burned; what better fleet to reassert their dominance?" Maegelle handed the letter that Aemon had given her. "A Dragon's vengeance or submission by Kraken, Lord Corlys. The choice is yours," Maegelle replied.

Lord Corls gently took the letter before opening it, not caring about subtly, reading it once, twice, thrice before coming to his answer, not even going to his wife, Rhaenys, to be advised. Viserra smiled; she had riled him enough not to seek the advice of the person who had already failed the Velaryon assault.

Corlys smirked before speaking. "The boy is far more adept at war than men ten times his age, it would seem. Princess Viserra and Princess Maegelle, the hospitality of Driftmark is yours. I believe House Targaryen would find House Velaryons has always been comprised of the Old, the True, and the Brave, even more so to those who could give our shared enemies Fire and Blood." Viserra began to turn to leave with her sister Maegelle and could hear Corlys' final words. "Prepare the fleet. We are to meet the Redwyne fleet at the Straits of Fair Isle. The Redwynes will push the Ironborn back, and we will take them from behind!" Viserra fought off the laugh at the wording but was proud that she had done as she bid and now could rest and bathe.

Storm's End

Aerea Targaryen

Aerea Targaryen reveled in the thrill of riding her dragon through the tempestuous storm, a sensation that ignited her spirit with unmatched exhilaration. Rain cascaded from the heavens in torrents, each droplet a testament to the storm's ferocity. The wind howled like a banshee, whipping through the air with unrestrained fury, tugging at Aerea's cloak and threatening to wrench the reins from her grasp.

Above, dark clouds roiled and churned, their ominous presence casting the landscape below into shadow. Lightning crackled across the sky, illuminating the tumultuous heavens with jagged forks of blinding white light. Thunder boomed in deafening crescendos, reverberating through the air like the roar of a vengeful god.

Despite the chaos surrounding her, Aerea felt a sense of freedom unlike any other as she guided her dragon through the storm. The challenge of navigating through the tempestuous winds, of holding fast to the reins as her dragon surged forward with unbridled energy, filled her with an exhilarating sense of purpose.

Amidst the raging storm, Aerea Targaryen rode atop her magnificent dragon, Dȳñes, whose scales shimmered like silver platinum despite the onslaught of wind and rain. Aerea's riding leathers mirrored the radiant hue of her dragon, their silvery sheen a stark contrast against the tumultuous backdrop of the storm.

Beside her, Daenerys Targaryen displayed a more cautious demeanor as she guided her dragon, Averilla, through the tempest. Averilla's scales boasted a rich palette of deep purple and grape, perfectly complementing Daenerys's attire, which mirrored the regal hues of her dragon.

Through the lashing rain and howling winds, Aerea turned to Daenerys, her companion in the skies. Despite the storm's ferocity, Aerea's gaze remained steady as she pointed out the distant silhouette of Storm's End, the ancient stronghold looming ominously amidst the storm's chaos. With a shared determination, the two dragonriders pressed onward, their resolve unwavering as they braved the elements together.

Through the tumultuous veil of the storm, Aerea's keen eyes pierced the darkness, discerning a looming threat amidst the chaos. There, amidst the swirling tempest, she beheld a formidable force of Greyjoys and sellswords, their numbers not insignificant. Aerea estimated there to be no less than five thousand men among their ranks, a formidable force poised for battle. But she did not fear them; she thought all the Ironborn were stupid.

However, the defenders of Storm's End faced dire circ*mstances. Despite its historical strength and strategic significance, the castle's garrison numbered only around one thousand men. This resulted from recent events that had depleted its ranks, with many Baratheon soldiers lost in skirmishes with the Greyjoys on the journey to Storm's End. Though the Baratheons possessed the potential to muster a formidable army numbering in the tens of thousands, their forces were scattered among the various castles of the Stormlands. The only time any of the kingdoms of the Seven Kingdoms can reach their full might of the tens of thousands, for example, the forty thousand of the North, was when they had time to call forth all the Houses to add to the numbers.

The Greyjoys were smart to strike right when the Tourney of Harennhall was finished; no one was ready in any of the kingdoms. The attacks made it so that instead of pushing the enemy out of the kingdoms, most of the kingdoms had to find a way to invade their lands, lands designed not to be invaded, get in a strong position, and then fight back when they were already depleted. The Baratheons were the perfect example of this; they had lost many men reaching Storm's End, and many of the lords of the Stormlands had left at different times, in different ways, and had been too far away to regroup, already being under attack by the Greyjoys.

Each castle held roughly two thousand men within its walls, a standard distribution of military strength observed across the Seven Kingdoms. While the combined might of the Stormlands could muster an impressive force, individually, each castle stood with only a modest complement of soldiers.

Given the dire circ*mstances, Aerea knew that Storm's End would remain besieged until reinforcements arrived. The Greyjoys and their sellsword allies possessed the advantage of numbers, and they would not relent until the stronghold was either captured or relieved by outside forces—a daunting prospect for the beleaguered defenders within.

She had known that striking when no one was there to defend their castles was a cunning ploy, but they were all stupid. All the Ironborns were stupid. The first five months of war had gone in their favor, but now that Aemon was pushed into a corner to act since the rest of their family had not, dragon's hell fire would be brought upon the world of man. I

Krakens were stupid.

Now, House Targaryen would show the Ironborn fire and blood.

Then she noticed the siege weapons the closer she got. There was no damage done to Storm's End; they must have recently finished the siege weapons. And if the siege weapons fire, it would only be a week or two for Storm's End to fall. But what drew Aerea's eyes were the three scorpions near the center of the grouped-up Ironborn.

Aemon had thought there were no scorpions; Balerion had handled the majority more than Likely, but it looked as though some were left over. They would need to destroy the scorpions first, as Aemon had told them. If they destroyed them first, the Ironborn had no way to fight back. Aerea knew she would be the first one to attack; she would need to destroy them in the first dive to make sure that the chaos was more extreme and their chances of being shot would be close to zero, especially since she supposed the harsh storm had covered up the fact Aerea and Daenerys had arrived.

As Aerea and Daenerys swiftly formulated their plan, a sense of urgency gripped them. Aerea's resolve was resolute as she turned to her sister, exchanging a nod of understanding. With steely determination, she guided her dragon, Dȳñes, closer to the impending fray, diving down harshly to gains peed as Aemon taught her. The wind whipped against her face as she urged Dȳñes into a steep dive, the sensation of acceleration exhilarating yet perilous.

Amid the dive, Aerea felt the rush of adrenaline coursing through her veins, her senses heightened as she focused on the task at hand. With each passing moment, the speed increased, the force of the wind roaring past them like a relentless tempest. Aerea's heart pounded in her chest, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts as she prepared to unleash destruction upon the unsuspecting Ironborn below.

With split-second precision, Aerea issued the command, her voice cutting through the chaos like a clarion call of doom. "Dracarys!" she cried, her voice carrying the weight of impending devastation. In response, Dȳñes unleashed a torrent of flames, the silvery platinum hue of his breath matching the shimmering brilliance of his scales. The silvery coloring contrasting greatly against the dark stormy night.

The flames erupted ferociously, engulfing the Ironborn below in a searing inferno. The air crackled with heat as the fiery deluge consumed everything in its path, reducing men and equipment alike to smoldering ash. The sheer force of the flames was overwhelming, a relentless onslaught that left naught but devastation in its wake.

As Aerea unleashed the silvery flames from Dȳñes' maw, a wave of scintillating brilliance surged forth, illuminating the stormy sky with its ethereal glow. The flames danced and twisted through the air, their silvery hue casting an otherworldly light upon the battlefield below. The explosion of silvery flame, as vast and violet as a dozen barrels of wildfire.

The ferocity of the flames was unmatched as they bore down upon the Ironborn with unrelenting fury. The siege weapons, mere moments ago poised for destruction, now found themselves engulfed in a swirling vortex of silvery fire and smoke. The scorpions, their deadly bolts poised to strike, were consumed in a blinding conflagration, their wooden frames crackling and splintering under the intense heat. The scorpions were destroyed in an explosive torrent of silvery flames that continued from one scorpion to the next.

Amidst the chaos, the Ironborn scrambled to respond, their shouts of alarm drowned out by the roar of the flames. Panic and confusion reigned as the silvery inferno raged unabated, casting a pall of destruction over their ranks.

Aerea watched with grim satisfaction as the siege weapons and scorpions were reduced to smoldering wreckage, their threat neutralized by the dragon's fiery onslaught. The element of surprise had worked in their favor, the storm shrouding their approach until it was too late for the Ironborn to react.

With a satisfied smile on her lips, Aerea continued to direct Dȳñes' flames toward the heart of the Ironborn encampment, determined to ensure their assault would not go unanswered.

As Aerea completed her turn and prepared for her next assault, she glanced over to see Daenerys following suit, her resolve mirroring Aerea's own. With a fierce determination, Daenerys guided Averilla into a steep dive, the wind howling past her as she descended with breathtaking speed. The speed of the dive would add more force to the flames to come, a tactic Aemon had hammered into each of their skulls.

As Daenerys unleashed the command "Dracarys," Averilla responded with a deafening roar, her jaws agape as a torrent of purple flames erupted forth. The flames blazed with an intensity that rivaled the storm itself, casting an eerie glow across the battlefield as they hurtled toward their target.

The purple flames tore through the Ironborn ranks with unyielding ferocity, engulfing everything in their path with searing heat and unrelenting power. The air crackled with energy as the flames danced and twisted, consuming siege weapons, tents, and unfortunate soldiers caught in their deadly embrace.

Amidst the chaos, the Ironborn scrambled to evade the onslaught, their shouts of panic drowned out by the roar of the flames. The purple inferno spread with alarming speed, leaving devastation in its wake as it devoured everything in its path.

Aerea watched with awe as the purple flames wrought havoc upon the Ironborn, their once formidable ranks now thrown into disarray by the dragon's fiery assault. The combined might of Dȳñes and Averilla proved to be a force to be reckoned with, their flames painting a vivid portrait of destruction upon the storm-tossed battlefield.

As Dȳñes unleashed her next pass of silvery flames upon the Ironborn, the air was filled with the shimmering glow of platinum. The flames danced and flickered with an ethereal brilliance, casting radiant beams of light that cut through the darkened skies like celestial fire. Each blast of silver fire seared through the air with a blinding intensity, leaving trails of incandescent sparks in its wake.

Meanwhile, Averilla's lilac flames erupted from her jaws with a vibrant hue, contrasting sharply against the stormy backdrop. The flames crackled and roared as they surged toward the enemy, engulfing everything in their path with an otherworldly glow. The air was filled with the intoxicating scent of burning wood and charred flesh as the purple inferno raged on.

With each dive, Dȳñes and Averilla descended upon the Ironborn with unyielding ferocity, their flames raining down upon the enemy with devastating force. The ground trembled beneath the onslaught as torrents of fire swept across the battlefield, leaving destruction and chaos in their wake.

The Ironborn ran around like ants, scurrying and shuffling through rocks and rubble, hiding from the flames.

The Ironborn were stupid.

The combined brilliance of the platinum and lilac flames illuminated the darkened landscape with a radiant glow, casting long shadows that danced across the scorched earth. The once tranquil countryside was now transformed into a blazing inferno, with flames licking at the sky and smoke billowing into the air like dark storm clouds. Lines of platinum and rich purple flames, paths of roaring fires that were wild and untamed, roaring and burning in defiance of the dark stormy night. Infernos of silver and purple, a field of platinum and lilac flames. Aerea had once seen Aemon looking over Dornish sigils and Houses, and she could not help but notice thatthe flames resembled the coloring of House Dayne.

Amidst the chaos, the Ironborn were thrown into disarray, their ranks scattered and broken by the relentless onslaught of dragonfire. Tents and siege weapons were reduced to smoldering ruins, and the air was filled with the anguished cries of the wounded and dying.

As Dȳñes and Averilla continued their assault, the fires burned ever brighter, their brilliance serving as a beacon of hope for the defenders of Storm's End. Though the storm raged on unabated, the dragons' flames blazed with an unquenchable fury, illuminating the path to victory amidst the darkest of nights.

As the platinum flames of Dȳñes and the lilac fire of Averilla mingled in the air, they created a mesmerizing display of color and light. The silvery brilliance of Dȳñes' flames shimmered and danced with an otherworldly glow, while the deep purple hue of Averilla's fire cast long shadows that twisted and writhed across the battlefield. The flames and their coloring far too beautiful for something being a burning death.

The two dragons soared through the stormy skies with graceful precision, their wings beating in perfect harmony as they unleashed their fiery wrath upon the Ironborn below. With each breath, torrents of flame erupted from their jaws, painting the air with a kaleidoscope of colors as they surged toward their targets. Every time they rose back into the skies, the stormy dark skies covered them once more as the storm clouds blocked them from the Ironborn view.

Amidst the beauty of the flames, the screams of the Ironborn echoed through the air, a cacophony of anguish and despair that pierced the night like a dagger. Men writhed in agony as the searing heat of the dragonfire consumed them, their flesh blackening and blistering under the intense inferno.

Tents and siege weapons were engulfed in flames, their wooden frames crackling and splintering as they were reduced to ash. The acrid stench of smoke filled the air, mingling with the scent of burning flesh as the fires raged unchecked across the battlefield.

Through it all, Dȳñes and Averilla continued their relentless assault, their flames devouring everything in their path with unyielding ferocity. The ground trembled beneath the force of their onslaught, and the air was filled with the sound of roaring flames and the desperate cries of the dying.

As the battle raged on, the landscape became a hellscape of fire and smoke, illuminated by the brilliant glow of the purple and silver flames. Though the storm raged overhead, the fury of Dȳñes and Averilla burned with an intensity that could not be extinguished, casting a beacon of hope amidst the darkness of war.

By their twelfth or so pass together, the entire Ironborn group of five thousand had been eradicated. The silver and purple flames were still bright and glowing in the dark skies. There was no doubt in Aerea's mind now that they were gone that the Baratheons would be thankful, judging by the fact that they had two dragons with them. The Baratheons would more than willingly push the Ironborn back alongside her and her sister like Aemon wanted.

The Krakens were stupid.

Aerea knew it better now that she had taken out a group of five thousand of them. Now, with Storm's End secured, it would not be long before all of the Stormlands were secured; with the help of Aerea and Daenerys, of course, and with the Stormlands secured, they could go and push the Ironborn back. She took pride in being one of the first princesses of Summerhall, and she would make sure that her allies admired Summerhall and her seat while her enemies feared it. After all, nothing is more feared and admired than a dragon.

She wondered if Aemon had reached the Arbor yet.

Chapter 26: The Straits of Fair Isle

Chapter Text

The Arbor 105 AC

Aemon Targaryen

As Aemon rode atop the colossal form of Balerion the Black Dread, he couldn't help but marvel at the sheer power and terror embodied by the ancient dragon. Truly he would never grow bored of such a thing. Balerion may have lacked the agility of some of the younger dragons, but what he lacked in speed, he more than made up for in sheer devastation. Balerion was absolute. To point him in one direction, everything in that general direction was now a sea of black flames.

With each beat of his massive wings, Balerion sent gusts of wind howling through the air, tearing at the fabric of the world below. As he soared through the skies, the ground trembled beneath his weight, a dark shadow cast over the land below. Entire armies would be picked up and thrown about if Balerion flew too close to the ground. He was a living tornado.

When Balerion roared, it was as if the very earth itself cried out in anguish, the sound echoing across the battlefield like thunder rolling across the heavens. Men quaked in fear at the sound, knowing that the wrath of the Black Dread was upon them. He was the living earthquake.

But when Balerion breathed fire, the true horror of his power was unleashed. A torrent of black flames poured forth from his gaping maw, engulfing everything in their path in an inferno of destruction. The air seemed to catch fire in his presence, the heat so intense that it scorched the soul. He was a living wildfire.

In the presence of Balerion, armies stood no chance. He was a force of nature, a living embodiment of destruction and chaos. To face him in battle was to face the wrath of the gods, and few could hope to survive such an encounter. He was a living disaster. He was the living death. He was the living dread.

As Aemon embarked on his journey to the Arbor, he anticipated encountering scattered bands of Ironborn soldiers or perhaps even larger groups that he could swiftly dispatch with the might of Balerion by his side. Memories flickered through his mind of the terrifying display of power he had witnessed as Balerion's mere approach had sent enemy forces scattering like leaves in the wind, tossed about by the dragon's colossal wings.

As they drew nearer to the Arbor, an island nestled in the southern reaches of the Reach, bordering Dorne yet firmly rooted in Reach territory, Aemon braced himself for the possibility of facing Ironborn ships intent on raiding the island's shores. He spotted the telltale sails of the Ironborn vessels dotting the horizon, each one a harbinger of chaos and destruction.

But Aemon had Balerion at his side, a force of nature capable of unleashing devastation with but a word. As the Ironborn ships came into view, Balerion's fiery breath was unleashed upon them. It engulfed the vessels in such fierce black flames that they were consumed instantly, leaving nothing but charred remnants on the waves.

As Aemon and Balerion approached the Arbor, Aemon couldn't help but be captivated by the breathtaking beauty that unfolded before him. Ghost sat on his saddle, a position that was a cross between sitting and lying down. As quiet as the grave, Ghost lay next to Aemon and watched Aemon hold the reigns. The island emerged from the depths of the tranquil waters like a verdant jewel set amidst a sea of sapphire. Lush greenery blanketed the landscape, with emerald forests stretching outwards to meet the azure skies.

The waters surrounding the island mirrored the clear, cerulean hue of the sky above, their surface shimmering in the sunlight like liquid diamonds. Gentle ripples danced across the surface, creating a mesmerizing mosaic of reflections that seemed to sway with the flow of the tide. From what Aemon had heard, letters and ravens, the waters were not this calm just a few days ago. Storms have been harsh here, as of late, just like they have been in Storm's End.

As Balerion glided gracefully through the air, his powerful wings beating rhythmically against the currents, Aemon couldn't help but feel a sense of wonder wash over him. The island seemed to beckon to him, its beauty drawing him closer with each passing moment.

The closer they flew, the warmer the air grew as they descended towards the island's lush shores. Aemon could see the vibrant hues of the foliage below, the rich greens mingling with bursts of colorful blooms that dotted the landscape like jewels scattered upon velvet.

The scent of saltwater and sweet blossoms filled the air as they neared the island, a heady fragrance that enveloped them like a warm embrace. Aemon's heart swelled with appreciation for the natural splendor surrounding them, a stark contrast to the chaos and devastation of war that had plagued the realm in recent months.

As Aemon surveyed the horizon, his gaze fell upon a sight that awakened him. Before him stretched the vast expanse of the sea, its surface shimmering under the sun's golden rays. And upon that azure canvas floated a fleet unlike any he had ever seen.

The Redwyne fleet, a formidable armada of ships, laid before him in all its glory. The sails billowed in the gentle breeze, each vessel a proud testament to the naval might of House Redwyne. Aemon beheld the sheer scale of the fleet, a sight that dwarfed any naval force he had encountered in his lifetime.

Memories stirred within him, memories of another life as Jon Snow, where the Redwyne fleet had been a formidable force to be reckoned with. He recalled the ties that bound House Redwyne to his wife, Margaery Tyrell, through her grandmother Olenna Tyrell, and to House Hightower through Margaery's mother. The memories have failed him, and they would fail him once more, and a thousand times more, but he did recall thinking that the Tyrells of his time were more powerful and stable in the Reach than any Tyrell before them.

Luthor Tyrell married Olenna Redwyne. Aemon recalled Margaery telling Jon Snow that Olenna was set to marry a Targaryen, a son of Aegon the Unlikely, to ensure the Redwyne fleet would support the Iron Throne through blood. Still, like all of Aegon's children, the betrothal was broken. Margaery claimed her grandmother would say it was her choice, and she found her way into Luthor Tyrell's bed, and he was honor-bound to marry her; Margaery claimed she did not believe it was Olenna who chose to stop the betrothal because only the Crown could do such things.

But Margaery did say that Luthor marrying House Redwyne gave the Tyrells far more legitimacy and a stronger position. Then Olenna had her daughter Mina Tyrell marry back into the Redwynes to leave no question of the union and used the position of close ties to the Redwynes and the ability to marry a Lord Paramount to get her son, Mace Tyrell to marry a Hightower daughter, Alerie Hightower, Margaery's mother. By having two families whose might was equivalent to Lord Paramount's in wealth and naval power, respectively, the Tyrells gained such stability.

It was so stable that gaining the Tyrells as an ally and their forces of over one hundred thousand knights and the largest naval power in the continent made it a guaranteed victory unless you were a fool. Margaery was not shy in naming Renly, Joffery, and Cersei as fools for squandering such powerful allies and yet named Tywin Lannister a cunning man for seeing that Lannisters were in a bad position in facing both the Riverlands and North, a war Tywin was losing if not for the Red Wedding, and having to somehow have enough forces to against Stannis and Stormlands. Margaery also admitted her father, whom she loved dearly, was foolish in supporting Renly when he could not gain the full might of the Stormlands, only a bit more than half, and because the fact that Renly was second in line, as Stanis was first, making Renly's claim illegitimate at best. She said as he could remember as best he could, 'We had the chance to join with King Rob before he was wed and have a combination of three kingdoms against the Lannister's one, or join Stannis who had the part of the Stormlands and all the Crownlands, and we choose the younger brother who had merely three-fourths of the Stormlands who did not have the most powerful army compared to the other contenders.'

The only way the Lannisters could continue to hold the kingdoms was if the Tyrells were willing to bolster their numbers, ensure their navy, and give them the food to keep King's Landing a float, and that was not counting the ravaged lands through the war or the fact that Dorne was less than likely going to keep their position of neutrality for long. The Lannisters, the moment it was said that the royal children were bastards, had begun writing the world's longest suicide note, and without the Tyrells, the axe would have come down on their necks. And yet Cersei squandered it at the end, and the House Lannister was brought down and made to bow low.

Aemon remembered a few things of his life, but something that never left his mind was the war of the Five Kings. Jon Snow had read up on each ever king, each move, each outcome, each foolish act, and each result. Unlike the other Houses that had a stake to gain, the Starks forging their kingdom, the Lannisters stealing the throne, and Renly and Stannis taking what was there by right, the Tyrells were in the position to benefit whoever came into power more than any other and help solidify and stabilize those in power. Aemon had thought of so much in this lifetime that he thought he might never forget it.

The Hightowers, with their vast wealth and influence, had once stood as pillars of power in the realm, their riches rivaling those of the Great Houses themselves, especially since they had both the Starry Sept and the Citadel in Oldtown. They had with them the two most influential insulations in the continent that should be disconnected from nobility and yet influence nobility drastically and the commonfolk just as much, if not more. And alongside them, House Redwyne had commanded the seas with an unmatched fleet. The two Houses were anything but ordinary vassal Houses, especially since they were arguably the most notable and important Houses outside of the Lord Paramount.

But now, as Aemon looked upon the Redwyne fleet before him, he couldn't help but feel a pang of melancholy. The ties that had once bound, or rather eventually bound, the Tyrells to the Redwynes and the Hightowers seemed to have never existed yet, leaving the Reach vulnerable in the face of external threats. The two greatest supporters of House Tyrell, during Jon Snow's time, were merely doing as they saw fit; from what Aemon recalled when speaking to maester Vaegon, somehow, he knew not how the Redwynes and Hightower were kin, but they were, and it made it clear why the Redwynes were so easily up in support of the Greens. Some part of him realized by helping the Redwynes here, he would be helping the Greens inadvertently, but that same part of him died quickly in his mind when he realized that if he had done anything that firmly placed him with the Blacks or the Greens, he would be doomed to do nothing to set things in place to stop the Long Night.

The sight of the Redwyne fleet filled Aemon with a sense of hope. For in those sleek vessels and billowing sails lay the potential to turn the tide of battle, reclaim lost glory, and restore the realm. If anything, this Greyjoy Rebellion, destroying a part of the Velaryon fleet and leading to the destruction of the entire Greyjoy fleet, would put all the naval power firmly on the side of the Greens. No amount of time would allow the Blacks to grow too drastically since Corlys would now be suspicious of any fleet growing and surely find a way to stop it all from happening. Aemon disliked that this war had put things into motion. Aemon would despise it later.

As Balerion descended, the massive dragon, with a size of over eight hundred feet and wings more than twice that size, cast a shadow that engulfed the land below. As he landed upon the island's shores, the force of his descent sent powerful gusts of wind rippling through the air, stirring the vegetation below as if a hurricane had swept through.

The ground trembled beneath the weight of Balerion's colossal form, and Aemon could feel the earth quiver with each step the dragon took. Yet despite the chaos wrought by his arrival, there was an air of anticipation among the welcoming party that approached.

Aemon watched as nearly fifty riders bearing the banners of House Redwyne rode forth to greet him, their faces a mix of awe and reverence. Their mounts moved with a grace that belied the urgency of their mission, their hooves stirring up clouds of dust as they made their way toward the dragon and his rider.

As the welcoming party approached, Aemon could discern the distinct banners of House Redwyne unfurling in the breeze. Each banner bore the house's sigil: a burgundy grape cluster emblazoned upon a field of vibrant blue, a symbol of their renowned vineyards and mastery of the seas.

Leading the group was a tall man, his auburn hair catching the sunlight as it framed his freckled face. His piercing blue eyes held curiosity and reverence as he rode forth to greet the arriving prince. This was Lord Eyan Redwyne, the head of House Redwyne and ruler of the Arbor. Aemon, fully of his dragon, watched as the horses grew far more fearful of the monstrosity behind Aemon.

As Lord Redwyne drew nearer, he guided his steed with practiced ease, his stature commanding respect even amidst the imposing presence of the dragon and its rider. Lord Redwyne dismounted and walked to Aemon before taking a knee; the others that followed their Lord did the same. Aemon bid them to rise, and they rose quickly before growing serious. It was just as he was raising that Ghost leaped off the dragon and slid down Balerio's wing to stand by Aemon's side, but so quick was the wolf, and so quiet that to all those, save for Aemon, it was as those Ghost just like his namesake and appeared. The Lord and knights all cringed in fear, but the wolf did nothing but keep his red eyes on Lord Redwyne. With a courteous nod of his head, he greeted Prince Aemon Targaryen in a tone that was both respectful and welcoming.

"Your Grace," Lord Redwyne began, his voice carrying the weight of his noble lineage. "What a pleasant surprise to see you here on the Arbor. We were not expecting such esteemed company." He inclined his head slightly, his manner deferential yet tinged with curiosity.

Aemon returned the greeting with a polite nod, his expression grave as he spoke. "An honor, my Lord. I have long wished to meet with the Lord of one of the greatest fleets in both living memories and the books in the Citadel." Aemon hated flattery, but Margaery beat it in Aemon's head, saying that it was best to deal with Reach lords with more honeyed words than biting steal.

Lord Redwyne smiled a broad smile that proved Margaery's words truer still. Aemon noticed that the lord kept his eyes on Ghost, ever slightly keeping his gaze while also being subtle enough to make it seem like he never kept his eyes from Aemon. Still, years of being next to the dire wolf taught Aemon what to look for in a man afraid of his companion, and Lord Redwyne was very much afraid. It was interesting for the Lord to be more afraid of the wolf than Balerion behind him. Still, he supposed Targaryens with dragons were common enough, unlike dire wolves this far south. "The honor is ours, Your Grace. To have the rider of the Conqueror's dragon here at the Arbor, no greater honor than this."

Aemon nodded; his face showed no smile, serious or, as his aunts would mock, brooding. "Lord Redwyne, I regret to inform you that my visit is not solely leisurely. I have found troubling information concerning House Redwyne and your fleet's safety."

The mention of danger caused a furrow on Lord Redwyne's brow as he regarded Aemon with concern and curiosity. "What sort of trouble do you speak of, Your Grace?"

Aemon's gaze met Lord Redwyne's, his tone serious as he revealed his suspicions. "I have reason to believe that the Greyjoys may soon set their sights upon the Redwyne fleet, just as they did with the Lannisters. Their recent actions have left a trail of destruction in their wake, and I fear your fleet may be their next target. They have tried before, and I know of storms delaying their attacks, but be assured their eyes are firmly upon you."

Lord Redwyne's expression hardened at the mention of the Greyjoys, but he shook his head in disbelief. "There have been no sightings of Greyjoy ships near the Arbor, Your Grace. And with the storms that have plagued these waters as of late, even the most seasoned sailors would find it difficult to navigate."

Aemon listened intently, but his resolve remained unshaken. "Indeed, Lord Redwyne, but with the Velaryon fleet decimated on the other side of the continent and the Lannister fleet all but destroyed, the Redwyne fleet stands as the primary obstacle to Greyjoy supremacy in the Sunset Sea. They may strike when least expected, and I cannot afford to ignore the threat they pose."

The gravity of Aemon's words hung heavy as Lord Redwyne considered the implications. "What would you propose, Your Grace?" he asked, his tone measured yet tinged with concern.

Aemon's gaze hardened as he outlined his plan. "I have come to ensure the safety of the Redwyne fleet and to discuss the possibility of a counter-offensive against the Greyjoys. We must be vigilant and prepared to defend our shores against any threat."

Aemon noticed that the Lord of the Arbor seemed to bristle at the idea that a child would protect the Redwyne fleet. Lord Redwyne's skepticism was palpable as he listened to Aemon's warnings, his demeanor veering between disbelief and a thinly veiled attempt at remaining respectful. His noble facade faltered momentarily as he struggled to conceal his doubts, but he maintained his composure as he addressed the prince.

"Your Grace, while I appreciate your concern for the safety of the Arbor and our fleet, I must respectfully disagree," Lord Redwyne began, his voice hinting incredulity. "The Redwyne fleet is more than capable of defending against any Ironborn incursion. We have faced threats before and emerged victorious. The Ironborn are nothing more than sea rats, scurrying about in their ships, dreaming of conquest while we hold the power of the seas."

His words were laced with arrogance as he mocked the Ironborn, but Aemon's response was blunt and unyielding. "The Lannisters thought much the same, my lord," he retorted, his tone cutting through the air like a sword. "But now their fleet lies at the bottom of the sea, their city and port in ruins. Lannisport burns, and the flames have scarred Casterly Rock. Do not underestimate the Ironborn, for they are cunning and ruthless."

Lord Redwyne's expression grew serious once more as he acknowledged the threat. "Rest assured, Your Grace, myself and my men are prepared to defend the Arbor should the Ironborn be foolish enough to test our resolve."

Aemon's response was grim as he continued to impress upon Lord Redwyne the severity of the situation. "The Ironborn will come, my lord, of that I have no doubt," he declared, his voice devoid of any hint of uncertainty. "They seek to reclaim their former glory, to rebuild their kingdom of old, as it was during the time of the Kings of House Hoare, with the Arbor as a prized jewel in their crown. We must be vigilant, for the storm approaches, bringing the wrath of the Ironborn."

Lord Redwyne bristled at Aemon's words, his pride wounded by the implication that his fleet could not repel the Ironborn threat. "The Arbor is no easy target, Your Grace," he asserted, his voice tinged with anger. "It is a beauty, a jewel of the seas, and my fleet stands ready to defend it. We are not as weak as the Riverlords to be so easily overrun."

Aemon's gaze remained steady as he countered Lord Redwyne's pride with a dose of reality. "Pride can be a dangerous thing, my Lord. You are stating your House is stronger than an entire kingdom; you are saying House Redwyne, alone, is a match for all of the Riverlands. Even the Velaryons, who have dragons, cannot claim they can best an entire kingdom alone, and yet, you can." He cautioned, his words cutting through the tension like a blade. "Do not mistake arrogance for strength, for the folly of the proud often leads to their downfall. The Ironborn will not hesitate to strike, and we must be prepared to meet them with steel and fire."

The air grew heavy with tension as Lord Redwyne subtly questioned Aemon's capabilities, his words dripping with a veneer of courtesy that thinly veiled his skepticism. "Prince Aemon, forgive me for saying, but matters such as these are not meant for children," he remarked, his tone tinged with a hint of condescension as he alluded to Aemon's tender age of seven.

If Ghost was not mute, Aemon would have thought the wolf was growling. Ghost sneered quietly, so quiet that it was as though the wolf was consuming the sound. His quiet snarl seemed to draw far more attention than a growl from the throat of a more common wolf. All eyes trailed back to Ghost as his blood-red gaze made the air colder. Lord Redwyne seemed to recall the presence of the wolf and then gulped before his eyes trailed up once more to Balerion, and Aemon could feel through his bond with Balerion that he was pleased Lord Redwyne feared the dragon more than the wolf, but some small portion of Balerion trusted Ghost to kill the Lord far quicker than Balerion could if need be.

But Aemon's response was swift and defiant, his youthful countenance betraying a steely resolve that belied his years. "This child," he retorted, his voice carrying a note of determination, "has faced far greater challenges than you may realize. I fought in the Wildling Invasion, where over one hundred thousand wildlings threatened the realm's safety."

Lord Redwyne's response was measured, his tone subtly dismissive as he cast doubt on the veracity of Aemon's claims. "Rumors often grow wilder with each retelling, Your Grace," he remarked, his words veiled in polite skepticism.

But before the conversation could continue, Balerion, the Black Dread, roared in fury, his thunderous cry shaking the very foundations of the earth. The force of the dragon's roar was so immense that all those present, except Aemon himself, were forced to their knees, their hands instinctively covering their ears in a futile attempt to block out the loud sound.

Once the dragon's roar subsided, Aemon spoke with a calm authority that belied his age, his voice cutting through the lingering echoes of Balerion's fury. "Even if my deeds are dismissed as mere rumors, I can say with certainty that the Targaryens of Summerhall have faced formidable foes," he declared, his words resonating with quiet resolve. "We pushed back the Ironborn invasion and held off the Dornish army at Summerhall. We have proven our mettle in battle and will not falter in the face of this new threat." With that, Aemon left no room for doubt as he laid out his intentions. "Summerhall will take the next step in this conflict, with or without the support of House Redwyne," he proclaimed, his gaze unwavering as he fixed Lord Redwyne with a steady stare. "The choice is yours, my Lord. Will you stand with us in this fight or watch from the sidelines as history unfolds?"

The tension in the air was palpable as Lord Redwyne, with a solemn expression, lowered his head in begrudging acquiescence to Prince Aemon's demand for support. "House Redwyne is loyal to the crown, Your Grace," he conceded, his words carrying the weight of duty rather than enthusiasm.

Aemon inclined his head in gratitude, respectfully nodding to the Lord's pledge of loyalty. "Thank you, Lord Redwyne. Your allegiance to the crown is duly noted," he replied, his voice carrying a note of appreciation.

Turning to the matter, Aemon wasted no time pressing for action. "The entire Redwyne fleet must be prepared for departure," he declared, his tone firm and decisive. "Tell me, when can your ships set sail?"

Lord Redwyne hesitated momentarily before responding, his expression betraying a hint of frustration at the urgency of Aemon's request. "The ships are mostly prepared, Your Grace, but the recent storms have caused some delays. The entire fleet would be ready to set off in a week," he explained, his words tinged with a touch of exasperation.

Aemon's brows furrowed in disappointment, his features reflecting a mixture of understanding and impatience. "I see," he remarked with a sigh, conceding to the unavoidable setbacks caused by the inclement weather. "Very well, Lord Redwyne. We shall allow for the necessary preparations to be made." However, Aemon's patience was thin, and he wasted no time expressing his desire for swift action. "But know this," he continued, his tone firm and unwavering. "We cannot afford to delay any longer than necessary. If the Redwyne fleet was indeed ready, it should have been ready to set sail by the end of the day."

Lord Redwyne's demeanor stiffened at Aemon's insistence; his jaw clenched in frustration as he begrudgingly conceded to the prince's demands. "The storms have indeed posed challenges, Your Grace," he conceded through gritted teeth, his words laced with a hint of resentment.

Aemon nodded in understanding, though his expression remained resolute. "I understand, Lord Redwyne," he replied, his voice unwavering. "You have one week to ready the fleet. Make the necessary preparations, and ensure your ships are prepared to sail immediately." With the matter of the fleet addressed, Aemon turned his attention to the larger threat posed by the Ironborn raids. "The Ironborn have begun raiding the Westerlands, the Riverlands, and large portions of the North," he informed Lord Redwyne, his voice grave with concern. "Their focus on the Westerlands seems is almost as if to mock the Lannisters for their recent losses at Lannisport and Casterly Rock." As the gravity of the situation settled over the room, Aemon's gaze hardened with determination. "We must act swiftly to protect the realm from further incursions," he declared, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "The time to strike back against the Ironborn is before they can wreak further havoc upon our lands."

Aemon's chambers were filled with the flickering light of candle flames as he poured over the reports and correspondence that littered his desk. Each parchment bore the intricate script of Valyrian, a language that flowed effortlessly from Aemon's pen as he recorded the latest developments from across the realm. Ghost was sitting by Aemon's side as he read the letters and looked over the charts.

The Vale, a region known for its rugged terrain and formidable defenses, had not escaped the Ironborn's reach unscathed. Reports spoke of sporadic attacks, their impact felt keenly by the mountain clans that called the Vale home.

In the North, however, there was a glimmer of hope. After months of relentless struggle, the Northern lords finally began to regain control of their ancestral lands, pushing the Ironborn invaders back with each passing day. Aemon's heart swelled with pride at the resilience of his countrymen, knowing that soon they would be ready to join the fight against the Ironborn menace. They could do by themselves what the Stormlands needed help to do. The North lords invaded the North to push past the Ironborn and then push them out. Aemon supposed the benefit the North lords had that the Stromlords did not was the fact that the Northerns knew the cold better than anyone. Still, both the Ironborn and the Stormlords knew wet, rain storms, and they left the benefit that the Stormlands knew their lands and were accustomed to them nearly mute.

Storm's End stood proud and defiant once more, liberated from the clutches of the Ironborn. The Stormlands, rallied by the indomitable spirit of its people and the leadership of Lord Baratheon, were poised to reclaim their honor and defend their homeland against further incursions.

Through a network of ravens and trusted messengers, Aemon maintained constant communication with his aunts, Aerea and Daenerys, who coordinated their dragonriders' efforts and House Baratheon's forces. He offered guidance and strategic counsel, charting the course for their next moves with the precision of a master tactician. Aemon had read reports of purple and silvery flames licking the castle during a nighttime storm and when Aerea and Daenerys stopped the siege.

His aunts, Viserra and Maegelle, had confirmed that Velaryons were out for revenge and blood. Aemon's thoughts turned to the Velaryon fleet, dispatched from Driftmark to reinforce their allies in the Sunset Sea. The journey would be difficult, navigating treacherous waters and facing unknown dangers. They would travel through the Blackwater Rush, traverse any connected rivers, and into the Redfork before reaching the Sunset Sea. It would take the better part of a month. Yet, Aemon harbored no doubt in their ability to overcome any obstacle.

As he penned a letter to his aunts, detailing his plans to rendezvous at Faircastle once the Riverlands had been liberated, Aemon's mind buzzed with anticipation. The pieces of his grand strategy were falling into place, each move calculated with meticulous care to pursue victory against the Ironborn threat.

The day dawned with a brilliant display of colors, the sky ablaze with pink and gold hues as dawn's first light broke over the horizon. Aemon stood upon the deck of the flagship of the Redwyne fleet, his eyes fixed on the vast expanse of ocean before him. Behind him, the Redwyne fleet lay in wait, a formidable force ready to answer the call to arms.

As the sun climbed higher in the sky, casting its warm rays upon the shimmering waters below, the command was given to set sail. The great wooden vessels groaned and creaked as they unfurled their sails, billowing in the gentle breeze that swept across the sea.

Aemon watched from the deck as the fleet began moving, each ship cutting through the waves gracefully and precisely. The Redwyne banners fluttering in the wind filled him with pride, knowing they sailed forth to defend their homeland against the Ironborn threat.

With a nod to the captain, Aemon turned and went to the ship's bow, where Balerion awaited him. The massive dragon stood tall and proud, its obsidian scales gleaming in the sunlight as it awaited its rider. With a steady hand, Aemon mounted Balerion's back, his dire wolf Ghost at his side. The dragon released a low rumble, echoing across the deck as it prepared to take flight.

As Balerion spread its wings and launched into the sky, Aemon felt the rush of wind against his face, the exhilaration of soaring high above the waves. Behind him, the Redwyne fleet followed, their sails catching the wind as they followed their prince into the unknown.

Together, they charted a course northward towards the distant shores of the Westerlands. With each beat of Balerion's wings, they drew closer to their destination, their determination unwavering in the face of whatever challenges lay ahead.

The Redwyne fleet set sail purposefully, their warships cutting through the waves with determination. The sea stretched out before them like an endless expanse of blue, the horizon disappearing into the distance as far as the eye could see.

Three hundred warships, each one a formidable vessel armed to the teeth and ready for battle, sailed in tight formation, their sails billowing in the wind as they rode the ocean's swells. The Redwyne banners flew proudly from their masts, symbolizing strength and unity in adversity.

As they journeyed northward, the weather grew increasingly treacherous. Dark clouds gathered on the horizon, blotting out the sun and casting a shadow over the sea below. The winds howled, and the waves crashed against the hulls of the ships, threatening to engulf them in their icy embrace.

Despite the harsh conditions, the Redwyne fleet pressed on, their determination unwavering in the face of the storm. Aemon rode atop Balerion, his dragon soaring high above the ships as he kept a watchful eye on the horizon. His dire wolf Ghost stood by his side, its fur bristling in the cold wind as it scanned the waters below.

The journey dragged on for another two weeks, each day a battle against the elements as the fleet struggled to make headway against the wind and tide. Aemon remained steadfast, his resolve unshaken by the hardships they faced.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the storm began to break, the clouds parting to reveal the faint glimmer of sunlight on the horizon. The Redwyne fleet pressed on with renewed hope, their destination drawing ever closer with each passing day.

Aemon knew that time was of the essence, but he remained confident they would arrive in time to turn the tide of battle against the Greyjoys. As they sailed through the vast expanse of the sea, he could only hope that their allies, the Velaryons, were also right on schedule.

The flight was a symphony of sensation for Aemon as he rode atop Balerion, his dragon's powerful wings beating rhythmically against the air. The wind rushed past him, whipping at his face with a sharp chill and tousling his hair in a chaotic dance. Despite the biting cold, there was a thrill in the air, a sense of urgency that pulsed through him with every beat of Balerion's wings.

As they soared through the skies, Aemon could feel the warmth of the sun's rays on his face, a welcome contrast to the cool breeze surrounding him. The golden light danced across the ocean's surface below, casting shimmering reflections that sparkled like diamonds on the waves.

The smell of salt water filled his nostrils, mingling with the crisp scent of the sea air. It was a refreshing and familiar scent, a reminder of the vast expanse of the ocean that stretched out before them.

As they neared the Straits of Fair Isle, the landscape below changed. Aemon could see the devastation wrought by the Ironborn raiders, the charred remains of villages and towns dotting the coastline like scars on the land.

Finally, as they reached the straits, Aemon's keen eyes spotted the Ironborn banners fluttering in the breeze; their ships gathered in formation like a swarm of blackened vultures. From his vantage point high above, he could see the full extent of their fleet, a formidable force that stretched as far as the eye could see. It was dusk, the sun was setting, and soon night would be upon them.

But even as he watched, Aemon knew that the element of surprise was on their side. The Ironborn had not noticed their approach, too focused on their preparations to heed the warning signs in the sky above. The skies were dark, and the clouds dark, each one aiding in hiding Balerion's colossal size and presence.

The Straits of Fair Isle were named for the straight passage of water between Fair Island to the west and the main continent of Westeros, more specifically, the Westerlands to the east. The straight passage of land was rather thin as Fair Isle was close to the shore of the Westerlands. If moving through the passage of water, no more than a dozen warships could move side by side; if needed, one could even swim from the Island to the shore; less than half a mile of water separated the island and the mainland. This meant no escaping east or west; if a ship got too close to either side, it would crash into the land.

With the Redwyne fleet coming from the south and no room going east or west, the only option to escape was to fully turn around instead of going south to the Arbor like Aemon expected them to. Aemon would need to dive down and destroy the ships enough for the Ironborn to be frightened and begin to turn around their ships and avoid the dragon to the south, but if timed correctly, it would be some time before they make the full turn, and the Redwyne ships would ram into the vulnerable sides of the Ironborn ships. Or if the timing was correct, the Ironborn would turn around trying to escape only to be pincered by the Velaryon fleet.

Aemon's hands moved with practiced precision as he reached for the arrow nestled by the side of his saddle, fingers curling around its sleek shaft. It felt foreign in his grasp, the weight unfamiliar, but he knew there was no time for hesitation. Gripping the bow tightly, he drew back the string, feeling its tension as he aimed towards the Redwyne fleet lagging behind him.

The arrows were not ordinary; they were coated in a concoction of elixirs, powders, and minerals that would ignite into vibrant flames when lit. Aemon selected one and ignited its tip, watching as the flame danced with a bright, radiant yellow hue, casting a glow that seemed to pierce through the gathering dusk.

Aemon readied the arrow with a steady hand, aligning his aim with precision honed from years of training. Then, with a swift release, he let it soar through the air, its fiery tail trailing behind it as it descended toward the waiting ships below. The yellow burning arrow singled one thing: that enemy drew near.

As the arrow arced downwards, Aemon held his breath, waiting for the signal from the Redwyne fleet. It was crucial that they acknowledged the warning and understood the imminent threat posed by the Ironborn lurking in the shadows of the straits.

After what felt like an eternity, a second arrow streaked upwards from the fleet, its yellow flame mirroring the one Aemon had fired. It was a sign that they had received his message and were alert and prepared for whatever lay ahead.

But Aemon knew that their readiness would soon be put to the test. Determinedly, he reached for another arrow, this one burning a fierce red, a signal to the Redwyne fleet that once they confirmed their readiness, he would lead the attack against the Ironborn.

With a swift motion, he let the arrow fly, watching as its crimson flame illuminated the sky. As the Redwyne fleet responded in kind, firing their red burning arrows into the heavens, Aemon knew that the time for action had come.

As dusk began to cast its ethereal glow across the horizon, Aemon stood atop the colossal form of Balerion the Black Dread, his hand gently stroking the dragon's scaled hide. Balerion, a behemoth of unparalleled magnitude, exuded an aura of primal power, his deep, rumbling breaths echoing through the crisp evening air.

Beside him, Ghost, Aemon's faithful dire wolf, nuzzled against his hand, a silent yet reassuring presence amidst the looming tension. From their vantage point thousands of feet above the tumultuous sea below, Aemon surveyed the Ironborn fleet keenly, their numerous warships dotting the water like menacing shadows against the fading light.

Suddenly, Balerion let out a deafening roar that reverberated through the very fabric of the sky, its thunderous echoes rippling across the waves below. It was a sound that sent shivers down Aemon's spine, a primal declaration of dominance that resonated with the raw power of the ancient dragon.

But amidst the awe-inspiring display, Aemon knew time was of the essence. With the Redwyne fleet poised to intervene, he had only a fleeting opportunity to strike at the Ironborn before their reinforcements arrived. He could afford two or three passes atop Balerion's formidable back before the Redwynes closed in and risked being caught in the crossfire.

Aemon's mind raced with strategy as he plotted his next move. He knew that unleashing Balerion's fiery breath while the Redwyne fleet drew near would only cause a court disaster, risking collateral damage to their allies. Thus, he resolved to maximize their impact in the limited time available, aiming to inflict as much damage as possible upon the Ironborn before the Redwyne fleet could intercept.

With a steely resolve, Aemon tightened his grip on Balerion's scaled hide, his gaze unwavering as he prepared to lead the charge against their adversaries. As Balerion unleashed a roar that shook the foundations of the heavens, Aemon felt the raw power of the ancient dragon course through his veins. The thunderous sound reverberated through the air, drowning out all other noise and filling the sky with an ominous resonance.

With a firm grip on the reins, Aemon guided Balerion into a steep dive, his heart pounding with exhilaration as they plummeted toward the ocean below. As they descended, the wind whipped past them fiercely, tugging at Aemon's cloak and tousling his hair like the fingers of some unseen force.

The sheer force of Balerion's descent seemed to defy the laws of nature, propelling them downwards with a velocity that bordered on the surreal. Aemon could feel the dragon's immense size and weight amplifying the ferocity of their dive, each beat of Balerion's wings driving them ever closer to the heart of the storm below.

Despite the perilous speed at which they descended, Aemon remained steadfast, his senses heightened to a razor's edge as they hurtled towards their target. In that fleeting moment, as the world blurred around him and the roar of the wind filled his ears, Aemon felt a surge of adrenaline course through his veins.

Aemon knew the words; to him, they were more familiar than the words of his House. "Dracarys!"

As Aemon's voice pierced the air with a resounding command, the essence of power and authority, Balerion responded with a primal roar that seemed to shake the very fabric of reality. With jaws gaping wide, the ancient dragon unleashed a torrent of black flames that surged like a tidal wave of destruction.

The flames, dark as the void itself, seethed with an otherworldly intensity, casting an eerie glow that illuminated the tumultuous waters below. As they engulfed the ocean's surface, the seawater sizzled and steamed, unable to withstand the searing heat radiating from Balerion's infernal breath. The heat is so strong the waters already steamed and bubbled. Steam was so strong and dense that fog had consumed the lands.

The intensity of the flames was such that the wooden hulls of the Ironborn ships were engulfed in an instant, consumed by a blaze that seemed to defy all logic and reason. The air filled with the acrid scent of burning wood and scorched flesh as the waters around the ships boiled and churned with a restless energy. Black flames that consumed light.

In the blink of an eye, the once-mighty vessels were reduced to little more than charred wreckage, their timbers splintered and twisted by the force of the blast. Flames licked hungrily at the surrounding waves, casting a macabre dance of light and shadow across the sea's surface.

An explosion so fast, so horrible and harsh that the waters it reached turned into a violent geyser, and explosions and forces of black fires, steam, waters, wood, and boiling flaming liquid. The fire slammed into the water in an explosion that shot the water up to the skies hundreds of feet. The blanketing steam hugged the water's surface as the screams of Ironborn echoed in the dense white fog.

The black fires lived in the white smoke. The steam grew longer, and a continuous black torrent of flames slammed into the water's surface. The great maw of Balerion, opening larger than sixty feet, continued a black line of the infernal blaze, explosion, and fires that touched the waters, reaching further hundreds of continuous explosions of steam, boiling water, and black flames. The building water rose high into the skies and fell back down in rain that burnt the skin and melted flesh from bone.

The cacophony of destruction echoed across the ocean, a symphony of chaos and despair that heralded the arrival of death itself. As the smoke billowed into the sky and the waters ran red with blood, Aemon could only watch in grim satisfaction, knowing their strike had struck fear into the heart of the Ironborn fleet.

As Balerion's relentless onslaught of black flames continued unabated, the scene below descended into chaos and destruction. The initial eruption of infernal fire had ignited a cataclysmic chain reaction, setting ablaze the wooden hulls of the Ironborn ships with a ferocity that defied imagination.

The waters churned and boiled as the searing flames licked hungrily at their surface, sending plumes of steam billowing into the air. The acrid stench of smoke and burning wood permeated the air, mingling with the salty tang of the sea to create a noxious co*cktail of odors that assaulted the senses.

Amidst the inferno, the Ironborn ships were engulfed in a storm of fire and fury, their timbers crackling and splintering under the intense heat. The once-proud vessels were reduced to little more than charred husks, their sails and rigging aflame as they drifted aimlessly upon the roiling waves.

The landscape was nothing but black flames; just one path of Balerion rendered everything for hundreds of yards, nothing but black flames covering the ocean surface, the white steam, and the only things that covered the gaps the fires did not touch—a sea of black flames and heat. The waters raining down, burning the flesh. The black flame was hot; only chard corpses remained as they floated on the steaming waters, boiling once more.

As Balerion soared above the chaos, his massive wings casting a shadow over the inferno below, the black flames continued to rain down upon the Ironborn fleet like the wrath of the gods. With a single pass, the dragon ships were consumed by the relentless onslaught, their crews scrambling desperately for salvation amidst the flames. Nearly seventy ships were destroyed with a single pass, the first dozen from the first eruption of black flames and another fifty from Aemon's count as he continued the single dark inferno through the Ironborn fleet.

The sky seemed to darken with the pall of smoke and ash, blotting out the sun and casting the scene below into a surreal twilight. Amidst the chaos, the cries of the dying and the wounded echoed across the waters, a haunting lament that spoke of untold suffering and despair.

As Balerion completed the first pass, Aemon guided the massive dragon into a long, sweeping turn, the movement slow and deliberate. The dragon's immense size and weight made such maneuvers ponderous, requiring careful coordination and skill on Aemon's to execute smoothly. With each beat of Balerion's wings, the air around them seemed to tremble, the sheer force of his movements sending shockwaves rippling through the sky.

Aemon gripped the reins tightly, his knuckles white with exertion as he urged Balerion through the turn. The dragon's colossal form arced gracefully through the air; his wings outstretched like the sails of some ancient ship as he banked around to face the Ironborn fleet once more. It was a sight to behold, the majestic creature carving a path through the heavens with all the grace and power of a force of nature.

As Balerion completed the turn and lined up for the second pass, Aemon felt a surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins. This was the moment they had been preparing for, the culmination of weeks of planning and anticipation. With a fierce determination in his eyes, Aemon leaned forward in the saddle; his gaze fixed unwaveringly upon the massed ranks of Ironborn ships below.

And then, with a deafening roar that shook the very foundations of the earth, Balerion unleashed another torrent of black flames from his gaping maw. The flames surged like a tidal wave, engulfing everything in their path in a seething sea of darkness. The air was filled with the crackle of burning wood and the screams of the doomed as the inferno consumed everything in its path.

The force of the flames tore apart the Ironborn ships, their hulls splintering and exploding in a symphony of destruction. Plumes of smoke billowed into the air, casting a pall of darkness over the scene below as the fires raged unchecked. It was a scene of utter devastation, a testament to the awesome power of dragonfire and the ferocity of Balerion the Black Dread.

As Balerion the Black Dread unleashed his fury upon the Ironborn fleet, the sky was rent asunder by a searing torrent of black flames. The inferno erupted from the dragon's gaping maw with a deafening roar, engulfing everything in its path in a swirling vortex of black.

The flames, black as the deepest abyss, seared through the air with an intensity that defied description. They consumed everything they touched, leaving nothing but smoldering wreckage and scorched earth in their wake. The acrid stench of burning wood and flesh filled the air, mingling with the cries of the dying and the inferno's roar.

The force of the flames tore apart the Ironborn ships, their hulls exploding in splintered timber and twisted metal showers. Each vessel was consumed, the flames licking hungrily at their hulls before devouring them whole in a maelstrom of destruction.

The sea boiled and churned beneath the onslaught, the waters roiling and bubbling as the flames danced upon its surface. The sky was ablaze with the light of the conflagration, casting an eerie glow over the scene below as the fires raged unchecked. Those unfortunate souls who chose to leap into the waters to avoid the flames were cooked alive by the boiled waters as the flesh became red and raw.

Ship after ship was obliterated in a cacophony of explosions and screams, their crews consumed by the relentless fury of Balerion's flames. The once-proud vessels were reduced to little more than smoldering wrecks; their charred remains sinking beneath the waves as the dragon continued his onslaught.

Flames and sea waters reach high into the skies as the steam competes with their height. The waters dispersed due to the force of the fire slamming into it, and the same water wished to return to the place it once was, but as they were now covered in horrible black flames, they created tidal waves of fire that did not crash into any ship in its path. Waves of fire as the front sat on the ocean's surface, serged to any ship near it; those destroyed and those not yet hit were hit by colossal waves of balance fire that brought them down into the burning, watery depths of the sea. The shore was scared by the flaming, watery waves. Ships consumed, hull and all, by waves that reach a hundred feet, made of black fires and dark waters. Then, once boats were brought down into the crashing heated depths, the white smoke and black flames would cover up their remains as if they never existed.

It was a scene of utter devastation, a testament to the awesome power of dragonfire and the ferocity of Balerion the Black Dread. As the flames finally began to die, all that remained was a smoking ruin, a grim reminder of the price of defiance in the face of such overwhelming power.

As Balerion completed the second pass, as many destroyed ships as the first pass, leaving a swath of destruction in his wake, Aemon urged the dragon to turn swiftly for the next assault. But Balerion's immense size and age meant that he could not execute rapid maneuvers. Instead, the dragon began a slow turn, his massive wings beating ponderously against the air.

Aemon's heart pounded in his chest as he watched the dragon's progress, frustration gnawing at him with each passing moment. He hated the agonizing slowness of the turn, knowing that every second wasted brought the Redwyne fleet closer to danger. With every beat of Balerion's wings, Aemon silently urged the dragon to move faster, to hasten their approach to the Ironborn fleet.

The turn seemed to stretch for an eternity, the seconds ticking like hours as Balerion lumbered through the air. Aemon gritted his teeth, his hands tightening on the reins as he willed the dragon to pick up the pace. But he could do nothing to hasten their progress, and he was forced to endure the agonizing delay.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Balerion completed the turn and began his descent for the third pass. Aemon felt a surge of relief as the dragon angled towards the Ironborn fleet once more, his anticipation building as they prepared for another devastating assault.

As Aemon prepared for the third pass, his heart pounding with anticipation, he suddenly realized that the Redwyne fleet had closed in much faster than he anticipated. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he saw that half of the Redwyne ships had formed a blockade, their sturdy hulls positioned to intercept the Ironborn vessels and prevent them from escaping.

Meanwhile, the other half of the Redwyne fleet surged forward with reckless abandon, crashing into the already battered Ironborn ships with bone-jarring force. The impact was deafening, the sound of splintering wood and twisting metal echoing across the water as ships collided with a resounding crash.

The Ironborn, still reeling from Balerion's devastating attack, were caught off guard by the sudden onslaught. Their ships, already weakened and damaged, stood little chance against the full force of the Redwyne assault. Hulls were rent asunder, masts snapped like twigs, and decks were torn apart as the two fleets collided in a chaotic frenzy of destruction.

Wreckage from Balerion's black fire floated in the water like charred remnants of a funeral pyre, adding to the chaos and confusion of the battle. The acrid smell of smoke mingled with the salty tang of the sea, filling the air with a thick, choking haze.

Amidst the carnage, Aemon could see sailors leaping from sinking ships, their desperate cries for help drowned out by the roar of the waves and the clamor of battle. The sea churned with blood and wreckage, a grim testament to the ferocity of the conflict raging upon its surface.

As the Redwyne fleet crashed into the Ironborn ships, the deck became a battleground, each plank stained with the blood of those who fought upon it. The clash of steel rang out like a symphony of war, swords, and axes biting into flesh with savage ferocity.

Men screamed and shouted, their voices drowned out by the din of battle as they fought tooth and nail for their lives. Swords flashed in the dim light, their edges gleaming with deadly intent as they cleaved through armor and flesh alike.

Axes whirled through the air, their razor-sharp blades biting deep into enemy skulls with sickening thuds. Spears thrust and parried, finding their mark with deadly precision as they skewered their foes upon their lethal points.

Amidst the chaos, the Redwyne sailors fought with grim determination, their faces twisted in snarls of rage as they hacked and slashed their way through the Ironborn ranks. Boarding hooks clanged against the hulls of enemy ships, latching on with a death grip as the Redwyne warriors swarmed aboard.

Hand-to-hand combat erupted in a frenzy of violence, each man fighting for his life with a desperate ferocity born of desperation and survival instinct. Bodies tumbled overboard, their lifeless forms sinking into the murky depths below as the battle raged on unabated as the fire and smoke consumed them into the boiling water.

The air was thick with the stench of blood and sweat, mingling with the salty tang of the sea to create a sickening miasma that hung heavy over the battlefield. The sound of steel on steel filled the air, punctuated by the screams of the dying and the clash of arms as the Redwyne sailors pressed their advantage with unrelenting fury.

The clash of weapons was unrelenting, a brutal ballet of death and destruction. Redwyne men fought tooth and nail against the Ironborn invaders, their weapons flashing in the dim light as they carved through flesh and bone with ruthless efficiency.

Swords met shields with a deafening clang, sending sparks flying into the air like fiery rain. Axes cleaved through armor and muscle with sickening crunches, their jagged edges leaving behind a trail of maimed and mutilated bodies.

Blood painted the decks crimson, pooling in grotesque puddles as the wounded cried out in agony, their pleas drowned out by the cacophony of battle. Limbs were severed with brutal precision, sending sprays of gore arcing through the air in gruesome arcs.

The smell of death hung heavy over the battlefield, mingling with the acrid tang of burning pitch and the salty spray of the sea. Bodies lay strewn across the deck like discarded rag dolls, their lifeless eyes staring blankly into the abyss as the tide of battle washed over them.

Amidst the chaos, the Redwyne sailors fought with a grim determination born of desperation and survival instinct. Each blow struck with lethal intent; each thrust aimed at claiming the lives of their Ironborn foes with ruthless efficiency.

The air was thick with the sounds of agony and despair, the cries of the wounded mingling with the triumphant shouts of the victors as they fought tooth and nail for dominion over the blood-soaked decks.

The sky above the tumultuous sea became a stage for a spectacle of draconic majesty as Aemon turned his gaze toward the source of the roaring. Two smaller dragons emerged from the horizon, their forms silhouetted against the dying embers of the day, coming from the north, the opposite direction the Redwyne fleet and Balerion had come.

The first dragon, a magnificent creature with scales of deep maroon, seemed to burn with an inner fire, its sleek form shimmering in the fading light. Each beat of its wings sent ripples of power through the air, casting a crimson aura that danced like wildfire in the evening sky.

Beside the maroon dragon soared its companion, a vision of sapphire brilliance that glinted like a gemstone in the dying light. Its scales shimmered with an otherworldly luster, catching the last rays of the setting sun and reflecting them in a dazzling display of azure radiance.

As the two dragons closed in on Balerion, their presence added an electrifying intensity to the already chaotic scene below. Their roars echoed like thunder across the waves, commanding attention and striking fear into the hearts of all who beheld them.

Aemon watched in awe as the maroon and sapphire dragons descended upon Balerion, their graceful movements a testament to their power and prowess. With each beat of their wings, they drew closer to the mighty black dragon, their forms glowing with an otherworldly light that seemed to imbue them with an aura of invincibility.

As Aemon beheld the approaching dragons, his heart quickened with a mixture of awe and relief. The dragon of his aunt Viserra. Vēttir, the maroon dragon, soared through the sky with majestic grace, its scales shimmering like polished garnets in the sunlight. Its wings beat with a powerful rhythm, casting shadows that danced across the roiling waves below.

Beside Vēttir flew Jēdar, a magnificent creature of sapphire blue. The dragon of his aunt Maegelle. Its scales gleamed like precious gemstones, reflecting the hues of the sea and sky in a dazzling display of color. With each beat of its wings, it carved through the air with effortless grace, leaving trails of sparkling mist in its wake.

As the dragons drew nearer, Aemon could feel the raw power emanating from their forms, a palpable force that seemed to reverberate through the very air itself. He watched in as Vēttir unleashed a torrent of maroon flames, each lick of fire burning with an intensity that matched the dragon's fierce spirit.

The maroon flames engulfed the Ironborn ships with devastating force, consuming them in a blaze of crimson fury. The wooden hulls crackled and splintered under the onslaught, their sails turning to ash in the inferno as the sea boiled and churned with the heat of the flames.

Not to be outdone, Jēdar unleashed her torrent of sapphire flames, each burst of fire as bright and brilliant as the summer sky. The flames danced and flickered with an ethereal beauty, casting an azure glow across the water as they devoured everything in their path.

As Vēttir and Jēdar joined the fray, their flames mingled with the black inferno unleashed by Balerion, creating a kaleidoscope of destruction upon the sea. The maroon flames of Vēttir danced alongside the sapphire blaze of Jēdar, blending with the dark shadows of Balerion's fire to form a swirling maelstrom of color and chaos.

As Vēttir and Jēdar unleashed their fiery wrath upon the Ironborn ships, the sea erupted in a symphony of destruction. The maroon flames of Vēttir engulfed the enemy vessels in a torrent of maroon-crimson fire, their wooden hulls splintering and cracking under the intense heat.

Beside her, Jēdar's sapphire-sky blue flames danced and flickered with an otherworldly brilliance, casting an azure glow across the water as they devoured everything in their path. The two dragons worked in tandem, their flames intertwining and mingling as they wrought havoc upon the Ironborn fleet.

Explosions of blue and red flame erupted across the surface of the sea, sending plumes of smoke and steam billowing into the air. The Ironborn ships were consumed in a blaze of glory, their sails turning to ash and their crews screaming in terror as they were engulfed by the relentless onslaught.

Through it all, Balerion's black flames loomed overhead like a dark specter, casting a shadow of death upon the battlefield. The combined might of the three dragons was unstoppable, their fury unmatched as they laid waste to everything in their path.

As the chaos of battle raged on, Aemon's keen eyes scanned the horizon, searching for any signs of fleeing Ironborn ships. Amidst the swirling maelstrom of flames and smoke, he spotted several vessels attempting to slip away to the north, their sails billowing in the wind as they desperately sought to escape the carnage unfolding around them.

With the Redwyne fleet effectively blocking their retreat to the south and the looming presence of Fair Isle and the Westerlands closing off any avenue of escape to the west and east, the only path left for the Ironborn was to head northward. However, this route proved to be no sanctuary, as the vigilant watch of Vēttir and Jēdar prevented any easy escape.

The maroon and sapphire dragons swooped down upon the fleeing ships with deadly precision, their flames cutting through the darkness like beacons of destruction. Against the backdrop of the bright inferno engulfing the central battlefield, the escaping vessels stood out like beacons, easy targets for the dragons to strike.

With each fiery breath, Vēttir and Jēdar unleashed their wrath upon the fleeing Ironborn, their flames painting the night sky with streaks of crimson and azure. The sea churned and boiled as the ships were engulfed in a torrent of fire, their wooden hulls crackling and splintering under the intense heat.

Amidst the chaos, Aemon watched with a grim determination, his heart heavy with the knowledge that there could be no mercy for those who sought to escape justice. As the last of the fleeing ships succumbed to the dragons' fury, the sea lay quiet once more; the only sound was the crackling of flames and the distant cries of the wounded and dying.

As the surviving Ironborn ships pressed on in their desperate bid to escape the carnage behind them, their hopes of finding refuge in the north quickly turned to despair. Unbeknownst to them, another formidable force lay in wait, ready to deliver justice upon those who dared to threaten the peace of the realm.

The dragons had been leading a fleet of their own.

From the north, the Velaryon fleet emerged like a silent specter, their warships cutting through the waves with deadly precision. As they descended upon the fleeing Ironborn vessels, the sea erupted into chaos, the clash of wood and steel mingling with the anguished cries of men.

With a deafening roar, the two fleets collided with bone-crushing force, the impact sending splintered wood and shattered debris flying in all directions. The once-proud Ironborn ships, battered and broken from their earlier encounter with Balerion and the dragons, offered little resistance against the overwhelming might of the Velaryon armada.

Amidst the chaos of battle, sailors scrambled to man their posts; their desperate shouts were drowned out by the roar of the crashing waves and the thunderous clash of the ship against the ship. The air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and salt as flames licked hungrily at the shattered remnants of the Ironborn vessels.

With each passing moment, the Velaryon fleet pressed their advantage, their superior numbers and strategic positioning allowing them to gain the upper hand against their beleaguered foes. Ironborn sailors, trapped aboard their sinking ships, fought bravely to the last, but their efforts were ultimately in vain against the relentless onslaught of their enemies.

As the battle raged on, the waters ran red with blood, a grim testament to the ferocity of the struggle that had unfolded upon the waves. Amidst the wreckage and ruin, the survivors of the Ironborn fleet were left to reckon the flames of black, blue, and red. Yet even as they celebrated their hard-won victory, they knew that the fight against the Ironborn was far from over and that the seas would continue to be fraught with danger in the days to come.

Amidst the carnage, the flames of battle danced upon the waves, casting an eerie glow upon the blood-stained waters. Maroon, sapphire, and black flames intertwined in a deadly ballet, their searing heat turning the sea into a maelstrom of fire and destruction.

Velaryon warships, their prows adorned with the sigil of their noble house, bore down upon the Ironborn vessels with relentless ferocity. The clash of steel upon steel filled the air as sailors fought tooth and nail for control of the decks, their weapons gleaming in the flickering light of the flames.

Ironborn ships, already weakened from their earlier encounter with Balerion and the dragons, offered little resistance against the overwhelming might of the Velaryon fleet. Hulls buckled and splintered beneath the relentless onslaught, their once-proud sails torn to shreds by the merciless onslaught of enemy fire.

Amidst the chaos, the cries of the wounded and dying mingled with the roar of the raging inferno, a symphony of agony and despair that echoed across the waves. Men fought with desperate determination, their hearts filled with the fierce resolve of those who knew that victory was the only path to survival.

Above, the dragons soared through the darkening skies, their massive forms casting ominous shadows upon the churning waters below. With each beat of their mighty wings, they unleashed torrents of flame upon the hapless Ironborn ships, their sapphire and maroon fire mingling with the inky black flames of Balerion.

The sea became a swirling inferno of color and darkness as the maroon, sapphire, and black flames danced and intertwined upon the waves. The once tranquil ocean was transformed into a hellish landscape of fire and destruction, where the very water itself seemed to burn with an otherworldly intensity. Men fought desperately for their lives; their bodies wracked with fear and adrenaline as they struggled to fend off the relentless onslaught of their enemies.

But it was all in vain. The combined might of the dragons and the Velaryon fleet proved too much for the Ironborn to withstand. One by one, their ships were consumed by the flames, their crews perishing in the merciless embrace of the inferno.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the world into darkness, the sea became a writhing mass of vivid, otherworldly flames. Marron, sapphire, and black fire danced and intertwined upon the churning waters, painting the surface of the ocean with their ominous glow.

The once serene sea had transformed into a nightmarish inferno, where the very water itself seemed to burn with an unnatural intensity. Waves of blue, black, and red fire crashed against the sides of the Ironborn ships, engulfing them in an all-consuming embrace that left nothing but charred wreckage in its wake.

The air was thick with the acrid stench of smoke and burning flesh as the flames licked hungrily at the wooden hulls of the doomed vessels. Screams of agony echoed across the desolate expanse of the sea, mingling with the roar of the flames to create a symphony of horror and despair.

And yet, amidst the chaos and destruction, there was a strange and terrible beauty to be found in the spectacle. The colors of the flames danced and shimmered in the darkness, casting an eerie, mesmerizing light upon the roiling waters below.

For a fleeting moment, Aemon found himself entranced by the sight, unable to tear his eyes away from the mesmerizing display of destruction unfolding before him. In that moment, the horrors of war faded into the background, replaced by a sense of awe and wonder at the sheer power and majesty of the flames of blue, black, and red.

The sapphire blues and maroon reds danced and mixed, twirled, danced, and intertwined. It was a beautiful sight to see such blues and reds; to see such soft blues mix with strong and bold dark reds was something that stopped the mind and called for the heart. The eyes did nothing but look at the blues and reds and think of beauty brought down by the gods themselves, the gods from Valyria, and any other culture or peoples that believed in fire gods; the Lord of light himself had blessed these flames to show the world the beauty of his domains.

The night sky danced with the blues and reds, the black flames mixing with sections of blues, making shades lighter and darker, the same for the reds. A multi-colored display of red, blue, and black. The winds pushed the flames together to reach the heavens, the fires reaching the skies as the dusk had settled. The maroon and sapphire flames mixed, and the flaming shadow of Balerion, which was now the main source of light. It was beautiful.

If not, the screams of those being burnt alive.

But the illusion was short-lived, shattered by the harsh reality of the carnage unfolding around him. As the flames continued to consume everything in their path, Aemon was reminded once again of the true cost of war and the terrible toll it exacted upon all who dared to partake in its deadly dance.

The once tranquil sea had transformed into a nightmarish tapestry of maroon, sapphire, and black flames, casting an eerie, surreal glow across the water's surface. As far as the eye could see, the ocean was ablaze with the infernal hues of war, painting the world in shades of blue, red, and black.

The flames licked hungrily at the shattered remnants of the Ironborn fleet, engulfing the mangled wreckage in a relentless torrent of fire. Splintered wooden planks crackled and snapped as they were consumed by the voracious flames, casting long shadows that danced and flickered in the night.

As the night wore on, the sea of flames raged unabated, a relentless testament to the savagery of war and the unyielding will of those who fought upon its fiery stage. And amidst the chaos and destruction, the true cost of the conflict was laid bare for all to see, a grim reminder of the fragility of life and the fleeting nature of peace.

Aegon the Conqueror with Balerion, the Black Dread, had once caused the Field of Fire alongside Vhagar, the Dragon Queen, and Veraxes. It is not a terribly hard thing to burn a field of dry wheat to destroy an army. But setting fire to water itself, burning a sea? That is a different thing entirely. Aegon the Conqueror could keep the Field of Fire. The history books named that day the day when Balerion, the Black Dread, Vēttir, the Bloodfyre, and Jēdar, the Azure Wrath, caused the Sea of Flames.

Chapter 27: A Young Dragon and Old Sheep

Chapter Text

Fair Castle 105 AC

Aemon Targaryen

In the wake of the Sea of Flames, the passage of time seemed to stretch on endlessly for Aemon Targaryen, dragging him through a seemingly unending procession of days and nights. The Greyjoy Rebellion, a storm that had erupted in the eighth month of the year 104 AC, continued its relentless onslaught into the depths of the following year, stubbornly persisting for seven long months, not including the time between Aemon leaving Harrenhal and reaching Summerhall. It was now the third month of the year 105 AC.

Eight months of strife and struggle had left Aemon weary to the bone, his spirit worn thin by the ceaseless demands of war. From his headquarters at Fair Castle, nestled upon the rocky shores of Fair Isle, he orchestrated the delicate dance of strategy and diplomacy that would shape the course of the conflict. And thought of plunging a dagger in his throat every time a lord acted more than child than he, a seven-name day boy.

Beside him stood the stalwart Redwyne fleet, its ships a formidable bulwark against the encroaching tide of Ironborn aggression. Alongside them sailed the Velaryon fleet, its banners proudly bearing witness to its unwavering allegiance to the cause.

Once the battle of the Straits of Fair Isle, or the Sea of Flames as the soldiers and commonfolk had taken to calling it, had happened, it was clear that there would be no immediate damage to the Reach, with word from the Redwynes to the Hightowers, food was began being sold and being heavily garrisoned and protected to be sent to areas that needed it most. While word had reached the Tyrells, and they had tried to help, the Hightowers, under the guise of being stout supporters of the crown, had sent thrice as much food and negotiated with other Reach lords to send just as much. A letter from Saera confirmed that Summerhall and Summertown had already begun receiving the food, and for now, the common folk and the people of the castle were secured. Aemon was not looking forward to the increase in popularity of the Hightowers for theirgenerosity,not that Aemon would ever call it that.

In the ensuing weeks, Aemon dispatched the Velaryon fleet to aid the beleaguered North, their swift return bearing tidings of triumph as the combined might of the Northern armies pushed the Ironborn back into the depths of the Riverlands. The North was secure without outside help; it only took so long for the lords to get through due to having to invade their land, but they were battle tasted after many fighting against the wildlings and were far more a proven and aggressive force with more experience than most of the other kingdoms.

Sustained by this newfound momentum, the Baratheons, resolute in their determination, launched a relentless assault upon the Ironborn forces, driving them ever deeper into the heart of the Riverlands with each passing day. The Stormlands were secured, and from what Saera's letter suggested over the last weeks, it seemed that the people of the Stormlands looked more to Summerhall and Summertown for guidance and leadership than Storm's End, especially since most of the Storland's forces were fighting back Riverlanders and Ironborn and Summerhall still had two dragons. Aemon knew his aunt and knew full well she would capitalize on this; she was a mission and greedy, and he did not like the similarities with the Lannisters of Jon Snow's time, more specifically Cersei and Tywin, most of all. Aemon refused to admit to himself that the parts of him that were honorable, like Ned Stark, were being replaced by the ambitions and cruelty of the Tywin Lannisters of the world, all to avoid the end, all to avoid the Long Night.

Meanwhile, the Lannisters, their forces finally assembled after months of painstaking preparation, marched forth to join the fray, their banners unfurling in a resplendent display of martial prowess and noble resolve. It was safe to say that for the Stormlanders that reached Fair Castle, the Riverlords, the North lords, and any man wanting to fight against the Ironborn, the opinion of the Westerlands was low at best. One battle, it took one catastrophic failure by the Lannisters over something that should have never happened, the fall of Lannisport and destruction of half of Casterly Rock, and the Westerlands were reduced to nothing for six months, and they were subject to the whims of the Ironborn.

In the conflict that defined the Greyjoy Rebellion, Aemon Targaryen was embroiled in a maelstrom of chaos and carnage, where the whims of fate hung delicately in the balance. Unlike the skirmishes of his former life as Jon Snow, where battles were decisive and swift, the Greyjoy Rebellion unfolded as a protracted saga of shifting fortunes and bitter struggles. Jon Snow's wars finished in a single great battle. Aemon Targaryen's were battles of attrition and far more draining.

As Aemon surveyed the papers and notes, waiting for the next piece of news, he knew victory lay within his grasp. With two formidable fleets at his command, the Velaryons and the Redwynes. With five mighty dragons soaring overhead, Balerion, Vēttir, Viserra's marron dragon, Jēdar, Maegelle's sapphire dragon, Dȳñes, Aerea's silver-platinum dragon, and Averilla, Daenery's rich purple dragon. With the unwavering support of three entire kingdoms, the Westerlands, the Stormlands, and the North, the Ironborn stood little chance against the might arrayed against them. Especially when news comes about whether or not the forces from the North to help relieve the Riverlands alongside Aemon's father, Daemon, came back with favorable results. If that goes according to plan, it would be four kingdoms rather than just three that Aemon could use to end this rebellion.

Aemon did not dwell on the fact it was the same fleets, the Redwynes, and the Velaryons, though in Jon Snow's time, Stannis led it, and the same four kingdoms, the North, Westerlands, Riverlands, and Stormlands, that led the charge against the Ironborn in Aemon Targaryen's time.

For Aemon, this was the true essence of warfare—a relentless and unforgiving test of strength and strategy, where victory was not assured by the swing of a sword but by the careful orchestration of countless moving parts.

Reflecting on his past as Jon Snow, Aemon could not help but contrast the simplicity of battles like the Battle of the Bastards and the Sacking of King's Landing with the multifaceted conflict of the Greyjoy Rebellion. Where Jon had known the swift resolution of conflicts settled in a single confrontation, Aemon now grappled with the intricacies of a war that spanned entire kingdoms and had to find a way to make the smaller victories accumulate to results as important as one large confrontation. At the same time, he also ensured that he was not on the receiving end of one of those large confrontations that destroyed everything he had worked for. Aemon had to wonder how Rob Stark was winning his wars when facing someone like Tywin Lannister; he would have to label it as Rob was better than him and leave it as such, something Jon Snow had done as a child for many years.

The Greyjoys had struck with cunning and precision, their devastating assaults on Lannisport and Seagard as harbingers of the chaos. Aemon truly hated how perfect their timing was; this war was almost eight months long, and if it weren't for the timing, it would have been put down in less than two due to the Targaryen dragons. Still, only because all the lords were so naive and so used to peace that they had brought most of their forces to Harrenhall and not enough to garrison their keeps was this war lasting this long, and now Aemon had to clean up the mess, he was seven for god's sake. Yet, for every blow struck by the Ironborn, Aemon had answered with resolute determination and unyielding resolve.

The Black Burn, also known as the Fifth Dornish War, was a testament to Aemon's prowess on the battlefield, a solitary figure against the might of an entire kingdom's army. In unparalleled skill and valor, he had vanquished his foes and repelled the Ironborn invasion single-handedly. Aemon had read from letters from Saera that people had come far and wide while the Stormlands were at war to see the Dragon's Gate and see how the Red Mountain walls on either side of the gates were melted like candle wax; people had come to live in Summertown for safety and merely to live near such a great wonder of the world. A canyon that spanned miles, the only functional path leading two and from Dorne, after Daemon destroyed most the others and the fact that Dorne was not foolish enough to invade the Reach when they had a hundred thousand knights at the ready and the entire path was stone melted like it was liquid it's entire lifetime.

But Aemon's triumphs did not end there. With the aid of his formidable aunts, Aerea and Daenerys, he orchestrated the daring rescue of House Baratheon, now known as the Storm of Flames, a befitting name for the rescue of the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands at Stom's End. At the same time, the battle happened during a storm. The Storm of Flames was turning the tide of battle in their favor and securing another resounding victory that led to the battles that repelled the Ironborn and secured the Stormlands.

And finally, with the combined might of the Redwyne and Velaryon fleets, alongside the fearsome dragons of House Targaryen, Aemon unleashed the devastating Sea of Fire upon the Ironborn, sealing their fate and ensuring his legacy as a master of warfare.

Three of the five pivotal battles that had shaped the Greyjoy Rebellion course bore the indelible mark of Aemon Targaryen's triumph. In the crucible of war, he had proven himself a strategist without peer, his name destined for greatness. Aemon did hear some of the more cunning lords already speak of the fact if Aemon could do such things as a child then they should have named him Aegon, rather than Aemon, for the great king rather than the prince that died before gaining the throne. A child was enough to quill ambition, but the child grown would be a man to rip all future ambitions root and steam.

Daemon Targaryen

In the relentless dance of war that engulfed the Riverlands during the Greyjoy Rebellion, Daemon was enjoying this struggle against the Ironborn. Mounted atop his mighty dragon, Caraxes, he had sought to flush the reavers from their hiding places, to draw them out and meet them in open combat. Yet, the Ironborn proved elusive, skulking in the shadows like cowards, unwilling to face him and his fearsome dragon in battle.

As the days stretched into weeks and the weeks into months, Daemon grew frustrated with the elusive nature of his foes. It seemed as though the war he had envisioned was nothing more than a game of cat and mouse, with the Ironborn slipping through his grasp at every turn.

But amidst the chaos and uncertainty of war, tales of his son's valor and heroism reached Daemon's ears. Stories of the Black Burn, the Fifth Dornish War, the Storm of Fire, and the Sea of Flames echoed through the halls of his keep, each victory attributed to his son, Aemon.

Pride swelled in Daemon's heart at his son's accomplishments, but jealousy lurked beneath the pride. While Aemon had achieved great victories on the battlefield, Daemon could not claim the same. He longed for the glory and renown that his son had garnered, yet it seemed forever out of his reach.

In the end, the combined efforts of Aemon, who had organized it, alongside twenty thousand Northmen sent by his son, turned the tide of battle in the Riverlands. With Caraxes leading the charge and the Riverlords rallying to their cause, the Ironborn were pushed back, their grip on the region loosening with each passing day.

As peace settled over the war-torn lands, ravens bearing the sigil of House Targaryen flew to and fro, carrying messages of victory and triumph. Each letter bore the mark of Daemon's only son.

As Daemon Targaryen led the remnants of the Riverlander and Northern armies back from the front lines, the atmosphere was heavy with exhaustion and grim determination. The relentless toll of war had whittled down the once-proud host of twenty-five thousand men from the Riverlands, their numbers diminished by battles against the Ironborn, skirmishes in the countryside, and internal strife fueled by the chaos of conflict.

The journey back was fraught with challenges as the weary soldiers trudged through war-ravaged landscapes, their footsteps echoing the weariness of their souls. Along the way, they passed through villages reduced to rubble; the smoldering remains served as grim reminders of the devastation wrought by the Ironborn and the turmoil of war.

Despite the hardships, Daemon remained resolute, his leadership a beacon of hope amid the darkness of despair. With every step, he urged his men forward, his voice ringing out with commands and encouragement, rallying them for the trials ahead.

As Daemon Targaryen and his weary army approached Fair Isle, the sight of Fair Castle emerged on the horizon, its light gray stones standing solemn and strong. The castle, while not grandiose like Summerhall or Dragonstone, possessed a simple beauty in its design, with sturdy walls and turrets that rose against the backdrop of the sky.

Despite its modest appearance, Fair Castle held significance as a strategic stronghold in the region, its position overlooking the surrounding lands making it a valuable asset in times of war. As Daemon observed the castle from afar, he couldn't help but compare it to other great fortresses he had seen in his lifetime.

Summerhall, with its majestic towers and sprawling gardens, will always held a special place in his heart, a symbol of his family's legacy and dreams for the future. Dragonstone, with its imposing black walls and ancient history, exuded a sense of power and authority that commanded respect. With its towering spires and crimson banners, even the Red Keep inspired awe and reverence in those who beheld its majesty.

But Fair Castle, in comparison, seemed ordinary and unremarkable. Its simple facade lacked the grandeur and splendor of other castles, its walls weathered by time and conflict. As Daemon studied the sigil of House Farman, the ruling house of Fair Isle, he noted the arms of three silver ships on a blue field bordered by crimson and gold—a symbol of maritime prowess and wealth.

Amidst the sea of sigils that adorned the castle walls, Daemon's attention was drawn to the banners of House Lannister, their golden lions gleaming proudly in the sunlight. Each sigil spoke of the house's wealth and power, a reminder of their influence in the realm.

Similarly, the sigils of House Stark could be seen fluttering in the breeze, their grey direwolves one white field, symbolic of their strength and resilience in the face of adversity. Despite the distance from their ancestral home in the North, the Starks' presence at Fair Isle was a testament to their commitment to the cause.

Then, there were the banners of House Baratheon, their black stags on golden fields symbolizing their noble lineage and martial prowess. As Daemon's gaze swept over the familiar sigils, he felt a sense of kinship with his fellow lords and allies, united in their quest to end the Greyjoy Rebellion.

But above all else, the sigil of House Targaryen were ten times as numerous. three-headed red dragon on the black field, with its crimson scales and wings outstretched in flight, all in the shape of a spiral.

Daemon felt a surge of pride and determination welling within him as he beheld his sigil flying proudly amidst the others. For every other banner and sigil that adorned Fair Castle, there were three banners of House Targaryen—a testament to their strength and unity in the face of adversity. And with that realization, Daemon knew that victory was within their grasp if only they remained steadfast and unwavering in their cause.

As Daemon Targaryen and the head lords of the Riverlands entered the war room of Fair Castle, tension hung thick in the air like a suffocating fog. The lords' weary faces bore the weight of their losses and the hardships endured throughout the long campaign against the Ironborn. Their eyes, filled with resentment and distrust, followed Daemon's every move, their silent animosity a palpable presence in the room.

Daemon, for his part, cared little for the opinions of these men who dared to question his methods and authority. He had no patience for their petty grievances or their thinly veiled hostility. His focus remained unwavering on defeating the Ironborn and reclaiming the Riverlands from their clutches.

As they gathered around the war table, Daemon could sense the tension building to a breaking point. The head lords of the Riverlands, their expressions hardened with determination and defiance, stood opposite him like adversaries on the battlefield. But Daemon paid them no mind, his attention fixed on the maps spread out before them, each one marked with the movements of their allies and enemies alike.

As Daemon Targaryen stepped into the war room, the atmosphere was thick with the weight of countless grievances and conflicting agendas. Behind him, a posse of three dozen Riverlords trailed, their expressions a mix of weariness and defiance.

Nearly four dozen Northlords stood alongside them, their faces weathered from battle and their resolve unyielding. Behind them, Westerlords and Stormlords mingled, their banners fluttering defiantly in the breeze.

The war room was chaotic, tumultuous cacophony of voices and raised tempers. Maps adorned the walls, each marked with the intricate details of battle lines and strategic positions. Small figures representing armies and warbands dotted the surfaces, their placements scrutinized and debated by the assembled lords.

Daemon's eyes swept over the room, taking in the sea of sigils that adorned the banners of each House present. The lion of House Lannister, the dire wolf of House Stark, the stag of House Baratheon—all were represented, their presence a testament to the unity forged in the face of a common enemy.

Each Lord seemed intent on voicing their opinions and agendas, their voices rising in a chaotic symphony of discord.

Daemon walked towards the center of the room, his gaze unwavering as he surveyed the scene before him. He listened as the lords around the table shouted over one another, each vying for dominance and control of the discussion. Their words clashed and collided, a vortex of conflicting ideas and strategies that threatened to overwhelm the room.

As Daemon's gaze swept across the room, it settled upon the figure seated at the head of the table—his son, Aemon Targaryen. Beside him stood Corlys Velaryon, a stoic presence at the young prince's side. Despite his tender age of seven, Aemon bore himself with a gravity that belied his years, his expression grave and his focus unwavering.

Aemon wore black leather, and jerkin was stained black as coal. His son's hair was longer than he had last seen almost seven months ago and now reached further back his shoulders, tied in a half bun on the back of his head. His dark eyes were not leaving the papers and maps. The boy looked northern. What truly showed this was the black wolf cloak draped around his back, thick furs that no sane person would wear this far south from the North save for the Northmen themselves. Aemon's black fur cloak had the head of the wolf on the shoulder, and most of the pelt was on his shoulders and upper back.

Daemon's eyes narrowed as he studied his son, noting the seriousness of the boy's features. There was a maturity in Aemon's demeanor that seemed out of place for one so young, a solemnity that spoke of responsibilities far beyond his years. To Daemon, Aemon was not merely a child but a prince preparing for war—a realization that filled him with pride and concern.

Unlike the other lords gathered around the table, Aemon made no effort to flaunt his royal status. Gone were the trappings of luxury and opulence that adorned the other nobles—instead, the young prince wore a simple leather jerkin, his attire unassuming and practical. His gaze remained fixed on the map before him, his mind consumed by the weighty matters.

Daemon said nothing as he observed his son, a sense of unease gnawing at him. He had hoped to shield Aemon from the harsh realities of war, to preserve his innocence for as long as possible. But as he looked upon his son's serious expression, he realized that Aemon had been forced to grow up far too quickly—that the grim responsibilities of leadership had replaced the innocence of childhood.

"Prince Daemon Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, and heir to the Iron Throne," the herald screamed, but Daemon doubted anyone noticed. "Lord Grover Tully, Lord of Riverrun, Lord Paramount of the Trident."

The war room was a disharmony of voices, each Lord clamoring to make their voice heard above the others. Amidst the chaos, Daemon's gaze fell upon his son, Aemon once more with Ghost, his faithful direwolf, by his side. There was a weariness in the young prince's eyes, a burden that seemed too heavy for his tender years.

Aemon glanced briefly at Daemon, a silent acknowledgment passing between father and son before he turned his attention back to the room. With a weary sigh, he gestured to the assembled lords, a look of exasperation crossing his features. Daemon couldn't help but chuckle at the sight, a smug smirk on his lips.

"Well, it seems our young prince has grown tired of the bickering," Daemon remarked, his tone laced with amusem*nt.

Aemon sighed, his patience wearing thin as he raised his voice above the room's din. "Quiet!" he called out, his command cutting through the noise like a knife. Slowly, the clamor died down, and all eyes turned to Aemon, their attention now fully focused on the young prince.

With a sense of authority that belied his years, Aemon addressed the room, his voice calm yet commanding. "Welcome, my father, Prince Daemon Targaryen, and esteemed Riverlords," he began, his words carrying a weight that demanded respect.

The tension in the war room was palpable as Aemon, seated at the head of the table, addressed Lord Grover Tully, his red hair began turning white with age, the stalwart Lord of the Riverlands, who stood by Daemon's side. Aemon's youthful confidence seemed to irk Lord Grover, who glanced at the young prince with disbelief and irritation.

Aemon cleared his throat, his eyes fixed on Lord Grover Tully, who stood at his father's side. "Lord Tully," he addressed the Riverlands lord, "how many men have you brought to bolster our forces?"

Lord Tully looked to Aemon for some time, and Daemon supposed he was waiting for one of the older men in the room to be the one to speak and take charge, instead of a boy not with hair on his balls.

The sound of laughter erupted from the other end of the table, where Lord Rickon Stark sat. "Ha! Seems the Tully trout mute," he jeered, his voice booming with amusem*nt.

Lord Grover Tully's expression shifted, his brows furrowing in disbelief at being questioned by a mere boy. "And who are you to be giving orders, boy?" he retorted, his tone laced with disdain.

Lord Stark grew serious as he stood quickly from his seat; his gray eyes and large, ferocious body were enough to intimidate lesser men, and Lord Tully was a lesser man. Daemon had been waiting for this confrontation for some time; truly, he did. Lord Grover had set his grandson Elmo Tully to marry Lyanna Stark, the angry Stark's daughter, and the two had hated one another for the better part of a decade. Seeing the Stark and Tully fight would have been grand.

Lord Stark leered before speaking, "Careful know fish, that is my grandson and your prince. Next words you make, I will gut a f*cking trout," he said with a level of rage that seemed almost cold. Something Daemon had never thought to see; Lord Stark was known to be a wild, reckless man, the opposite of his cold father, who was currently Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, from what Aemon had explained.

Lord Tully's face flushed with anger at the Stark lord's mockery. "You Northern mongrel!" he spat, his voice dripping with venom.

Lord Stark's eyes narrowed, and his temper flared in response. "Mongrel, am I? Better a mongrel than a f*cking fish." he shot back, his words biting with scorn.

Lord Grover Tully's face contorted with fury at Lord Stark's insult. "You insolent Northern cur! You dare speak to me in such a manner?" he growled, his voice rising in indignation.

Lord Stark leaned forward, his anger fueling his words. "Insolent? Look who's talking, you spineless trout! I'd sooner trust a wildling than a Riverlander like you! f*cking sh*ts couldn't even save themselves. Need our help to save their lands when they, unlike the rest of us, were actually in their kingdom. We had to march North, invade our lands, then find a way to push the Ironborn c*nts out! You needed my men to save yourselves when you had never even left your kingdom like the rest of us!"

The room erupted into murmurs and gasps at the escalating exchange, tension crackling like lightning. Lord Tully's eyes blazed with fury. "You would insult the honor of House Tully, Stark? You who whose own daughter had no honor when she f*cked another man when she was betrothed already." he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt.

Lord Stark roared, and a dozen men held him back as he rushed to Lord Tully. The rage of an angered father was far stronger than the strongest of a dozen men as they had difficulty holding the Lord back from killing Lord Tully. The number surged from a dozen to two dozen; they needed three dozen to stop Lord Stark fully. Daemon chuckled and smiled the entire time smugly, watching then entering until the man mentioned Lyanna. Daemon was going to kill the man right there, but one harsh glare from his son was enough to tell him to stop. Daemon disliked listening to his son's orders, but Aemon seemed to have had a handle on the men before this started, and he had to trust the boy to gain a grasp of the situation once again.

Lord Stark's fury was high, and their eyes were mad. "Speak of my daughter again! Say it again! Say it again! Come here and die like f*cking man!"

Lord Tully spat on the ground near Lord Stark's feet. "Northern savage! You Starks are oathbreaking, honorless dogs, the lot of you!"

"Honor? Your house has as much honor as a rat in a sewer, Tully! You and your kin are nothing but cowards and oathbreakers! Disrespecting my f*cking daughter! Come here! Worry not; I'll kill you quicker than a f*cking blink. I'll crush your skull with my bare hands!"

The insult struck a nerve, and Lord Tully surged to his forward, his face turning red with rage. "You dare impugn the honor of House Tully, Stark? I'll have your tongue for that!" he roared, his hand reaching for his sword hilt.

But before the situation could escalate further, Aemon stood abruptly, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. "Enough!" he commanded, his tone firm and authoritative. "This bickering serves no purpose. We are here to fight a f*cking war! Not each other!" Aemon then turned to Lord Tully. "Speak of my dead mother again, and I will have your tongue. Lyanna Stark was a princess of the realm."

The tension in the war room was palpable as Aemon's question hung in the air, his gaze unwavering as he awaited Lord Grover Tully's response. Lord Tully's expression darkened, his jaw clenched in defiance as he stared back at the young prince.

"I will not answer to a child," Lord Tully retorted sharply, his voice laced with disdain. "If the rest of you lot are content to follow the whims of a babe, then I shall take command and lead the assault myself."

Daemon clenched his fists at his sides, his temper flaring at Lord Tully's insolence. He shot a seething glare at the Riverlord, his disdain for the man burning like wildfire. Aemon remained composed, his features stoic as he addressed the defiant Lord.

"House Targaryen will lead the assault against the Ironborn," Aemon declared, his voice steady and unwavering. "And if you and your men refuse to follow the orders of a child, then you will answer to me."

At Aemon's side, Lord Corlys Velaryon spoke up for the first time, his voice carrying weight in the room. Daemon noticed Corlys looked angry towards Aemon for a reason or another but the man begrudgingly spoke. "Prince Aemon Targaryen has proven himself on the battlefield," Corlys interjected, his tone firm and authoritative. "His leadership has secured victories that none of us could achieve. We would be wise to heed his counsel." Daemon knew the tone of voice, the voice Corlys used, the man was not truly praising Aemon, no, just speaking a fact to make sure the boy thought Corlys was firmly on his side. Corlys disliked Aemon for one reason or another but knew he needed to submit to this.

But Lord Tully remained obstinate, his pride refusing to yield to reason. "My men will not take orders from a child," he insisted stubbornly, his voice dripping with disdain.

Lord Stark, ever blunt and direct, interjected with a sharp retort. "Your men listened to the Ironborn when they were burning our lands and slaughtering our people. You lot lost to the Ironborn, then decided to take down your pants and let them f*ck you in the arse as they burnt your lands," he snapped, his words biting with venom. "If a child can win us victories against those savages, then I say we'd be fools not to follow him."

The room fell silent again, the weight of Lord Stark's words hanging in the air like a heavy shroud. Aemon's gaze remained fixed on Lord Tully, his determination unwavering as he awaited the Riverlord's response.

Prince Aemon's demeanor remained unyielding, his countenance a mask of icy resolve as he fixed Lord Tully with a steely gaze. The Riverlord's words dripped with contempt as he defiantly declared that he would not bow to the authority of a child, his pride refusing to bend to reason.

"If I am expected to follow the commands of a mere boy in this war," Lord Tully spat, his voice thick with disdain, "then I shall march my men back to the Riverlands where we belong."

Lord Stark, never one to shy away from a verbal skirmish, interjected with a sharp retort, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Ah yes, the mighty Riverlands," he mocked, his words laced with derision. "Surely your absence would be felt in this grand endeavor, especially considering the overwhelming might of the other three kingdoms present."

Prince Aemon's response was calm and measured, his voice devoid of emotion as he addressed Lord Tully. "You are more than welcome to take your army and return home," he stated matter-of-factly. "But know this: I will not forget your defiance when I emerge victorious in this Greyjoy Rebellion and the Ironborn threat is extinguished. I will return to Riverrun and root you out, then hang you and all those who march back with you as an oathbreaker."

The threat hung heavy in the air, the tension in the room thickening with each passing moment. Prince Aemon's words were a stark reminder of his authority and his unwavering determination to see his enemies vanquished.

Lord Grover Tully, his face contorted with rage, could no longer contain his fury. "I will not suffer insults from a child!" he bellowed, his voice echoing through the war room like thunder.

In a flash of fury and desperation, Lord Grover Tully's hand snaked towards his sword, his mind consumed by the searing rage that coursed through his veins. But before he could fully grasp the hilt, the monstrous form of Ghost, the dire wolf, erupted from the shadows like a vengeful spirit.

With lightning speed, Ghost pounced onto the table, his massive frame hurtling across the room in a blur of white fur and fangs. Lord Tully's eyes widened in terror as the dire wolf bore down upon him, jaws gaping wide.

In a savage frenzy, Ghost's jaws clamped down on Lord Tully's outstretched hand, his powerful bite-crushing bone tearing through flesh with unrelenting force. The sickening sound of snapping bone echoed through the room, drowned out only by Lord Tully's blood-curdling screams of agony.

Blood sprayed in crimson arcs as Ghost ripped Lord Tully's hand clean from his arm, leaving behind a gaping, crimson-stained wound that gushed with crimson lifeblood. The stench of iron filled the air as the metallic tang of blood mingled with the acrid scent of fear and pain.

With a final wrenching tug, Ghost tore the severed hand free, his teeth dripping with gore as he released his grip on the mutilated limb. Lord Tully writhed in agony on the floor, his anguished cries reverberating off the stone walls of the war room.

Silence descended upon the room as Ghost, his eyes gleaming with feral intensity, padded back to Aemon's side, the severed hand clenched firmly in his jaws. With a solemn nod, Ghost deposited the gruesome trophy into Aemon's waiting hands, a chilling testament to the dire wolf's loyalty and the brutal consequences of defying the authority of House Targaryen.

Aemon's voice cut through the tense silence of the war room, his words ringing clear and commanding. "King Jaehaerys Targaryen taught me that it is death to bear a sword against your liege lord or the royal family," he proclaimed, his gaze unwavering as he addressed the assembled lords. "I trust that Lord Tully was merely inspecting his blade in preparation for the battles ahead. Perhaps it suffered damage during the conflicts in the Riverlands."

The room remained still, the air thick with apprehension, as several of Lord Tully's men hastened to staunch the flow of blood from his maimed hand. With a pained grimace, Lord Tully rose to his feet, accepting the offered cloth with a nod of gratitude. His eyes met Aemon's, searching for any hint of judgment or condemnation.

All cunning men could see Aemon's words for what they were: an escape. This is the only chance for Grover Tully to come out of this confrontation without his head on a spike. Aemon would allow Grover to live if Grover admitted himself a fool who cut himself with his blade. Aemon claimed the man's hand, and now he will force the man to either give him his head or his humiliation and submission in front of all other respectable lords, further pushing the entire Riverlands under Aemon's dominance.

"My apologies, Your Grace," Lord Tully spoke, his voice strained but defiant. "My sword suffered damage in battle, but it seems sharp enough for our upcoming engagements." He gestured towards his small contingent of men with his remaining hand, a wry smile on his lips. "The bloody thing was still able to nick me, though." Lord Grover shows the damaged arm as if it were the blade that cut his hand off rather than a dire wolf ripping it off.

A tense silence hung in the air as the other lords awaited Aemon's response, their eyes flickering between the young prince and Lord Tully. Then, to the surprise of many, Aemon's stoic facade broke, a soft chuckle escaping his lips.

"Well, Lord Tully," Aemon replied, his laughter mingling with the nervous tension in the room. "I would hate for this meeting to end on such a sour note. We must focus on some things, and we are already...short-handed. " His words elicited a ripple of uneasy laughter from the assembled lords, the tension in the room dissipating with each shared jest.

Daemon laughed loudly, several loud chuckles echoed across the room; Lord Stark laughed with reckless abandon. Aemon never jested; he was often a brooding, serious boy, and to make such a cruel joke right after that man had his arm ripped off by Aemon's dire wolf was probably the funniest thing he had ever seen Aemon do. There was hope for Aemon yet.

With a nod of acceptance, Aemon signaled an end to the confrontation, his decision to show mercy met with relieved sighs and grateful smiles from the other lords. At that moment, the specter of conflict was averted, replaced by camaraderie and unity as the realm's lords prepared to face their common enemy together. The tension in the war room slowly dissipated as Aemon turned his attention to logistical matters, his voice calm and measured as he addressed Lord Tully once more.

"Lord Tully, how many men have you brought with you?" Aemon inquired, his gaze fixed intently on the Riverlord.

His expression somewhat subdued after the earlier confrontation, Lord Tully cleared his throat before responding. "The Riverlands have mustered twenty-five thousand men, Your Grace," he replied, his tone respectful but tinged with a hint of defiance.

Aemon nodded thoughtfully before turning to address the gathered lords. "As of yesterday's counts, the North has fielded fifty thousand men, slightly more than during the Wildling Invasion," he announced, his voice carrying authority. "The Westerlands have raised forty-five thousand men, while the Stormlands have mustered forty thousand." Calculating the numbers in his head, Aemon continued, his voice unwavering. "Altogether, we boast a force of one hundred and sixty thousand men," he declared, his words resonating throughout the war room. "Then, with three hundred warships from Lord Redwyne, four hundred warships from the Velaryons, and eight dragons, this would be a victory, and the next battle will be the last."

Daemon, his eyes widening in disbelief, interjected, his voice incredulous. "Eight dragons? How is that possible? I only saw five when I arrived here on Caraxes."

Aemon's lips curled into a knowing smile as he explained, just a slight smile, so slight, for his brooding consumed most of his face, his demeanor confident. "With the Stormlands secured and ample resources to protect Summerhall and Summertown. There must always be a Targaryen in Summerhall and our dear maester is a Targaryen," he replied, his tone tinged with satisfaction. "Hence, the addition of three more dragons to our arsenal, including Caraxes."

The heavy wooden doors creaked loudly as they swung open, drawing the attention of all those gathered in the war room. Daemon's eyes shifted toward the entrance, where he beheld the figures of his young aunts, the Princesses Viserra, Aerea, Rhaella, Daenerys, Saera, and Maegelle, each one bearing the unmistakable features of House Targaryen.

"The Princesses Viserra, Aerea, Rhaella, Daenerys, Saera, and Maegelle of House Targaryen, the princesses of Summerhall!" the herald announced, his voice echoing throughout the chamber.

Daemon watched as his aunts, all nine years of age, strode into the room with an air of confidence that belied their youth. Their silvery-golden locks cascaded down their shoulders, shimmering in the flickering light, while their eyes, ranging in shades of purple, lilac, and indigo, sparkled with determination.

"Welcome, Princesses," Aemon greeted them warmly, his pride evident as he stood by the war table.

Saera stepped forward, her gaze meeting Aemon's with a nod of acknowledgment. "Thank you, Prince Aemon," she replied graciously, her tone poised and dignified.

Daemon observed the subtle shift in the room's atmosphere as they passed by the assembled lords. With the arrival of his aunts, each accompanied by her dragon, the tension seemed to dissipate, replaced by a sense of anticipation and power.

Daemon's smirk grew into a smug grin as he realized the formidable force they now commanded—a force that included eight dragons, a testament to the strength and unity of House Targaryen.

Daemon's mind wandered as he observed the contrast between his son, Aemon, and his aunts, the Targaryen princesses. Aemon, with his dark hair and eyes, bore a striking resemblance to the Stark side of the family. His features, though handsome, lacked the refined Valyrian elegance that defined his aunts.

His son's appearance was a stark departure from the traditional Targaryen look—those fair of hair and violet of the eye, with features so finely chiseled they seemed sculpted from marble. Aemon's Northern heritage was evident in every aspect of his appearance, from his long face to his somber expression.

Daemon couldn't help but compare Aemon's demeanor to that of his aunts. While the princesses exuded an air of ethereal beauty and passion, Aemon remained cold and solemn, his emotions carefully guarded behind a mask of stoicism. He was a brooding figure, starkly contrasting the fiery temperament often associated with their Valyrian bloodline.

Daemon pondered this discrepancy and realized that his son embodied the North's essence rather than their Valyrian ancestors' fiery spirit. Despite bearing the Targaryen name, Aemon was, at his core, a northerner—a fact that both intrigued and concerned Daemon as they prepared for the battles to come.

Aemon's gaze shifted to Lord Corlys, his expression unreadable as he asked, "How much damage was done to the Ironborn fleet?"

Lord Corlys, ever composed, met Aemon's gaze with his steady stare. "Most of the three to four hundred warships they possessed were decimated in the Sea of Fire," he replied evenly. "As for their numbers, they've dwindled from sixty-five thousand men, including sellswords, to a mere fifteen thousand."

Aemon nodded thoughtfully, his mind already calculating the implications of this revelation. "Seven islands make up the Iron Islands," he mused aloud. "If their forces are evenly distributed, that leaves roughly two thousand men stationed at each island."

Daemon, catching the drift of the conversation, smirked wryly. "Seems hardly fair, doesn't it?" he remarked, a hint of amusem*nt coloring his tone. "We have a hundred and sixty thousand men at our disposal, while the Ironborn are left to fend with a mere fifteen thousand scattered across seven islands. They will send us back to our keeps if this lasts any longer."

The lords in the room chuckled at the jest, but Aemon and Corlys remained focused, their attention fixed on the maps spread out before them, their minds already strategizing the next move in their campaign against the Ironborn.

Aemon's voice cut through the room, crisp and commanding. "Lord Redwyne, Lord Velaryon," he addressed the two lords seated across from him at the war table, "how many men can your warships comfortably accommodate?"

Lord Redwyne, a sturdy man with a weathered face, replied first. "Two hundred men, comfortably," he answered, his voice carrying authority from years at sea.

Lord Velaryon nodded in agreement. "Much the same for our ships," he confirmed, his voice measured and precise.

Aemon absorbed their responses, his mind already racing with calculations. "We have seven hundred warships at our disposal," he stated matter-of-factly, "while the Ironborn, by estimation, have only fifty left."

He turned his attention to the maps before them, his gaze unwavering. "We'll deploy the Velaryon and Redwyne fleets," he announced, his tone decisive. "Fifty ships to each island, each carrying no less than two hundred men."

Lord Stark, seated nearby, interjected with a frown. "If fifty ships have two hundred men each," he calculated aloud, "that's ten thousand men dispatched to each island."

Lord Corlys, the epitome of composure, nodded in agreement. "Indeed," he confirmed, his voice calm and steady. "Which would mean only three hundred fifty ships are being utilized for this strategy."

Lord Boremund Baratheon, his brow furrowed in thought, spoke up next. "Seems unlikely that each island would have two thousand men evenly. Especially after what Prince Aemon had said publicly for the last number of days," he remarked skeptically, his tone skeptical.

Daemon, intrigued by the conversation, turned to his son with a quizzical expression. "What have you done, Aemon?" he inquired, curiosity piqued.

The newly appointed Lord Jason Lannister, his gaze sharp, explained, "Prince Aemon has proposed an attack on the main island of Pyke and said so many times over to the men outside this room, word is already spread among our ranks," he revealed, his words laced with a hint of dismissal.

Lord Grover Tully, his tone skeptical, interjected with a counterargument. "The Ironborn would concentrate their forces on Pyke to repel such an assault," he pointed out, his skepticism evident.

Lord Borros Baratheon, his skepticism evident, voiced his doubts. "If all the Ironborn are on Pyke, and we send only ten thousand soldiers to face fifteen thousand Ironborn," he argued, "it's a victory for the Ironborn."

Daemon observed his son, Aemon, with curiosity and pride, noting how the young prince's gaze swept over each of his aunts. The princesses, Viserra, Aerea, Rhaella, Daenerys, Saera, and Maegelle, returned Aemon's gaze with nods of affirmation and smirks of confidence. It was a silent exchange of understanding and solidarity that Daemon couldn't help but admire.

Aemon's cool and composed voice pierced the air as he addressed the assembled lords. "Yes, it's true," he began, his words deliberate and measured. "I openly discussed my plan to attack the main island of Pyke with everyone present here and with all the knights and men outside this chamber. I said my plans often, loudly, and publicly."

Lord Stark's expression shifted as he realized his intentions. "You wanted the Ironborn to know your intentions," he surmised, his voice tinged with a newfound understanding.

Lord Corlys nodded in agreement, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. "Indeed," he confirmed, his tone approving. "By spreading the word and allowing spies to relay the information to the Ironborn, we create the illusion that the Pyke is our primary target, leaving the other islands vulnerable." Aemon's stoic demeanor remained unchanged as he turned to Lord Corlys. "Please, repeat your calculation regarding the distribution of our ships," he requested calmly.

Lord Corlys obliged, his tone confident. "If we allocate fifty ships to each island," he began, "it means that only three hundred fifty ships are in use, leaving seventy thousand men deployed out of our total of one hundred sixty thousand. Meaning you would not use my four hundred ships"

Aemon nodded thoughtfully, his mind already several steps ahead. "With the Ironborn under the impression that the Pyke is our main focus," he elaborated, "they will concentrate their defenses there, leaving the other islands less guarded."

Lord Stark interjected with a realization of his own. "So, if four hundred ships are being sent to the Pyke," he deduced, "a significant portion of our remaining forces will be concentrated there."

Aemon's gaze remained steady as he outlined the next phase of their strategy. "Exactly," he affirmed. "We'll maximize the number of men on those four hundred ships, sending the majority of our remaining one hundred thousand troops to reinforce the assault on the Pyke. I promised you, Lord Corlys, revenge for your damaged fleet. Here it is. All of your four hundred ships are going to the Pyke." Aemon's voice resonated through the war room, commanding attention as he laid out the next phase of their strategy. "A dragon will lead each island," he declared, his tone firm and resolute. "With most Ironborn forces likely concentrated on the Pyke, most of the fighting will occur there. Therefore, I propose sending two dragons to attack the Pyke."

Before Aemon could elaborate further, Daemon interjected with his proposal. "Aemon and I will lead the assault on the Pyke," he announced, a hint of pride evident in his voice. "It will be a father-and-son partnership, striking fear into the hearts of our enemies."

Aemon, however, had a different idea in mind. "I would prefer for you to take Great Wyk," he countered calmly, his gaze unwavering. "It is the largest of the Iron Islands and likely swarming with Ironborn forces if they are not sent to the Pyke. It would be a crucial victory."

Daemon chuckled at his son's suggestion, dismissing it with a wave. "Most of the fighting will be centered on the Pyke," he insisted, his confidence unwavering. "As members of House Targaryen, we must lead the charge.

Aemon considered his father's words for a moment before nodding in agreement. "Very well," he acquiesced, a steely resolve in his eyes. "We will lead the assault on the Pyke together. "Turning to address the assembled lords once more, Aemon posed a question. "Are there any suggestions or thoughts?" he inquired, his voice commanding silence in the room. Silence greeted his query, the lords and knights alike recognizing the cunning and efficiency of the plan laid out before them. With a nod of satisfaction, Aemon acknowledged their assent. "Then it is settled," he declared, his voice ringing with authority. "We shall send ten thousand men to each of the six islands, and the remaining one hundred thousand will obliterate the main house that started this rebellion."

The war room fell into contemplative silence as Aemon's words hung in the air, each Lord weighing the implications of their next move. Boremund Baratheon, his voice filled with conviction, was the first to break the silence.

"As kin to House Targaryen, House Baratheon would be honored to fight alongside you on the Pyke," he declared boldly, his gaze unwavering as he addressed Aemon and Daemon. "Your princesses saved my lands during a siege; I wish to repay that kindness."

Daemon, seizing the opportunity to further undermine Lord Grover Tully, interjected with a sly remark. "I would have thought vengeance at the Pyke would be a fitting cause for you, Lord Tully," he quipped, smirking. After all, the Ironborn have left your lands in ruins."

Lord Grover Tully, his arm still dripping with blood and hastily bandaged, bristled at the suggestion. "I would never join you in battle after what you and Caraxes did to the Riverlands," he retorted, his voice tinged with bitterness. "You have shown nothing but disrespect to my people."

Rickon Stark, his voice calm and authoritative, spoke next, asserting the prowess of his Northmen in battle. "The men of the North have fought the Ironborn for generations," he declared, his eyes glinting with pride. "We are no strangers to war, and our warriors would be well-suited for the fight at the Pyke."

Lord Jason Lannister, ever the arrogant lion, added his voice to the discussion. "Lannisport and Casterly Rock demand vengeance," he proclaimed, his tone dripping with superiority. "I shall lead my men to the Pyke and ensure that justice is served for the atrocities committed against my lands."

As Lord Stark, Lord Baratheon, and Lord Lannister expressed their desire to fight at the Pyke, Daemon couldn't resist the opportunity to stoke the flames of discord further. With a subtle smirk playing on his lips, he subtly instigated the conversation, his words dripping with sarcasm and contempt.

"Ah, so the mighty lords of the North, Stormlands, and Westerlands all clamor for the honor of leading the assault on the Pyke," Daemon remarked, his tone laced with mockery. "How fortunate we are to have such brave and noble warriors among us," his words dripping with sarcasm and a lack of emotion. His face was smudged and satisfied. Daemon looked at his son Aemon and saw the level of disappearance he never thought he would see. His stoic face was more than enough to show dislike of Daemon trying to anger the lords.

His words were like fuel to a flame, igniting the tempers of the assembled lords. Lord Stark bristled at the thinly veiled insult, his jaw clenched in anger. "Do not mock us, Prince Daemon," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "The men of the North have spilled blood for generations to defend our lands from the Ironborn."

His brow furrowed in displeasure, Lord Baratheon shot a glare at Daemon. "And do not think House Baratheon lacks the courage to face our enemies head-on," he retorted, his voice tinged with defiance. "We have fought alongside House Targaryen and shall do so again."

Lord Lannister, his pride wounded by Daemon's words, stepped forward with a scowl. "House Lannister will not be insulted," he snapped, his tone sharp with irritation. "We have suffered greatly at the hands of the Ironborn, and we will not rest until justice is served."

As the lords exchanged heated words, the tension in the war room reached a boiling point. Insults flew like arrows, each more cutting and brutal than the last. Daemon reveled in the chaos he had incited, his smirk widening with each passing moment.

"Come now, my lords, surely we can settle this like civilized men," he taunted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Or are we to let petty squabbles tear us apart before we even set foot on the battlefield?"

But his words fell on deaf ears as the lords continued to argue, their tempers flaring uncontrollably. The war room descended into chaos, the air thick with hatred and resentment as each Lord fought to assert dominance. Amid it all, Daemon watched with amusem*nt, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction at the discord he had sown.

Aemon's glare was something Daemon never thought he would see on the brooding boy. Aemon was often stoic, emotionless, and brooding, but never had he seen the boy disappointed. Aemon sighed and looked around the room at his aunts. Aemon looked like he was going to say something, but Saea and Viserra grabbed his shoulders and gave him a look. Aemon grunted in approval before leveling his anger and brooding gaze at all the lords as they argued. Daemon looked on, wondering why his son was not interrupting yet. His son had stopped every form of difference that happened in this room, yet now he would wait for this to come full circle.

As the Lannisters made their pompous comment belittling the Riverlords, Lord Jason Lannister's arrogance knew no bounds. "Truly, Lord Tully, you must forgive me for doubting the effectiveness of your forces," he remarked condescendingly, his tone dripping with disdain. "After all, what use is a mere handful of men against the might of House Lannister? Twenty-five thousand men would be such a large contribution to this war."

His words were like a spark to tinder, igniting the ire of the Riverlords, who refused to be spoken down to. Daemon looked at the red stub of Lord Grover Tully's arm; he wondered how long the man could fake his injury and pain to stay in this room. His voice dripping with sarcasm, Lord Grover Tully shot back, "Ah, yes, House Lannister, renowned for their bravery on the battlefield," he retorted mockingly. "I suppose one should not expect much from a house that hides behind their walls. One battle at your ancestral seat, and you were useless in the battles to come for seven entire months."

The insult struck a nerve with the Lannisters, who bristled at the implication of cowardice. Lord Jason Lannister's eyes flashed with fury as he retorted, "Better to be cautious and cunning than reckless and foolhardy, Lord Tully. But I wouldn't expect you to understand the nuances of strategy. Tell me, did it take much forethought for you to make your lords and people begin fighting each other once the Ironborn told you to do so?"

The Riverlords, unwilling to back down, fired back with their barbs, mocking both the Westerlords and the Northlords in equal measure. "You golden sh*ts are like the ice-encrusted craven savages," one Riverlord sneered, his words dripping with contempt. "As for the Lannisters, one battle was enough to keep them cowering in their castles for years."

The Northlords, stung by the insult, erupted in anger, their voices rising in a chorus of outrage. "You dare insult the honor of House Stark, you cowardly c*nts?" one Northlord thundered, his eyes blazing with fury. "At least we know how to defend our lands instead of cowering and needing the aid of better men like frightened children to save your lands."

"And what of you, Stormlords? Attacking us in our lands like cowards instead of facing us on the battlefield?" one Riverlord jeered, his voice dripping with scorn. "You're nothing but opportunistic traitors, willing to stab your allies in the back for a taste of power."

The war room became chaotic as insults flew like arrows, each faction hurling barbs and jibes at their rivals with reckless abandon. Amid it all, Daemon watched with a smirk, his eyes gleaming with amusem*nt at the spectacle unfolding before him.

As Daemon observed Aemon, a fleeting sense of unease washed over him as he noticed a strange white, misty glaze in his son's eyes. It was as if a mist had momentarily obscured their dark depths, casting them into a ghostly hue.

Before Daemon could ponder further, the thunderous roar of Balerion the Black Dread ripped the air asunder, echoing through the stone halls of the castle with a ferocity that seemed to shake the fortress's very foundations.

The sound was deafening, a primal cacophony reverberating in every corner, causing the men within to stagger and falter. The sheer force of the roar was overwhelming, like a physical blow to the senses, and men cried out in agony as they fell to their knees, hands clamped tightly over their ears in a futile attempt to shield themselves from the ear-splitting sound.

Amidst the chaos, Aemon remained resolute, his expression stoic and unmoved by the torment that engulfed those around him. Though momentarily clouded, his eyes regained their steely resolve as he surveyed the scene before him with an air of detached calmness. Even as the lords writhed in agony, Aemon's demeanor remained unchanged, a silent testament to his unwavering composure in the face of adversity.

As the roar finally subsided and the echoes faded into the chamber's stillness, Aemon turned his attention back to the assembled lords, his gaze unwavering and penetrating. Despite the lingering pain and disorientation in the air, the young prince emanated an unmistakable aura of authority, a silent reminder of his formidable presence amidst the chaos of the war room.

As the tumultuous echoes of Balerion's roar subsided, leaving the war room in a stunned silence, Aemon rose to his feet with an air of commanding authority. His voice, clear and resonant, cut through the lingering reverberations, demanding attention from all who were present.

With a firm gaze, Aemon addressed each lord in turn, his questions ringing out unwaveringly. "A question for you, Lord Jason Lannister," Aemon began, his gaze fixed upon the Lord of Casterly Rock. "To whom does House Lannister swear their allegiance?"

Lord Jason Lannister, visibly taken aback by the sudden scrutiny, rose hesitantly to his feet, his expression betraying a hint of unease. "House Lannister is sworn to House Targaryen, my prince," he replied, his voice tinged with deference.

Aemon's piercing gaze then shifted to Lord Corlys Velaryon, his eyes probing and intense. "And what of House Velaryon, Lord Corlys?" he queried, his voice steady and unwavering.

Lord Corlys, ever composed and resolute, met Aemon's gaze with steely determination. "House Velaryon is sworn to House Targaryen, Your Grace," he declared, his words carrying the weight of solemn duty.

Turning next to Lord Grover Tully, Aemon's eyes lingered on the wounded lord, his expression grave yet unwavering. "And House Tully, Lord Grover?" he inquired, his voice carrying a tone of quiet authority.

Lord Tully, his arm still wrapped tightly in makeshift bandages, met Aemon's gaze with a steady resolve. "House Tully is sworn to House Targaryen, Your Grace," he affirmed, his voice firm despite the pain.

With a nod of acknowledgment, Aemon directed his attention to his grandfather, Lord Rickon Stark, a sense of pride evident in his gaze. "House Stark, Grandfather," he prompted, his voice tinged with respect and admiration.

Lord Rickon Stark's weathered features, softened by a proud smile, met Aemon's gaze with warmth and affection. "House Stark is sworn to House Targaryen, my grandson," he replied, his voice filled with pride and reverence.

Finally, Aemon turned his gaze to Lord Boremund Baratheon, his expression inscrutable yet commanding. "And House Baratheon, Lord Boremund?" he asked, his voice resonating with quiet authority.

Lord Boremund Baratheon, ever steadfast and loyal, met Aemon's gaze with unwavering resolve. "House Baratheon is sworn to House Targaryen, Your Grace," he affirmed his words a solemn pledge of allegiance.

Aemon's calm yet authoritative voice filled the war room as he addressed the assembled lords with unwavering resolve. "Every man gathered here today is sworn to the banner of House Targaryen," he began, his tone carrying the weight of solemn duty. "As Prince of House Targaryen, my word is law within these walls, unless overridden by my father, Prince Daemon Targaryen, or the King and Queen themselves." The lords and knights in attendance nodded in solemn agreement, acknowledging Aemon's authority with a sense of deference and respect. Aemon's gaze swept across the room, his dark eyes alight with determination as he continued. "But let us not forget that true loyalty is forged on the battlefield. Any man who fights alongside me shall be considered a friend, and I will not tolerate any conflicts among allies." The assembled lords murmured in agreement, their expressions reflecting a shared understanding of the importance of unity in times of war. "In the face of our common enemy, we must set aside our differences and stand together as one," Aemon declared, his voice resolute. The Ironborn have scarred and plundered our lands, but it is not each other we must fight, but those who have wrought such devastation upon us."

His words resonated with a sense of conviction, each syllable carrying the weight of unwavering determination as Aemon rallied his allies to a common cause.

As Aemon took control of the meeting, Daemon observed with a mixture of pride and awe. Despite his young age of merely seven years, Aemon commanded the attention of every man in the room with a presence that belied his youth.

Daemon's gaze lingered on his son, marveling at how effortlessly he guided the discussion, his every word carrying the weight of authority. There was an air of solemnity about Aemon, a seriousness that seemed far beyond his years, and it commanded the respect of all those present. Throughout the meeting, Aemon listened intently to the advice offered by the other lords, his dark eyes focused and unwavering. Daemon watched as his son carefully weighed each suggestion, considering its merits with a maturity that seemed almost unnatural for a boy his age.

When it came time to make decisions, Aemon responded with unwavering resolve, his voice firm and decisive. There was no hesitation in his words, no hint of doubt in his demeanor as he asserted his authority with a quiet confidence that left no room for argument.

As the meeting progressed, Daemon noted with satisfaction how Aemon's presence seemed to quell dissent among the assembled lords. A single glance from his son was all it took to silence any man who dared to speak out of turn, a testament to the respect and admiration that Aemon had earned through his actions on the battlefield.

At that moment, Daemon felt a swell of pride in his son, knowing he had raised a true leader, a boy with the strength and wisdom to guide their house through the trials ahead. As Aemon continued to lead the meeting with a steady hand, Daemon could not help but feel a sense of hope for the future, knowing their house was in capable hands.

Daemon's gaze lingered on his son, Aemon, with a mixture of admiration and contemplation. Clad in simple, dark leathers that seemed more fitting for a common soldier than a prince, Aemon stood out amidst the grandeur of the war council chamber. His attire was devoid of the lavishness that often adorned members of noble houses, save for the regal black fur cloak draped over his shoulders, a symbol of his royal lineage.

As Aemon led the war council with a confidence that belied his tender age, Daemon couldn't help but marvel at the sight before him. Despite his humble attire, there was an undeniable air of authority about Aemon, a natural-born leader who commanded the respect of all those in attendance.

Daemon watched with pride as his son deftly navigated the discussions, allowing the other lords to voice their opinions while firmly maintaining control of the proceedings. Aemon's demeanor was calm and composed, and his every word was measured and deliberate as he listened attentively to the counsel of his advisors.

Though still a boy of tender years, Aemon exhibited a maturity far beyond his age, his innate leadership qualities shining through with each decision he made. It was clear to Daemon that his son was born to lead, destined for greatness on the battlefield and beyond.

As the war council progressed, Daemon couldn't help but feel a swell of pride in his son, knowing that the future of their house was in capable hands. In Aemon, he saw not just a prince but a true leader, ready to guide their family through the trials and tribulations that lay ahead.

As Daemon's gaze lingered upon his son, Aemon, a tumult of emotions swirled within him, each vying for dominance. For a fleeting moment, an unsettling image flashed before his eyes—a vision of Aemon as a grown man, standing tall and resolute, his features strikingly resembling the ancient Stark Kings of Winter.

To Daemon, the sight was both awe-inspiring and disconcerting. As a scion of House Targaryen, he hoped to see their noble lineage's fiery essence reflected in his son's visage—the unmistakable mark of a Dragon king. Instead, what he beheld was a countenance more reminiscent of the cold, stoic countenance of the North, an echo of the Stark blood that coursed through Aemon's veins.

Though Daemon felt a surge of pride at his son's regal bearing, a part of him couldn't help but harbor a twinge of disappointment. He longed to see House Targaryen's flame burning brightly within Aemon, a testament to their storied legacy and ancient lineage. Yet, as he observed the unmistakable Stark features etched upon his son's face, Daemon couldn't shake the feeling of discord that gnawed at his heart.

The realization of Aemon's stark resemblance to the Kings of Winter struck a chord deep within Daemon, stirring a complex brew of conflicting emotions. On one hand, he marveled at the thought of his son embodying the strength and resilience of the Northern lords, yet on the other, he couldn't help but lament the absence of the fiery spirit that defined House Targaryen.

As these thoughts swirled through his mind, Daemon was jolted back to the present by a sharp pang in his ribs—a reminder of his injuries in battle. With a grimace, he realized the pressing need to replenish his supply of medicine, a potent concoction brewed by the maesters and aptly named "Daemon's Dance" in his honor. As he made a mental note to seek out the maesters for more of the healing elixir, Daemon couldn't shake the unease in the depths of his soul.

That night the men feasted, they drank and whor*d. For none knew if they would be able to do so afterward. Daemon had thought it best to reach his son and spend time with the boy, but could not find him, nor his aunts. He passed men with more wine in their bellies than barrels could carry. Their faces were red with drink or laughter. He wanted to share a drink with his son, if not a full goblet for the boy then just a few sips.

It would be near the end of the night, when Daemon had drunk and whor*d himself into bliss, and argued with no less than a dozen other lords and watched as half a dozen fights ensued between the Houses and their knights that Daemon found his son, with his aunts. The girls resting with Viserra and Saera resting their heads on his lap while looking to the stars above.

Sitting near the weirdwood tree as they rested near the white bark Aemon sat down with a harp in his hand, leaning on the back of Ghost as the white wolf matched the white tree. The boy was singing, Daemon had not heard his son sing in quite some time and he would like to see it once more. Daemon would go to sit with them and join but the moment looked far too intimate for Daemon's drunk disturbance, he chose to hide by the wall and listen, out of sight. Let the children make a memories for dreams before they fight to make fuel for nightmares.

Daemon would like to know what song Aemon had begun singing, it was not one Daemon had not heard before. Yet, he knew it well. The sound of the strings being strummed, the hums of the girls as they made a chorus for the undertone of Aemon's voice singing the words. Daemon had never heard this song but he knew it better than Caraxes' saddle. For it was his song. A song of Daemon and Lyanna. The song that was always meant to be. A song of ice and fire.

In the heart of the Red Keep, where tales unfold,

A tale of love and courage, a story yet untold.

She was the She-Wolf, Lyanna Stark her name,

He, the Rouge Prince, Daemon Targaryen by fame.

Underneath the banners, where destinies align,

In the Tourney's fervor, their fates would intertwine.

A stolen glance, a fleeting touch,

A love so wild, it would mean so much.

Oh Lyanna, She-Wolf lovely, and fair,

In the dragon's gaze, you found love to share.

Daemon, the Rouge Prince strong and bold,

In the arms of a wolf, their story unfolds.

Rhae Royce standing tall in the tourney stand's veil,

But Daemon's heart had set sail.

No Queen of Love and Beauty for his future bride,

It was Lyanna to be crowned; it was her beauty he eyed.

A crown of winter roses, in her raven hair,

He chose her heart, without a care.

Forbidden love, a flame so bright,

Igniting passions in the Red Keep's sights.

Oh Lyanna, She-Wolf lovely and fair,

In the dragon's gaze, you found love to share.

Daemon, the Rouge Prince strong and bold,

In the arms of a wolf, their story unfolds.

They danced through whispers, 'neath the moonlit sky,

A love forbidden, yet they'd defy.

With every heartbeat, with every breath,

They chose a love that conquered death.

Promised to another, yet their hearts entwined,

In the shadows, a secret they'd find.

Flying through the night, hand in hand,

To build a future on love's soft sand.

Against the currents, against the tide,

They'd face the world, side by side.

A tale of passion, a tale of might,

In the Tourney's glow, they took their flight.

Oh Lyanna, She-Wolf lovely and fair,

In the dragon's gaze, you found love to share.

Daemon, the Rouge Prince strong and bold,

In the arms of a wolf, their story unfolds.

Whispers in shadows, their love took flight,

In the moonlit gardens, they met each night.

Wolves and Dragons, a kingdom at stake,

But for love, Lyanna and Daemon wouldn't break

Deep in the forests, where the summer winds blow,

A She-Wolf and Dragon, together they go.

In the echoes of history, their love will be sung,

Lyanna and Daemon, forever young.

Daemon did not know when he began crying. He did not know it until he began whipping the tears away. His Lyanna had been gone for some time and yet, she drew an ache in his heart. How unfair to care for a woman as much as she when he knew his son longer than he ever knew Lyanna. The gods are all c*nts.

It was his song.

It was Lyanna's song.

It was the song that gave birth to Aemon.

It would be the last time Daemon would hear his son sing for years to come.

Chapter 28: Seige of the Pyke

Chapter Text

Pyke 105 AC

Aemon Targaryen

The flight of Balerion and Caraxes, two of the mightiest dragons to grace the skies of Westeros, was a sight to behold. As Aemon Targaryen astride Balerion and his father, Daemon Targaryen, atop Caraxes, led the host of four hundred warships carrying one hundred thousand soldiers towards the main island of Pyke, the air filled with anticipation and the promise of war.

The Velaryon fleet, with their sails billowing in the wind like the wings of a great seabird, cut through the tumultuous waves of the Narrow Sea with a determined resolve. Each ship rode the crest of the waves with a steady hand, their hulls slicing through the frothy sea foam as they forged ahead toward their destination.

The ocean journey was a relentless battle against the elements, with fierce winds and crashing waves threatening to engulf the ships at every turn. Yet, under the watchful gaze of Balerion and Caraxes, the sailors of the Velaryon fleet navigated the treacherous waters with skill and determination, their resolve unshaken by the stormy seas.

As the dragons soared overhead, their massive wings casting shadows upon the churning waters below, the men aboard the warships drew strength from their presence. Despite the harsh conditions and the looming specter of war on the horizon, there was an undeniable sense of camaraderie among the soldiers and sailors alike, united by their common purpose and the unwavering leadership of their dragon riders, especially since the Ironborn had harmed those these men call dear. After the victory was had Aemon knew that for the next number of years, until the Dance of Dragons, his uncle's reign would be one of unity for not quite since Dorne had all the kingdoms had one thing to hate and focus upon, something to unite against, a chance to unite for years to come.

Through the howling winds and crashing waves, Balerion and Caraxes led the host onward, their fiery breath lighting the way through the darkness of the night. As they approached the main island of Pyke, the men's anticipation reached a fever pitch, their hearts pounding with the thrill of battle and the promise of victory.

The journey to Pyke had been arduous, spanning the better part of two days as the fleet of warships and their dragon escorts navigated the choppy waters of the Narrow Sea. The horizon had been a constant companion, an ever-changing vista of rolling waves and distant clouds, until finally, the silhouette of Pyke emerged on the horizon like a shadowy specter rising from the depths.

As the island came into view, Aemon Targaryen stood at the prow of the lead ship, his eyes fixed on the looming fortress perched atop the cliffs. The sight stirred a mix of emotions within him - anticipation, determination, and perhaps a hint of apprehension. Pyke was a forbidding sight, its jagged cliffs and rugged coastline standing as a testament to the harshness of the Iron Islands.

Turning back to Pyke, Aemon's gaze lingered on the dark, brooding landscape that stretched before him. The island seemed to exude an aura of desolation, its craggy shores and mist-shrouded hills hinting at life's harsh and unforgiving nature in the Iron Islands. Yet, despite its bleak appearance, Aemon saw an opportunity to strike a decisive blow against their enemies and secure victory for House Targaryen.

Balerion and Caraxes, the two mighty dragons of House Targaryen, soared through the storm-laden skies with an undeniable aura of majesty and power. Balerion, the Black Dread, was a colossal beast, his scales as dark as night and his wings wide enough to blot out the sun, but as the dusk settled, night would soon be upon them, Aemon doubted the large dragon could even be seen during the night. His roar reverberated across the turbulent waters below, a deep and ominous sound that struck fear into all who heard it.

Caraxes, in contrast, were smaller but no less formidable. The Blood Wyrm's scales gleamed a deep crimson hue, reminiscent of the blood-soaked battlefields over which he had flown into before. His wings beat with a powerful rhythm, propelling him forward with a grace that belied his immense strength. With a roar that echoed like thunder, Caraxes announced his presence to all who dared to oppose House Targaryen.

As the dragons soared through the storm, their riders clung tightly to their backs, weathering the fierce winds and driving rain that lashed at them relentlessly. The air lit up with a bright white as lightning illuminated the darkened skies, casting eerie shadows across the tumultuous seas below. The dragons' powerful wings beat against the howling gales, each stroke a testament to their indomitable will and unwavering determination.

Balerion and Caraxes pressed on despite the storm's ferocity, their massive forms leaving a space below them of no rain for they covered the ships bellow from their size, the driving rain with searing intensity only hitting Daemon and Aemon as they flew atop. Their roars mingled with the crashing waves and the howling winds, creating a cacophony that drowned out all other noise. Yet amidst the chaos, there was a sense of purpose - a shared mission to reclaim what was rightfully theirs and crush all who dared to stand in their way.

As the dragons closed in on Pyke, their riders could feel the tension mounting. The fortress loomed large before them, its ancient stones weathered by centuries of sea winds and salt spray. But Balerion and Caraxes showed no fear or hesitation, their eyes fixed on the prize ahead. With a final roar that echoed across the storm-tossed seas, the dragons descended upon Pyke, ready to unleash their fury upon the Ironborn who dared to defy House Targaryen.

As Aemon gazed upon the island of Pyke, he beheld a grim and foreboding sight. The castle of Pyke rose defiantly from the turbulent waters of the Iron Islands, its weathered keeps and towers standing sentinel upon three desolate islands and a scattering of smaller rock formations. The fortress appeared as a dark silhouette against the brooding sky, its imposing presence starkly contrasting the bleak landscape surrounding it.

The Pyke castle was a structure born of stone and salt, its towers reaching skyward like jagged teeth against the horizon. Connected by swaying rope bridges that seemed to defy the laws of gravity, the towers loomed ominously over the churning sea below. Like the rest of the island, the castle's walls were hewn from the same grey-black stone, weathered by the relentless assault of wind and wave.

Over the millennia, the castle had become encrusted with a layer of green lichen, lending it an eerie, otherworldly appearance. The lichen clung tenaciously to the ancient walls and towers, serving as a testament to Pyke's enduring strength despite the ravages of time and tide.

Surrounding the castle was a curtain wall that enclosed a headland of fifty acres, its formidable ramparts rising defiantly against the backdrop of crashing waves and storm-tossed seas. The cliffs that encircled the foot of the wide stone bridge leading to the largest islet provided a natural barrier against would-be invaders, their sheer faces a testament to the impregnability of the fortress.

As Aemon surveyed the scene before him, he felt the storm's full force raging around him. The wind howled like a banshee, whipping the waves into a frenzy and sending spray crashing against the rocky shores below. Lightning arced across the sky, illuminating the castle in brief, flickering flashes, while thunder rumbled ominously in the distance.

As Balerion and Caraxes closed in on the Pyke, the dragons' roar echoed like thunder through the storm-tossed skies. Caraxes' roar, in particular, was a discordant symphony of furious screeches and shards of broken glass, a primal sound that sent shivers down the spines of all who heard it. Its squalling screech pierced through the howling winds, a chilling herald of the destruction about to be unleashed.

With a mighty flap of its wings, Caraxes surged forward, past Aemon and Balerion, leaving the pair behind, streaking through the darkened clouds with unparalleled speed. As it approached the besieged castle, the dragon's crimson scales gleamed ominously in the dim light, a harbinger of the fiery devastation to come. Aemon wished to punch his father in the face for his change of tactic, his father cared more for fighting than planning and attacking as a whole, the man craved conquest and victory rather than strategy and proper tactics, case and point, the man surging forwards despite Balerion being over three times his dragon and being able to do countless times more damage, and Aemon was in opposition of the thought.

Burn them all, was the lone thought that crossed his mind.

Then, in a blinding flame, Caraxes unleashed its wrath upon the enemies below. Aemon watched in awe as the dragon's jaws opened wide, spewing a torrent of red-hot fire that consumed everything in its path. The flames danced and flickered, casting an eerie glow upon the rain-soaked landscape as they engulfed the Ironborn defenders in a searing inferno. Flames are as red as blood, as red as the life essence in a man. For the first time, Aemon thought while Balerion was the black of the sigil of House Targaryen, one of the three heads, Caraxes was the red dragon upon the sigil with its red flames.

The roar of the flames mingled with the screams of the dying, creating a horrifying cacophony that reverberated across the desolate islands. Aemon could feel the intense heat radiating from the conflagration, even from his position high above Balerion's back, as Caraxes unleashed fiery fury upon the besieged castle.

As the flames roared and crackled, Aemon knew that the battle for Pyke had truly begun and that victory would only come at a great cost. And for some part of him Aemon felt that cost was in due to his father saying "f*ck it" to the plan and deciding to do as he saw fit.

Aemon's frustration simmered beneath the surface as he watched his father charge headlong into battle, heedless of strategy or caution. Daemon Targaryen was a force of nature, a whirlwind of red bloody fires, but his impulsive nature often led him into dangerous situations. As Caraxes belched forth torrents of red flame, engulfing the Ironborn in a fiery conflagration, Aemon couldn't help but curse his father's recklessness.

The scene before him was chaotic and frantic, a cacophony of screams and roars mingling with the crackle of burning timber. The air was thick with the acrid stench of smoke and charred flesh, assaulting Aemon's senses with its aromatic intensity. He could see the Ironborn scrambling for cover through the haze of battle, their once-proud defenses crumbling in the face of Caraxes' onslaught.

Aemon watched in the distance, above the Velaryon fleet, as colors of red fire decided from the dragon, Caraxes, in the distance. The red light of fire glowed brightly and harshly against the grim storm and almost black skies. Aemon watched as Caraxes made one pass, diving swiftly and moving like a serpent through the grass, leaving carnage and red flames in his wake. Right before Caraxes reached the ground, he pulled up just enough to soar above the battlefield and continue the pass of red flames. Caraxes pulled upwards and, after a few seconds of acceding, turned mid-flight and dove again. He shot red flames from his mouth, and the force of the flames slamming into the ground caused an explosion of flames, rubble, and earth.

Burn them all.

Red flames intimated the dark, gloomy battlefield as the storm covered the sun. Only the red flames of Caraxes gave light enough to show the carnage the same dragon brought upon the land. Caraxes had yet to reach the main castle of Pyke, and Aemon cursed under his breath; he wanted to wait until they all made port at Lordsport and march towards the Pyke, then leading with Caraxes and Balerion carve the path through their ranks and to the castle for Lannisters and Starks to easily take the castle in less time that it took for Aemon to walk from the Red Keep to the Dragonpit. But Daemon, while a great swordsman and greater warrior, was not the most strategic; he could make plans, and with Caraxes, they would lead to victory. But like with most dragon riders, having a dragon made one think they can be as reckless as they want due to no one standing a chance against a dragon in the first place. But there were cases were strategy and dragons needed one another, Old Ghis being the case and the point.

But even as the enemy retreated, Daemon pressed forward with unwavering determination, his dragon carving a path of destruction through the ranks of their foes. Aemon gritted his teeth in frustration, knowing that his father's impulsive actions made the siege more difficult than needed.

As Caraxes rained death and destruction upon the Ironborn, Aemon wished to gut his father himself, it was like dealing with a child rather than a man. With each passing moment, the odds seemed to stack higher against them, and Aemon could only pray that his father's rash decisions wouldn't lead them all to ruin—all this before Aemon and the Velaryon fleet docked.

Burn them all.

Aemon's brow furrowed in confusion as he surveyed the scene before him, still upon his dragon. It was peculiar that the Ironborn would dare to venture outside the safety of their castle walls, knowing full well the fearsome power of dragons. The young prince couldn't fathom what had driven them to such reckless folly, exposing themselves to the wrath of Caraxes and risking certain death in the inferno of his flames.

As the Velaryon fleet finally arrived and their forces disembarked, the full extent of the devastation became painfully apparent. The only way for ships to disembark or dock on the island of Pyke was at Lordsport. It took the better half an hour to disembark all the one hundred men and march from Lordsport, near the center of the island, to Pyke, just southeast of it near the edge.

Aemon looked around and found Lord Corlys Velaryon readying his men and securing his ships to the port. He also found his grandfather, Lord Rickon Stark, and the newly made Lord Jason Lannister. Aemon did not wish for the Lannister and Stark forces to join him on the Pyke, but he had little choice. Lord Lannister craved vengeance for Casterly Rock, and Aemon did not trust anything more than a Stark's word. Aemon felt the Lannisters would burn all of Lordsport in vengeance, and Aemon needed the Starks to keep them at bay to ensure the orders were followed.

The ground was littered with the charred remains of fallen soldiers; their bodies twisted and contorted in the agonizing throes of death. The air was thick with the acrid stench of burning flesh, a grim testament to the merciless fury of the dragon's breath. The red hues of the lfames bathing everything in red light.

Caraxes stood proudly amidst the carnage, his massive form casting a shadow over the smoldering battlefield. His scales gleamed crimson in the flickering light of the flames, a fearsome sight to behold. Aemon could feel the heat radiating from the dragon's body, a tangible reminder of the destructive power he wielded.

Aemon fully landed Balreion near Caraxes and dismounted alongside his dire wolf Ghost. Balerion was enough to burn the entire Pyke castle to the ground, but Aemon would not do it. He knew not how many salt wives and innocents were in the castle, and while Aemon could end this rebellion here and then, Aemon would never do so at the cost of those who were not guilty.

No, he had lied.

Jon Snow, the son of Ned Stark, would not harm those not guilty, but then Jon Snow, the Lord of Castle Black, threatened to kill Gilly's child to spare Mance Rayder's child from being burnt alive by Stannis and his Red Priestess. Jon Snow was honorable, but the world beyond the Wall showed him that there is no such thing as black and white. The Night's Watch, a supposedly honorable calling, was filled with murders and rappers and worked with Craster, who f*cked his daughters and gave his sons to the Others. Honor was not black and white, yet Aemon clung to it as if he did not live as Jon Snow until Jon Snow was the only one left, and honor died with him. The last honorable man was merely the last, and one could not be honorable if there was nothing to do but watch as you withered into nothing but ice and rot.

Amidst the chaos, Aemon's gaze fell upon his father, Daemon Targaryen, standing resolute in his black armor. A smug satisfaction was etched upon his features, a testament to the success of their assault. Despite the grim circ*mstances, Daemon's demeanor remained unchanged, his confidence unwavering in the face of adversity. Aemon leveled a glare to his father and it was clear to all that Aemon restrained himself from acting against his father's impatient ways.

As Aemon surveyed the imposing walls of Pyke, his keen eyes taking in every detail, he couldn't help but feel a sense of foreboding. The fortress loomed before them like a dark sentinel, its towering ramparts rising defiantly against the stormy sky.

Amidst the preparations for battle, Aemon noticed the absence of trenches around the castle perimeter. This glaring oversight left the Ironborn vulnerable to a ground assault. A familiar presence at his side caught his attention as he pondered this observation.

Turning to see Lord Corlys Velaryon approaching, Aemon acknowledged the seasoned commander. The Velaryon lord's keen gaze mirrored Aemon's thoughts, and it was evident that he had noticed the curious absence of defensive measures. Aemon had noticed Lord Corlys seemed to admittedly dislike Aemon for a reason or another but placed that at the back of his mind since he had other things to worry about, but the young prince would need to know why Lord Crolys disliked Aemon or something related to Aemon.

"Prince Aemon," Corlys began, his voice carrying a note of concern, "do you notice anything amiss about the Ironborn's defenses?"

Aemon regarded him thoughtfully, scratching behind Ghost's ears absentmindedly as he mulled over Corlys' question. "Yes," he replied, his brow furrowing in contemplation, "the Ironborn have not dug any trenches. It leaves them vulnerable to a ground assault."

Corlys nodded in agreement, his expression grave. "Indeed," he concurred, "it is a curious oversight. One that we may be able to exploit to our advantage."

As Aemon surveyed the bustling activity of the siege camp, his fingers absently tracing the sleek fur of his dire wolf Ghost, his sharp eyes caught sight of the men diligently constructing siege weapons. With a faint brow furrow, he turned to his trusted advisor, Lord Corlys Velaryon, and voiced his observation.

"If the Ironborn did not build trenches," Aemon remarked in his characteristic calm tone, "it would be a drastic oversight on their part."

Corlys, ever astute, allowed the faintest hint of a smirk to grace his features, a subtle acknowledgment of Aemon's insight. "Indeed, a drastic oversight indeed," he agreed, his voice low and measured. Their conversation was soon interrupted by Prince Daemon Targaryen's approach. His imposing figure cut through the bustling activity of the camp. With a curious expression, he inquired about the significance of trenches in the context of the siege.

Aemon's stoic countenance betrayed no hint of surprise as he explained the tactical implications. "The trenches would have hindered the construction of siege weapons," he elucidated, his tone matter-of-fact, "and prevented us from bringing them close enough to breach the walls."

Corlys interjected with a thoughtful question, his brows knit in contemplation. "But why would the Ironborn neglect such a crucial defensive measure?" he pondered aloud.

Daemon's response was characteristically confident, his words carrying the weight of authority. "It matters little," he declared with a dismissive wave, "when we have two dragons at our disposal. We can take the entire island with their might in less than a day."

Aemon thought about it for some time: "If they knew we would take the castle either way, why would they not use the strategy of cutting as many of us down as possible? They know their lives are forfeit; they know that the only way for them to live is to bend their knees. Why would they choose to leave ditches undug, which would lead to a massacre with us making siege weapons to further bring their castle down, even without the use of dragon's fire?"

Daemon slowly grew serious, thinking about his son's thoughts. "Mayhaps they all thought that due to the fact we already had dragons, it would make little sense for them to waste time digging the trenches when two dragons can fly over them and decimate the defenses, leaving an opening for the army to march through either way? If we could avoid the trenches and still make an opening, it would leave trying to stop the siege weapons, making an opening a waste of effort to try and prevent."

Lord Corlys nodded in agreement but only slightly. He looked to Daemon, then to Caraxes and Balerion. "Yes, but with the trenches not dug now, the Pyke must worry about both siege weapons and dragons, two sure ways to destroy the castle they are hiding in. Both ensure that hiding behind the walls, which will crumble with a siege weapon or melt with a dragon's fire, is false hope."

Aemon then looked to the crops on the ground, the flickers of red fires still licking their burnt remains. "Even worse, who is stupid enough to leave men in front of the walls meant to defend them? It's a sure way to get you men slaughtered. Leaving them open, practically daring the enemy to kill them."

Aemon did not know what the Greyjoys were planning. If one had asked Aemon a mere day before the war began, just about eight months ago, Aemon would say the Greyjoys were incapable of such cunning tactics. Then they burned Lannisport, destroyed half of the impregnable of Casterly Rock, and took Seagard the same night. They followed that by using sell swords to bolster their numbers, take the entirety of the Riverlands, take hostages, and use the Riverland's numbers to wage war against parts of the North, the shores of the Westerlands, most of the Stormlands, and almost bring in Dorne to the main continental Westeros. The same people Aemon would have named as having low cunning had singlehandedly, for eight months, held most of the Seven Kingdoms at the palm of their hand.

With this in mind, Aemon was forced to realize he knew next to nothing of the thoughts the Ironborn were having; he concluded that they used the fact that everyone underestimated them to their advantage. They made all the other kingdoms think themselves secure before acting, and Aemon did not feel secure in knowing those same people were able to leave such an egregious oversight like not digging trenches when they knew they were going to be under siege for months, knowing full well their days were numbered after the Black Burn at Summerhall. The same Ironborn that held the kingdoms at their mercy for months would have turned utterly foolish not to know that the Prince of Summerhall would not return for vengeance after they tried to take his castle from him.

As the hours dragged on, the clang of metal against metal reverberated through the air, mingling with the shouts of men and the rhythmic pounding of hammers. Aemon's keen gaze swept across the sprawling encampment, where the combined might of a hundred thousand men toiled ceaselessly, their efforts focused on a singular goal: the construction of siege weapons to breach the formidable walls of Pyke.

Amidst the bustle and chaos, Aemon's steely resolve remained unyielding as he fixed his gaze upon the imposing barrier separating his forces from Pyke's castle. The towering wall, nearly seventy feet in height, loomed ominously before them, a daunting obstacle between victory and defeat.

Turning his attention to the trebuchets, Aemon observed as they were meticulously readied for the impending assault. The massive war machines, their towering frames constructed of sturdy timber and reinforced with iron bands, stood as silent sentinels amidst the bustling activity of the siege camp.

Each trebuchet bore the marks of countless battles, its weathered exterior bearing testament to the countless lives it had helped to claim. With painstaking precision, the siege engineers worked to load the massive projectiles, their movements swift and practiced as they prepared to unleash devastation upon the walls of Pyke.

Burn them all.

He could end this all upon Balerion, rather quickly. He could end this war with little effort. But how many innocents would die from him killing those who truly committed the acts?

Aemon watched with anticipation and apprehension as the trebuchets were brought to bear upon their target. With each swing of the counterweight and each release of the sling, the mighty war machines unleashed their payload with thunderous force, sending massive projectiles hurtling through the air toward the castle walls.

The ground trembled beneath Aemon's feet as the trebuchets unleashed their fury; the air filled with the sound of splintering wood and crumbling stone. As the first projectiles struck their mark, Aemon knew that the assault upon Pyke had begun in earnest.

As the command rang out across the battlefield, the air crackled with anticipation, and the rhythmic creaking of the trebuchets echoed through the encampment. Aemon stood resolute, his gaze fixed upon the towering walls of Pyke, his features bathed in the flickering light of the torches that illuminated the siege camp.

With a swift tug of the rope, the massive counterweights of the trebuchets were set into motion, their momentum building with each passing moment. Aemon watched intently as the siege engineers expertly loaded the massive boulders into the slings, their movements precise and purposeful amidst the chaos of the battlefield.

With a resoundingwhoosh, the trebuchets unleashed their deadly payloads, the massive boulders hurtling through the air with tremendous force. The ground trembled beneath Aemon's feet as the projectiles soared skyward, their trajectory guided by the skillful hands of the siege crew.

The boulders arced gracefully through the air, the red hues of the flames illuminating the boulders, their path illuminated by the glow of the moonlight as they soared hundreds of yards toward their intended target. Aemon held his breath as he watched the projectiles hurtling towards the towering walls of Pyke, their impact imminent.

With a deafening slam, the boulders collided with the ancient stone walls, sending showers of debris cascading downwards in their wake. Yet, despite the ferocity of the assault, the walls of Pyke stood firm, their sturdy construction proving to be a formidable barrier against the onslaught.

As the dust settled and the echoes of the impact faded into the night, Aemon's heart sank at the sight before him. Though the trebuchets had unleashed their fury upon the walls of Pyke, the damage wrought was minimal, the ancient stone showing little signs of the assault. Aemon knew that if they were to breach the formidable defenses of Pyke, they would need to employ more drastic measures.

From the towering heights of the Pyke's walls, the Ironborn defenders unleashed a relentless barrage of arrows upon Aemon's forces below. The skies were thick with the whistle of flying shafts, their deadly tips gleaming in the moon's dim light as they descended upon their targets with deadly accuracy.

Aemon watched in horror as the onslaught struck down his men, their bodies convulsing in agony as the arrows pierced their flesh with brutal efficiency. Their anguished cries mingled with the clamor of battle, a cacophony of pain and despair that filled the air with dread.

Amidst the chaos, flaming arrows arced through the night sky, their fiery trails illuminating the darkness with an eerie glow. As they found their marks, Aemon's men were engulfed in flames, their screams echoing across the battlefield as the inferno consumed them.

The scene below was a harrowing tableau of death and destruction, the ground littered with the broken bodies of fallen warriors, their blood mingling with the churned earth beneath their feet. Aemon's heart clenched with sorrow as he beheld the carnage before him, the weight of his responsibility pressing down upon him like a leaden cloak.

Yet, even as his forces faltered under the relentless assault, Aemon refused to yield to despair. With a grim determination, he ordered his men to redouble their efforts, rallying them to press forward in the face of overwhelming odds.

Meanwhile, the trebuchets continued their ceaseless barrage, hurling massive boulders toward the towering walls of Pyke with thunderous force. The ground shook with each impact, the ancient stone fortifications groaning under the strain as the projectiles rained down upon them like a relentless storm.

Despite the ferocity of the assault, the walls of Pyke held firm, their formidable defenses standing strong against the relentless onslaught. Yet, Aemon knew they could not afford to falter now, not when victory lay within their grasp. With grim resolve, he steeled himself for the battle ahead, knowing that the fate of their cause hung in the balance.

"The ships!"

The distant cries of panic and the crackling of flames reached Aemon's ears, drawing his attention away from the chaos of the battlefield. As he turned to survey the scene, his heart sank at the sight that greeted him. He turned from the walls before the main castle, returned to where they had marched, and looked to Lordsport.

Half of the once-mighty Velaryon fleet lay engulfed in flames, the billowing smoke rising like dark tendrils against the leaden sky. The acrid stench of burning wood and scorched sails filled the air, mingling with the salt tang of the sea to create a nauseating miasma that hung heavy over the harbor.

Burn them all.

Lordsport, the lone port on the island of Pyke, was ablaze with fire, its buildings consumed by the hungry tongues of flame that danced and leaped with savage abandon. The wooden structures crackled and splintered under the intense heat, sending showers of glowing embers spiraling into the air like fiery raindrops.

The once-peaceful harbor was now a scene of devastation; the waters churned with debris and the shattered remnants of ships torn apart by the inferno. The cries of sailors trapped aboard the burning vessels mingled with the roar of the flames, a symphony of terror that echoed across the bay.

Despite the distance that separated Lordsport from the castle of Pyke, the glow of the conflagration cast a lurid light against the grim, gloomy backdrop of the stormy day. The flames painted the horizon in shades of orange and red, casting eerie shadows that danced across the water like malevolent spirits.

For Aemon, the sight was both horrifying, a stark reminder of the brutal reality of war, the fires of Lordsport able to counter the lighting from the red fires of Caraxes, reducing the sole red hue of the land. As he watched the inferno rage on, his heart heavy with sorrow for the lives lost and the destruction wrought, he knew that the battle for Pyke had only just begun.

Aemon stood upon the blood-soaked battlefield, his mind racing as he pieced together the grim puzzle before him. Now, with chilling clarity, it was clear that the Ironborn had cunningly orchestrated their defenses, luring Aemon's forces into a deadly trap.

The absence of trenches and the placement of Ironborn soldiers directly in front of the walls now made terrible sense. It was a deliberate ploy to tempt Aemon's forces into a reckless charge, exposing them to the full force of the defenders' weapons.

And charge they did, driven by the heat of battle and the fervor of their cause. They surged forward like a relentless tide, heedless of the danger. Arrows rained down upon them from the ramparts, finding their marks with deadly accuracy. Men fell, their cries of pain and anguish lost amidst the clamor of war.

But even as Aemon's forces pressed forward, cutting a path through the Ironborn defenders, disaster struck with a vengeance. Aemon's keen eyes caught sight of the flames engulfing Lordsport exploding rather than just burning, the once-thriving port now a blazing inferno of destruction. The entire port exploded with fire and rubble, reaching high into the skies as the skies were now nothing but flames rather than the red hues from Caraxes' flames.

Aemon's realization dawned on him like a thunderbolt. The Ironborn had set their town ablaze rather than just burn the unused ships, desperate to deny Aemon and his army any hope of escape. The flames licked greedily at the sky, casting a hellish glow over the scene of carnage below.

And then came the sickening sight of Aemon's fleet, half of it consumed by fire while the enemy seized a portion of the remaining half and took their Ironborn ships. The Ironborn had struck a devastating blow, crippling Aemon's means of retreat and leaving his forces stranded amidst the chaos of battle.

It was a cunning and ruthless strategy that left Aemon feeling shocked and furious. But amidst the despair, a steely resolve took hold within him. The Ironborn may have dealt a heavy blow, but they had not yet won the day. Aemon would fight on, his determination unbroken, his spirit undaunted by the horrors surrounding him.

The air was tense as Aemon surveyed the chaos unfolding before him, the flames of destruction casting sinister shadows across the battered landscape. He cursed under his breath, his voice barely audible above the roar of the inferno.

Burn them all.

He wanted to end this, but his indecision to use Balerion would harm more of his men. Lives he could have saved are now burning because of him. How many wives would no longer see their husbands? How many sisters no longer see their brothers? How many mothers would no longer see their sons? How many souls had he damned? How many people died here who lived on and had children, whose lines continued to the life of Jon Snow?

Aemon was a monster. A monster with a heart and no existence was as damning. No existence was as painful.

"Half of our fleet is burning, the other half taken," Lord Corlys muttered, his tone edged with frustration. "And look there, fifty Ironborn ships making their escape! Your plan has cost me ships, boy!" Ghost stood tall, ready to attack Corlys as he neared Aemon; Lord Corlys stopped his movement toward Aemon as he noticed the wolf once more.

"Arrgh!" Aemon exclaimed, his voice ringing out over the din of battle. "They seek to trap us here, to cut off our escape and leave us stranded upon this accursed island!"

Daemon's expression darkened as he listened to Aemon's words, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. "We cannot allow them to dictate the terms of this battle," he declared, his tone edged with determination. "We must strike back with all our might and bring swift justice upon the heads of those who dare defy us."

Aemon's gaze met his father's, a fierce resolve burning in his eyes. "I will lead our forces into the heart of Pyke," he proclaimed, his voice ringing with authority. "But you, Kepa, must take to the skies upon Caraxes and rain fire upon the fleeing Ironborn ships. They must not be allowed to escape unpunished."

Daemon's brow furrowed in concern, his paternal instincts warring with his duty as a warrior. "But Aemon," he protested, "I cannot let you face those c*nts in the castle alone! What type of father would I be if I left my son alone? That's why I came here in the first place."

Corlys looked to Daemon in contempt. "Didn't stop you from leaving your son in King's landing or Summerhall."

Daemon stepped forward to Corlys, ready to cut the man down then and there, his face more than conveying his anger. The glint of rage in his eyes made it clear Daemon had already thought of several ways to kill Corlys, cover it up, and blame the Ironborn. "Say those words again, and I will shove Dark sister down your throat and out the back of your skull."

Corlys stepped forward, warhammer in hand, ready to slam it into Daemon's head. The pair was only a half step away from their weapons, being close enough to strike. "You're words neither make my mine any less true nor save my f*cking ships!"

"Enough!" Aemon roared. Both men turned to Aemon, rage contorting their features, neither liking the idea of being ordered by a child. "Gods be f*cking good; how are you more children than a f*cking child? We are in a f*cking war! Focus on your dying man, not your injured pride. Lord Corlys, this is f*cking war; if your ships burn, then make it a worthy price for killing more Ironborn. Kepa, you are to follow the Ironborn and burn them to the watery graves below!" Aemon shook his head, his resolve unyielding. "There is no time for hesitation, Kepa," he insisted. "The Ironborn ships are swift; we must act swiftly to catch them. You and Caraxes can move with speed and precision, compared to Balerion and myself, striking down our enemies before they can slip beyond our grasp."

Daemon hesitated momentarily, torn between his duty to protect his son and his duty to fight alongside him. But in the end, he knew that Aemon spoke true. The time for action was now, and they could ill afford to let their enemies slip through their fingers. "This was supposed to be our battle; this was supposed to be done together. I will not divide us here." With a heavy heart, Daemon nodded his agreement. "Very well, my son," he said, his voice tinged with resignation. Lead our forces into battle, and may the gods grant us victory this day." With those words, father and son prepared to face the horrors of war together, their destinies intertwined in the crucible of conflict.

Burn them all!

Aemon's mind churned with conflicting emotions as chaos reigned around him. The screams of men pierced the air like daggers, mingling with the ominous hum of arrows cutting through the sky. He watched as his father, Daemon, rode off on Caraxes, determined to chase down the fleeing Ironborn ships.

But Aemon knew that his path lay elsewhere. His gaze hardened as he surveyed Pyke's towering walls, knowing that friend and foe lay within those stone confines. Innocents, no doubt, trapped within the castle's walls, yet also the Greyjoy traitors who had brought this devastation upon their people.

Burning down the Pyke would not be honorable; burning the innocence was far too much like burning the Mad King for his liking. But was it honorable to allow his men to die in a war when they, too, had lost people they loved by Greyjoys? Was it honorable to hear these screams? No. Aegon the Conqueror had burnt down Harrenhal, but they never called him a vile or cruel man. Jon Snow wanted to be honorable; he always wanted to be.

Burn them all!

Aemon the Dragonknight was honorable, and yet one could never be an honorable man when they had a dragon; dragons burnt people alive; there was no honor in this.

One man Jon Snow respected came to mind when he thought of a good man with no honor, Jamie Lannister, who forsook his honor by breaking his vow and killing the Mad King, yet he saved the lives of King's Landing. Sometimes, doing the right thing was against honor and duty. On some level, there was honor in doing good things in dishonorable ways. Mayhaps the ends did justify the means.

Aemon would do his duty, as he always had, even if that meant he could not be honorable.

His descendants would know the truth of why he did his acts. They would know the truth of the Long Night, and Aemon had to prepare; no time to waste, and any time wasted on a siege was time wasted in not improving Summerhall and joining the realms to face it for the future. Summehall would be the summer that ended the long, harsh winter. Summerhall would have the dragons and their fires to fight against the cruel cold. If that meant he had to be as cruel and cold as the winter winds to give the rest of the realm the chance they needed, then so be it.

Let him be hated.

Burn them all!

He will tell his sons the truth of the dreams, the future he knew, of Aegon's Dream. In his last years as Jon Snow, Margaery and Arianne thought him as mad as the Mad King, thinking that the Long Night would return once more, but his children, his sons, and daughters, knew he was right; dragons know dragon dreams. So he would do what needed to be done; he would be a stain on honor like Jon Snow had been for Ned, but he needed to do such things. He would be dishonorable to do the most dishonorable thing.

Burn them all!

He needed to end this, and Balerion could end this, end it all so quickly. A single dive and pass would be more than enough. Balerion soared and glided through the air rather slowly, but with a single dive, a dive from great heights down, no dragon would outpass him. A single unmoving castle was no threat, just future rubble and timber to add to a pyre. He could burn it all. The Mad King burned everything and everyone. Jon Snow was honorable, but he would never do such things. Jon Snow failed the second Long Night. Aemon Targaryen vowed to be better than every Targaryen there ever was, but maybe being as honorable as Aemon the Dragonknight had less benefit than he thought.

Especially since honor was important to Targaryens after they had lost dragons.

Dragons he had.

Burn them all!

The Targaryens of Summerhall would not forget the words of Aegon's Dreams, unlike the Targaryens of Jon Snow's time. They would prepare, and he would prepare. He would establish a House of Ice and Fire to continue Aegon's Dream. But to continue the dream, the House Targaryen of Summehall needs to burn with the power and strength of Valyria. The New Valyria had to be strong enough to bring forth all the power and might of the old one it came from, its dragons, and its forces.

Aemon would burn a path to saving humanity, even if that meant he burnt through whatever piece of respect he had left for himself, sacrificing his person, burning himself as a sacrifice to fuel the fires that burnt through the Long Night. He would burn them, all those who wished to stop the path he was on. He would burn the Pyke, even those inside who had not committed the crime the Ironborn had done. Aemon wondered how much he would regret the blood on his hands on his death bed, but he supposed he would have to become numb to his oath self-loathing; he had done much of that in his isolation, in the years alone in the second Long Night.

If he had to pave the path by laying down burnt corpses, then at least the humanity that goes through the Long Night would have warm feet when they walk the path through the cruel winter.

Burn them all!

He would burn the Pyke—he would burn them all. Honor would despise him for it, and duty would reward him with regrets. But he would burn them all.

Aemon's hand tightened around the ladder's rungs as he ascended, the weight of his decision heavy upon his shoulders. He had always strived to be honorable, to do what was right in the eyes of gods and men. But at that moment, he knew that the path of honor was fraught with peril and that, sometimes, the greater good demanded sacrifice.

As he reached the top of the ladder and mounted Balerion, Aemon's resolve hardened. He would do what must be done, regardless of the cost. With a silent prayer to the gods for guidance, he signaled to Ghost, his loyal companion, and prepared to lead the charge into the heart of Pyke.

For Aemon Targaryen, the time for hesitation was over. The fate of the Iron Islands hung in the balance, and he would be the instrument of their salvation or destruction.

Aemon's grip tightened on Balerion's reins as he urged the mighty dragon upward into the turbulent skies above. With a deafening roar drowned out by the battle below, Balerion unleashed the full force of his titanic wings, beating them with a thunderous rhythm that sent shockwaves rippling through the air.

Burn them all!

Each powerful flap propelled them higher and higher until they soared above the chaos of the battlefield below. Aemon's heart pounded in his chest as he felt the rush of wind against his face, the storm's chill biting into his skin.

Beneath them, men and horses scattered like leaves in a gale, tossed about by the sheer force of Balerion's ascent. The ground fell away beneath them, swallowed by the roiling clouds that churned ominously in the sky.

As they climbed ever higher, Balerion seemed to meld with the darkness of the storm, his massive form blending seamlessly with the shadows that shrouded the heavens. Balerion had become the darkness. Balerion had become the night itself. With each passing moment, he became little more than a silhouette against the brooding sky, a phantom of black amidst the swirling maelstrom.

But despite the storm around them, Aemon felt a sense of calm settle over him. High above the chaos of the battlefield, with nothing but the howling winds and the pounding rain for company, he felt strangely at peace.

For in that moment, as he rode the back of the mighty Balerion, Aemon Targaryen was more than just a prince of House Targaryen. He was a dragon rider, a warrior of legend, a force to be reckoned with in a world torn asunder by war and strife. And as they vanished into the stormy skies, Aemon knew that they would emerge on the other side, ready to face whatever fate awaited them below.

Burn them all!

"Dracarys!"

Asha Pyke

Asha Pyke, daughter of Dagmer Greyjoy, the King of the Sunset Sea and King of Salt and Rock, stood at her window, her heart pounding as she watched the storm rage outside. Rain lashed against the castle walls, the wind howling like a banshee as it tore through the night sky. But amidst the storm's chaos, another sound pierced the air—a sound that sent a shiver down Asha's spine.

It was the roar of dragons.

Asha's breath caught in her throat as she strained to see through the darkness, her eyes wide with fear and wonder. And then, emerging from the shadows of the storm, she saw them—the awe-inspiring beasts of legend, their massive forms silhouetted against the roiling clouds.

First came the Blood Wyrm, Caraxes, his scales gleaming crimson in the dim light as he soared through the sky with a loud screech that echoed off the castle walls.

The screech was wrong. There was no way about it. It was not full and powerful. It was not strong and loud like a proud lion or as powerful as the rolls of thunder. It did not sound like a living disaster, given the form of a monster scally flying beast. No, it was none of those, and some part of her felt that was terrifying in itself.

The screeching sound sounded like some man was brave enough to reach into the dragon's throat and rip apart the beast's vocal cords. It was nothing of beauty. It inspired no wonder. It was the sounds of a chirping, screeching thing that scratched and clawed at her very mined. He very easily despised her when she heard it; it was such a loud, squealing mess for a razor, and yet it was thrice as terrifying.

She heard as the children cried and pleaded for their father's lives, their screams of providence from the gods, their fathers burned in the red flames. She watched as the dragon of red blood burned her father's man faster than a blink, their corpses twisted and mangled, burnt chars of dust and distorted bones and flesh. This was death; she saw the red fires, and she had thought when she was younger that she would have seen the red of blood before the red of Caraxes' fires.

And following behind, like a shadow made flesh, was the Black Dread himself, Balerion, his mighty wings beating against the wind with a roar that shook the very foundations of the earth. Balerion was too large, far too large. She had heard the roar first and knew this was what she had imagined a dragon would sound like. A roar of thunder, rage, bloodlust, power, vengeance, and fire. A roar of a living volume gave wings.

The roar sounded, and she covered herself. She could not see the dragon but could hear his presence. It sickened her to realize that the dragon had not roared yet—no, it had just bellowed in its throat.

The dragon was the darkness, and only the faint glow of red from Caraxes, fueled by the corpses of her father's men, showed even the faintest outline of Balerion's shape. She tried to follow it in the skies, and she thought in her heart the dragon was the sky itself.

As the dragons circled above, Asha felt a mixture of awe and dread, for she knew that death and destruction were sure to follow where dragons roamed. And now, with the siege of the Pyke underway, she could only watch in horror as the full fury of their wrath was unleashed upon her home.

But even as fear gripped her heart, Asha could not help but feel a sense of wonder at the sight before her. In that moment, amidst the storm and the chaos, she glimpsed a power greater than any she had ever known—one that would shape the world's fate. As the Caraxes unleashed their fury upon the castle below, Asha could only pray that she would survive to see the dawn of a new day.

Asha Pyke stood atop the Pyke with cold, uncaring eyes, watching the chaos unfold below. The sounds of war echoed through the air, mingling with the storm's howling around them. But amidst the screams of men and the clash of swords, Asha remained unmoved, her gaze fixed on the battlefield below.

From her vantage point, Asha could see the Ironborn scrambling in the battle, their movements frantic and desperate. Some ran to grab weapons, while others hastily constructed barricades and fortifications. But despite their efforts, Asha knew they were outnumbered and outmatched—a fact that filled her with a sense of resignation rather than fear.

As the Velaryon fleet burned and the ships were seized, Asha's eyes were drawn to the dragons that circled above, their massive forms casting dark shadows against the stormy sky. She had grown up hearing tales of these legendary beasts, but seeing them now, united in their fury, sent a shiver down her spine.

Her heart pounded as she watched Caraxes dived towards the stolen ships, his fiery breath lighting up the night sky in an all-consuming red hue. But when Balerion disappeared into the darkness, swallowed by the storm, Asha felt a chill run down her spine. Though she had always known the power of the dragons, seeing them now, unleashed upon the world, filled her with a fear unlike any she had ever known.

As the battle raged outside the walls of the Pyke, Asha could only watch in silent horror, knowing that the fate of her people hung in the balance. Even as the Ironborn fought bravely against their attackers, Asha knew that the dragons would brook no mercy and that death and destruction would soon follow in their wake.

Asha stood at her window, her mind filled with conflicting thoughts and emotions. She remembered her father's words, spoken with a confidence that belied the uncertainty of their situation. He had assured her that the Targaryens would not burn down the Pyke, citing their supposed honor and the hostages they held within the castle walls. But as she watched the battle unfold below, Asha couldn't help but wonder if her father's faith was misplaced.

Outside her window, the storm raged with a ferocity that matched the chaos of the battlefield. Rain lashed against the castle walls, driven by howling winds that threatened to tear the very stones asunder. Thunder rumbled in the distance, punctuated by the crackling of lightning that illuminated the scene below in brief, stark flashes.

Amidst the storm, Asha could see the Ironborn and their allies fighting desperately against the Targaryen forces that besieged the castle. Swords clashed, arrows flew, and the air was filled with the sounds of men shouting and dying. But even as the battle raged on, Asha couldn't shake the feeling of dread that gnawed at her heart.

For all her father's assurances, Asha couldn't help but fear the wrath of the dragons that circled overhead. She had heard tales of their power and ferocity and the devastation they could unleash upon their enemies. And now, as she watched Caraxes wreak havoc upon the battlefield, she couldn't help but wonder if her father's hopes for peace were nothing more than wishful thinking.

As the siege continued unabated, Asha could only watch in silent despair, knowing that the fate of the Pyke hung in the balance. Even as her father clung to his beliefs, Asha feared that the truth of their situation was far more grim than he was willing to admit. As the storm raged on, she could only pray they would survive the night and live to see another dawn.

The battle outside the Pyke's walls was a scene of unbridled carnage and chaos, a macabre spectacle played against the backdrop of the raging storm. Asha watched it all with a detached air, her expression devoid of emotion as she observed the brutality unfolding below.

The clash of steel upon steel echoed through the air, mingling with the screams of the dying and the desperate shouts of the living. Arrows flew like deadly rain, finding their marks amidst the throngs of combatants, while the ground trembled beneath the thunderous footsteps of armored men locked in mortal combat.

Amidst the chaos, the Targaryen forces pressed their advantage with ruthless efficiency. Trebuchets unleashed their payloads with deadly accuracy, hurling massive boulders toward the Pyke and its towering walls. The impact of the projectiles sent shards of stone flying while the walls themselves groaned and shuddered under the assault.

Fires raged unchecked throughout the battlefield, their flickering flames casting long shadows across the blood-soaked earth. The acrid scent of smoke filled the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood and the sickening stench of death.

Despite the horrors unfolding before her, Asha remained unmoved, her gaze fixed upon the scene below with a cold detachment. To her, the battle was merely a grim inevitability, a grim dance of death and destruction that played out with grim regularity in the harsh world of Westeros.

She heard the cries, she heard the yellows, that sickening sound of flesh cutting into the meat and bone. She could hear the children in the rooms of the Pyke crying and begging for the gods. She could hear women trying to hide their children. She even heard several men go into rooms and rape other Ironborn salt-wives, as one last f*ck before they were f*cked by Balerion.

As Asha Pyke observed from her vantage point, the trebuchets continued their relentless barrage, launching massive boulders through the air with bone-shaking force. Each impact sent shockwaves rippling through the Pyke's stone walls, shattering masonry and sending debris flying in all directions.

The boulders struck the castle with devastating force, smashing through walls and towers as if they were made of paper rather than stone. The sound of the impacts echoed through the air, drowning out the screams of the wounded and the dying.

Explosions of rock and ruin erupted with each strike, filling the air with dust and debris that obscured the battlefield below. Asha watched as the once-proud castle crumbled before her eyes, its defenses shattered by the relentless onslaught of the trebuchets.

Amidst the chaos, the screams of the trapped and the doomed rang out, their cries lost amidst the thunderous din of battle. Asha knew that many would be crushed beneath the rubble, their lives snuffed out in an instant by the ruthless hand of war.

But even as the destruction unfolded before her, Asha remained unmoved, her gaze fixed upon the carnage below with a cold detachment. For in her heart, she knew that the fate of her family and all those within the castle was sealed, their lives forfeit in the name of conquest and ambition.

As Asha Pyke stood transfixed by the devastation unfolding before her, her senses were suddenly assaulted by a cacophony of sound and fury that seemed to rend the very fabric of reality itself.

First came the terrifying roar of Balerion, the Black Dread, a sound so deep and primal that it seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth. It echoed through the air like the rumbling of a distant storm, filling the sky with its ominous resonance. A roar was heard the sound of the living volcano, and a roar of thunder and lightning forced down the throat of a creature that could spew fire from its mouth. The sound was so pure and raw, loud, so deep and powerful that it forced Asha to her knees, and she covered her ears, screaming back at the noise in pain. Screaming as if it would help counter the pain in her ears and head.

Then, as if summoned by the dragon's roar, came the searing heat of dragonfire, a torrent of flames that engulfed the castle in a blazing inferno. The air seemed to catch fire, the flames roaring and crackling with an intensity that defied comprehension.

Heat. That was all she could feel: a heat on her skin. She thought she was on fire, but she knew this was not true. For if it were, she would have been dead before she could decern the flames as burning her. Even if the dragon's fire hit something far off her, her skin felt as though it was melting off her flesh. Her muscles and flesh were in a pain that consumed her mind, and she did not know if she should cover her ears in pain from the roar or shield her body from the heat that consumed her.

The sound of the fires was deafening, a roar so loud it drowned out even the thunder of the trebuchets and the screams of the dying. It was as though a million flame geysers had erupted simultaneously, consuming everything in their path with an insatiable hunger.

The heat was unbearable, searing through Asha's flesh and threatening to consume her soul. The air grew thick with smoke and ash, choking her lungs and obscuring her vision as the flames raged unchecked around her.

And then, just when it seemed that the world could take no more, the entire castle shook with a violence that defied description. Rubble cascaded from the walls, stone crumbling like sand as the earth trembled beneath Asha's feet.

With a cry of terror, Asha fell to her knees despite her trying to rise once more, her body wracked by the force of the dragon's assault. All around her, she could see the chaos and destruction wrought by Balerion's wrath, the once-proud castle reduced to a smoldering ruin in the blink of an eye.

At that moment, as she felt the heart of the inferno, Asha knew that the world she had known was gone forever, consumed by the flames of war and the fury of dragons. And as she lay trembling amidst the rubble, she could only pray for deliverance from the horrors that surrounded her.

In the wake of Balerion's devastating assault, the once-proud halls of Pyke were reduced to a scene of chaos and destruction, the very air thick with the stench of smoke and ash. As Asha stumbled to her feet, she felt the ground beneath her tremble and shake with a violence that seemed to defy the laws of nature itself.

The impact was so powerful and overwhelming that it felt like the entire castle was being torn asunder by some unseen force. Walls buckled and groaned under the strain, their ancient stones cracking and crumbling like dry bones beneath the weight of the onslaught.

She heard the screams and cries of small children and babes, each trying to ask their mothers if things would be okay, and yet even the mothers did not have the courage or the mind to lie; their mothers had no state of mind to do anything but look on to the fires that blended into the night. The invisible fires.

Rubble cascaded from the ceilings, sending clouds of dust billowing into the air as entire sections of the castle collapsed. The sound of crashing stone filled the air, a loud cacophony that drowned out even the screams of the terrified inhabitants.

People ran in terror, their faces twisted with fear as they fled from the crumbling ruins of their once-impregnable fortress. Some stumbled and fell, crushed beneath the weight of falling debris, their cries lost amidst the chaos and confusion.

Asha pressed on, her heart pounding in her chest as she made her way through the castle's labyrinthine corridors. The heat of the flames licking at her skin, the acrid scent of smoke burning her nostrils as she ran for her life. She knew there were no firs near here, for if the fires had slammed into the tower she was in, there would have been no feelings; there would have been nothing. She would have died instantly. Whatever Balerion had struck was not on her tower, and the fires and burning had not even reached her; no the heat from the flames was so great that her tower was melting as a byproduct.

All the while, the ground continued to shake beneath her feet, each tremor a grim reminder of the devastation unleashed upon the Pyke. At that moment, she fled from the crumbling ruins of her home. The force of the flames caused the entire world around her to shake.

The Pyke trembled as though it were caught in the grip of the Seven Hells themselves, the very earth beneath it convulsing with the force of an earthquake. Walls that had stood for centuries groaned and buckled under the strain, their ancient stones cracking and crumbling like brittle bones under the relentless assault.

A strong wind slammed into the tower, sending Asha flying through the corridors, her feet not even reaching the ground as she was floating. There was no ground; she just sat in the air, and the winds then sent her back. The speed of the winds meant nothing, as it was almost in slow motion. She flew back, rubble and people flying with her, moving at speeds that the dragons and Targaryen could never fathom. Asha slammed into the walls. Her bones broke as she slammed back into the stone. Her voice already hurt, her throat raw and red from the force of her screams. She cried in pain, but she had enough nerve to hold onto the lone piece of rubble heavy enough not to move, larger than ten times her own body.

She could feel harsh winds upon her. She looked to the sides of her castle and noticed large rubble flying in the air, not from the force of the flames slamming into the island but from the harsh winds that ripped men, women, and children and rubble from their place and into the skies. The force of the fires slamming into the towers broke the towers, but the winds from the flapping wings tore people from the ground and into the night skies. The single beat of Balerion's wings made enough winds to send men flying from the tower into the burning waters below.

She saw a mother holding on to her son desperately as the winds picked him to the ground. The child is screaming and crying, begging his mother, but no one knows what the child is begging for. The child was tossed harshly by the winds as his mother held his hand and held on to a broken melted column, melting from the heat of the fires that had not even struck her tower. The melting stone continued to run down the mother's hand, and she screamed in pain as the melted magma, red hot liquid rock covered and coated her flesh. The child's screams of pain rang in Asha's ears as his mother tried to hold onto the rubble, and the winds of the wings of Balerion tried to send her into the walls.

She was not strong enough.

The winds sent her son into the darkness. The sounds of his screams dying in the void; the only words he screamed were his mother's name. The last time the mother would ever hear her son.

Rubble rained down from above, clouds of dust billowing out to choke the air as ceiling sections gave way under the weight of the cataclysmic upheaval. People scattered in all directions, their screams lost amidst the roar of collapsing masonry and the deafening thunder of Balerion's mighty roar.

Asha felt her heart pounding in her chest as she ran, her limbs moving as though propelled by some unseen force. Fear gnawed at her insides, a cold, gnawing dread threatening to consume her whole. She stumbled and staggered through the chaos, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she fought to keep her footing amidst the tumult.

Around her, the chaos raged unabated. People collided with one another in their panic, their cries of terror blending into a cacophony of fear and confusion. Some covered their ears against the deafening roar of Balerion's fury, their heads pounding with the sheer intensity of the sound.

And still, Asha pressed on, driven by a primal instinct to survive. She could feel the heat of the flames licking at her skin, the acrid stench of smoke burning her nostrils as she fought her way through the maelstrom of destruction. At that moment, as she fled from the crumbling ruins of her home, Asha knew that nothing would ever be the same again.

As Asha rounded the corner, her breath caught in her throat at the sight that greeted her. The once mighty walls of the castle now stood twisted and deformed, their once proud stones reduced to nothing more than melted slag. The entire fortress seemed to sag and slump under the weight of the devastation, its once imposing form now a grotesque parody of its former self.

The hallways were a nightmarish landscape of melted stone and twisted metal, the air thick with the sickly sweet stench of burning flesh. The ceilings had collapsed in places, their once grand arches now reduced to puddles of molten rock that oozed like lava across the ground.

Outside, the storm raged on unabated, the howling winds and driving rain finding their way into the ruined castle through ragged holes torn in the walls. The rain mingled with the blackened soot that coated everything, forming a slick, oily film that covered the ground like a shroud.

And amidst the chaos, the flames still burned. Black fire, which looked like a flaming night, danced and flickered along the walls and ceilings, casting eerie shadows that danced and writhed like specters in the night. The air was thick with smoke; she could not see very well, and dust clung to the air, making it only vague shapes to be seen.

Amidst the devastation, the bodies of the fallen lay scattered like broken dolls, their charred and mangled forms a grim testament to the horrors that had unfolded. Blackened flesh peeled away from bone, twisted and contorted in grotesque poses of agony and despair.

As Asha stumbled through the wreckage, her heart heavy with sorrow and disbelief, she knew that nothing would ever be the same again. The castle that had stood for generations now lay in ruins, its proud halls reduced to little more than a smoldering graveyard of broken dreams.

As Asha raced through the twisted corridors of the castle, her heart pounding in her chest, she cast a desperate glance out the nearest window, hoping for some sign of the dragon that wrought such destruction upon her home. But to her dismay, there was nothing to be seen but the swirling darkness of the stormy night.

The sky was shrouded in thick, roiling clouds, their ebony depths swallowing the feeble light of the stars and moon. It was as if the very heavens had turned against her, their dark embrace hiding the fearsome creature that now laid waste to the Pyke.

With a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, Asha realized that she was blind to the threat that loomed outside. Balerion the Black Dread, with his pitch-black scales and searing flames, blended seamlessly into the inky blackness of the night, rendering him all but invisible against the storm. The dragon was the night; his breaths blackened sins set ablaze.

And yet, despite the absence of any visible sign of the dragon, Asha could still hear the roar of his flames, the deafening cacophony of destruction that echoed through the castle halls. Each fiery blast was like a hammer blow to her senses, driving home the terrifying reality of their predicament.

As she pressed on through the maze-like corridors, her footsteps echoing off the melted stone walls, Asha couldn't shake the feeling of dread that gripped her heart. In the darkness of the stormy night, with the dragon's black flames raging unchecked outside, she felt as though they were all but helpless before the wrath of the Black Dread.

As Asha dashed through the labyrinthine corridors of the castle, the intense heat bore down upon her like a suffocating weight, pressing in from all sides and leaving her gasping for breath. The air seemed to shimmer with the blistering heat of the dragon's flames, searing her lungs with each labored breath she took.

Amidst the chaos of the crumbling castle, the cries of the terrified echoed off the walls, blending into a cacophony of despair. Infants wailed in their mothers' arms, women shrieked in terror, and men bellowed in defiance and fear, their voices lost amidst the roar of the inferno raging outside. She even saw a father kill his own daughter in mercy for even he knew the girl would not live, mercy.

With each step she took, the ground beneath her feet trembled and shook, the very foundations of the castle threatened by the relentless onslaught of Balerion's flames. Asha could feel the molten heat seeping through the cracked and twisted stone beneath her boots, the intense heat scorching her skin even through the thick fabric of her clothes.

But as she rounded a final corner and emerged into the open air, the sight that greeted her was beyond anything she could have imagined. Before her eyes stretched an expanse of charred and twisted ruins, the once proud towers of the Pyke now reduced to smoldering rubble.

And there, at the heart of the devastation, stood the remnants of what had once been a towering fortress, now nothing more than a molten mass of rock and stone. Once a symbol of the Greyjoy's power and might, the tower now resembled a grotesque caricature of its former self, its twisted form melting and sagging under the relentless assault of Balerion's flames.

She saw a gaping hole in the wall, and that was wrong; there was no wall, andthe entire western side of the castle she was in was gone. A giant whole larger than five hundred yards, the edges of where the castle once stood now melted magma as the remains fell like red hot liquid and the rains from the skies slammed on her skin. The empty space showcasing the remains of the other towers, the castles outside her own . She was correct; gods, she hated she was right. The dragon hadn't even struck her tower. The flames that had destroyed and melted the tower before her own had been so hot and intense that they melted and obliterated the one she was in as a mistake, an offshoot of the dragon's true force. The little stub of melted stone, twisted like candle wax, seemed to camouflage into the night skies and dark waters due to the black flames licking the stone. The only way that Asha could even gaze upon the once mighty castle was due to the lightning from the illuminating skies, almost as though the gods wished for her to see the chaos her family wrought.

The fires from the dragon's mouth, the force of the fires slamming into the ground, the winds from the dragon beating its wings, all this was directed at the tower before her, a tiny little stub of melted stone that no longer existed. The force of the calamity upon them was nothing but the off shots of Blaerion's rage, his raw fires so strong that even the after-effects of those hundreds, thousands of yards away, an entire island and castle away, were burning and suffering. She suffered in the fires while those in the tower that was Balerion's target died quicker than a heartbeat. The black flames that consumed the tower, the black flames that made the tower merge with the dark waters and black skies, making the tower almost invisible to her sight; those in the targeted tower died quickly, faster than lightning striking the ground, and those same flames tortured her due to it not being lucky enough to be directly hit by the fire.

As Asha watched in horror, she could see the molten rock cascading down the sides of the tower, glowing red-hot against the stormy night sky. The inferno likewise consumed the island upon which the tower stood, and the harsh ocean below churned and roiled from the intense heat radiating from the molten rock.

At that moment, as she stood amidst the devastation wrought by the Black Dread, Asha felt a chill run down her spine. For all her years of defiance and rebellion, she had never truly understood the power of the dragons until now. And as she gazed upon the smoldering ruins of her home, she knew that she was witnessing the end of an era, the final chapter in the long and bloody history of House Greyjoy.

The intense heat of the dragon's flames enveloped her like a suffocating blanket, leaving her gasping for breath in the sweltering air. The acrid scent of smoke and burning flesh hung heavy in the air, mingling with the stench of molten rock and charred debris.

Before her eyes stretched a scene of utter devastation, the once formidable walls of the Pyke now reduced to twisted, blackened ruins by the ferocity of Balerion's attack. As she gazed upon the smoldering wreckage, Asha felt a chill run down her spine at the sheer destructive power of the Black Dread.

In the heart of the inferno, a third of the entire castle and the island itself had been transformed into a nightmarish landscape of molten rock and swirling flames. Rivers of red-hot magma cascaded down the sides of the crumbling walls, their searing heat casting an eerie glow over the desolate landscape.

The sight filled Asha with a profound dread, for she knew that a single pass from Balerion was all it took to reduce an entire island and castle to ruin. The realization sent a shiver down her spine as she struggled to comprehend the sheer magnitude of the devastation wrought by the dragon's wrath.

But it was not only the sight of the molten ruins that filled Asha with fear but also the unbearable heat that radiated from the smoldering wreckage. The air seemed to shimmer with the intense heat of the flames, making it difficult to draw breath amidst the searing temperatures.

As she staggered through the inferno, Asha could feel the sweat beading on her brow and the prickling sensation of her skin as it burned beneath the intense heat. With each step she took, the ground beneath her feet trembled and shook, the earth itself seeming to recoil from the ferocity of Balerion's attack.

And yet, amidst the chaos and devastation, Asha could hear the distant roar of the Black Dread, a sound that sent a chill down her spine even as it filled her with a sense of awe and terror. For though she could not see where Balerion was, she could feel the heat of his flames and hear the thunderous roar of his wings as he soared through the stormy night sky. At that moment, Asha knew that she was truly in the presence of a force beyond reckoning, a force that could reduce kingdoms to ashes with but a single breath.

As Asha stumbled through the shattered remnants of her once-majestic castle, the deafening roar of Balerion the Black Dread echoed through the air like a thunderclap, shaking the very foundations of the earth beneath her feet. The ground trembled violently, and the air reverberated with the sheer power of the dragon's mighty roar.

With a deafening roar, Balerion unleashed a torrent of searing flames upon the castle, engulfing everything in its path in a blazing inferno of heat and destruction. The intense heat washed over Asha like a wave, searing her skin and singeing her hair as she struggled to comprehend the sheer ferocity of the dragon's attack.

As the flames consumed the castle, the air filled with smoke and burning flesh, choking Asha's lungs and blurring her vision with tears. The ground beneath her feet trembled and buckled, sending shockwaves of pain coursing through her body as she collapsed to her knees, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the devastation unfolding before her.

And then, in the blink of an eye, it was over. The flames consumed everything in their path, reducing the once-proud castle to a smoldering ruin of charred debris and ash. Asha felt a wave of intense heat wash over her, followed by a sudden darkness that enveloped her senses, blotting out all sensation and leaving her adrift in a void of nothingness.

At that moment, Asha knew that she was lost. She felt no pain, fear, or sadness—only a profound sense of emptiness as her consciousness slipped away into the void. Her life, her hopes, and her dreams were all snuffed out in an instant, consumed by the flames of Balerion's wrath. The flames never reached her, but the heat they gave off could incinerate her due to their proximity.

As the last embers of the inferno flickered and died, Asha's ashes lay still amidst the ruins of the Pyke, a silent testament to the awesome power of the dragon and the merciless brutality of war.

There were no corpses, not a single corpse in all of the Pyke, merely ashes and molten rock as the storms roared and watered the thirsty ruins. A reminder that would remain just as Harrenhal does, a reminder for the last battle with dragons in the Greyjoy Rebellion.

While the Sea of Flames would be known as the grandest and most vicious of the battles with dragons during the Greyjoy Rebellion, this would be the one that all attributed as the final blow and the most important. While Balerion melted all the Pyke, castle, and islands in all in two passes. Caraxes burnt the stray Ironborn ships with his red flames, and the six other dragons of Summerhall laid waste to the remaining islands; the scars would remain until the Iron islands returned to the oceans it once rose from. Seven islands were left in ruin by eight dragons, and the entire three towers and islands were left but molten rock, not even malformed but rather a single pillar molten into itself, not even a stump a hundredth of its former size left as the molten rock dripped down. The final blow to the Greyjoy Rebellion. The Black Burn, the Storm of Fire, the Sea of Flames. Each one a victory with dragons to push back the Greyjoys. But the first and last of them were the ones everyone remembered outside the written pages of ink, for they were the only ones that would still have scars on the lands. The Dragon's Gate had molten rock walls, and now the Great Burn left a single molten candle stick of castle in its wake where once there were three islands and castles.

Chapter 29: The Ruins of Pyke and of the Rouge Prince

Chapter Text

Pyke 105

Aemon Targaryen

The ground beneath Aemon's feet was still smoldering, emitting waves of intense heat that licked at his skin and threatened to scorch his lungs with every breath. The air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and burning debris, stinging his eyes and leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

Aemon Targaryen, clad in his black gambeson and a cloak of black wolf fur, strode through the desolate remnants of the once-mighty castle of Pyke, his loyal dire wolf Ghost at his side. The air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and charred debris, and the ground beneath his feet still radiated heat from the inferno that had consumed the castle.

As Aemon walked alongside Ghost, the towering dire wolf moved with fluid grace. His pure white fur stood starkly against the charred landscape of molten rock and dark storm clouds that loomed overhead. The contrast between the wolf's pristine coat and the desolate surroundings served as a haunting reminder of the devastation wrought upon the once-proud castle of Pyke.

The stormy skies overhead churned with dark clouds, casting an eerie pall over the devastated landscape. The molten rock beneath Aemon's boots sizzled and smoked, a grim testament to the destructive power of the dragonfire that had laid waste to the island.

Despite his reluctance, Aemon knew that it was his duty to unleash the full might of Balerion the Black Dread upon the Pyke. The decision weighed heavily on his heart, but he understood that sometimes, in war, difficult choices must be made for the greater good.

As he reached the final island, the main bastion of the Pyke, Aemon gazed upon the solitary pillar standing amidst the ruins. Once a towering stronghold symbolizing Ironborn strength and resilience, it now stood as a crumbling relic of a bygone era. Aemon had burned them all.

The bridge that once connected the smaller islands to the main bastion lay in ruins, shattered by the force of Balerion's fiery breath. Aemon could still see the charred remains of Ironborn warriors strewn about the island, their bodies blackened and twisted by the intense heat of the dragonfire.

With a heavy heart, Aemon approached the lone pillar that had once been the heart of the castle of Pyke. It stood as a stark reminder of the futility of war, a testament to the destructive power of dragons and the merciless toll they exacted upon their enemies.

As he stood before the ruins of the Pyke, Aemon couldn't help but feel a profound sorrow for all those who had perished in the fiery onslaught. Gods, he hated himself. He hated what he had done. He looked at the charred remains and could only see Brandon and Rickard Stark, the uncle and grandfather of Jon Snow. He could hear the laughter of the Mad King.

Aemon fell to his knees as he saw the charred remains of one to small to be anything less than a child. The Mad King laughed in his ears. He could heard Rickard and Brandon cursing his name calling no kin of theirs.

Aemon hated himself; he was a monster. No honor. No justice. Just death. Just fire. Aemon was no better than the Mad King, and he supposed he deserved the same fate, mayhaps Jamie Lannister was born in this time once more and would cut him down? He hated himself or what he had to do and yet, it had to be done. How can a man hate himself for the decision that saved so many more lives? He knew their sacrifices had not been in vain, for they had helped to secure a victory that would end the rebellion and restore peace to the realm.

The air was heavy with the stench of smoke and sulfur, the remnants of the inferno that had consumed the once-proud castle of Pyke. Aemonlooked down, not once looking up; he would not dare look upon what he had done, for every second he closed his eyes, he saw King's landing once more; he saw Daenerys the Mad Queen's work, striding through the desolation with Ghost by his side. When did a candle become a wildfire? When did words turn into daggers? When did a man become a monster? When did dragonlords turn into madmen?

Ghost licked his face. Aemon looked up, and the wolf placed his head against Aemon's forehead. The wolf's red eyes closed. Aemon still had Ghost. Mayhaps men could be monsters if they have something worth burning the world for. Ghost was the only one who understood. Ghost was the same in both lives. Ghost was the dire wolf of Jon Snow and Aemon Targaryen, and the wolf would follow him, no matter the name or century, for just like Aemon, they were the only ones the other had. Even before Jon Snow was named a Targaryen, the wolf claimed him, and he claimed the wolf.

Aemon Targaryen wanted to move back; Jon Snow leaned into the wolf even more. Until then, there was white contrasting againstblack. "Thank you, boy." Aemon rose once more and the two continued on.

As they moved among the smoldering ruins, Aemon's thoughts turned inward, weighed down by the grim reality of what he had done. He had unleashed the full fury of Balerion the Black Dread upon the Pyke, reducing it to little more than molten rubble and ash. The storm that raged overhead mirrored the turmoil in his heart, its fierce winds howling like the cries of the fallen.

Aemon couldn't shake the feeling of guilt that gnawed at him from within. He had taken countless lives to quell the rebellion and restore peace to the realm. Each soul lost weighed heavily on his conscience, a burden that threatened to overwhelm him.

But even as he grappled with his guilt, Aemon knew deep down that his actions had been necessary. The rebellion had threatened to plunge the realm into chaos, and he had been tasked with ending it by any means necessary. He can't prepare for the Dance of Dragons, let alone the Long Night, if the realm was at war with the f*cking Greyjoys! Balerion's flames had been the instrument of that end, an essential evil in pursuing a greater good.

Yet, despite his conviction, Aemon couldn't shake the feeling that there had been another way, a more honorable path that didn't involve the wholesale destruction of an entire castle and all who dwelled within it. He questioned whether he had made the right choice, whether there had been a way to achieve victory without sacrificing so much.

Lost in his thoughts, Aemon felt a gentle nudge against his hand and saw Ghost pressing his snout into his palm. It was a small gesture of comfort, but in that moment, it was enough to remind Aemon that he was not alone in his struggle. Ghost's presence offered solace amidst the devastation, a silent reassurance that they would weather this storm together.

As the smoke billowed skyward, mingling with the dark storm clouds overhead, Aemon's gaze was drawn to a glimmer of silver amidst the devastation. It starkly contrasted the charred rubble and ashen debris surrounding him, a small beacon of light amid darkness. A star from the skies trapped in rubble and dark rock.

Aemon looked at the great silver shine that contrasted against the dark, gloomy rock and ruins. He had wondered where the treasury was, but he supposed it did not matter once he burned the keep. But something seemed to survive. The Ironborn pillaged the Seven Kingdoms for just about nine months, and now Aemon might reap its benefits. Whatever Aemon found would be his by right; he won this war, he destroyed the Pyke, and anything he recovered from these ruins would be his, even if it once belonged to the other Houses.

Intrigued by the unexpected sight, Aemon approached cautiously, his boots crunching against the scorched earth beneath him. He reached out, his fingers brushing against the cool metal, and carefully cleared away the debris that obscured whatever lay beneath. With each stone and rock he moved aside, the glint of silver grew brighter until, finally, Aemon uncovered the source of the shining light.

Drawing closer, he discerned the telltale outlines of handles protruding from beneath a pile of shattered stone and twisted metal. With anticipation mingled with trepidation, Aemon reached out, his fingers wrapping around the familiar contours of sword hilts.

With a determined effort, Aemon began to unearth the blades, each revealing itself in turn as he carefully removed the rubble that concealed them. As the last of the debris fell away, Aemon was confronted with a breathtaking sight—a cache of Valyrian steel swords glinting dully in the dim light of the storm-shrouded day.

For a moment, Aemon stood in stunned silence, his mind racing as he attempted to comprehend the magnitude of his discovery. Valyrian steel, forged in the fires of Old Valyria, was a rare and precious commodity, coveted by lords and kings alike for its unparalleled strength and sharpness. And here, amidst the ruins of Pyke, lay a trove of these legendary weapons, more than Aemon had ever seen gathered in one place before.

As he surveyed the gleaming blades before him, Aemon's thoughts turned to the histories and legends surrounding each one. Lady Forlorn, the ancestral sword of House Corbray, its pommel adorned with a single ruby, the Valyrian steel of its blade is smoke-grey in appearance.; Nightfall, the prized possession of House Harlaw, its blade shimmering like the night sky with an ornate golden crossguard; Red Rain, the fearsome blade of House Drumm, the steel a crimson hue a stark reminder of the bloodshed it had witnessed; Lamentation, the ancient sword of House Royce, its hilt etched with runes, the handle and cross guard made to look like bronze, it's blade as black as Blackfyre; Orphan-Maker, the razor-sharp scimitar of House Roxton, the handle wrapped in white and the cross guard golden, with the blade near black due to the Valyrian steel ripples; and Vigilance, the towering greatsword of House Hightower, its handle being Hightower itself and an emerald in the center as if it were the fires atop the watchtower and a second emerald in the heart of the crossguard. But it was not only Westerosi houses whose swords lay amongst the rubble. Aemon's eyes widened in astonishment as he beheld the exotic blades of distant lands—Truth, the gleaming sword once wielded by the noble Rogare family of Lys. While seven Valyrian steel swords would be more than enough, a single blade of Valyrian steel could bankrupt the entirety of the Lannisters. Still, four others indeed took Aemon's attention.

As Aemon gazed upon these weapons, a surge of excitement and apprehension coursed through his veins. These swords were symbols of power and prestige, artifacts of a bygone age, imbued with the weight of history and legend. And now, they were his to claim, a testament to his triumph over the Ironborn and a reminder of the responsibilities ahead.

Aemon had something to ace against the Long Night. He had weapons, some of which would be lost within this century or decade, and he would be able to fight, or his decadents may use them. Aemon had the chance. Aemon could fight. Aemon cried; it was not for naught. Maybe some part was screaming at him for feeling joy after killing innocents but the other roared that he could save more by having these.

As Aemon Targaryen, Prince of House Targaryen, gazed upon the cache of Valyrian steel swords before him, his eyes were drawn to four blades that held a particular significance. This significance transcended mere material value and spoke to the very heart of Westerosii history and legend.

First among them was Brightroar, the ancestral sword of House Lannister, its golden hilt gleaming even amidst the rubble of Pyke. Aemon knew the tale of Brightroar well, for it was a story told in every corner of the realm—a story of a lost sword, a lost legacy. Forged in the fiery depths of Old Valyria, Brightroar had been wielded by the Lannisters for generations, a symbol of their wealth and power. But centuries ago, the blade had vanished, lost to the annals of time and memory. And now, here it lay, rediscovered amidst the ruins of Pyke, its golden lion's-head pommel a testament to the enduring legacy of House Lannister.

Beside Brightroar lay two swords that should not exist, according to the histories and chronicles of Westeros—Oathkeeper and Widow's Wail. But it made no sense to him, it should be impossible. These blades were forged from the remnants of Ice, the sword of House Stark, melted down in the fires of Tywin Lannister's forge. These blades should not exist for another century, mayhaps two. The blades should only come to be after Tywin ripped Ice from the executioner who used it to behead Ned Stark. From the corpse of House Stark, House Lannister rose just a bit higher, as they did with the corpse of House Targaryen.

Aemon fought the urge to have Balerion burn them. Burn Tywin and his legacy, the same urge he fought to burn the Baratheons and Lannisters of this time. It would be so much better since they join the Greens and would be two fewer Lord Paramounts to worry about, it would be so much easier for House Lannister not to exist for the Targaryens to remain in power. But Aemon would avoid this, the dragons would live, and it would leave the Baratheons and Lannisters in check.

The blades should not be here. But neither should Aemon Targaryen. But here they were, tangible proof of the Lannisters' ambition and cunning. Oathkeeper, with its shining blade and lion-shaped pommel, symbolizes Jaime Lannister's oath to protect the innocent. Widow's Wail, with its twisted hilt and blood-red gemstone, is a cruel mockery of the Stark legacy.

And then there was Longclaw, the sword that Aemon knew better than any other in the world. For decades, Longclaw had been his constant companion, his loyal weapon. Crafted by the skilled hands of House Mormont, its pommel adorned with the fearsome likeness of a snarling bear, Longclaw had seen Aemon through countless battles and trials. And now, here it lay amidst the other legendary blades of Westeros, a testament to the enduring bond between man and steel.

As Aemon beheld these eleven Valyrian steel swords before him, he felt a sense of awe and reverence. For these were not merely weapons of war but relics of a bygone age, each bearing witness to the triumphs and tragedies of the Seven Kingdoms. With Blackfyre, the legendary sword of House Targaryen left behind in Summerhall, Aemon now possessed twelve such swords—a collection of unparalleled rarity and power.

Twelve swords to fight for the dawn.

Daemon Targaryen

As Daemon Targaryen mounted Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, and soared into the skies above the Iron Islands, the world around him was shrouded in darkness. The storm that had raged moments before had ceased, yet the ominous clouds lingered, casting a shadow over the tumultuous sea below. Only the flickering red glow of the fires Caraxes had ignited on the beach of Pyke provided any semblance of light in the gloom.

The flight back to Pyke was fraught with tension and fury, as Daemon's mind seethed with anger at the Ironborn's treachery. The winds whipped around them, carrying the echoes of the tumultuous battle that had unfolded moments earlier. Caraxes, with his powerful wings beating against the air, carried Daemon swiftly through the night, his crimson scales glimmering in the faint light.

Daemon's gaze fell upon the wreckage strewn across the dark waters below as they approached the naval battle site. Ships, both Ironborn and Velaryon, lay broken and burning, their shattered hulls testament to the ferocity of the conflict. With grim determination, Daemon directed Caraxes towards the scattered vessels, his eyes burning with rage at the sight of his fleet in ruins.

Daemon and Caraxes circled the waters for hours, hunting down every last enemy ship that dared to flee from their wrath. With each fiery breath, Caraxes sent another vessel plummeting into the depths until the sea was littered with their enemies' wreckage. It was a grim and relentless pursuit, but Daemon knew that every ship reclaimed meant another ship for the one hundred thousand men he had led to the Pyke to return upon.

Finally, as the first light of dawn began to streak across the horizon, Daemon brought the last of the captured ships back to Pyke's shores. The journey had been long and arduous, but Daemon's resolve remained unbroken as he dismounted from Caraxes and surveyed the devastation around him. A fierce determination burned in his eyes. The Ironborn may have dealt a blow to his fleet, but they soon learned that the Blood of the Dragon was not so easily vanquished.

As Daemon Targaryen and Caraxes approached the island of Pyke, the red fires that Caraxes had ignited still burned brightly along the shore and in Lordsport. The flames cast an eerie glow against the dark skies, their flickering light dancing like malevolent spirits in the night.

The storm that had raged moments before had subsided, yet the clouds loomed overhead like a shroud of darkness, obscuring the stars and casting a pall over the scene below. Only the crimson fires of Caraxes provided any illumination, their fiery brilliance serving as beacons amidst the gloom.

As Daemon drew nearer to the island, the full extent of the devastation became apparent. Where once stood the imposing stronghold of Pyke, with its assembly of towers and small islands, now lay nothing but a landscape of molten rock and ruin. The castle had been reduced to a mere stub; its once proud towers melted and deformed by the intense heat.

The molten stone, now cooled and solidified into jagged formations, Daemon had never witnessed the ferocity of the Balerion's flames but he wished to have seen his son show the power of House Targaryen, he wanted to see Lyanna's boy show the world his strength. Streams of hardened magma snaked across the landscape, resembling twisted rivers of blackened glass. Smoke still rose from the scorched earth, mingling with the lingering scent of charred wood and burning flesh.

Daemon's smirk widened into a smug grin as he surveyed the ruins of Pyke from atop Caraxes. The sight of the once-mighty stronghold reduced to a smoldering heap brought a sense of satisfaction to the Targaryen prince. The Ironborn had underestimated the dragon's power, and now they paid the price for their folly.

With a chuckle of triumph, Daemon urged Caraxes onward, his gaze fixed upon the horizon. The battle may have been won, but the war was far from over. As long as the Blood of the Dragon still flowed through his veins, Daemon vowed to see his enemies vanquished and his family's legacy restored to its former glory.

As Daemon and Caraxes descended towards the desolate ruins of Pyke, the flickering red fires from Caraxes's earlier devastation illuminated the dawn just slightly more, casting an eerie glow over the shattered landscape below. The storm that once ravaged the Iron Islands had subsided, leaving only the ominous clouds looming overhead as the sun rose in the east.

As they drew closer to the island, Daemon's gaze fell upon the remnants of what was once the imposing stronghold of House Greyjoy. The castle of Pyke, with its assembly of towers and small islands, lay before him in ruin. The once formidable stone structures had been reduced to molten rock, the very foundations now dripping like candle wax in the aftermath of Balerion's fiery onslaught.

The sight filled Daemon with a mixture of awe and satisfaction. His son, Aemon, had wielded the might of Balerion to devastating effect, leaving behind a smoldering wasteland where the seat of Ironborn power once stood. Yet, amidst his pride in Aemon's prowess, Daemon couldn't shake the pang of regret that gnawed at his heart.

He had never enjoyed the relationship with his son that he had desired. From the moment King Jaehaerys and later King Viserys took Aemon from him, their bond had been strained. Daemon had longed to be with his son. He wished nothing more than to spar and laugh, but fate had conspired against them. As Caraxes touched down upon the scorched earth, Daemon's attention turned to the gathering host of Lannister, Stark, and Velaryon men that awaited them.

Dismounting from Caraxes, Daemon surveyed the scene before him, taking in the heated argument between Lord Jason Lannister and Lord Rickon Stark. Lord Jason wore armor made of almost pure gold, while most of his men wore armor Lannister red. Lord Jason's armor had a lion's head engraved on each shoulder, and he wore a helmet like a lion's head he currently had in his arms, as he argued. Lord Rickon towered over the man, with his height and broad shoulders, the Stark dark hair and gray eyes showing nothing but contempt. The man, like Aemon, often did since Daemon saw him once at Fair Castle, worse a dark leather gambeson and wolf's pelt cloak, but it was the coloring. It was different; while Aemon looked like a member of the Night's Watch in all black, Lord Rickon had a grey pelt.

Daemon's eyes glanced over the attire of Lord Corlys, who seemed to have once been the three's peacemaker but cared less about the argument that might lead to a fight between Lannsiters and Starks and more of what was being argued over. Lord Corlys wore silvery armor not unlike the armor of the Kingsguard but with no white cloak. Lord Corlys wore a helmet over his head that covered most of the dark skin of his face; only some of his silver rope-like hair came from the helmet, just barely spilling over his shoulders.

Lord Jason's face was flushed with anger, his voice rising in frustration as he vehemently argued his point. Stoic and resolute, Rickon stood his ground, his gaze unwavering as he countered Jason's demands.

Lord Jason stepped closer and glared upwards at the Stark, and Daemon laughed slightly at the height difference. To him, the Warden of the West seemed like the child facing a bear, and more importantly, the child lacked common sense. "What was found on the Pyke rightfully belongs to House Lannister!" Jason insisted, his tone brimming with indignation.

Rickon, unmoved by Jason's outburst, replied with steely resolve, "By the laws of Conquest, it belongs to Prince Aemon as the rightful victor of this campaign. By those same laws, Aegon the Conqueror took the Seven Kingdoms. The boy keeps what he has earned."

Daemon, caught in their dispute, could only listen as the tension between the two lords escalated. Lord Corlys, ever the voice of reason, remained silent, his expression unreadable as he observed the unfolding confrontation.

Though the specifics of their argument remained veiled in mystery to Daemon, the intensity of their debate left no doubt that the object in question held great significance to both parties. Daemon could sense the simmering resentment and rivalry between House Lannister and House Stark as the exchange grew more heated.

As Daemon glanced at Lord Corlys, seeking some hint of support or guidance, he was met only with a disapproving head shake. Lord Corlys leveled a glare at Daemon, for a reason, Deamon did not know but had no doubt that to Corlys that he deserved. Suppressing a smirk, Daemon couldn't help but find amusem*nt in Corlys's silent reproach.

Jason Lannister's voice dripped with frustration as he declared, "This is preposterous, Stark! House Lannister's claim to Brightroar is indisputable. It is our ancestral sword, and we demand its return!"

Rickon Stark, his demeanor unwavering, "By the laws of Conquest, any spoils found on Pyke rightfully belong to Prince Aemon. He has earned the right to claim what he will. Even my lords, who have the same right to be angry as you, conceded this point! If you are foolish enough to anger the rider of the Black Dread, then please, go f*cking on to your death then."

The back-and-forth continued, with Jason persisting, "But the sword symbolizes Lannister pride and heritage! It cannot be stripped from us so easily! It belonged to my House before the Conquest!" He took another step forward, now leaving only three steps between the pair.

Lord Rickon allowed the first step to go unchecked, but the second. The Lord of Winterfell stepped forward and looked down nearly a head and a half down on the new Lord of Casterly Rock. "And you f*cking lost it before the Conquest." Rickon's response was equally steadfast, "The spoils of war are not subject to emotions. They are the spoils of victory, to be claimed by the victor."

Finally, Daemon could bear the cryptic exchange no longer. He had his fill of the arguing, and while he would find the two fighting mildly entertaining, he frankly had less taste of battle when his standards were already a fire-breathing dragon over an open ocean. A giant wolf devouring a small golden kitten was not as interesting. Stepping forward, he interjected, his voice cutting through the mounting tension like a knife.

Daemon stepped up and interjected. "What is the meaning of this argument?" he demanded, his gaze sweeping between Jason and Rickon.

At last, Rickon Stark relented, his expression grave as he revealed the truth that had been veiled beneath their veiled words. "The prince,my grandson," he said to Lord Jason as if proving a point that the North would back the boy, "has discovered a cache of Valyrian steel swords among the ruins of Pyke," he disclosed, his tone grave. "By right of conquest, they now belong to him."

Jason Lannister's eyes narrowed at the revelation, his resolve unyielding as he turned to Daemon, his voice tinged with urgency. Lord Jason Lannister cleaned himself quickly and showed the iconic Lannister smug face as he approached Prince Daemon. Daemon hated the face and its smugness. And yet, as Lord Corlys and his brother Viserys would always remind him, he held the same face. But to Daemon, he earned that right; he had a bloody dragon.

The Lannister's smug smile was gold, as if he had already won the argument. "Prince Daemon, I implore you, reason with your son," he beseeched. "Brightroar rightfully belongs to House Lannister. It must be returned to us."

Daemon turned to Lord Corlys. His voice slowed enough for everyone to hear, but there was a hint of a whisper to showcase the conversation between the pair as if throwing it in the face of the Warder of North and West. "He found Valyrian steel?"he asked in Valyrian to ensure only Corlys was privy to his thoughts while also blatantly angering the lords who did not understand.

Lord Corlys crossed his arms and turned Daemon with a brooding face that nearly matched Aemon's own. Daemon wondered if his son was more Corlys' child than Daemon's own, and he and Laenor were switched at birth. Laenor was loud; he was brash, and he cared to fight. Aemon was brooding, stoic, and calculating far beyond his years should be. Daemon felt in his heart that the gods switched the children from who the father should have been, but in the end, Daemon was happy for Aemon to ride Balerion rather than Seasmoke.

Lord Corlys looked Daemon in the eye, no doubt not fearing a Targaryen royal that road a red dragon due to the fact he f*cked one every night. "Aye, the boy found enough swords to buy Essos and Westeros. One Valyrian steel sword could buy him an army to conquer Westeros twice over."

Daemon touched the pommel of Dark Sister at his side in thought. Daemon nodded. He never cared about economics, but he did think that Valyrian steel was worth at least the amount of an army larger than the entire Reach and Westerlands combined and Dark Sister more still. Daemon nodded his head. "How many?" was the only question that followed from Daemon's lips.

Corlys smiled smugly; the Lord of Tides removed his helmet so Daemon could look better to the face. "Eleven. Not including Blackfyre."

Daemon laughed loudly, a single loud laugh of reckless abandon, almost like a bark. "The gods provide, do they not?" In response, Lord Corlys rolled his eyes. But not in a dismissal, but rather in anger, almost trying to disrespect Daemon and his son. Daemon fought the urge to embrace the man then and there but stopped, solely for the fact that his brother, Viserys would need to show the realm that House Targaryen and House Velaryon had won this day and were one of mind and spirit.

With a wry chuckle, Daemon addressed Lord Jason's impassioned plea. "Lord Jason, Valyrian steel is a frightful rare and precious commodity, is it not?"

Lord Jason nodded fervently in agreement, his frustration evident in his furrowed brow. "Indeed, Prince Daemon. It is a treasure beyond compare."

Daemon's lips quirked into a sardonic smile. "Then, Lord Jason, how much would House Lannister be willing to pay for such a treasure?"

Lord Jason's confusion was palpable as he struggled to comprehend Daemon's meaning. "I beg your pardon, Prince Daemon. What do you mean?"

Prince Daemon's amusem*nt danced in his eyes as he elaborated, his tone tinged with subtle sarcasm. "Brightroar rightfully belongs to my son, Aemon. He discovered the cache of Valyrian steel swords on the Pyke and claimed them by right of Conquest. Surely you don't expect House Targaryen to give away such valuable assets for free? I supposed House Targaryen would also be inclined to give free mountains of gold alongside it. Or even give back our claim on the Seven Kingdoms."

Lord Jason's expression darkened as he realized the implications of Daemon's words. "But Brightroar has long been a cherished heirloom of House Lannister."

Daemon shrugged nonchalantly, his gaze unwavering. "Indeed, it was lost by House Lannister, was it not? Besides, a blade forged of Valyrian steel seems far more fitting in the hands of one with Valyrian blood, wouldn't you agree?" Daemon smirked before walking away. Daemon did not know when Colrys began following him, but he supposed that following the Rouge Prince was far better than listening to a lion and wolf argue.

As Daemon and Lord Corlys traversed the desolate ruins of Pyke, the once proud castle was now reduced to a twisted mass of molten stone and ash, and they found themselves enveloped in an oppressive atmosphere. The air was thick with ash and smoke, casting a pall of darkness over the devastated landscape. Their footsteps echoed hollowly amidst the wreckage, a haunting reminder of the destruction wrought by dragonfire.

Daemon's smug smile lingered on his lips as he chuckled softly, his gaze sweeping over the ruinous scene before him. Lord Corlys trailed behind him, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his hood.

"Lead me to my son, Corlys," Daemon requested, his tone commanding yet tinged with an underlying sense of urgency. Daemon knew that ordering Corlys would not be something the Lord of the Tides would take lightly, but this was more a father asking his kin for aid rather than a prince ordering a lord.

Corlys nodded silently, his steely resolve unwavering even in the face of such devastation. Together, they continued their journey through the desolate landscape, navigating the treacherous terrain with purpose. The skies were dark as the night as the storms, while no longer there, still lingered in black clouds. Smoke and magma clung to the ground like a blanket coating the floor. The red glow of flames of Lordsport and several other places that Caraxes had ventured before the rest of the armies had come still lingered. The red glow of Caraxes crimson flames was the only true form of light, leaving everything in a red red-tinted light.

Daemon turned to see several men hacking and coughing due to the smoke and dust in the air. Balerion was a monster; there was no doubt. If Balerion had been this equal size during the height of Valryia, Daemon did not know if Baleiron would measure to the largest of dragons, but Daemon did know for certain now that currently, the Black Dread had no equal. The Black Dread was a living natural disaster, and the entire island of Pyke was nothing but the receiver of his hatred and wrath. The castle and the islands that comprised Pyke, which were nothing but a single pillar of motel rock, were more than enough to show this.

As they walked, Lord Corlys broached the topic of the stolen Velaryon ships. Daemon had wondered how long it would take for Corlys to ask; Daemon was not known for being gentle upon Caraxes' back. "My ships, Daemon."

Daemon looked to Corlys, "What of them?" Daemon knew he would anger Corlys by not giving him the answer outright, but Daemon did so love angering Lord Corlys, the man had a stick up his ass as long as wide as the Hightower itself.

Lord Corly's face showed no distaste, merely the stoic pride that seemed to be a Velaryon staple. But even Daemon knew that Corlys would not have the patience for a long jest between the two. Corlys worried for his ships, while Daemon worried for his son. "What have you done to them, Daemon? How many did I f*cking lose?"

Daemon smiled, just a simple curl of the lips. He toyed with the pommel of Dark Sister as it rested by his side. "Half of the stolen ones are nothing but tinder on the waves. The other I was able to guide back to the port with a fair bit of help from Caraxes' flames."

Corlys looked surprised before his features schooled themselves faster than a blink; only the fires of Caraxes flame by the shore illuminated the land enough for Dameon to see the change of expression. "You did not simply burn all the ships, Daemon? Your recklessness often knows no bounds."

Daemon's laughter rang out, a sharp contrast to the grim surroundings. "Of course not, my dear Corlys. Do you take me for a fool? We do need a few ships to sail our men back upon."

Lord Corlys regarded him with a skeptical gaze, his expression betraying no hint of amusem*nt. "Your penchant for recklessness is well-known, Daemon. There is often little reason in your actions."

"There is a method to my madness, Corlys," he replied, his voice tinged with regret. "Even my recklessness had reasoning," he chuckled to himself.

Lord Corlys paused, turning to face Daemon with a piercing gaze. "And what method was there in stealing Lyanna Stark, Daemon? Your actions were nothing short of reckless." Daemon's demeanor shifted, his laughter fading into a somber silence. Daemon did not know why the man chose then to speak of her and was caught off his guard. He supposed he was used to men acting as though they had a c*nt rather than co*ck and not asking about his late lady wife.

Daemon's expression hardened, a shadow crossing his features. "Lyanna Stark was a woman of extraordinary strength and courage," he admitted, his voice tinged with reverence. "She was more than I could ever hope for."

Daemon looked at Corlys's face, but he could not read what Corlys was thinking. At times like this, he despised the stoic features that both Corlys and Aemon had mastered. Even the best in King's Landing would not be able to discern what they thought by facial features alone. But Daemon could see emotion in Corlys' eyes, anger. Something had angered Corlys, that was for certain. And it had been that way for quite some time.

At first, Daemon thought it was merely the man being angered at the results of the Grand Council, for his wife was not named queen. Still, the times he saw the man after showed that while the man's pride was hurt and he would always be angry at the results, he had enough sense to school his features, something that man had only developed after a year or two of sulking of the decision. But two years of Corlys showing his dislike for the results gave Daemon an idea of how long the man would sulk for a decision and situation that did not go his way.

Whatever happened, happened recently, around the time of the Tourney of Harrenhal, that anger only showed itself at the tourney and lasted deep into the Greyjoy Rebellion. And that anger was somehow directed to Aemon and Daemon more than the rest of the House Targaryen, far more than to Viserys. Corlys was angry with Daemon and Aemon; Daemon did not know what it could be due to.

Corlys showed no emotion as they locked onto Daemon; while his face was stoic, his eyes held a fire of anger. "What did you see in Lyanna Stark, Daemon?" Corlys inquired, his voice cutting through the solemn atmosphere.

Daemon's demeanor shifted, a subtle flicker of emotion crossing his features. "Why does it matter to you, Corlys?" he countered, his voice tinged with guardedness. Corlys nor Daemon were men to think of sentiments or empathy; they were men of action, and talking of the past, especially of the past not related to anything of importance, was not commonplace.

Corlys shrugged, his expression inscrutable. Corlys gestures to the smoke around them and the molten magma that was once the castle of Pyke. "Given the impact of her son's victories, I thought it might be important to understand Lyanna's influence."

Daemon's lips curled into a bitter smile, the weight of memories settling heavily upon him. Daemon did not wish to speak of his late wife; he had not spoken of her aloud in quite some time, far too long a time. She was the kind of woman that would ruin a man for years to come, and yet, for some reason, the only thing he recalled was piecing Stark gray eyes. He did not know when the day came when, instead of seeing Lyann's face in his thoughts every morning since her passing, he could only imagine her gray eyes, but from that day forward, he could only imagine gray eyes and blue winter roses.

Daemon tightened his hands into fists before the strength he had failed him, and he rested his hand on the pommel of Dark Sister. "It's ironic, really," he began, his voice tinged with regret. "I barely knew Lyanna for more than a few months. Her time with a child was fleeting, shorter than most. It's a cruel twist that a full pregnancy lasts longer than Lyanna's time with me."

The words hung heavy in the air, laden with melancholy. Daemon's gaze drifted into the distance, lost in the recollection of fleeting moments and lost opportunities. In truth, Daemon had not spent much time with Lyanna; in fact, his limited time with Aemon was likely more than he did with his late wife. And even the time with Aemon was restricted. It would seem the gods had cursed him in that regard to know the son he never had full access to better than the wife he had for half a year, both being taken from him. Now it was Aemon's face he could recall when thinking of his wife, a face he rarely saw, a face of a boy who now destroyed the entire castle of Pyke, if the rumors were true, in only two passes.

Two passes, and Lyanna's boy had destroyed an entire castle. He could remember this; he would remember this; his son was a rider, a dragon rider of the highest regard; he would not forget Lyanna's boy, even if he had already forgotten Lyanna. Daemon turned back to Corlys, knowing full well that the man asked this question to hurt Daemon. No one spoke to Daemon about Lyanna; that was taboo; Daemon had killed men for such. Corlys wanted Daemon to hurt, but Daemon did not know why. But he would repay the debt.

Daemon looked to the molten rock, not keeping his eyes on Corlys. "I wish I could remember more," he confessed, his voice tinged with longing. "But after all the battles, the bloodshed, the faces blur together. I can't even recall her face anymore." There was a palpable sadness in his words, a lament for the memories that had slipped through his fingers like grains of sand. "All I see is gray eyes now."

Corlys said nothing for some time, even his voice level. "I heard she was a great beauty. I can not say for sure; I barely recall her face a decade later. It would seem Lyanna's husband is just as forgetful. How cruel a fate for a woman to be forgotten by the man she loves and to never be seen by the son she bore." Corlys smirked, satisfied with himself, before walking forward. "I do not pity you, losing the woman you loved because the son you could never have, the son that burned innocents to the ground, killed her. A cruel fate, to be sure."

In a blink, Daemon lost his composure, grabbed Corlys by the throat, and pushed him against a ruined wall. The wall almost fell to the ground, the dust and smoke kicking up as they slammed into the wall. Daemon did not think of why Corlys did not fight back. Corlys said nothing, his face having a satisfied smirk as he allowed Daemon to push him without any fight. He seemed happy to get the said reaction. "I should f*cking kill you where you stand. I have killed for far less."

Corlys said nothing but looked at Daemon's hand on his chest as he pushed him. The pair respected one another and knew how much the other could be pushed. Both knew Corlys was dangerously close to the edge. "I'm right here, Daemon. You have the chance. You have the power, and I will not fight back."

Daemon glared into Corlys' eyes. Daemon watched for any hint of deception; no man, knowing he would do so, told Daemon to have his way with them and kill them. Corlys knew Daemon would kill the man with no second thought; Corlys knew he had no power, especially since his family only had two dragons compared to the Targaryen's own ten; Corlys had no leverage; he had no power; he could not return in vengeance, and yet Daemon lost the drive to kill the man. Just knowing he could kill him and the man was not afraid of it, somehow welcoming it and dismissing the thought made Daemon think this was some trap, a trap that he had no interest in, not because he was scared but because he found it lacking in entertainment. Daemon smirked; he released Corlys and allowed the man to stand up straight. The man was stubborn and entertaining, and life would be far more boring with one less Valyrian walking around, especially one as interesting as Corlys Velaryon. But Daemon still needed to make a point.

Daemon, faster than the heart could beat, punched Colrys with enough force to make the man fall on his ass. Corlys fell and looked up at Daemon with a seething glare, but no words came from his mouth as Daemon chuckled and offered him that hand. Daemon knew Corlys well enough that the man was not stupid enough to retaliate against a prince of the realm when he was the one who offered him the chance to kill him.

The landscape around them seemed to echo the tension as Daemon pressed Corlys for the truth, his voice edging impatiently. "Why do you truly care about Lyanna, Corlys?" he demanded, his tone betraying a sense of urgency. "Don't try to mask it with the pretext of Aemon's actions at Pyke."

Corlys still looked angered, more than willing to return the favor to Daemon if he could, Daemon would guess. Corlys, his expression unreadable, nodded in acknowledgment before forging ahead. "You and Aemon are not cut from the same cloth," he observed, his voice steady despite the weight of his words. "He is stoic, brooding, while you are brash, reckless, and confrontational."

Daemon's brows furrowed in response, a flicker of anger dancing in his eyes. "And what, pray tell, do we have in common?" he retorted, his voice laced with defiance.

Corlys's gaze hardened his words, carrying a sharp bite. "Both of you are cowards who wield dragons as your weapons," he declared, the accusation hanging heavy in the air like a storm cloud.

Daemon's grip on Dark Sister tightened, a glint of menace flashing in his eyes. Daemon was now concidering gutting the man. Even if he were entertaining to him, there were other ways for Daemon to find amusem*nt. "Watch your words, Corlys," he warned, his voice low and dangerous. "Or I'll feed you to Caraxes before you utter another insult."

But Corlys refused to back down, his resolve unwavering in the face of Daemon's threat. "You and Aemon are both cravens," he continued, his voice seething with contempt. "You forsake your betrothals, abandoning your duties and responsibilities."

Daemon's confusion was palpable, his features contorted in disbelief. "What are you talking about, Corlys?" he demanded, his voice tinged with frustration.

Corlys's anger flared, his words ringing out like a clarion call. "You know full well what I'm talking about," he spat, his voice rising with each syllable. "You and Viserys canceled the betrothal between Aemon and my daughter, Laena, and you didn't even have the decency to do it in person!"

Daemon's incredulity was evident, his gaze locking onto Corlys with disbelief and anger. "I never agreed to any betrothal between Aemon and Laena," he protested, his voice tinged with outrage. "How could House Targaryen cancel a betrothal that was never agreed upon? I never agreed to any betrothal with your daughter, Corlys," Daemon insisted, his voice laced with frustration as he sought to defend his stance. "I would remember such a significant arrangement for my son."

Corlys's expression darkened, his anger simmering beneath the surface as he countered Daemon's assertion. "Do not dare to feign ignorance, Daemon," he shot back, his voice sharp with accusation. "You know full well the agreement between our houses."

Daemon's temper flared, his patience wearing thin as he struggled to contain his rage. "I know of no such agreement," he declared, his voice ringing out with defiance. "I would never allow Aemon to be betrothed without my knowledge or consent." Daemon's resolve faltered, a flicker of uncertainty dancing in his eyes. "In fact," he added, his voice betraying a hint of vulnerability, "Aemon has been betrothed since infancy to another."

Corlys's features hardened, his eyes ablaze with fury, his voice dripping with venom. "Do you take me for a fool?"

Daemon's patience wore thin, his anger bubbling to the surface like molten lava. "I'll have you know that Aemon was betrothed to Rhaenyra since they were babes in swaddling clothes," he retorted, his words cutting through the air like a knife.

Corlys' eyes widened in shock, his breath catching in his throat. "You mean to tell me that you kept such a betrothal a secret? The daughter of the king and the son of the king's heir are to be married, and not a single one knows save for the pair of you," he exclaimed, his voice tinged with disbelief. Realization then dawned upon Corlys' eyes as his eyes narrowed. "It would seem it's a shared trait you and your brother gain from your father.

Daemon's gaze bore into Corlys's, a silent challenge passing between them. "What did my father never say?" he demanded, his voice a low growl.

"Years ago, Prince Baelon flew to Driftmark atop Vhagar and negotiated a betrothal between Laena and Aemon," he revealed, his voice thick with emotion. "I thought the matter was settled until it was abruptly canceled nine months ago."

"Who dared to cancel the betrothal?" Daemon demanded, his voice edged with fury. "Neither Viserys nor I were aware of any such arrangement. We can't exactly cancel a betrothal we had no idea of existing."

Corlys's eyes flashed with anger, his voice trembling with indignation. Daemon could tell clearly that the man had realized something and all the pieces had fallen together. "It was the Hand of the King, Lord Otto Hightower," he spat, his words laced with bitterness.

Daemon's lips curled into a sneer of disdain as he scoffed at the mention of Lord Otto. "That old fool," he scoffed, his voice dripping with contempt. "He's always been a thorn in my side. Otto," he spat, his voice dripping with venom, "fancies himself the puppeteer pulling the strings of the realm." Then Daemon began to laugh, cruelly laugh. "The man canceled a betrothal that the royal family did not know existed. And you angry at me for it?"

The mention of Lord Otto Hightower ignited a firestorm of hatred within Daemon, memories of past conflicts and bitter rivalries flooding his mind like a torrential downpour. He remembered the countless times the Hand of the King had thwarted his ambitions, undermined his authority, and sabotaged his plans. The mere thought of the man filled him with a seething rage that threatened to consume him whole. But another thought that crossed his mind was how Rhaenyra had gotten rather close to the Hightower's daughter.

"If I had wished to cancel a betrothal, I would have done so myself," Daemon declared, his voice laced with venomous fury. "Otto had no right to meddle in the affairs of House Targaryen." Daemon's eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint flashing within their depths. "Otto seems to forget that he serves at the pleasure of the crown," he declared, his voice a low rumble of thunder. "And if he dares to make decisions without the will of House Targaryen, he will answer for his arrogance."

Corlys's nostrils flared with anger as he spat out his reply. His fists clenched at his sides, and his face contorted with rage. "First, he denies the looming threat of war from the Greyjoys and Martells, costing us hundreds of Velaryon ships," he seethed, his voice rising with each word. "And now, he dares to meddle in the affairs of my f*cking House! As if he were some lord of petty squabbles!"

"Otto is a lecher, a snake in the grass," Daemon spat, his words dripping with contempt. "He thinks himself clever, but he's nothing more than a c*nt playing at politics."

Corlys's face contorted with rage, his voice a savage roar of fury. "I'll tear him limb from limb," he bellowed, his fists clenched in white-knuckled fury. His voice was not much of a scream but a grunt of seething anger.

Daemon's eyes gleamed with malice, his voice a cold whisper of hatred. "I could have his position for this," he mused darkly, his mind already calculating how to exact his revenge.

Corlys's lips curled into a snarl of disdain, his voice a venomous hiss of contempt. "The man is a weasel, a coward who hides behind his lies," he sneered, his eyes blazing with righteous indignation. "He no doubt already has covered his tracks; there would be no proof, and one would need proof for such a claim. Its only by my word that anything could be claimed and the man is Hand, it would be next to nothing."

Daemon's lips upturned for a second before returning to the ruins. "If making a claim that is taken as fact, even if it is doubtful, is not a true benefit of being a prince of the realm, I don't know what is."

Corlys looked at Daemon, his eyes showing Daemon that he truly did not know what went through his mind, and Daemon let out a small smile at knowing it to be true. "The man is the Hand of the king; he reaps better benefits and, unlike you, has spent his time in King's Landing securing his position while you have been building Summerhall; the man is rooted deep and most definitely found ways to ensure even a wild weed, such as himself, could not remove him so easily."

Daemon scoffed at the thought. "Any plant that gross roots could be burned by dragon fire. Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives proved that at the Field of Fire. I am more than willing to reeducate Otto if need be."

Corlys's face twisted with grim resolve, his voice a grim vow of vengeance. "His head will adorn a spike," he declared, his voice echoing with the weight of his conviction.

Daemon's lips twisted into a cruel smile, his eyes gleaming with savage delight. "You can have him after I've fed him to Caraxes," he chuckled darkly, his laughter ringing with the promise of retribution.

Corlys soon left Daemon alone, pointing out where Aemon was. Corlys did not want to see the boy. Aemon wanted to be alone. Aemon had killed innocent people in the castle, and now the boy was alone. Daemon did not care for the innocents lost; his son, however, would. Daemon did not care for those who did not matter, and yet Aemon would care, and he wanted to grieve for them alone.

As Daemon strode through the desolate landscape, his mind churned with conflicting emotions, swirling like the storm clouds above. His thoughts were a tumultuous sea, roiling with regret, sorrow, and a burning desire to see his son, Aemon.

The memory of Lyanna Stark, the woman he loved and lost, haunted him like a specter in the night. He remembered her laughter, warmth, and how her eyes sparkled like stars in the sky. But alongside the fond memories lurked the bitter sting of grief, for Lyanna had died bringing their son into the world—a son Daemon had never truly known.

Corlys's words echoed in his mind, a reminder of the pain and loss that had shaped their lives. Aemon, the son Daemon had longed for, had unwittingly become a symbol of everything he had lost—the wife he adored and the family they might have had together. The thought of Aemon, of the son he could never fully know, filled him with pride and longing, mingled with a deep regret for the life they could have shared.

Daemon's heart was heavy with the weight of his past, his choices, and the paths he had chosen. But amidst the darkness, a glimmer of hope remained—a chance to see his son, to reconcile the fractured pieces of their relationship, and to forge a new future together.

Memories of Lyanna Stark flooded his mind like a relentless tide. She was the one woman he had loved above all others, her laughter like music to his ears, her touch a balm to his soul. But now, she was gone—snatched away by the cruel hand of fate, leaving behind only a void that no amount of time could fill.

Daemon's grief was a heavy cloak, weighing him down with loss and longing. He mourned for the wife he had loved so fiercely, for the life they might have shared—a life that had been cruelly cut short before it had truly begun. The memory of Lyanna's final moments haunted him, her pale face twisted in pain as she struggled to bring their son into the world—a son Daemon had never truly known.

And yet, even amidst the depths of his sorrow, another emotion simmered beneath the surface—a simmering resentment towards the son who had unknowingly robbed him of the woman he loved. Aemon, his flesh and blood, was a source of pride and a painful reminder of everything he had lost. Daemon couldn't help but feel a pang of bitterness towards the boy, knowing that his arrival into the world had cost Lyanna her life.

But alongside the bitterness, a flicker of paternal love lingered—a love that transcended the pain and the regret. Despite everything, Daemon cared for his son deeply, his heart aching with the knowledge of all the moments they would never share. He longed to see Aemon, to hold him in his arms and tell him that he was loved, even as the knowledge of Lyanna's sacrifice cast a shadow over their relationship.

As he walked, Daemon's thoughts were consumed by the tangled web of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him—a whirlwind of love and loss, anger and affection. And in the distance, amid the ruins of the Pyke, awaited the son he had longed to see.

Amidst the swirling storm of his emotions, a seed of bitterness took root—a poisonous vine coiled around his heart with each passing moment. Corlys's words echoed in his ears like a sinister refrain, planting doubts and suspicions where once there had been only love and longing. Had Aemon truly been the harbinger of Lyanna's downfall? Had his very existence condemned her to an early grave?

And yet, even as he blamed Aemon for Lyanna's death, Daemon could not deny the pang of guilt that gnawed at his conscience. Was it fair to hold his son responsible for a fate he could not control? Was it right to heap the weight of his sorrow upon innocent shoulders? In the depths of his soul, Daemon grappled with these questions, torn between the need for vengeance and the yearning for absolution.

As Daemon approached the scene, the stark contrast of white and black dominated the desolate landscape. Aemon, clad in his black gambeson and cloak adorned with the likeness of a wolf, sat amidst the rubble, his silhouette framed by the haunting glow of the dying embers. Beside him, Ghost, the majestic white dire wolf, stood sentinel, his fur a cascade of moonlit silk against the backdrop of destruction. Aemon sat atop a throne amongst the rubble. A throne of a block of oily black stone carved into the shape of a Kraken.

But the looming presence behind them truly commanded attention—a behemoth of ebony scales and burning eyes, Balerion the Black Dread. The dragon's massive form stretched across the horizon like a mountain made of flesh—a towering monolith of scaled fury, his obsidian hide gleaming in the fading light, its wings folded against its sides as it surveyed the aftermath of its fiery wrath. Eight hundred feet of raw power and primal rage, Balerion lay coiled like a slumbering serpent, his presence casting a long shadow over the shattered remnants of the Pyke.

Aemon's hands moved with purpose as he held the Valyrian steel sword cradled, the blade glinting softly in the fading light. The pommel fashioned in the likeness of a white wolf's head. While some portions of the blade glistened from the red hue of the fires of Lordsport, the blade was mostly gray ripples, almost black. The wolf's white head was not a sword he knew, but he knew the blade seemed perfect in Aemon's hands as he cleaned and maintained the blade.

Seated upon a mound of rubble, Aemon appeared lost in thought, his gaze fixed upon the task. The rhythmic scrape of steel against stone echoed through the silence, a solemn refrain that seemed to resonate with the world's weight. Despite the chaos surrounding him, Aemon remained steadfast, his focus unwavering as he tended to his blade with care bordering on reverence.

But despite the scene's gravity, Aemon remained lost in his task, his gaze fixed upon the blade before him as though seeking solace in its polished surface. His features were drawn and weary, etched with the weight of his responsibilities and the burden of his actions.

As Daemon stood there, gazing upon the scene before him, a tumult of emotions churned within his breast, threatening to consume him whole. His eyes, once filled with pride and longing, now harbored a storm of conflicting feelings—a vortex of grief, anger, and regret.

In the light of dawn, Aemon appeared almost ethereal, bathed in the glow of the rising sun as he diligently tended to his sword. Each stroke of the whetstone against the blade echoed through the silence, a haunting melody that seemed to reverberate with the weight of Daemon's sorrow.

With each passing moment, Daemon found himself consumed by memories of Lyanna—the woman he had loved and lost in equal measure. Her laughter, smile, and touch are now mere echoes of a life once lived, lost to the relentless passage of time.

Yet, even amidst the ruins of his shattered dreams, Daemon could not help but feel a pang of resentment toward his son. Aemon, the child he had yearned for, the child he had never truly known, now stood before him as a living testament to all that had been lost.

As he watched Aemon, Daemon's thoughts turned inward, grappling with the bitter irony of fate. How could he reconcile his love for his son with the knowledge that Aemon had been the unwitting instrument of Lyanna's demise? How could he mourn the loss of his wife while harboring resentment towards the very son she had sacrificed everything for?

How could he reconcile the love he still bore for his son with the knowledge that Aemon's birth had robbed him of Lyanna's embrace? How could he look upon the face of his flesh and blood and not feel the sting of betrayal—the cruel twist of fate that had torn them apart before they had ever truly begun?

As Aemon continued to clean his sword, the rhythmic scrape of steel against stone served as a haunting reminder of all that had been lost. Each stroke, each pass of the blade, seemed to echo the relentless passage of time, driving a wedge deeper between father and son.

The sight of Aemon, so stoic and resolute amidst the ruins, stirred a tumultuous maelstrom of memories within Daemon's heart. He recalled Lyanna—the woman he had loved with a passion that burned brighter than the fires of Valyria itself. Her laughter echoed in the recesses of his mind, a haunting melody that tugged at the frayed edges of his soul.

But alongside Lyanna's memory lurked a shadow—a shadow born of regret and unspoken grief. For though Daemon had loved Lyanna fiercely, he had never truly known the son she had borne him. Aemon remained a mystery—a distant figure shrouded in the fog of war and the passage of time.

And now, as Daemon beheld his son, his heart heavy with lost opportunities and shattered dreams, he was consumed by a bitter sense of betrayal. For Aemon had brought about Lyanna's demise—a fact that gnawed at Daemon's soul like a ravenous beast.

Daemon's ribs began to hurt again like when the maesters began giving him the new medicines made from Citadel. He would need more again. He would need the medicine they named after him. The medicine that they had made just for him.

"You look a lot better brooding than I do," Daemon's voice cut through the silence, heavy with a mixture of frustration and concern. "You brood too much, my son. You're twice as good at it as any northern should be."

Aemon's response was curt; his gaze fixed intently upon the sword in his hands as he continued to sharpen its blade. "I have nothing to say, Kepa."

Daemon rolled his eyes as he took a few steps closer. "You brood too much. Frankly, if not for Balerion and your skill with a sword, I would have a reason for concern that you take nothing after me." Daemon's disapproval was palpable, a low grunt escaping his lips as he regarded his son with exasperation and disappointment. "You're too much like a Northern, Aemon—always so serious, so solemn. Where's the joy in life?"

Aemon continued to sharpen the blade as he sat on the throne of the Krakens, its black oil rock glistening in the red hue of the flames. Aemon's response was as stoic as ever, his voice tinged with melancholy. "There is no joy to be found in the wake of such devastation."

Daemon's laughter cut through the air like a blade, sharp and biting in its sarcasm. "And who, pray tell, is responsible for this devastation, if not you?" His words were harsh, laced with accusation and amusem*nt. "You must accept it, Aemon. You must accept the consequences of your actions."

But Aemon's resolve remained unshaken, his gaze unwavering as he met his father's accusing stare. "I will not accept the death of innocents," he declared, his voice firm and resolute. "I will not laugh and find joy in innocent lives are sacrificed for the sake of ambition and power."

As Daemon stood before his son amidst Pyke's desolation, his mind churned with a tumultuous mix of conflicting thoughts and emotions. He grappled with the weight of his role as a father, torn between the instinct to shield his son from pain and the need to ensure that Aemon faced the consequences of his actions.

Should he console Aemon and offer him comfort and reassurance in the face of the devastation they had wrought? Or should he force Aemon to confront the harsh reality of his choices, to acknowledge the lives lost and the innocent blood spilled?

Daemon's thoughts swirled like a storm, each option presenting its challenges and uncertainties. He remembered Aemon's strength, his prowess in battle, and the harsh realities of war that his son had already faced. Aemon had fought in wars and killed before, and Daemon knew that his son possessed a resilience born of experience.

With a heavy heart and a sense of grim determination, Daemon made his decision. He would not shield Aemon from the consequences of his actions. Instead, he would compel his son to face them head-on, to confront the harsh truths of war and the weight of his choices.

It was a difficult choice, fraught with uncertainty and the fear of causing his son further pain. But Daemon knew it was the only way forward, the only path leading to Aemon's growth and redemption.

And so, with resolve hardening in his heart, Daemon steeled himself to confront his son, to make him face the consequences of his actions and the harsh realities of their world. It was a father's duty, a burden that Daemon bore with a heavy heart but an unwavering determination to see his son through the trials ahead.

Aemon had told Daemon that he would not accept the fact he killed innocents in the castle, and Daemon would make sure that he Aemon faced the reality of it. His son was a dragon, not a sheep; dragons were strong, and they held themselves higher than the standards of men. In the desolate aftermath of the destruction, Daemon's voice sliced through the heavy silence like a blade through flesh. "You were the one to kill the innocents," he accused, his words sharp and biting.

Aemon's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing with a cold fury. "I will find no joy in the death of those not guilty," he retorted, his voice icy and resolute.

But Daemon would not be swayed. "Just because you don't enjoy it doesn't make it any less the reality. You burnt them all," he insisted, his tone firm and unyielding. "You must accept it."

As they stood amidst the rubble and ruin, Daemon's eyes caught sight of something amidst the debris. Daemon walked over to the rubble to the side, knowing full well his son watched from the throne of black. Ghost's eyes, as red as blood, never left Daemon. Daemon moved the rubble and removed stone and dust to see two small forms, no bigger than his forearm. His lips curled into a chilling smile as he stooped to retrieve two small bodies, cradled in his arms like macabre trophies.

With a flick of his wrist, he cast them before Aemon's feet. Aemon recoiled in horror, his breath catching in his throat as he beheld the lifeless figures before him. Babies. Bodies. Burnt to near blacked bone, the only corpses that remained of the entire area.

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, but anger soon replaced sorrow as he turned to face his father. Aemon turns his head away; he cannot look at the corpses of the babies he killed. "You have no respect for the dead," he spat, his voice trembling with emotion.

Daemon's laughter echoed hollowly in the desolate landscape. "You're the one who killed them," he jeered, his tone laced with cruelty.

Aemon's fists clenched at his sides, his heart heavy with guilt and remorse. "I am a murderer," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

But Daemon's laughter only grew louder, more derisive. "You can't be a murderer if the babies aren't even human," he scoffed, his words dripping with disdain. "They are nothing but the bodies of baby Krakens, not fit to be called human."

Aemon's rage blazed like wildfire, consuming him from within. His voice thundered through the shattered ruins, a primal scream torn from the depths of his anguish. "You're a monster!" he accused, his words a searing indictment of his father's actions.

But Daemon remained unmoved, his expression impassive as stone. "I did not kill them," he countered, his voice cool and detached. "How many innocents were in that castle, Aemon?" Daemon demanded, his tone cutting like a knife. "Women, children, the elderly, kidnapped people, and babies. How many?"

Aemon's breath hitched in his throat, his chest tight with sorrow and regret. "I'm a monster," he whispered, his voice choked with emotion, the fire dying and the remorse rising.

"This is war," Daemon declared, his words harsh and unforgiving. "People die. You did your duty."

"I know," Aemon admitted, his voice heavy with the weight of his guilt. "I knew what I was going to do. But that doesn't make me any less of a monster, any less of a murderer." Aemon shook his head, his eyes blazing with defiance. "Might does not make right," he insisted, his voice unwavering. "Those in power should never subjugate those who have none."

"But we're dragons, Aemon," Daemon countered, his voice rising fervently. "We're kings. This is what we do."

Daemon's steps echoed like thunder as he strode toward Aemon, his gaze burning with intensity. "We are kings, Aemon," he declared, his voice commanding and authoritative. "We are dragons. We do as we please."

Aemon met his father's gaze with a defiant glare. "That doesn't make it right," he retorted, his voice firm and resolute.

"Right?" Daemon scoffed, his tone laced with derision. "What is right but the whims of those in power?"

Aemon's eyes blazed with indignation as he stood his ground. "It's not right to slaughter innocents," he insisted, his voice tinged with fury.

Daemon's expression darkened, his features twisted with rage. In one swift motion, he seized Aemon by the arm and forced him to look at the tiny corpses lying at their feet. "Look at them!" he demanded, his voice low and menacing.

Aemon recoiled, his heart heavy with grief and horror. "They're babies," he protested, his voice choked with emotion.

But Daemon's eyes remained cold and unyielding. "I see no babies," he countered, his voice devoid of empathy. "Only krakenspawn, born to a foul and treacherous race."

Aemon's protests grew louder, his voice rising to a crescendo of anguish and outrage. "You're cruel, Kepa," he spat, his words a bitter condemnation. "Heartless."

Daemon's temper flared, unleashing a volatile storm within him. "I care for what is necessary," he snapped, his voice a harsh snarl. Innocence holds no sway in the affairs of kings and dragons."

Daemon's mind churned with frustration and bitterness as Aemon continued to protest, his words a relentless assault on Daemon's patience. Daemon's anger simmered beneath the surface with each accusation hurled his way, a volatile tempest threatening to consume him. He couldn't comprehend Aemon's overreaction to the harsh realities of war, and his son's naivety starkly contrasted with Daemon's hardened resolve.

As the argument reached a fever pitch, Daemon's thoughts turned to Lyanna, the woman he had loved with all his heart, the woman whose life had been extinguished in the throes of childbirth. Aemon's very existence, a reminder of that fateful day, fueled Daemon's growing resentment. How could Aemon, his flesh and blood, be so blind to the sacrifices made in the name of duty and power?

Frustration boiled within Daemon's veins as he lashed out, his words cutting like a knife through the air. "You weep for innocence, Aemon?" he sneered, his voice dripping with venom. "You, who robbed me of the only woman I ever loved, you dare to shed tears for the innocent?"

Aemon recoiled at the accusation, his eyes brimming with tears. "Leave me alone," he pleaded, his voice trembling with emotion.

But Daemon's rage knew no bounds. With a bitter laugh, he spat out words he would soon regret, his pain and anguish fueling the onslaught. "You're no better than a murderer, Aemon," he seethed, his voice laced with hatred. "You killed your mother when you were born."

Daemon's heart clenched with remorse when the words left his lips. He had crossed a line he could never uncross, his pain blinding him to his son's suffering. But before he could utter a word of apology, a deep, guttural growl echoed through the air, causing the ground to tremble beneath his feet.

Daemon looked up, his heart pounding in his chest, to see Balerion the Black Dread, his eyes ablaze with fury, towering over him. Besides the dragon stood Ghost, the dire wolf's teeth bared in a silent snarl.

At that moment, Daemon realized the gravity of his words, the danger he had unleashed upon himself. He had things to his son he would never be able to take back, and now he had a dragon and a dire wolf wanting his head. He would need to speak to his son when the creatures did not want to bite out his heart and burn him to ash. Swallowing his pride, he turned on his heel and fled, his footsteps echoing in the silence of the ruined castle, leaving behind the wrath of beasts far more formidable than any man.

It would be the last time he saw his son for almost a decade.

Chapter 30: Gold and Dreams

Chapter Text

The Red Keep 105 AC

Viserys Targaryen

In the month after the Greyjoy Rebellion's demise, the halls of the Red Keep in King's Landing buzzed with a palpable sense of relief and triumph. Viserys Targaryen, seated upon the Iron Throne, bore a rare smile upon his regal countenance. As the King of the Andals, the Rhoynar,

and the First Men, and the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, his authority was unquestionable, his absolute power. Yet, it was not merely the weight of his titles that buoyed his spirits but the resounding victory achieved by House Targaryen.

Despite the doubts that lingered in the hearts of some, whispers of uncertainty regarding Viserys' ability to rule as his illustrious forebears had, the outcome of the rebellion quelled any lingering skepticism. The royal family had emerged triumphant, extinguishing the flames of rebellion with a decisive stroke. It was a testament to the enduring strength of House Targaryen, a reaffirmation of their legacy of rulership.

Amidst the jubilant celebrations and fervent congratulations that echoed through the corridors of the Red Keep, Viserys found solace in the knowledge that his family had emerged unscathed, their honor and prestige intact. But above all, he felt a swell of pride for his young nephew, Aemon. Though but seven years of age, the boy had proven himself a formidable force on the battlefield, striking blows that resonated with the weight of destiny.

Viserys basked in the adulation of his courtiers, the accolades bestowed upon him a testament to the might of House Targaryen, each one thanking him for things he had not done. Yet, in his heart, he knew that his family's courage, particularly of young Aemon, had secured their victory. As the realm hailed their triumph, Viserys could not help but feel a sense of optimism for the future, believing that House Targaryen would continue to soar to ever greater heights under his rule.

Relief and joy as nobles and courtiers alike converged to offer their congratulations to King Viserys Targaryen. Clad in splendid attire befitting his royal station, Viserys sat upon the ancient Iron Throne, his regal demeanor contented.

As the courtiers approached, their voices laden with deference and respect, Viserys greeted them with a warm smile illuminating his features. His eyes, a vivid shade of violet reminiscent of the legendary dragons of old, sparkled with genuine pleasure at the outpouring of well-wishes.

The nobles, adorned in their finest garments, bowed low before the king, their expressions a mix of admiration and reverence. They spoke in hushed tones, their words laden with praise for Viserys and the valor displayed by House Targaryen in quelling the rebellion.

"Your Grace, you have demonstrated the strength and resolve of House Targaryen," one had proclaimed, his voice ringing with admiration.

The words that followed were often, "The realm owes you a debt of gratitude for ending this conflict."

Others echoed his sentiments, their voices rising in a chorus of admiration for the young king. They spoke of Viserys' unwavering leadership, commitment to the realm's stability, and unwavering courage in the face of adversity. And yet, in his heart, he knew he did nothing; it was all Aemon.

Viserys listened to their words with a humble grace, his smile growing ever wider with each compliment bestowed upon him. He accepted their congratulations with a gracious nod, acknowledging each of his loyal subjects' role in securing victory for House Targaryen.

Viserys awaited the arrival of his advisors in his own solar, the room was suffused with the soft glow of flickering candles, casting dancing shadows across the polished marble floors.

The solar itself was a testament to the majesty of House Targaryen, with arches before an open window and a balcony just behind the table filled with scrolls and books and intricately carved columns that soared towards the vaulted ceiling above. Rich tapestries adorned the walls, depicting scenes of brave knights and noble lords, while ornate furnishings of polished mahogany and gilded gold adorned the chamber.

At the center of the room, seated upon a high-backed wooden throne carved from ebony wood, sat Viserys Targaryen, resplendent in his royal attire. His silver-blond hair cascaded in waves around his shoulders, framing his handsome features and piercing violet eyes. Beside him stood the imposing figure of Lord Commander Ryam Redwyne, his imposing presence serving as a silent testament to the king's authority.

Viserys grabbed a golden goblet on the table and took a small sip of wine. His wife and queen would have his head if she knew he had been drinking wine so early into the day; however, he felt he could treat himself after his nephew ended the rebellion that started mere months into Viserys reign as king.

A knock was heard at the doors. "Your Grace, Lord Lyonel Strong of Harrenhal, Lord Lyman Beesbury, Grand Maester Runciter, have come seeking audience with you, as per your request," the Kingsguard outside the doos said loudly and clearly.

As the three advisors entered the solar, Viserys regarded them with a regal nod, acknowledging their presence with a dignified grace. Lord Lyonel Strong of Harrenhal was the first to step forward, the newly appointed Master of Laws. With his dark hair and piercing blue eyes, Strong exuded an air of authority as he bowed before the king. "Your Grace," the man greeted and bowed.

Following closely behind was Lord Lyman Beesbury, the Master of Coin, a man of advancing years whose graying hair spoke of a lifetime spent serving the crown. Despite his age, Beesbury's keen gaze held a sharp intelligence as he offered a respectful bow to his sovereign. "Good morning, my king. I pray all is well?"

Viserys smiled truly. Lord Beesbury was a kind man, a rare breed in King's Landing and even rarer in the Red Keep. In truth, he was the only one of his small clan who spoke to Aemon in any capacity during his nephew's time as cupbearer. "As well as anything can be while ruling kingdoms with the raw scars of war, Lord Beesbury."

Last to enter was Grand Maester Runciter, his robes billowing around him as he moved with an air of scholarly wisdom. The intricate chains of office that adorned his neck clinked softly with each step, a testament to his vast knowledge and expertise in mundane and arcane matters. "You Grace," the man said.

With his advisors gathered before him, Viserys gestured for them to take their seats, his voice carrying the weight of authority as he addressed them. "Welcome, my lords," he began, his tone firm yet genial. "We have much to discuss before the small council meeting. Please, be seated, and let us begin." Viserys grabbed a piece of parchment he had been looking at for some time and placed his wine on the table once more before taking a breath and beginning. "In two days," Viserys began, his voice echoing with regal authority, "we shall hold a ceremony to honor and reward my nephew, Aemon Targaryen, for his valorous deeds during the Greyjoy Rebellion."

Grand Maester Runciter, ever the voice of reason, spoke up first, his tone measured and respectful. "Your Grace," he began, "Prince Aemon has already garnered great rewards from his actions in the rebellion. The acquisition of eleven Valyrian steel swords alone is worthy of praise, not to mention Blackfyre bestowed upon him by the late King Jaehaerys."

Lord Lyman Beesbury, the Master of Coin, added his perspective, his words carrying the weight of fiscal wisdom. "Indeed, Your Grace," he concurred, "each of those swords holds immense value, enough to finance entire armies and campaigns. To bestow further rewards upon Prince Aemon may be seen as excessive."

Viserys listened to his advisors' counsel, his expression thoughtful yet resolute. "While it is true that my nephew has gained much from the fruits of his labors," he acknowledged, "it is also true that his actions were instrumental in securing victory for House Targaryen. Any acts of heroism and bravery within my realm shall be duly honored, regardless of one's station."

Lord Lyonel Strong, the newly appointed Master of Laws, nodded in agreement. "Rewarding such deeds," he suggested, "may serve as a noble precedent, encouraging others to strive for greatness and maintain the peace within the realm."

But Grand Maester Runciter remained steadfast in his concerns. "Your Grace," he cautioned, "we must consider the perception of favoritism. As a member of House Targaryen, Prince Aemon's actions may be seen as simply fulfilling his duty to his family."

Lord Beesbury countered with conviction. "Yet it was Prince Aemon and the Targaryens of Summerhall who turned the tide of battle in our favor," he reminded, his words ringing with conviction. "To honor him is to honor the very blood that flows through the veins of the royal house."

Viserys turned his gaze to Lord Lyonel Strong, the newly appointed Master of Laws, his voice carrying the weight of royal inquiry. "Lord Strong," he began, "what tales are whispered in the streets of King's Landing of my nephew, Prince Aemon, and his deeds in the burning of the Iron Islands?"

Lord Strong's countenance shifted, his features betraying a hint of trepidation before settling into a mask of resolve. "Your Grace," he began, his voice steady, "many speak of Prince Aemon in hushed tones, likening his actions to the legendary feats of Aegon the Conqueror. In particular, Aegon's attack against the Ironborn and the defeat of their king, the Burning of Harrenhal,"

Viserys arched a brow, intrigued by the comparison. "And what of the other accounts?" he inquired, his curiosity piqued.

Lord Strong's expression darkened slightly as he continued, his words measured yet laden with significance. "Others," he explained, "draw parallels between Prince Aemon and Maegor the Cruel, citing the lives lost in the flames and finding echoes of Maegor's brutal reign, particularly in the Burning of the Sept of Remembrance."

Grand Maester Runciter interjected, his voice tinged with scholarly wisdom. "Both comparisons hold merit," he mused, "for Prince Aemon commands none other than Balerion, the Black Dread who once served Aegon the Conqueror and Maegor the Cruel."

Viserys nodded thoughtfully, absorbing the gravity of the maester's words. "Balerion has had but three riders," he acknowledged, "and Prince Aemon stands among them. Whether noble or dire, his deeds shall forever be measured against the legacies of those who came before him." Viserys decided a change of tactics was needed. Aemon was as much a warrior as his father, at a fraction of the age, and thrice as many accomplishments, counting all the battles and strategies in both the Wildling Invasion and the Greyjoy Rebellion. If Viserys were to reward Aemon, the men needed to see Aemon was thrice as able as Daemon and yet not as unruly and wild. His eyes ablaze with curiosity as he sought to unravel the mysteries of his nephew's exploits. "Lord Strong," he began, his voice carrying a note of intrigue, "tell me, what truly transpired at the Pyke?"

Lord Lyonel Strong, the Master of Laws, stood before the king, his expression solemn yet resolute. "Your Grace," he replied, "after the forces led by Prince Aemon set the Pyke ablaze, they discovered him seated upon the Greyjoy throne, a grotesque creation of oil-black stone fashioned in the likeness of a Kraken. Word had spread that there were corpses among the black Kraken throne, burnt to a crisp, burnt near black that laid before the throne almost as though they were reaching for Prince Aemon who sat upon it."

Lord Beesbury looked on in mild shock but more aghast than anything. "Gods be god," he said just above a whisper. "If nothing, he has Prince Daemon's taste for theatrics."

Viserys laughed at that a bit more than he should. Then he nodded, his interest piqued by the vivid imagery of Lord Strong's words. "And what of Balerion?" he inquired, his curiosity growing with each moment.

Lord Strong's gaze grew distant as he recounted the events of that fateful night. "The storm shrouded the skies in darkness," he explained, "and Balerion, concealed by the blackness of night and his ebony scales, merged seamlessly with the shadows. His black flames and scales made it impossible to see the attack."

Viserys's lips curled into a wry smile at the notion of the dragon blending into the darkness like a phantom of the night. "So," he mused, "the people believed the very night itself had turned against them?" he joked, chuckling at his joke.

Lord Strong nodded solemnly. "Indeed, Your Grace," he confirmed seriously, "coupled with Prince Aemon's presence upon the Kraken throne, the Ironborn came to name him the Night King."

Viserys chuckled softly at the irony of the title bestowed upon his nephew. "A king indeed," he remarked, a hint of amusem*nt in his voice.

Grand Maester Runciter, his expression grave, interjected with a note of caution. "The people's sentiments toward the Black Dread have grown increasingly polarized of late," he cautioned, "and those sentiments have begun to extend to Prince Aemon. Comparisons to the legacies of Aegon and Maegor echo loudly throughout the realm."

Viserys raised his hand to stop a long, detailed description of the similarities between Aemon and the former and Lader to showcase that there are some and that if done without warning, the boy could seem more like Maegor than Aegon. Viserys now knew how to change the conversation in his favor, showing them what Aemon had done and why it required a reward. "Tell me," he commanded, his voice echoing with authority. "What name did the people of King's Landing bestow upon my nephew before the Wildling Invasion?"

Lord Beesbury cleared his throat before responding. His voice was measured and respectful, even if he omitted the words. "Your Grace," he began, "the people dubbed him the Black Prince." Lord Beesbury disliked the words of mocking against a child, but Viserys forced the words out.

Viserys's lips curled into a bitter frown at the mention of the mocking title. "The Black Prince," he repeated, the words heavy with disdain. "It was a mockery of his birthright, bestowed upon him simply for being the son of his parents."

Lord Beesbury nodded in solemn agreement, understanding the king's displeasure. "Indeed, Your Grace," he conceded, "but in the North, he is hailed as the White Wolf, revered for his role in ending the Wildling Invasion."

Viserys's gaze hardened as he contemplated the divergent perceptions of his nephew across the realm. "The North honors him as the White Wolf," he mused, "while here in King's Landing, he is scorned as the Black Prince." With a determined glint in his eye, Viserys smirked, his voice resonating with authority. "But his deeds in the Greyjoy Rebellion were the only victories we had." he declared. "In King's Landing, he is mocked for his coloring and that his parents sired a child. In the north, they named him after the wolf he had brought into battle. But this is the first time he is named something for his deeds." Viserys turned all three before him, looking into their eyes to see their opinion on his thoughts. Viserys noticed that Lord Strong wished to say something but waited for Viserys permission; Viserys gestured for the man to speak.

Lord Strong took a deep breath, then hardened his eyes. "From what I have gathered, the opinions on Prince Aemon have dropped considerably due to Prince Daemon's actions in burning most of the Riverlands. Currently, the North, the Stormlands, and the Crownlands are the only kingdoms to think favorably of the prince. The Stormland's opinion of the prince grew drastically after he sent his aunts to alliance Storm's End and the Stormlands. The Westerlands, Riverlands, and the remains of the Iron Islands despise him greatly."

Viserys did not care for the opinions of the Iron Islands for obvious reasons. "The Reach and the Vale? What of my wife's homelands?"

Lord Strong thought for a second longer than beforehand," More neutrality, same with the Reach. I have heard several things, however, differing opinions, nothing of note that highlights the majority's opinion. For a different reason, however."

Lord Beesbury continued where Lord Strong had finished. "The Vale is honorable and true; it is less likely for them to damn a son for the pursuits of the father. However, the Reach is far more shrewd; it would not dwell for them to be for against a prince that has done nothing to garner either in their lands."

Viserys nodded along, but in his heart, truly did not care for the thoughts of the nobles, nobles who had no power when their coffers were dry and empty from the battle that his nephew had stopped and won for them. "The whims of the people may shift like the sands of Dorne," he continued, his voice unwavering, "but by bestowing a reward upon my nephew, I reaffirm the crown's unwavering support and love for him. Let the rest of the realm take heed: Prince Aemon is not defined by the words of the masses but by the honor and respect bestowed upon him by his king and his family."

He looked around the room, and while he suspected that two of the three, outside of him and the Lord Commander, disliked what he had confirmed, they would begrudgingly accept the words. He received a nod from each of the advisors in the room.

King Viserys Targaryen leaned forward; his eyes fixed intently on the parchment before him. Viserys Targaryen, his regal presence commanding the room, gestured towards a parchment on the table, his eyes fixed intently upon Grand Maester Runciter.

Viserys then turned to the candle as the flames flickered. "Read it aloud, Grand Maester Runciter," he commanded, his voice resonating with authority.

Grand Maester Runciter cleared his throat before unfurling the parchment and beginning to read. "Prince Aemon Targaryen of Summerhall, requests the following projects to be undertaken in Summertown," he recited, his tone measured and deliberate. "The construction of a Grand Sept ten times the size of the Starry Sept," Grand Maester Runciter continued, "a second Citadel to rival that of Oldtown, a Colosseum for grand tourneys, an Amphitheater for entertainment, a canal that spans from cost to cost, east to west for easier travel from the Narrow sea to the Sunset sea, and the establishment of a national bank akin to the Iron Bank of Braavos."

As the list of ambitious endeavors was read aloud, the courtiers exchanged murmurs of astonishment and disbelief. Viserys remained stoic, his expression betraying none of his emotions. Viserys had read it before and had already been thinking of what would benefit the Targaryens overall rather than just the Targaryens of Summerhall. He looked around to see the reaction in the room, and the results varied greatly.

Viserys listened attentively, his mind racing as he considered the implications of his nephew's ambitious requests. Lord Strong was the one to speak Viserys's thoughts. "Prince Aemon's vision is bold," he remarked, his voice tinged with admiration. "Such undertakings would require vast resources and considerable investment; however, each thought and project does have potentially extremely positive results."

Lord Beesbury, his brow furrowed in thought, spoke up next. "Indeed, Your Grace," he agreed, "the prince's ambitions are lofty, perhaps too lofty for our current coffers to sustain."

Viserys, however, remained composed, his gaze unwavering as he addressed the concerns raised by his advisors. "Prince Aemon's ambitions are grand indeed," he remarked, his tone measured yet resolute. "But these ventures do not require the crown's approval. As the head of House Targaryen of Summerhall, Aemon can undertake such endeavors independently in his city. If he could find the materials and the coin, we as a crown do not have the moral right to manage a House and hover over each detail unless it affects the realm at large."

Lord Strong was the first to rebuttal this. "Your Grace, each undertaking can and will affect the entire continent, all of your kingdoms."

Lord Beesbury, voiced the practical considerations inherent in such monumental undertakings. "The cost of such projects would be exorbitant," he observed, his voice tinged with skepticism. "Even the combined wealth of the crown, the Lannisters, Hightowers, and the Velaryons, throughout their respective histories, may not suffice."

Viserys, however, revealed a solution that stirred hope amidst the skepticism. "The Dragoncaves of Summerhall," he declared, his voice tinged with reverence. "They hold treasures beyond measure – gold, amethysts, rubies, and more. Prince Aemon has employed many miners and searchers in less dangerous locations to begin taking the riches. Prince Aemon intends to utilize these riches to fund his vision for Summertown."

Lord Beesbury looked skeptical at this; he looked to the king. "Your Grace, it is impossible for Prince Aemon to accumulate such wealth so rapidly. Even if the Dragocaves have vast veins of gold, the likelihood of them being enough to pay off such projects is minimal at best."

"The Dragoncaves," Viserys responded with little care. Still, a soft, gentle smile graced his face as he thought of his nephew's discovery, thankful that Aemon fully discovered this before Daemon did, that would have been a disaster that he did not wish to think of. "Aemon has confirmed a large number of those who specialize in discovering gold veins and have spoken to many maester to confirm vast quantities of veins for gold, diamonds, rubies, sapphires, emeralds, silver, iron, and other precious materials and stones. As soon as the rebellion was ended, Aemon used the following month to mine much."

Grand Maester Runciter looked at the paper still in his grasp and spoke in a deep, hollow voice but still loud enough to be heard. " I have heard from the Citadel that the specialists and maesters that looked into the Dragoncaves, the less dangerous areas away from dragons, have confirmed that the sole mountain they looked in has enough gold to rival Casterly Rock. Their ravens have informed that does not include the other veins in the mountain, and that is not taking into account that the Citadel believes that all the other mountains in the Red Mountains have similar quantities throughout the entire mountain range rather than the sole mountain-like Casterly Rock. Casterly Rock has kept House Lannister as the more wealthy House for most of Westerosii histories, and that has dated back since the Age of Heroes thousands of years ago; that is also not knowing how much gold House Casterly bled through before the Lannisters took Casterly Rock."

Viserys did not put thought into his thoughts. While he did appreciate the thought a Targaryen had the potential to rival the Lannisters alone.

"I have confirmed that Prince Aemon has laid claim to much of the plunder caused by the Ironborn that have been recovered, more than enough to fill his coffers to be more than most lords in the Seven Kingdoms," Lord Strong did point out.

Lord Beesbury's skepticism wavered, replaced by a flicker of cautious optimism. "With the sale of the Valyrian steel swords," he mused, "the prince may indeed amass the wealth required to bring his dreams to fruition."

Viserys nodded in agreement, his confidence unshaken. "Prince Aemon's aspirations may be bold," he conceded, "but with the wealth of House Targaryen at his disposal, he possesses the means to turn his vision into reality."

Lord Strong then sighed harshly. "Will none of us say it?" Lord Strong looked around the room, but no one voiced the thoughts he was thinking. "House Hightower would not support the idea of a new Citdael or a Grand Sept being made in Summertown. The Lord Hand will not support this, especially done without a council or advisem*nt."

Viserys looked to those in the room, noting the unvoiced agreement among his advisors. "That is why I'm voicing this now. You are advisors, advise me," Viserys ordered.

No one spoke, but Viserys turned to Lord Beesbury, his will for the man to speak all but stated. "The Lord Hand has failed in protecting the realm, Your Grace."

"Explain," Viserys ordered, his eyes glistening with a heated glare. "A failure from my Hand is a failure for the entire royal family, a failure of our government, a failure of me, your king."

The Grand Maester subtly turned to the others in the room and found no aid; then he spoke as Viserys looked to him for further explanation rather than Lord Beesbury. "The Lord Hand was most vocal of the lack of threat the Greyjoys posed; he, not was the only individual stated that they posed no threat, but all the small council agreed that the Greyjoys posed no threat."

Lord Strong returned his displeasure. Viserys knew for certain that Lord Strong had a network of spies in the Seven Kingdoms, much the same as Otto, both men acting as a master of whispers when Viserys had none. "But there has been word of the Lord Hand covering up several notes that indicate the Greyjoys were connected to Dorne. Proof of the Greyjoy and Dorne connection is the fact that the Greyjoys attacked Summerhall from the north, where it was weaker, to open up the gates for Drone to pass through and establish a separate warfront in the kingdoms."

Viserys leaned forward and looked at Lord Strong with a heated glare. "Are you insinuating that my Lord Hand is compromised? If so, then this must be resolved quickly and harshly; the precedent of a compromise in said position made to all the realm to show all others it would not be tolerated. Speak plainly and clearly."

"The rumors are just that: Your Grace, words, and wind," the Grand Maester said, trying to defend Otto, and yet his voice was even and emotionless.

Viserys turned to Lord Strong once more, and the man, while usually quiet, did give good insight. Lord Strong's face held true, a true example of his House name. "However, as you said, a precedent must be made; those who fail the kingdoms must understand there are repercussions. It is clear that the Lord Hand has somehow received the anger of Lord Corlys, and House Velaryon is your most powerful supporter of your House. Peace must be made between the last two of the three Valyrian Houses."

The Grand Master then turned to Lord Strong. "And yet no public display has been a shown for Lord Hand to receive the ire of the Lord of the Tides. Your Grace, punishments given for nothing but words not confirmed would set a terrible precedent, and the people would suffer. The Lord Hand has done nothing to officially compromise his position, merely rumors."

Lord Strong's glare was more than enough to show his displeasure. "And yet, no matter what, he was vocal about the lack of importance of the Greyjoys when Lord Corlys spoke otherwise. While we, as the council, had failed, the Lord Hand spoke the most avidly. And the idea of him disregarding rumors of the union of the Ironborn and Dorne is more than concerning. So it stands to reason that supporting the creation of a second Citadel and Grand Sept in Summertown, all but directly stating that this is punishment and losing trust in Oldtown to hold the two institutions, moving them to Summertown, not directly punishing them but making your displeasure known, would be a punishment without any proof of being as such, similar to how the Lord Hand has allowed such an egregious oversight in intelligence regarding the Greyjoy Rebellion and yet we can not directly blame him."

Viserys looked to Lord Strong, absorbed by the words: "You wish to punish House Hightower indirectly, without outright saying it, for the crime they indirectly did and did not outright commit?"

Lord Beesbury bristled. "That sounds preposterous. How many other crimes would you like to punish indirectly? Would you punish lords in their castles for the crime of leaving their marriage bed and siring bastards even if the bastard looks nothing like the Lord and there is no proof the child is their own?"

Lord Strong disregarded this and turned to the king. "Your Grace. The people speak of their dislike for the Red Keep's supposed inaction in the Greyjoy Rebellion, whether fictional or otherwise. The people will perceive inaction as a further weakness. The lords know of the Lord Hand disregarding the Greyjoy threat. If the blame, even if not outright said but rather insinuated, to be the fault of House Hightower, the weakness of the crown would be all but confirmed to the people."

"Are you calling me weak, Lord Strong?" Viserys seethed.

Lord Strong lowered his head in submission. "Of course not, Your Grace. The people now have a healthy amount of fear and reverence for Prince Aemon because of his ending both the Wildling Invasion and the Greyjoy Rebellion. The fear of the dragon lies within him. But respect and power must lie with the crown, which includes punishments that are not fire and blood but rather funds and politics."

Viserys said nothing for some time.

Grand Maester Runciter's robes billowing softly around him spoke with the measured cadence of one well-versed in matters of state. Viserys could see the man considded on victory to lord Strong and would not try to leave the Citadel nor the Starry Spet in Oldtown. "The establishment of a Grand Sept and a second Citadel would serve to bolster the standing of House Targaryen within the realm," Runciter opined, his voice resonating with quiet authority. "Moreover, it would strengthen the bond between the crown and the Faith of the Seven."

Viserys listened intently to the grand maseter's counsel; his expression was thoughtful yet impassive. As Runciter continued to expound upon the potential benefits of such endeavors, Viserys nodded in tacit agreement, acknowledging the wisdom inherent in his words."The crown must maintain a close association with the maesters and the Faith," Viserys remarked, his voice saturated with determination. "Prince Aemon is well-suited to oversee these projects and foster stronger ties with both institutions."

Lord Strong interjected with a note of curiosity, his gaze piercing as he sought clarification on certain aspects of the proposed ventures."Why does Prince Aemon seek to construct a Colosseum and an Amphitheater?" Lord Strong inquired, his tone tinged with skepticism.

Grand Maester Runciter, ever the repository of knowledge, offered insight into the prince's motivations, his words imbued with a sense of reverence for Valyrian culture and tradition. "The Colosseum and Amphitheater held great significance in ancient Valyria," Runciter explained, his voice tinged with nostalgia. "They served as focal points of entertainment and communal gatherings, fostering a sense of unity among the populace."

Viserys, his mind ablaze with the possibilities presented by Runciter's words, nodded in silent contemplation. With each passing moment, the vision of a brighter future for House Targaryen began to take shape, its foundation laid upon the dreams and aspirations of a young prince destined for greatness.

"As much as I am inclined to support Prince Aemon's endeavors, it is imperative that we make it unequivocally clear that the crown's involvement shall be limited to moral support," Viserys proclaimed, his voice resonating with regal authority. "House Targaryen's branch in Summerhall shall have the autonomy to govern their city as they see fit, free from undue influence or interference from the crown. Just as it is with other cities and other Houses, while the crown can overrule vertices, I will not make commonplace for the crown to micromanage every move made by the respective family."

The assembled councilors nodded in silent agreement, their expressions a tableau of solemn accord, their tacit approval lending credence to Viserys' words. Lord Lyonel Strong, his demeanor steadfast and resolute, voiced his concurrence with the king's decree, his tone tinged with measured pragmatism.

"Indeed, Your Grace," Lord Strong affirmed, his voice resonating with quiet resolve. "It is imperative that the sovereignty of House Targaryen in Summerhall be respected, lest we risk undermining the autonomy of our vassals."

Viserys inclined his head in silent acknowledgment, his gaze shifting to Grand Maester Runciter, whose visage exuded an aura of scholarly erudition. "Your thoughts on the national bank, Grand Master?"

"Establishing a national bank would be a monumental development for the realm," Grand Maester Runciter interjected, his voice imbued with measured optimism. "Such an institution would centralize economic activity and foster greater financial stability throughout the Seven Kingdoms."

Viserys nodded in agreement, his mind alight with the possibilities heralded by Runciter's words. Viserys took the words as best he could before continuing. "You do not think we are moving too much power from Oldtown and the other cities and kingdoms into Summerhall?"

Lord Strong looked to the others; Viserys gestured for him to speak, for the man would not have said the following words if not pressured: "Frankly, Your Grace, it does not matter. House Targaryen is the focal point of power, and the Greyjoy Rebellion highlighted that your rule will be strong with the support of Caraxes and Balerion. The other dragons are capable as well. While the Houses and the great cities need to remain autonomous and carry themselves individually, if one is given too much power, it could destabilize the realm or, at the very least, the kingdom they belong to. In truth, the power of House Hightower vastly superseded the power of the other vassal lords in the Reach. It supersedes House Tyrell. Moving the power, in the form of the Citadel and a greater Sept, into Summertown will remove said power and place it into the hands of a Targaryen loyal to the crown, for even if you have a son and Prince Aemon becomes the head of a branch House Targaryen, the prince will still be a member of the crown."

Grand Maester Runciter let out a group sound from his throat, acknowledging and agreeing with Lord Strong from what Viserys could tell. "By relocating the focal points of knowledge and spirituality to Summertown, House Targaryen asserts its dominion over both the secular and spiritual realms," Grand Maester Runciter continued, his tone imbued with an air of scholarly authority. "In doing so, the crown strengthens its ties with the maesters and the Faith, ensuring its enduring influence throughout the realm. Currently, both the focal points of the Faith and the maesters are in Oldtown, and in truth, this makes Oldtown seem more equal to King's Landing; moving said focal points to Summerhall would ensure that House Targaryen is the centralized power of Westeros, both in power through dragons and spiritually, and scholarly pursuits."

"Establishing a national bank in Summerhall could herald a new era of economic independence for the realm," Lord Lyonel Strong remarked, his voice resonating with a tone of rational foresight. "By consolidating financial power within our borders, we would sever our reliance on the Iron Bank of Braavos, ensuring that Westeros retains sovereignty over its own economic destiny."

Viserys regarded Lord Strong with approval, his keen intellect absorbing the implications of such a monumental proposition. "An independent national bank would afford us greater control over our fiscal affairs," Lord Beesbury added, his tone tinged with pragmatic wisdom. "With the ability to extend credit and safeguard deposits, we could foster a more stable and prosperous economy, free from the constraints imposed by foreign creditors. if needed, smaller minor banks could be made to branch across Westeros, all adhering to the will of the Bank of Summerhall, full financial severity and control as needed."

Viserys' gaze flickered with intrigue as Lord Beesbury expounded upon the potential benefits of such an institution. The prospect of forging a path towards economic self-sufficiency resonated deeply within him, offering a tantalizing glimpse of a future unshackled from the yoke of foreign influence.

Viserys looked pensive at the thought. He liked the idea of being independent of foreign powers; it would have been far better for Westeros if they had been more independent. "Why has King Jaehaerys never addressed the issue of independence of the Iron Bank if it seems that you all are advocating for it so fiercely?" No one spoke; no one said a word. It was as though the entire group was mute. "Well?"

Grand Maester RUnciter looked to Viserys with a tired expression. " Your Grace, while the coffers of the royal family were filled for much of King Jaehaerys rule, it was superficial. A single dragon eats as much as an entire army of ten thousand men; the crown had nearly twenty before the death of the late King Jaehaerys. Additionally, wars are costly, Your Grace, King Jaehaerys personally went through no less than three Dornsih Wars, and the compensation for those during Maegor the Cruel's time in both his usurping the throne and the creation of the Red Keep, most of King's Landing, and the killing of many skilled artisans after it's creation, and then the additional costs of making the roads and paths throughout the kingdoms, as well as making Summerhall and Summertown. While the crown had much wealth in our coffers, a large portion was loans and additional debts from and owed to the Iron Bank."

Viserys finally grew angry at the withheld information about his kingdoms. "Are you saying that the crow is in debt?" Master Runciter and Lord Beesbury looked at one another and nodded their heads without words. "How much?"

Lord Beesbury looked like he wished to be anywhere but in the room. "Three million gold dragons, Your Grace."

He slammed his fist on the table and then sagged in his chair, looking at all the men dead in the eyes. Not surprisingly, Lord Strong looked as confused and shocked as Viserys since he had only recently been added during Viserys' reign. "Seven hells," Viserys cursed.

"We must reclaim our economic sovereignty from the clutches of the Iron Bank," Lord Beesbury continued, carrying the weight of conviction. "By establishing our own banking infrastructure, we can mitigate the risk posed by foreign creditors and empower Westeros to chart its course, free from external interference."

Viserys' brow furrowed in concern as he addressed the elderly maester. "I cannot abide the notion that my family's debts are also burdening the crown and the realm," he began, his voice tinged with frustration.

Grand Maester Runciter nodded sagely, his chain of office clinking softly as he shifted in his seat. "Indeed, it is a troubling predicament," he conceded, his tone measured and diplomatic.

Viserys leaned forward, his hands clasped tightly in his lap as he contemplated a solution. "What if we were to separate the Targaryen coffers and wealth from those of the crown?" he proposed, his voice gaining conviction. "Create two separate accounts – one for the royal family and one for the governance of the kingdoms."

The grand maester considered Viserys' suggestion carefully, his wrinkled brow furrowing in thought. "It would be an unorthodox approach," he mused, "but it could have merits. Such a division would ensure that if any misfortune were to befall the coffers of the royal family, the entire realm would not suffer for it."

Viserys nodded in agreement, his expression grim. "I cannot abide by the thought that House Targaryen's debts are dragging down the prosperity of all the kingdoms," he declared firmly and resolved.

Grand Maester Runciter inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Your concerns are valid, Your Grace," he replied, his voice tinged with sympathy. "It is imperative that we find a solution to ensure the financial stability of the realm."

"While the creation of a national bank holds promise for the realm's financial stability, we must temper our expectations," Lord Strong began, his tone measured and authoritative. "It took centuries for the Iron Bank of Braavos to attain the level of influence and importance it holds today."

Viserys Targaryen, seated at the head of the long table, listened intently, his brow furrowed in thought. "But surely there must be ways to expedite the growth of the national bank at Summerhall," he interjected, his voice tinged with urgency. "We cannot afford to wait centuries for it to become a significant force. Are there any steps to expedite the importance of the possible national bank?" Silence hung heavy in the chamber as the assembled nobles exchanged uncertain glances. Viserys' frustration simmered beneath the surface as he awaited a response, his gaze sweeping the room in search of answers. "Tell me, Lord Beesbury, how dire is the realm's financial situation?" he inquired, his voice edged with concern.

Lord Beesbury paused for a moment before responding, his expression grave. "Seven out of every ten lords in the Seven Kingdoms are currently in debt to the crown," he revealed, his words carrying a heavy weight. "And with the recent conflicts, such as the Greyjoy Rebellion, many lords find themselves deeper in debt than ever before."

Viserys' eyes widened in shock at the staggering revelation. "How much does the crown owe, and how much is owed to us?" he pressed, his voice tinged with urgency.

Lord Beesbury hesitated before delivering the grim news. "The Crown currently holds a debt of nearly three million gold dragons to the Iron Bank, while the debts owed to the Crown total two million," he revealed, sad. "House Tarbeck and House Reyne alone owe the crown nearly half a million gold dragons combined."

Viserys Targaryen leaned forward, his eyes fixed on the gathered councilors with unwavering intensity. "What if we were to transfer the debts owed to the crown to the National Bank of Summerhall? Does the tought hold merit?" he proposed, his voice carrying a hint of urgency.

Grand Maester Runciter, his robes swaying as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, interjected hastily. "Your Grace, such a course of action would be highly unorthodox and could have unforeseen consequences," he cautioned, his tone laced with concern.

Viserys bristled at the interruption, his patience wearing thin. "I did not ask for your opinion, Grand Maester," he retorted sharply. "I asked if there would be merit in such a decision."

Lord Beesbury cleared his throat before speaking up. "Transferring the debts to the National Bank of Summerhall could indeed have merit," he acknowledged, his voice measured. "If all the coins owed to the crown were under the control of the bank, it would bolster its importance and legitimacy, particularly if the Houses fear the individual in charge."

Lord Strong, the Master of Coin, nodded in agreement, his expression thoughtful. "Every man in the kingdom knows the reputation of Aemon Targaryen," he remarked, his voice reverberating through the chamber. "If he were to oversee the national bank, it would ensure that debts owed to the crown are repaid promptly."

Viserys Targaryen nodded thoughtfully as he listened to Lord Beesbury's suggestions. "And what additional powers would the national bank require to further solidify its importance?" he inquired, his voice carrying the weight of authority.

Lord Beesbury, his brow furrowed in concentration, enumerated the necessary functions with practiced precision. "In addition to assuming the crown's debt, the national bank would need to undertake a range of financial activities," he began, his tone measured. "These would include collecting tax revenues on behalf of the government, safeguarding the royal treasury, extending loans to both the crown and other noble Houses, facilitating the transfer of government deposits through its branch network, and overseeing the payment of the realm's bills."

Viserys absorbed the information with keen interest, his mind racing as he contemplated the implications of such powers. "So essentially, the national bank would serve as a central financial institution, managing the kingdom's fiscal affairs and providing vital services to both the crown and the nobility," he mused aloud, his voice tinged with satisfaction.

Lord Beesbury nodded in agreement, his expression grave. "Indeed, Your Grace. By assuming these responsibilities, the national bank would establish itself as a cornerstone of the realm's economic infrastructure, ensuring stability and prosperity for future generations."

Grand Maester Runciter cleared his throat before addressing the gathered lords and advisors. "Your Grace, may I suggest that establishing smaller banks throughout the kingdoms, with each serving as a branch of the National Bank of Summerhall, would ensure a more uniform and structured financial system," he proposed, his voice carrying a tone of wisdom and sagacity.

Viserys Targaryen, seated at the head of the council table, considered the proposal carefully, his expression grave yet contemplative. "A prudent suggestion, Grand Maester," he acknowledged, his voice resonating with authority. "Such a centralized approach would help mitigate the risk of national economic failure and ensure greater financial stability across the Seven Kingdoms." Turning his attention to the assembled lords and advisors, Viserys continued, his voice steady and unwavering. "I now decree that Prince Aemon's proposal for a national bank shall be accepted," he said, echoing through the chamber. "This national bank shall be granted all the powers outlined by Lord Beesbury, including the authority to receive half of all taxes collected within the realm to maintain financial stability." Viserys glanced towards Lord Beesbury, who sat nearby, his demeanor composed yet attentive. "Lord Beesbury," he addressed the venerable lord, "I entrust you with the oversight of this new national bank. Your experience and expertise will ensure its success and efficacy." With that, Viserys nodded solemnly, signaling the conclusion of the momentous decision.

As the meeting adjourned, Viserys Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, led his esteemed councilors through the labyrinthine corridors of the Red Keep, their footsteps echoing against the ancient stone walls. Lord Strong, Lord Beesbury, and Grand Maester Runciter followed in solemn procession, their countenances reflecting the weighty matters deliberated within the hallowed halls of the small council chamber.

Upon their arrival at the small council room, Viserys assumed his rightful place at the head of the table, his regal presence imbued with an aura of authority and determination. With a measured cadence, he recounted the decisions reached during the preceding discussions, each word resonating with the solemnity of royal decree.

Viserys spoke of Prince Aemon's valorous deeds during the Greyjoy Rebellion, his voice infused with pride and admiration for his nephew's unwavering courage. He imparted his blessing upon Aemon's ambitious endeavors, granting him leave to pursue the lofty aspirations that had been outlined in his grand design for Summerhall.

As Viserys elucidated upon the proposed projects—a second Citadel, a Grand Sept, a canal linking the Narrow Sea to the Sunset Sea which ran through and was maintained by Summertown and Summerhall , and the establishment of a national bank in Summerhall—a palpable tension permeated the chamber. Ever the staunch traditionalist, Otto Hightower bristled at the notion of expanding the realm's intellectual and spiritual centers beyond the confines of Oldtown, his ancestral seat. His dissenting murmurs echoed like distant thunder amidst the somber deliberations, a testament to his steadfast allegiance to the time-honored institutions of the past.

Throughout the remainder of the meeting, the councilors engaged in earnest discourse regarding the logistical requirements for Prince Aemon's imminent arrival and the feasibility of constructing the proposed canal. Speculation ran rife concerning the burgeoning population of Summertown, a bustling metropolis second only to Oldtown in its size and splendor. Tales of untold wealth hidden within the Dragoncaves of Summerhall sparked fervent discussion, fueling hopes of newfound prosperity for the realm.

He did good work for the realm and for the nephew, who he felt was more of a father than Daemon himself. Deep in his heart, he knew that Aemon would accomplish great things. He just prayed to the gods above that he would be there to see them so that he could take pride in them and celebrate with his nephew.

He had done good work for the realm, and now he was tired. It would be some time before he was finally able to rest in his bed chambers. While he wished for his lady-wife to be there along with him, Aemma was in the Vale to try and work alongside her cousin, Lady Arryn, to placate the realm after the Greyjoy Rebellion. He would sleep alone.

Little did he know that there would be no rest for him in the night.

In the dead of night, when the world lay shrouded in darkness and silence, Viserys Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms, succumbed to the realm of dreams. His slumber was restless, haunted by visions that writhed and twisted within the recesses of his mind like serpents in the shadows.

As he tossed and turned upon his regal bed, his sheets tangled around his limbs like shackles of fate, Viserys found himself ensnared in the grip of an all-consuming nightmare. Beads of perspiration glistened upon his brow, trickling down his pallid skin like tears shed for the loss.

In the depths of his troubled sleep, Viserys beheld the spectral image of his beloved wife, Aemma, writhing in agony upon a bed of white linen stained crimson with the essence of her suffering. Her anguished cries echoed through the chamber, a symphony of pain that reverberated within Viserys' very soul.

With bated breath, Viserys witnessed the birthing of his future son, a scene painted in hues of blood and despair. The infant emerged from the womb clad in the dark embrace of Valyrian steel, a crown adorned with rubies gleaming upon his brow like drops of blood upon a field of snow.

In his dream, Viserys saw the world aflame with the fervor of conquest, the clash of swords, and the splintering of shields resounding like thunder upon the wind. He beheld his son, a prince destined for greatness, ascending the Iron Throne amidst a chorus of jubilant cheers and tolling bells.

Above the tumultuous din, the primal roar of dragons echoed through the air, a cacophony of power and majesty that shook the very foundations of the world. Balerion, the Black Dread, unleashed a deafening bellow that rent the heavens asunder while Caraxes and Meleys added their voices to the symphony of chaos.

In the midst of his reverie, Viserys found himself paralyzed by a sense of foreboding, a portent of things yet to come. His heart raced within his chest like a caged beast, and a cold sweat bathed his trembling form in the chill embrace of fear.

As he drifted deeper into the realm of the subconscious, visions of an enigmatic figure began to materialize before his mind's eye.

Standing amidst the frigid winds of the North was a man of stark countenance, his features etched with the solemnity of one burdened by destiny. Clad in the raiment of House Stark, the man exuded an aura of quiet strength, his ebony garb a stark contrast against the backdrop of winter's chill.

Two formidable blades adorned his hip, their Valyrian steel glinting ominously in the dim light of Viserys' dreams. One bore the likeness of a wolf, a symbol of the man's northern heritage, while the other bore the fabled Blackfyre.

At the man's side loomed two companions of mythic proportions: a colossal dragon, its obsidian scales eclipsing the very sun, and a silent sentinel of the wilds, a white direwolf as silent and serene as the embrace of death itself. Together, they stood as guardians of an ancient legacy, bound by blood and destiny to shape the fate of kingdoms.

With mounting clarity, Viserys realized that the figure before him was none other than his nephew, Aemon Targaryen, now grown to manhood and adorned with the mantle of destiny. Through the veil of sleep, Viserys glimpsed the myriad deeds and conquests that lay ahead for his kin, a tapestry of triumphs and tribulations woven upon the loom of time.

In the depths of his dreams, Viserys beheld Aemon as a titan of conquest, his name echoing across the annals of history as the architect of empires. From the frozen wastes of the North to the sun-drenched shores of distant lands, Aemon carved a path of glory and domination, his destiny intertwined with the very fabric of the world.

Yet amidst the splendor of his triumphs, Viserys sensed the weight of responsibility pressing down upon his nephew's shoulders, the burden of legacy, and the sacrifices demanded by destiny. He saw Aemon as a father, siring sons who bore the sigil of House Targaryen, their silvery hair and amethyst eyes a testament to their noble lineage.

As the night wore on, Viserys found himself adrift in a sea of visions, each one a testament to the inexorable march of time and the cyclical nature of fate. In the depths of his slumber, he glimpsed the echoes of past glories and the shadows of future triumphs, bound together in an eternal dance of light and shadow.

In the depths of his restless slumber, Viserys Targaryen found himself ensnared in a labyrinth of dreams, each more vivid and haunting than the last. As he lay upon his bed, the oppressive weight of prophecy and portent pressed down upon him like a leaden cloak, threatening to suffocate him in its embrace.

In the dim recesses of his mind, Viserys beheld the figure of a man, shrouded in darkness and mystery, a Northern lord of House Stark whose very presence seemed to exude an aura of foreboding. Clad in garments as black as the abyss itself, the lord stood resolute, flanked by two legendary companions whose forms loomed large and imposing in the ethereal gloom.

At his side, the hulking silhouette of a dragon, its scales as black as midnight and eyes ablaze with an inner fire that seemed to consume the very essence of the night. Besides the dragon, a majestic white dire wolf, its fur as pure as freshly fallen snow, its gaze as sharp as the bite of winter's chill.

As Viserys gazed upon the visage of this enigmatic figure, he felt a chill creep down his spine, a premonition of events yet to unfold. In the tapestry of his dreams, he witnessed his nephew, Aemon Targaryen, ascent to heights of glory and power beyond imagining.

Aemon was the conqueror of realms and the ruler of vast and far-reaching lands, his dominion stretching across the breadth of the known world. With six wives at his side, Aemon wielded power and authority unmatched by any who had come before him. His progeny were destined to inherit the mantle of greatness that he had forged with fire and blood. But none of the wives were Aemon's betrothed, Rhaenyra. While he did not know who these women were, Viserys knew in his heart that they were not his daughters.

Through the haze of his dreaming mind, Viserys glimpsed the vision of Summerhall, bathed in the warm glow of hearth and home, a beacon of light amidst the encroaching darkness of a long and bitter winter. It was a future built upon the dreams and ambitions of a single man, a future where Aemon would reign supreme, a king unlike any other.

But even as Viserys beheld the splendor of his nephew's destiny, he felt a twinge of unease gnawing at the edges of his consciousness. For Aemon to fulfill his grand design, he must break free from the shackles of the Iron Throne, cast aside the bonds of allegiance that tethered him to the crown, and be free of his betrothal to Rhaenyra.

In the depths of his troubled slumber, Viserys knew that the path ahead would be fraught with peril and uncertainty, a journey into the unknown where the fate of kingdoms hung in the balance. And as he wrestled with the weight of his dreams, he understood that the time had come to set his nephew upon his chosen path, to carve out a destiny that would reshape the very fabric of history itself. He would need to end the betrothal he had made all those years ago, and the following day, it was so.

Chapter 31: A History Before the Dance of Dragons

Chapter Text

A written account ofGrand Maester Munkun

In the annals of Targaryen lore, Aemon the Great looms large, casting a formidable and enigmatic shadow. Unlike his forebears, who carved their legacies with strokes of conquest, cruelty, conciliation, or youthful folly, one achievement that highlighted them and made them stand out, Aemon's reputation remains as varied as the countless titles bestowed upon him throughout his storied life—titles he oft detested, save for two. He was never known for one act but a change, a multitude of acts that shaped not just Westeros but the world of man. No matter if one liked or disliked Aemon the Great, all could agree that there was a world before his birth and a far different one after his death.

While many would debate whether Aemon was more the Night King of terror and nightmares or the White Wolf of honor and justice, all his titles were composed in the title the Great, for he was capable of either great good or great evil, but none the less, he was great.

Across the Seven Kingdoms and Essos, opinions of Aemon the Great diverge as widely as the landscapes they inhabit. Like a tapestry woven from threads of admiration, fear, reverence, and disdain. In the North, it was believed no greater dragonlord was ever born. In the Riverlands, no greater a tyrant. Opinions in Dorne, Westerlands, Reach, and Vale varied depending on the House. The smallfolk, the faith, would have favorable opinions despite what some histories would say. The Citadels would argue over his position as a man.

If speaking that a good man only does what is needed for their House and family, he was great.

If speaking of power, he was the greatest.

If speaking of honor, it was debated if he had any.

If speaking a warrior and dragonlord, there was no better.

If speaking of being just, one would wonder if he was too harsh, yet his harsh ways kept the realm in peace, if at least in fear of the reputation that would threaten his peace.

To some, Aemon was a paragon of Targaryen's prowess and sagacity, his name whispered in reverence alongside the illustrious Aegon the Conqueror. Tales of his victories in battle, his cunning diplomacy, and his unmatched mastery of dragon and sword have become the stuff of legend, immortalized in songs sung from the dunes in Dorne to the Wall of the North.

Yet, for others, the name Aemon invokes a darker hue, stained by shadows of mistrust and whispers of tyranny. They recount tales of his ruthlessness in quelling dissent, his unyielding pursuit of power, and the blood that stained his hands in pursuing his ambitions.

It was noted that in the few times his sons were able to get the man in his cups, in celebration of his daughter's name day, the man once compared himself to the man of the name Tywin Lannister rather than Jon Arryn. However, no reference to such a man in Lannister or Arryn histories was similar to Aemon in practices and actions.

Each kingdom harbors its perception of Aemon the Great throughout the realm, shaped by the intricate interplay of rumor, gossip, and firsthand experience. In the North, where winters are long and memories linger, songs are sung by a noble dragon rider who braved the frozen wastes to defend the realm against the encroaching darkness and hordes.

In the Reach, where chivalry and honor hold sway, tales are told of a wise and just ruler who dispensed justice with an even hand, earning the loyalty of vassals and subjects alike, even if House Hightower and House Redwyne disagreed adamantly.

Yet in the storm-lashed shores of the Iron Islands, whispers carry tales of a fearsome tyrant who crushed all who dared defy his will, his dragons casting a shadow of terror across the seas. But surprising enough, the Greyjoys were the only House to disagree with such a notion.

In the shadowy alleys of King's Landing, where intrigue is currency, and loyalty is a fleeting commodity, whispers abound of a cunning manipulator who played the game of thrones with unmatched skill, even among legends such as Otto and Alicent Hightower, Daemon Targaryen, Corlys Velaryon, and others whose notoriety would be contained in ink; his true motives are shrouded in mystery to this day.

Due to all his contradictions, the only name that truly fit him after death was Aemon the Great. His children and the masters noted that Aemon often said, "A man never knows his legacy or if he was good; it is up to his children to decide for him, for it is they who live with his results. And it is up to the histories to allow those who never knew him, after his death, to confirm or abolish."

When asked what he thinks the histories would write of him, he responded, "A man who pays his debts in full."

If nothing at all, no man of nobility, common blood, or knowledge, no man with a beating heart, would question that; a Targaryen paid his debts.

Early life before Summerhall

Born in 97 AC, his mother, Lyanna Stark, the She-Wolf, would die a short time later. Many mages and sorcerers would claim that only death could pay for life and that the birth of Aemon the Great needed a worthy price. In the crucible of his youth, Aemon bore a moniker as stark as his destiny: the Black Prince. Mocked for his lack of Targaryen hallmarks—silver hair and violet eyes—he endured the scorn of courtiers who saw in him not the promise of greatness but the stain of his parent's sins. Yet, beneath the weight of their scorn, a fire smoldered within him, a fire that would one day blaze forth with the fury of a dragon's breath. Often time mocked as a bastard, the Black Prince, while the perfect prince, a prince who was a prodigy like no other before or after him, a prince who sang and whose voice was better than any bard that entered the Red Keep, was mocked for his shortcomings in coloring and the fact his father and mother broke their previous betrothals, two things he had no say in.

The Black Prince first began reading and using a sword so early that most would say he was born with a book and sword from the womb, and it was that that killed his mother, trying to push a full sword and a book larger than her son out of her. Maesters argued that books and ink were used to determine whether the Black Prince had a more keen mind or a more keen body for the rest of the days.

In the crucible of battle, Aemon forged his legend, riding the ancient terror of Balerion the Black Dread as his steed and sword. When he took Balerion and the pair exploded from the Dragonpit, many knew it was either Aegon the Conqueror reborn or Maegor the Cruel. Later, after the death of Aemon the Great, Balerion would die, only having three riders, one for each head of the dragon sigil and the House it started.

Great Wildling Invasion

In the year 102 AC, when the wildling hordes descended upon the Wall like a tide of death, it was Aemon who stood as the bulwark against their onslaught. What was known then as the Wildling Invasion but would be written down as the Great Wildling Invasion for historical importance and to separate future invasions. It was filled with over one hundred thousand wildlings, mammoths, and giants, all as one army. Alone amidst a sea of foes, he carved a swath of destruction through their ranks, his valiant deeds echoing across the frozen wastes.

The prince fought off the wildlings at the Wall, leading the men to the age he should only imagine and pretend at such great deeds. Not long after, he alone walked into the wildling camp, dressed as one of their own, and with his dire wolf, Ghost, pretended to be a wounded survivor. That night he slit the throat of the King Beyond the Wall and spread discord through the wildling army of one hundred thousand, using whispers and lies to trick the wildlings into turning one another into the belief that their own killed the King Beyond the Wall and that the other tribes were untrustworthy. They fought for vengeance, for loyalty, for ambition. Fires roared. Swords clashed. Axes swung in the air. By morning, most of the army was nothing but a minimal threat for the Northern lords to decimate, the mighty one hundred thousand being brought down by less than fifty thousand men quite easily.

When the dust settled, and the snow stained crimson with the blood of the fallen, he emerged not as a boy but a dragon among men, his dire wolf Ghost by his side, a silent sentinel to his prowess. From that day forth, the dire wolf would always be by his master's side, a white shadow, ten times as strong as a King's guard, thrice as vicious and bloody thirsty, and yet a thousand times more deadly.

Men would argue from that day if they feared his dragon that could destroy entire keeps and armies or the wolf that protected him within when the dragon could not reach him.

Death of King Jaehaerys

It would be a year later, in 103 AC, that Prince Aemon would gain the sword of the Targaryen Kings, Blackfyre, upon the deathbed of King Jaehaerys. Upon the funeral pyre, the Prince sang a song that those claimed he created; he admittedly argued against his credit for making the song and gave credit to a man named Rhaegar, again no documentation or proof confirms this man was true; the song Jenny of Oldstones, was later known to be sung at most funerals of a Targaryen, and most importantly at each funeral of ever Targaryen king. A song that reminds the achievements and regrets of a king and those he leaves behind.

King Jaehaerys and Prince Aemon were known to be rather close in the King's later years, and the King was known to impart great wisdom to the boy, who many would claim was his true successor.

While it would be many years until he used the blade, Blackfyre, in battle, it would leave little doubt that he carried on the kingly presence of Jaehaerys the Conciliator before him and the absolute strength of Aegon the Conqueror and the absolute ruthless of Maegor the Cruel if need be.

Greyjoy Rebellion

Many of the people in the times after the Great Wildling Invasion did not believe in the abilities of the young prince, despite the prince having the dragon that melted castles and brought down armies with his roar and name. Yet Aemon's true mettle was tested in the crucible of rebellion, furthering the truth of his abilities. In the year 104 AC, when the Ironborn rose in defiance against the Iron Throne, Aemon led the charge against their foes.

Amidst the chaos and carnage of battle, he rose like a specter of vengeance, his blade a beacon of righteous fury amidst the storm. And when the waves crashed against the walls of Pyke and the fortress crumbled beneath the weight of his wrath, he stood as a harbinger of doom, his name whispered in fear and awe.

Prince Aemon orchestrated a defense of his new seat, Summerhall, defending it from the north from an attack from Ironborn and selling swords. Then quickly turned his dragon, Balerion, south and laid waste to the entire force of Dornish spears by his lonesome in the Dragon's gate. The Dragon's gate acted like a kiln, and one dragon and his rider decimated all the forces. In one attack, Aemon fought and won a battle of Ironborn and sold swords and the Fifth Dornish War. It would be known in all history books as the Black Burn of Summerhall for the black fires of Balerion that scorched the ground and would not leave the land for days and nights.

Sending his aunts Daenerys and Aerea, they released Baratheons of a siege upon Storm's End that had lasted moons. With purple and silver dragons and the harsh dark storm, the night shone with the colors of House Dayne as though they were the falling stars that the family grew famed for. The coloring is shining, beautiful, and rich, but the fires are so hot. None survived, and the princesses returned, helping to rally the Stormlands to carve through the Greyjoys by Prince Aemon's order and into the Riverlands. Prince Aemon, known as the Storm of Fire, orchestrated the battle.

Following this, Prince Aemon led and orchestrated an ambush at the Straights of Fair Isle. A majority of the Greyjoy fleet was in attendance, each going to Arbor to dispose of the sole naval power in the area to help secure the west coast of Westeros. Prince Aemon led the Redwyne fleet before the Greyjoys could reach them, blacked the straights, decimated some of the forces with Balerion, and passed. The dusk was setting, and in time for the third pass, the Redwyne fleet smashed into the burning Greyjoy fleet. The sea is now nothing more than the black fires. The black flames coating the waters caused the rise and smashing waves to be nothing more than fire-mixed tides. His aunts Viserra and Maegelle, with their maroon and sapphire dragons, led the Velaryon fleet to smash into the rear of the Greyjoy fleet. The blue, red, and black flames swirled and mixed so beautifully that it distracted all those not buried in them. The sea is made no ward but the multiple colors as if a beautiful, tantalizing flame from the hells to draw more into it to burn. The reds, blues, and blacks mixed so well that the night came alive, and those miles off would attest that the skies were alight as if the gods had granted blessings, and yet the smell was from the seven hells. For miles off, the seas did not return to the water, but the west coast of Westeros was solely made of flaming waters. It was known forever more as the Sea of Fire.

But the fourth and greatest of Aemon's plannings and orchestrated was at the Seige of the Pyke. Over one hundred thousand men were sent to each of the islands of the Iron Islands. But it was not needed. Prince Aemon flew his dragon to the main island of Pyke and, by most accounts, within a single pass, left nothing of a single island save for the black throne of the dead Kraken. The Black Dread blended with the night itself; no one could see the sight of the dragon as large as the Wall was tall, which truly showed the realm why the dragon was named the dragon the Black Dread. No one could see it, but all could feel the heat, the fires that burned the very stones and left nothing but ash, corpses, and stones. The screams were heard from the castle, and once the dragon started the explosion of near-invisible fire, the men who had been led by Aemon slowly their assaults; they slowed down in fear of being caught in the crossfires of Balerion's rage. It was when they slowed down that they truly heard the burning, the melting stone, the screaming wives and children while Aemon and Balerion burned them. And when they reached Aemon, he sat on the Greyjoy throne, cleaning the Valryian steel that he claimed a stash of about a dozen. The massacre was later known as the Great Burn.

From that day forth, he was known not as the Black Prince nor the White Wolf but as the Night King—a shadowy figure cloaked in myth and legend, his deeds etched into the annals of history with the blood of his enemies. And though his tale may be shrouded in darkness, the flame of his legacy burns eternal, a beacon of hope in a world consumed by chaos.

Throughout the Seven Kingdoms, from the icy expanse of the North to the scorching deserts of Dorne, his name is whispered in hushed tones, spoken of in awe and trepidation by lords and commoners alike of the destruction of the Ironborn and the almost extinction of House Greyjoy, only a pregnant Salt-wife lived, and she would sooner birth the last living male of the House for some time, Dalton Greyjoy.

After the Greyjoy Rebellion

The realm witnessed a revelation of unparalleled magnitude beneath the shadow of King Viserys' reign—the discovery of the Dragoncaves. Hidden deep within the Red Mountains, these caverns served as sanctuary and home for the mighty dragons that ruled the skies. And Aemon the Night King unlocked their secrets, delving into their depths with a hunger for power that knew no bounds.

With the Dragoncaves at his disposal, Aemon wielded a weapon more formidable than any sword or scepter—a weapon forged in the fires of ancient magic and steeped in the blood of legends; he wielded a wealth that could buy Aemon any truth he wished, a truth if he was a good man, a horrible man, or merely a powerful man. From the depths of the earth, he unearthed riches beyond reckoning, a bounty of gold and gemstones rivaling kings' treasuries.

Within a mere year of their discovery, in the fateful year of 104 AC, Aemon ascended to heights of wealth and influence previously unfathomed. Surpassing the fortunes of the mighty Velaryons, the storied Lannisters, and the venerable Hightowers, he stood as a colossus of prosperity, his coffers overflowing with the spoils.

By the dawn of 105 AC, the name of Aemon Targaryen had become synonymous with opulence, ambition, and power, his House standing as the unrivaled hidden monarch of wealth within the kingdoms. From the splendor of his ancestral seat at Summerhall, he gazed upon his domain with a gaze as steely as the dragons that once soared above it, a ruler whose grip upon the reins of power was as unyielding as the mountain ranges that cradled his newfound treasures.

The year 105 AC stands as a watershed moment, marked by the ascendance of Prince Aemon Targaryen to heights of power and ambition that eclipsed even the most fervent dreams of his forebears. Under the shadow of his rule, the city of Summertown, nestled within the verdant embrace of the Stormlands and the Red Mountains, burgeoned into a sprawling metropolis—a colossus of stone and white marble that cast its shadow over the Seven Kingdoms.

Summertown was often named one of two names, one in public and the other in secret and behind closed doors: the White City and the City of Bastards. It did not take much to wonder why the names were used. Summertown was made of white marble and white-colored stone. Giving the city of Summertown the vision of a grand city made of heavenly light. But it was the name of the City of Bastards that the more angered and distasteful lords had used because any bastard man, woman, or child that stayed in Summerhall for ten years and had proof of residency and productive work in the city had gained the right to petition for legitimization, in case for noble bastards they must swear off any rights to any possible lands that could be inherited. While people could only have potential for legitimization ten years later, which meant the earliest wave would be in the year 115 AC, word had spread, and the number of people in Summertown was far vaster than it ever should have been.

With a population swelling to over seven hundred thousand souls, Summertown emerged as the beating heart of the realm, a pulsating nexus of commerce, culture, and intrigue that drew men and women from every corner of the land. Within its labyrinthine streets and bustling markets, the songs of bards mingled with the clamor of merchants, the scent of spices hung heavy in the air, and the promise of fortune beckoned like a siren's call.

Emboldened by King Viserys's patronage, Prince Aemon set his sights on a grand vision that would further cement Summertown's status as the jewel of the realm. With the King's blessing, he embarked upon a campaign of unprecedented expansion, marshaling the realm's resources with a zeal that bordered on obsession.

In the year 105 AC, the city witnessed the birth of marvels that would echo through the ages—a Grand Sept, towering like a titan of faith, its spires reaching toward the heavens in silent supplication; a second Citadel, its halls a repository of knowledge and wisdom that rivaled its ancient counterpart in Oldtown.

House Hightower fought against this but Aemon spoke of how it was only beneficial to the land of Westeros to both further wisdom and to further spread the words of the gods. Aemon let it known that the King was the defender and protector of the faith, and as a member of the royal family, Aemon felt it important to help cultivate the growth of the faith. He also argued that making a second Citadel could only benefit the realm as it would further the search and thirst for knowledge, and it could benefit the people even further. While the Hightowers could not argue against it without risking their public image and seeing as jealousy of a child, the commonfolk, the learned men, and scholarly and the most devout were more than happy, each celebrating the greatness of Aemon the Night King, for he was truly a child of the seven faces of god.

The choice of making a second Citdael and making a newer, grander sept compared to the Starry Sept, and being tied by blood to the Tullys, to fully make the Hightowers a grievous choice in enemy for Aemon the Night King, and yet with the second Citadel, and the newer sept being made, as well as Aemon's wealth, being far more than the Hightowers due to the Dragoncaves, Prince Aemon not need to care of the House Hightower for quite some time.

But it was not only in matters of faith and learning that Prince Aemon left his mark upon the city. In a display of opulence and grandeur befitting a dragonlord, he ordered the construction of a grand Colosseum, where warriors would clash in spectacles of martial prowess that would leave spectators breathless with awe. And beside it rose a grand Amphitheater, where the smallfolk would gather to revel in the pageantry of life, their laughter, and cheers echoing like thunder through the night.

Yet perhaps most audacious of all was Prince Aemon's vision for a continent-spanning canal—a feat of engineering unparalleled in the annals of history. Stretching from the Narrow Sea to the Sunset Sea, it promised to link the disparate corners of the realm in a web of commerce and prosperity, its waters carrying the hopes and dreams of a thousand generations yet unborn.

The plan for the canal was to combine several streams into the main canal. It was ambitious, something synonymous with Prince Aemon in the years that followed the Greyjoy Rebellion. Blueburn River in the Reach flows from the border with the Stormlands in the east into the Mander at Longtable; co*ckleswhent, a vassal stream of the river Mander in the Reach, meets the Mander at Cider Hall, Ashford lies along the tributary, while Harvest Hall is located to its south, the Slayne, a river in Cape Wrath in the Stormlands, known for its rapids, pools, and waterfalls, the Slayne flows south from the northeastern Red Mountains to the Sea of Dorne, and Wendwater in the Kingswood, as to connect the four different bodies of water at Summerhall. Connecting them all closely to Summertown is something the city could easily secure, manage, and control.

The plans drawn out by Prince Aemon in 105 AC, which would connect the rivers, would make a perfect river connecting Highgarden directly to Summerhall and King's Landing to Summerhall. Prince Aemon even negotiated with Storm's End to create a river connecting the castle to this newly established canal junction. This would connect Highgarden, the Red Keep, and Storm's End, with Summerhall as the intermediary. If done well, the plan could benefit Prince Aemon as much as the Twins benefit the Freys. But in truth, if Aemon were to connect Wendwater to this canal, it would go through much land and the lands of at least four Stormlords.

Then, by digging out the canal more efficiently, the canal would, while not purely a straight line, making a canal that would stretch the entire continent and begin at one sea and end at the other. The plan was even further supported due to the amount of effort it took Lord Corlys to sail from one river to another and navigate the winding turning rivers. The canal began construction, and Prince Aemon gained rights to the entire length of the canal; many lords had to give up portions of their land, begrudgingly, but the idea of another war occurring and needing to navigate all the twists and turns of the unconnected rivers were disheartening, one true path to either side of the continent was far too promising.

105 AC stands as a pivotal moment marked by the emergence of the National Bank of Westeros—a bold venture conceived by none other than Prince Aemon Targaryen. With the realm awash in the tumult of change, this institution was envisioned as the bedrock upon which the financial fortunes of the Seven Kingdoms would be built, its edifice meant to rival even the fabled vaults of the Iron Bank of Braavos.

Under the auspices of King Viserys, the National Bank was entrusted with a weighty mandate—to serve as the custodian of the Crown's debts and assets and to marshal the realm's resources in service to the Iron Throne. Yet behind this veneer of royal decree lay a web of intrigue and ambition, for in truth, the bank was a weapon, its purpose twofold—to bolster the coffers of the Crown and to counter the influence of Braavos across the Narrow Sea. The objective is to separate the finances of the House Targaryen and the rest of the continent to help alleviate any burdens on the royal family and to ensure Westeros is independent from Braavos.

With a stroke of the quill, King Viserys transferred the burdensome weight of the Crown's debts to the ledger of the National Bank, binding the fate of the realm to its whims. And in a move that stirred controversy and dissent across the land, he decreed that half of all taxes collected within the realm must flow into its coffers—a levy that many viewed as an affront to their autonomy and sovereignty.

Yet perhaps most contentious of all was the appointment of Prince Aemon as the Bank's chief steward—a decision that rankled the pride of many lords and merchants alike. For though the realm revered and feared the young prince for his exploits in battle, they harbored deep misgivings at the prospect of a mere child wielding such vast financial power.

Indeed, across the Seven Kingdoms, whispers of discontent echoed through the halls of power, as lords and commoners alike voiced their objections to the rule of Prince Aemon over the realm's finances. To them, he was not a savior, but a usurper—a wolf in princely clothing, whose ambitions threatened to engulf the realm in flames of strife and discord.

And so, as the National Bank of Westeros took its place at the center stage of the realm's financial theater, it did so amidst a chorus of skepticism and suspicion—a testament to the delicate balance of power that defined the turbulent era of King Viserys and Prince Aemon. It would be known as the Summer Bank, fully stabilized and officialized as an institution in 107 AC.

The Rains of Castamere

But the two Houses foolish enough to question the resolve of the Summer Bank and the Night King who controlled it were the ones in the most debt to it, House Reyne and House Tarbeck. House Tarbeck and House Reyne stood as a cautionary tale—a grim reminder of the perils that await those who dare to defy the inexorable march of fate. Once proud and storied Houses, their names whispered in the same breath as legends, they found themselves ensnared in a web of debt and despair that would ultimately seal their doom.

In the shadow of the Summer Bank, whose tendrils extended like grasping fingers into every corner of the realm, House Tarbeck, and House Reyne stood as a testament to the hubris of mortal men. Their mines, once veins of gold and silver that flowed like rivers of wealth, had long since run dry, their coffers empty and their spirits broken.

But it was not always thus. In the halcyon days of yore, when the sun shone brightly upon their banners and the laughter of children echoed through their halls, House Tarbeck and House Reyne were counted among the foremost houses of the Westerlands. Yet as the years wore on and the sands of time ground ever onward, their fortunes began to wane, their glory fading like the dying embers of a once-mighty fire.

It was then that King Viserys, in his folly, extended to them the hand of mercy—or so it seemed. With promises of lavish loans and extravagant gifts, he sought to prop up these fading relics of a bygone age, breathing life into their withered husks in a bid to preserve their legacy for generations yet unborn. King Vserys leaned more loans and rarely broached the repayment of the said exceedingly high loans, especially due to the fact most of the Seven Kingdoms had taken loans from the Iron Throne after the Greyjoy Rebellion.

But the gods, it seemed, had other plans. Despite the King's munificence, House Tarbeck and House Reyne partied and danced. They drank and spent. Their ancestral seats reached wealth and glory that had not been seen for generations. The people of the Seven Kingdoms laughed and cheered with the Young King, King Viserys; in the first year of his rule, the Greyjoy Rebellion was put down. People laughed with the Young King. That was until the people and the lords realized he had neither the dragon's teeth nor fire. They began laughing at him instead. None laughed harder than the Reynes and Tarbecks.

How pathetic that the House of the Dragon was being mocked by the lesser Houses when they had all the strength. But all knew King Viserys never sent a dragon to the Greyjoy Rebellion. Prince Daemon did as he pleased, and Prince Aemon had to lead from Summerhall. Nothing was done by King Viserys part, and all knew it was Prince Daemon and Prince Aemon who held the power behind the throne.

Lord Tarbeck and Lord Reyne asked for further loans and increased their debt. But once King Visery broached the topic of repayment, Lords Tarbeck and Reyen merely laughed, and soon enough, King Viserys laughed alongside them.

The Sigil

It was in the Year 106 AC that Prince Aemon finally set apart the branch of House Targaryen of the Red Keep and the House Targaryen of Summerhall. A new sigil was made, heavily inspired and advised by the princess of Summerhall but overseen and constricted by Prince Aemon.

Retaining the dragon and the black field, it was the only similarity between the Sigil of House Targaryen of Summerhall and their counterparts in the Red Keep. The most striking difference is the red of the original being replaced by white.

It was argued if the white and black were solely due to the dire wolf, Ghost, or to pay respects to the mute coloring of House Stark, in which Prince Aemon was still heir to Winterfell at the time. Some even argued that it was white because the entirety of Summertown and Summerhall was made of white stones, others arguing the red eyes and white body had striking connections to the weirdwood trees and the throne Aemon sat upon in Summerhall. The white was often attributed to the snow of the North, which was as white as clouds. But it was the red eyes, which pay homage to the dire wolf that is always by Prince Aemon's side, that secured the belief that the white was to pay respects to his mother's House and his own. Truly to show respect as his mother's blood but to show that more than anything else, he was a dragon. The red fire coming from the heads is often attributed to the red fires of Aemon's father's mount, Caraxes the Blood Wyrm.

Another difference is that instead of the three heads of the initial sigil, with representations to King Aegon, Queen Visenya, and Queen Rhaenys, the heads of the dragon in Summerhall were seven in number, for Prince Aemon, and the Princesses, Viserra, Aerea, Rhaella, Daenerys, Saera, and Maegelle. It was something truly looked upon proudly by the faith, often thought of as connections to the Seven Faces of God, and especially seen fondly due to the Summer Sept being important in coming years.

This and the future House words solidified that Prince Aemon had made his own House, a House that would be questioned even if he did not become King of the Seven Kingdoms.

Rains of Castamere Continued

Then came the Summer Bank in 107 AC.

For two long years, Prince Aemon had labored tirelessly at the helm of many projects; his brow furrowed with the weight of responsibility as he marshaled the realm's resources in service to his grand vision. From the grand Sept's construction to the continent-spanning canal excavation, his days were consumed by the ceaseless clamor of progress, leaving him little time to heed the whispers of debt that lingered on the wind.

But as the dust settled and the echoes of construction faded into the ether as he was then able to delegate certain parts now that the most crucial years of construction were behind him, Prince Aemon's gaze turned inward, his eyes sharpened by the clarity of purpose that only hindsight could provide. With a sense of grim determination, he beheld the ledger of the Summer Bank, its pages stained with the blood of debts unpaid, and saw therein a threat to the very foundation of House Targaryen itself.

For too long, the creditors of House Tarbeck and House Reyne gnawed at the heels of the Iron Throne, their insatiable appetites threatening to devour the realm whole. If the Tarbecks and Reynes refuse to repay the Crown or the newly established Summer Bank, the precedent will be made for all other Houses, and the institution will die in its infancy. Aemon would not have it. And though the Summer Bank stood as a bastion of financial might, its reputation tarnished by the specter of weakness that clung to the debts owed by these once-proud houses, Prince Aemon knew that action must be taken.

With the fury of a dragon unleashed, he set about righting the scales of justice, marshaling the full might of House Targaryen in service to his cause. And in that moment, as the eyes of the realm watched with bated breath, Prince Aemon spoke with a voice as cold as ice and as sharp as Valyrian steel, casting judgment upon those who had dared to defy the might of House Targaryen and the honor of the Summer Bank.

Prince Aemon wrote a letter to the entire realm, to each House bearing the new Targaryen sigil. The letter wrote that the Summer Bank demanded the immediate repayment of all debts to the debts held by the Summer Bank, previously held by the Crown, or a hostage until payment. The move was bold and harsh, something only a young youth would do to showcase far too much ferocity, and many Houses thought it as such. But those who feared the Night King made his bid, House Reyne and House Tarbeck not among them.

Lord Reynard Reyne merely laughed when he received the letter. Lord Walderan Tarbeck rode to King's Landing; he was sure he could convince King Viserys to pull back the letter sent by Prince Aemon. Most maesters would argue that he would have if not for Prince Aemon. Prince Aemon knew of the act before Lord Walderan Tarbeck even went upon his horse and met the Lord just before the man could reach King's Landing and threw him in a dungeon of Summerhall, claiming that Lord Tarbeck had chosen himself as the hostage in place of his House.

Lady Ellen Reyne, or Lady Ellen Tarbeck, wife of Lord Walderan Tarbeck was infatuated, both the Reynes and Tarnecks threatened war. Prince Aemon merely laughed at the thought, saying that if he could destroy an entire kingdom in the Ironborn, then two nearly ruined Houses were nothing but a scab he would pick at.

King Viserys broke and released Lord Tarbeck with an apology, no less as if further bathing House Targaryen with shame and humiliation. Forcing Prince Aemon to relieve him even with words of protest, citing that forging a debt given to the Summer Bank would give a horrible precedent to the rest of the realm. King Viserys proclaimed their friendship between the Tarbecks, Reynes, and Targaryens for eternity.

Aemon allowed eternity to be lost one year.

In 108 AC, while reaching the finishing touches of many of his projects, Prince Aemon rode to Casterly Rock and declared his intent to Lord Jason Lannister clearly, the man unable to do anything but obey the Prince of the realm but more importantly, the Night King himself. Prince Aemon rode to Casterly Rock not on Balerion and not with Ghost but upon horseback and with a handful of knights, keeping the track a secret.

He would not use a dragon. In most of the realm, the power behind Prince Aemon Targaryen was merely due to his dragon Balerion, and Aemon would show the realm that he was more than just his mount. They would fear him just as much.

Prince Aemon wrote a letter to House Tarbeck and House Reyne declaring they answer for their crimes of rising against the Iron Throne and the realm for threatening to rise in revolt against the Targaryens and the Summer Bank. Prince Aemon had his maester Vaegon of Summerhall send them once a letter was sent from Casterly Rock to confirm Aemon had arrived. The letter being sent from Summerhall made all those in the realm, save for those in Casterly Rock, believe Aemon was still in Summerhall. As Aemon expected once more, both Houses rose in revolt, not knowing that Aemon was not in Summerhall but in Casterly Rock.

Their defiance gave Aemon the pretense to call his banners, using Lord Jason Lannister and forcing the man to call all other banners in the Westerlands to show their loyalty to House Targaryen. He called the Westerland banners and rode to Tarbeck Hall and Castamere with an army at his back. Nearly thirty thousand men were able to come to Aemon rapid and immediate call. Aemon did not even inform King Viserys.

Lord Walderan Tarbeck had no way to gather any more men and was only able to summon his household guards, he was not ever able to muster his full army of one thousand five hundred men. Whether foolish or brave Lord Tarbeck rode with all his men to face the army of thirty thousand.

Soon, his head, his sons' heads, and the heads of every man with Tarbeck blood added the spears of Aemon's forces. At the approach of Aemon's armies, Lady Ellen Reyen sent ravens to all the castles of the realm and sent letters to her brothers in Castamere. She had assumed that even with her armies destroyed and her husband dead, she would have enough time to hold strong and wait for her brothers to come and break what would be a long siege.

Aemon Targaryen had the trebuchets and siege weapons up in a day.

And brought the keep down within hours.

Lady Ellen and her son fell from their tower. The end of House Tarbeck.

Once their forces surrendered, Aemon Targaryen put Tarbeck Hall to the torch.

Lord Reynard Reyne came in with his forces to see his sister's home being burnt. With rage in his heart, he charged, hoping surprise would wind out against Aemon's larger numbers. It didn't.

With his men dead and a cross-bolt in his back, Lord Reynard Reyne trotted back to Castamere, hoping to reach safety to fight off against Prince Aemon's next siege, knowing that trebuchets would do little when most of Castamere was under the ground. Lord Reyne sent an emissary to Prince Aemon. Once the armies arrived in Castarmere, they tried to negotiate to avoid what would be a long siege because Aemon would not be able to reach the Reynes as they were under the castle. Aemon refused to even meet the emissaries.

In response, Aemon ordered every single entrance and exit into Castarmere to be sealed with soil and rocks to ensure there were no ways in nor any way out. Once it was done, it took Aemon and his men less than a day to dam the stream by Castarmere and divert the water to the nearest mine entrance. There were no less than a thousand men, women, and children. Each of them drowned slowly in their ancestral seat. Some guards reported hearing faint screams that night, but the castle was silent by dawn.

Following the eradication of two ancient, powerful Houses without using a dragon, one thing was shown to the realm: do not underestimate Aemon Targaryen. Not long after the destruction of the Houses, word spread, not merely by ravens or letters, but by a song. The Rains of Castamere. Once the song was made, Aemon Targaryen paid over a thousand bards to go to each keep in the Seven Kingdoms and sing the tale of the Houses who thought themselves strong in the face of the dragon. In the end, one thing was said, a saying that would become synonymous with the Targaryens of Summerhall.

A Targaryen pays their debts.

After the Rains of Castamere

With the dust of House Reyne and House Tarbeck still settling upon the scorched earth of the Westerlands, the prince turned his gaze once more to the realm he sought to shape in his image—a realm of grandeur, of opulence, and of unbridled splendor.

And so it was that in the hallowed halls of Summerhall, amidst the whispers of stone and the echoes of dreams, Prince Aemon labored tirelessly to bring to fruition the vision that had consumed him for nigh on a decade. With each stroke of the mason's chisel and each arc of the architect's compass, he sought to surpass the glories of ages past, to carve his name into the annals of history with the fire of his ambition and the steel of his resolve.

In the heart of Summertown, the Summer Sept rose like a titan of faith, its spires reaching toward the heavens in silent supplication to the gods. Ten times the size of the fabled Starry Sept of Oldtown, it stood as a monument to the divine, its walls adorned with carvings and frescoes that spoke of the eternal struggle between light and darkness.

The Summer Sept stood tall and serene upon his plinth; his face is a study of benevolence. Large lush gardens capable of holding thousands of people surround the sept, the most common of which are winter roses and dark red flowers, dragon's breath. The sept reached tall into the skies and had seven sides, each for a face of the seven faces of god. Made of white stone and marble dome structure with seven crystal towers, each of which has bells. The lofty dome was made of colored glass, gold, and crystal that, when the sun hit it just right, not only bathed the Summer Sept in a rainbow of colorings but, due to all the city being made of white stones, bathed the entire city in colors, part of the city being as red as rubies, orange, yellow almost golden, green as emeralds, blue as sapphires, and purple as amethyst. It did not take much convincing for many septons and septas to go to the new Summer Sept.

Beside it, the second Citadel rose like a bastion of knowledge, its halls a labyrinth of wisdom and enlightenment rivaling Oldtown's ancient seat of learning. Within its hallowed halls, scholars and maesters toiled ceaselessly, their minds aflame with the pursuit of truth and understanding. The Citadel of Summertown was wide, and rather than being a few towers and domes connected by stone bridges, the entire Citadel was wider than most keeps; behind large walls that almost matched the walls around Summertown, the Citadel was made of nearly one hundred buildings, just shy of the size of smaller keeps.

Many maester, many of whom were refused high positions in the Citadel mostly due to not sharing ties to more powerful families or because Hightowers meddling in the affairs of the Citadel, flocked to the new Citadel of Summerhall, especially after learning that Aemon Targaryen had been purchasing many books from each of the Seven Kingdoms, Dorne, and Essos to fill this grand institution. Many maesters brought their own copies of books. To further incentive, Aemon said that any and all experiments or theories could be tested and would be financially backed by the Targaryens of Summerhall as long as a jury approved them of peers and fellow maesters.

In the shadow of the Summer Sept, the Amphitheater stood as a beacon of culture and entertainment, its stages alive with the music of bards and the laughter of actors. From the farthest reaches of the realm, they came to ply their trade, seeking fame and fortune in the eyes of the masses. Bards sang grand songs, and actors practiced in glories plays with props and clothes. A grand stage worthy of great works. The smallfolk flocked to it and paid a rather cheap admission, just barely enough to make a profit, while the actors and bards would need to pay for the chance to showcase their works and gain fame.

But perhaps most grandiose of all was the Colosseum, where knights from every corner of the realm came to test their mettle in the crucible of combat. Jousts and tourneys rang out beneath its vaulted arches, the clash of steel and the roar of the crowd echoing through the night like thunder. Commonfolk screamed with delight as they watched combat and bet on victories and outcomes.

Both the Colosseum and the Amphitheater were estimated to pay for themselves within two decades, but each day was sold out rather quickly, especially due to a population of over seven hundred thousand and merchants and other people coming to visit and see the city. The two projects were going to pay off Aemon's investments far earlier than that.

And finally, spanning the breadth of the continent like a serpent of silver, the Summer Canal stood as a testament to the ingenuity and ambition of House Targaryen. From the Narrow Sea to the Sunset Sea, it stretched its waters a lifeline for commerce and trade, its shores a testament to the power and prosperity of the realm.Prince Aemon ensured he was the only one to fully manage the entire canal; it did not take much due to no sane House daring to anger the Prince. Far easier still since the point in which all the diverging rivered converting into the centralized canal was in the lands of Summerhall.

In the year 108 AC, another important event came to be Rickon Stark, Lord of Winterfell, who had his second child, the first since Lyanna Stark; the child was named Cregan Stark. Surprisingly, Prince Aemon had already been at Winterfell for the birth; he had come to speak to his lord grandsire for any chance or trade between Summerhall and Winterfell, negotiations that, in theory, could help aid Wintertowen to grow and flourish. The negotiations successfully waned the North from relying solely on the Reach for food and resources and decreased costs.

It was said the stoic Prince Aemon was only second to his lord grandfather in joy and even offered to have the boy squire for him when he was older so that if the boy was knighted, it would help to integrate the North into the other kingdoms. Further, Prince Aemon highlighted that if the North was more integrated, it might give them a better chance to gain further aid regarding resources for the harshest winters. Lord Stark left the talks open, suggesting the child was a babe, and they had time to discuss such things. Prince Aemon kindly reminded that he, too, was a child when the Wildling Invasion occurred and that northern sons do not remain boys long; northern boys turn into men far sooner than girls are flowered.

With the birth of Cregan Stark, Rickon Stark now had a new heir, Cregan Stark became heir of Winterfell, due to Aemon being the son of a daughter, and the son of the lord would always take priority over the son of a daughter of said lord, as agreed upon by King Jaehaerys in the Grand Council. It was said the birth of the prince's new uncle, the prince cried tears of joy. But many claimed this untrue; the Prince of Summerhall was a man of stoicism, strength, power, and a master of politics; he did not cry. While many thought the proud, stoic prince, the man who orchestrated the Rains of Castamere and ended the Greyjoy Rebellion, would be angered by the loss of mayhaps being warden of the North, the boy was gladdened for his focus was solely on Summerhall. And it was made clear to every man in the North and the realm that to ever harm the babe, to harm Cregan Stark, was to call the Black Dread upon their keep. Aemon also promised that one day he would give his uncle a dire wolf like he had Ghost, saying that he would give his uncle the chance to be remembered in the history books far before he has the chance to be sent to war.

It was said that Prince Aemon laughed and played with his baby uncle for a moon, and when he finally returned to Summerhall, he would send a letter once a moon to his grandfather inquiring about the North and his uncle. It was through the work of Prince Aemon that the North was more interconnected to the other Seven Kingdoms than it had ever been before. Food was of no issue for the first time since losing the Gift from the North to the Night's Watch. There were even talks on broaching the subject to King Viserys for Aemon to advocate the return of the Gift due to the winters being hard and the North not having many coins for itself due to large sums of the coin being allocated to buying food from outside the North and said coin not being used to help strength the North.

Aerea's Disappearance

In the year 110 AC, as the realm prepared to celebrate the completion of his grand projects with a tourney of unparalleled splendor, tragedy struck with the force of a thunderbolt, shattering the fragile peace that had settled over Summertown.

On the eve of the tourney, Princess Aerea, the young scion of House Targaryen, vanished without a trace, casting a pall of fear and despair over the court. Prince Aemon dispatched ravens to every corner of the realm with a heart heavy as lead, his mind a whirlwind of anguish and desperation as he sought to unravel the mystery of her fate.

But as the days turned to weeks and the weeks to months, Princess Aerea remained elusive, her whereabouts shrouded in mystery like a ghost in the night. Despite the tireless efforts of Prince Aemon and his faithful dragon Balerion, the silver dragon Dȳñes remained as elusive as a fleeting dream, its absence a gaping wound upon the soul of House Targaryen.

And then, as suddenly as she had vanished, Princess Aerea returned, her face pale and drawn, her eyes haunted by the horrors she had witnessed. With a voice as cold as ice and as distant as the stars, she spoke of her journey to Valyria—a land of shadows and whispers, where the very stones seemed to pulse with ancient power.

Though the details of her ordeal remained shrouded in secrecy, whispers of her time in Valyria spread like wildfire through the halls of Summerhall, casting a shadow of fear and uncertainty over the court. And while the maesters of the Citadel labored tirelessly to decipher the accounts penned by Maester Vaegon, the truth of Princess Aerea's experiences remained a mystery known only to the Targaryens of Summerhall. The first-hand account was in her diaries, a practice that Prince Aemon had instructed each of his aunts to do since coming to Summerhall to ensure that true accounts of their lives could be passed down to their descendants to better enlighten them of choices made and avoided to help them in their own choices.

Saera' Scandal

Prince Aemon Targaryen found himself ensnared in a web of scandal and shame that threatened to engulf him whole. It began with the disappearance of the court fool, Tom Turnip—a simple jest, one might think, in the grand tapestry of courtly life, but one that would soon unravel into a tale of treachery and betrayal.

As the City Watch scoured the streets of King's Landing in search of the missing fool, their efforts led them to the Blue Pearl, a den of vice and debauchery where the young knights Mooton, Connington, and Beesbury caroused amidst a sea of wine and women. There, amidst the flickering torchlight and the raucous laughter of drunken revelers, they found Tom Turnip, his jester's motley stained with wine and his eyes wide with fear.

But it was not the sight of the fool that drew their attention, but the presence of the three lordlings who stood amongst the revelers, their faces flushed with wine and their laughter ringing through the night like the tolling of funeral bells. When Mooton confessed to the jest being at the behest of Princess Saera, the daughter of King Jaehaerys himself, Prince Aemon's blood ran cold with fury.

Prince Aemon called Saera's two friends, Lady Perianne Moore and Lady Alys Turnberry, to be questioned. Threatened with imprisonment, the two girls quickly revealed that the three girls had practiced kissing, dressed at first, naked later on, thinking it was that Aemon wished to know rather than why they were mocking the court jester in a brothel. When the girls dared each other to kiss a real boy, Saera had proclaimed she would kiss a man, which is where her three males came in. According to Lady Perianne, "it was who did the training for all of them." When asked where the servants had been during all they had done, the two girls informed the prince that they had been ordered to stay outside.

Aemon was enraged and ordered Maester Vaegon to examine the princess and the ladies for any chance of pregnancy and to do so in secret so that not a soul knew of the fact that they were being tested, not even those being tested. Maester Vaegon confirmed characteristics of what he called mourning sickness, a common occurrence of those with children, in all three and claimed a high likelihood that all three were with children. It was said never had a soul seen the pure rage upon Aemon, never had they heard his rage boil over so, his rage and screams so true that Balerion's screams paled to his rider on that day. He made Maester Vaegon give the ladies Moon tea, make another for Princess Saera, and give it to Aemon for when he spoke to her.

Summoning the errant princess before him, Prince Aemon confronted her with the accusations leveled against her—a damning revelation that she had bedded not one, but three young knights in a reckless game of passion and folly. Yet when faced with the wrath of her cousin, Princess Saera showed no remorse, her words dripping with defiance as she likened herself to the infamous King Maegor the Cruel and his many wives.

"Maegor had more than one wife, why can I not have more than one husband?" Saera asked.

Enraged and ashamed by her brazen audacity, Prince Aemon demanded to know who else was privy to her indiscretions, only to be met with the chilling assurance that it was known only to the three young knights themselves. With a heavy heart and a grim resolve, Prince Aemon banished his aunt to her chambers, her fate sealed by her own arrogance.

Aemon was not gentle in telling her that she was with child; he was not in a calm enough mind to give her the gentle information he should; no, he roared her age and screamed at her that she, from what Maester Vaegon could gather, was with child. Aemon warned her that other lords and princes would force Saera to raise her bastard alone with no aid, and she should than every god there ever was that he cared enough for her to clean up her mistakes. She stated that it was unfair that Aemon could not bed any woman and that Saera could not do the same. Aemon returned saying he did not care what was fair; he told her it was unfair that children starve in the streets, unfair that men must die in wars, unfair that people suffer while the noble lords tourney and feast. He said he did not care what she considered fair; he told her all that mattered was the perception the people had and the reality. Aemon told her that the reality was that if Saera married one of the knights, then a lesser House would have dragon blood through her children and could one day fight back against House Targaryen, and he would not allow it. He ordered her to drink the Moon tea and pray to the gods that Aemon could salvage this for her.

Turning his attention to the three knights who had succumbed to Saera's charms, Prince Aemon offered them a choice—life at the Wall or death at his hand, for their transgressions had stained the honor of the realm. Yet when they demanded trial by combat, he granted their request, though with a twist of fate that would seal their doom.

Prince Aemon chose Balerion the Black Dread as his champion.

For as they faced the fiery wrath of Balerion the Black Dread, the fearsome dragon of House Targaryen, their fate was sealed in a blaze of fire and blood. And as the flames consumed them, their screams echoing through the night like the cries of lost souls, Prince Aemon knew that justice had been served, though at a cost too dear to bear. Prince Aemon sent letters to all parties and families in regards to the scandal and named it as the three men trying to rape Princess Saera rather than her willingly sleeping with them. The words of Prince Aemon spared Princess Saera's reputation and spared himself from action against the other families ' fur-burning men for the decisions they had caused. Only those in Summerhall knew the truth of things, and Maester Vaegon had written the only true account of the events.

Princess Daenerys would later say, "She could have calmed Aemon by comparing herself to the Conqueror, more placate than calm, but our dear intelligent sister chose the one comparison that Aemon was often compared to, that he would level an entire city for hearing but once. And they call her the smart one."

Princess Viserra was noted saying. "At least even the perfect f*ck up on a royal scale once every blue moon. But truly she f*cked up so badly that Aemon nearly burnt down the Houses of the squires themselves. Would have been a terrible thing in truth."

Princess Aerea laughed and scoffed, stating, "At least I'm not the only f*ck up. But Saera was stupid for comparing herself to the worst Targaryen king to have ever been, and hopefully, to ever be."

Princess Maegelle, made a hand motion to the seven and asked for their blessings. "May the gods have mercy on her for her words and her actions."

Over the next year, it was clear to all that while the capital of the continent may have been King's Landing and the Red Keep and the supposed leader of the continent, it was Summertown and Summerhall that truly was the center of the realm. Something that happened far too quickly to cull. King Viserys was far too trusting and generous to his nephew, and Prince Aemon was both the most powerful man with the oldest largest dragon at his beck and call, with six other dragons alongside. The financial center of the continent was now in Summertown. The Summer Sept and the Citadel of Summetown, removed all power from the House Hightower in regards to the faith and the maesters, now the only strength they had was the position of being one of the five most wealthy families in the kingdoms, which in itself still made them a threat to all save for the House of the Dragon.

In the following years, between 110 AC and 112 AC, Aemon Targaryen switched attention from creating his projects to maintaining them and ensuring everything ran smoothly. The High Septon spent more in the Summer Sept rather than the Starry Sept, further legitimizing the Setp in Summertown. Aemon maintained the Summer Canal by scheduling dragons to secure the canal and the other portions of the land. The actors played great plays in the Amphitheater. Knights and warriors fought in the Colosseum. The common folk were filled with enjoyment and full bellies. The coin of the kingdoms was secured and ensured, allowing the Seven Kingdoms to pay back most debts, and with the Dragoncaves, Aemon personally paid off the remaining debt for the Ironbank.

No man in the realm would dare question Aemon Targaryen. Aemon ruled behind the scenes. A boy no older than fourteen years of age ruled behind the scenes in support of his uncle, and the same boy had the dragons, reputation, and strength to support him. No man in the realm would dare question the Night King, for they knew that a Targaryen had paid their debts.

In the year 112 AC, King Viserys announced to the realm and invited Prince Aemon to the Red Keep. For the first time since the Greyjoy Rebellion, Prince Aemon would return for a tourney to celebrate the crown's strength and the fact that Queen Aemma was with the child once more—the Heir's tourney.

Chapter 32: The Targaryens of Summerhall

Chapter Text

Summerhall 112 AC

Aemon Targaryen

As the first light of dawn painted the sky in hues of amber and rose, Aemon Targaryen emerged from the depths of slumber, his resolve unyielding even in the face of the early hour. Rising long before the sun had fully ascended the horizon, he embraced the solitude of the morning, a time when the world still slumbered, and he could steal away into the quiet embrace of his private training grounds.

Ghost lay by the bed; the white wolf was far larger than Aemon had recalled him ever being, even in his life as Jon Snow. Closer to the size of a bear now than a wolf or a horse, he chose to believe it was due to the fact that Westeros was filled with far more magic than it did during the life of Jon Snow. Ghost was so large that it was growing difficult to keep the wolf around when Aemon was walking through the castle. His aunts had suggested Aemon having something akin to a Kingsguard, but Ghost, more than not, was more than enough in any situation. But now, the wolf could barely fit through the secret passageways, and Aemon had to consider the proposal at least.

While Aemon did not have much time for self-study, which was an important thing if a lord wanted to be a head of other lords any topic and choose to sell off information for position or power, Aemon did look into several things in concern to magic. He had even made sure to give larger budgets and donations to the study of magic in the Citadel of Summertown, partially in hopes of inspiring more interest in it rather than hatred as the Hightowers did, which helped lead to the maester aiding the demise of the dragons in the life of Jon Snow, Aemon prayed the plan worked because having to burn down both Citadels and making a new form of education was not something he desired nor had the time to do. He even had supplied two guilds in the city, in secret, of course, one of magic and sorcery, and the other case was the study of creating wildfire. He had several ideas of how to use it should the need arise in war.

From the research, Aemon did learn that dragons do not make magic and saturate the air in magic; no, they pull magic towards them. And the more magic there was in a place, the larger the creatures who fed off magic, such as dragons and dire wolves, became. But the adverse to this was that the larger the dragon, the larger the need for magic, leaving less for the smaller ones and making it more difficult for dragons to hatch and grow; however, Daenerys the Mad Queen would eventually confirmed that fire, blood, and life would be able to compensate such things for there is magic in both life and death, and dragons are fire made flesh while being bound to Valyrian blood. He still needed to research how the dragon lords of Valyria countered this; he doubted they used the same practices as Daenerys did. He supposed it had to do with the Anogrion, but Aemon did not know and would not know until he visited Valyria, which he planned to do at some point in hopes of finding something to aid in the future Long Night. He still needed to confirm if raising dragons in the cold rather than heat would affect them too drastically or if the magics and wide open spaces were enough to nullify it; near the Wall, there was much magics and open skies and forests, and Aemon hoped that the magics and open spaces was enough to counter the need for heat so that he did not have too many dragons in one place such as Dragonstone and King's Landing.

Ghost's connection to Aemon through magic and blood seemed to be enough to consume the magics as quickly as Balerion and the dragons. The wolf was far too large, and Ghose seemed highly interested in sleeping in the same bed as Aemon now. A bear-sized wolf is a hazard to one's health when they sleep on your face in the dead of night. Aemon had almost died five times; when he woke with no oxygen, all he could see was a sea of white fluff, and he was choking on wolf fur. The wolf's weight did not help his back in the earlier morning training, he loved Ghost, but he now understood while Boltons skinned people alive and wore cloaks of Stark skins, a single particular dire wolf was a pain in his ass, an entire family that claims them as a sigil, Aemon never swore to never have something in common with a Bolton again.

Dressed in the traditional garb of a swordsman, Aemon's form was a study in disciplined grace, his movements fluid and purposeful as he donned his black gambeson, the fabric clinging to his frame like a second skin. Standing before the looking glass, he met his own gaze with steely determination, the reflection revealing the changes wrought by time and experience. His once-boyish countenance had matured into the rugged visage of a man seasoned by the trials of life, his dark hair cascading past broad shoulders and secured in a tight bun at the nape of his neck. A shadow of stubble graced his jawline, a testament to the passage of days spent in diligent pursuit of his craft.

With a sense of purpose that bordered on reverence, Aemon retrieved his twin blades from their resting place, the weight of Longclaw and Blackfyre familiar in his grasp. Each sword bore its storied history, passed down through generations of Mormonts, loyal and strong and Targaryens, who needed no explanation, and now entrusted to his care.

Stepping out into the crisp morning air, Aemon made his way to the secluded confines of his training grounds, a sanctuary where the clash of steel against steel was a symphony unto itself. As the first rays of sunlight pierced the canopy of trees overhead, he began his practice in earnest, the rhythmic cadence of his movements echoing through the stillness of the dawn.

In the hushed stillness of the early morning, Aemon Targaryen stood alone amidst the verdant expanse of his private training grounds. The world was cloaked in a blanket of pre-dawn shadows; as dawn kissed the edges of the skies, the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon. Aemon preferred to train alone, for much the same reason that Ned Stark never fought in tourneys; a man who did not fight in public was a man whose skill was not truly known or predicted, and Aemon had done his fair share in the Tourney of Harrenal, his skill at the Squire's Tourney was more than enough to show the realm that no man would best him once he grew to his majority, and now that no one saw him train, no one knew how skilled he was, and that terrified any foe he could have. If the Black Dread or the dire wolf did not already.

With a sense of reverence, Aemon drew forth his twin blades, Longclaw and Blackfyre, the ancient Valyrian steel shimmering in the dim light of early morning. Each sword bore the telltale dark ripples characteristic of its illustrious lineage, a testament to the skill of the smiths who had forged them centuries ago. He vowed to figure out how it was done.

As the sun began its ascent, casting the sky in hues of gold and rose, Aemon's practiced hands moved with fluid precision, the swords an extension of his own being as he launched into his routine. With wide, sweeping arcs, he wielded Longclaw and Blackfyre in tandem, the blades cutting through the air with a deadly grace.

Each swing was a symphony of motion, the sound of steel slashing through the wind and the echoing hum of ringing coming forth like a clarion call in the stillness of the morning. Aemon moved with unequaled speed and agility, his movements a dance of lethal intent as he practiced the art of war with relentless determination.

With each swing, he envisioned himself surrounded by foes on all sides, his blades a whirlwind of death as he struck out against imaginary adversaries. His footwork was flawless, his steps sure and steady as he pivoted and spun, always keeping his opponents at bay with a masterful display of skill and finesse.

As the sun climbed higher in the sky, casting its golden rays over the training grounds, Aemon's movements only grew more fluid and assured. He was a whirlwind of motion, a force of nature unleashed upon the world as he pushed himself to the limits of his endurance.

For hours on end, he lost himself in the rhythm of combat, the world around him fading into obscurity as he focused solely on the dance of steel and flesh. And though the morning wore on and fatigue threatened to claim him, Aemon pressed on with unwavering resolve, his spirit indomitable as he embraced the challenges of the day with unyielding courage.

With his blades sheathed once more, Aemon returned to the bustling halls of Summerhall, it was so much easier to train with a sword than hold court and he would prefer to train all day instead but he rarely accomplished what he liked rather than what needed to be done.

As the morning sun cast its golden rays over the bustling streets of Summertown, Aemon Targaryen emerged from his rigorous training session, the echoes of clashing steel still reverberating in his mind. He wondered how his cousin Laenor had grown with a sword; he should at least be able to entertain him for an hour, and it would do well for the future King consort to foster good relations with the lords in Summerhall, there were many second, third, and fourth sons of most of the Houses in Westeros currently residing in Summerhall, and Laenor fostering good relations may aid Rhaenyra. But that was a thought for another time. With a sense of purpose, he made his way towards his meeting with the bankers and financial experts of the Summerbank, his steps measured and resolute. He would then need to hold court in the throne room and would see and speak to the sons and daughters of, from what Vaegon had estimated, three-fourths of the Houses of Westeros in one single throne room.

After cleansing himself of the sweat and grime of the training yard, Aemon emerged clad in attire befitting his station, the somber hues of his clothing a stark contrast to the vibrant colors of the waking city. The black clothing contrasted greatly with the white wolf by his side and the white halls of Summerhall. Yet, before he could reach his destination, he encountered an unexpected figure amidst the throng of morning commuters.

Aemon saw the banners of the Targaryens of Summerhall all around him, a white seven-headed dragon with red eyes and equally red flames, on a black field. Mayhaps Viserra was right, and he should have worn more white. Then Aemon realized he would resemble Daena the Defiant, not that she was born yet or may ever be born, and the fact she wore black all her life to mimic her father Aegon the Younger and then switched to white to spite her brother and ex-husband Baelor the Blessed when he refused to consummate their marriage. He may have no issue with Daena the Defiant but she was the mother of Daemon Blackfyre, and Aemon had grown rather superstitious since his travel through time. He disliked the idea of following the footsteps of the parent to the first Blackfyre, which did not bode well for his future children and his parenting if he had similarities to the woman who gave birth to the Targaryens most infamous rivals. Most of the small details of memories failed him but Aemon refused to forget Jon Snow's memories of anything related to the Blackfyres.

Standing amidst the morning servants was his aunt Saera Targaryen, a vision of ethereal beauty in her flowing white dress. Her silver hair cascaded down her shoulders like a shimmering waterfall, framing features that bore the unmistakable mark of Valyrian heritage. Her purple eyes regarded Aemon with a cool detachment, a mirror to his own stoic demeanor.

Aemon greeted his aunt with a nod of acknowledgment; his expression guarded yet tinged with a hint of curiosity. Despite the lingering tension that had once strained their relationship, the fact that she had decided to f*ck three squires and grow pregnant while also having an orgy with said squires and her two closest friends as a princess of the realm, and Aemon having to feed the foolish squires to Balerion to make sure the truth of their relations was kept quiet and the realm think it that three squires tried to rape the princess, Aemon was not happy nor proud of himself but he would unspeakable things for his family, he did care for his aunt. A palpable sense of understanding hung between them, a silent acknowledgment of the fact that she would help him manage any other situations in the family due to the fact that Aemon had to clean up a situation she caused.

"How did you sleep, Aunt Saera?" Aemon inquired, his voice betraying none of the turmoil that churned within him.

Saera's response was measured, her tone devoid of warmth as she recounted the night's endeavors. "Sleep eluded me, I'm afraid," she confessed, her gaze unwavering. "There is much work to be done and little time to spare," she replied, her tone clipped and businesslike. "Sleep was a luxury I could ill afford when the Prince of Summerhall gifted me with glorious burdens such as helping rule a castle and a city."

Aemon offered a faint smile, the corners of his lips quirking in amusem*nt. "Surely I didn't keep you up all night," he jested, the tension between them momentarily alleviated by the lightness of his jest. "To think I was the reason that you were up all night tossing and turning."

Saera's response was swift and cutting, her words laced with a cool disdain that sent a shiver down Aemon's spine. "You think too highly of yourself, nephew," she remarked, her gaze piercing in its intensity.

Undeterred, Aemon held his ground, his demeanor unyielding in the face of Saera's barbs. "As the Prince of Summerhall, I am at the center of much that occurs within these walls," he retorted, his voice firm and unwavering.

"And that is exactly why you are humble; all the attention upon you has done nothing to inflate your own ego, " she replied with a roll of her eyes. Aemon's brooding face did not change, nor did he rise to her bait. Saera's demeanor softened slightly, a fleeting warmth glimmering in her eyes as she spoke. "You have done well in your training," she conceded, her words a begrudging admission of his skill. "You would fare well in the tourneys, should you ever choose to compete."

Aemon rose his brow, "You know full well why I chose to forego it."

Saera's eyes showed a different emotion rather than the calm demeanor that Aemon had grown accustomed to, Aemon did not know which emotion, but desire seemed to be a slim portion of it, or was it mirth? "A lady does love a man who can shield them from the horrors of the world of man."

Aemon's brow furrowed in confusion, the sudden shift in Saera's tone catching him off guard. Before he could respond, she drew near with a seductive grace, her touch sending a shiver of anticipation coursing through his veins. Leaning in close, Saera's voice was a husky whisper against his ear, her words laced with a hint of desire that set Aemon's pulse racing. "I still remember the strength of your blade," she murmured, her breath hot against his skin. "Perhaps it is time for a fresh memory." Her lips were now near Aemon's ear as she spoke in High Valyrian. "A lady may desire a protective man, but a dragoness desires a truly strong dragon to be their mate, nephew, never forget that."Aemon desired to hear the husk and desire in that voice, the sound of whispering sweet nothings, the blood in his body; he could hear his own heartbeat. He desired to hear such praise from such dismissive, calm lady of the courts.

With that tantalizing promise hanging in the air, Saera withdrew, leaving Aemon to grapple with the tumult of emotions that swirled within him. As he followed her into the depths of Summerhall, his mind raced with the implications of their exchange, knowing that whatever lay ahead would test the boundaries of loyalty and desire in ways he could scarcely imagine. There was work to be done, and he would not allow his lower head to dictate the realm's needs; if ever did, he would turn himself into a eunuch before it grew dangerous. He did not need to be a precursor to Aegon the Unworthy and give rise to a Daemon Blackfyre.

It concerned him that he had compared himself to the parents of Daemon Blackfyre twice in less than an hour.

Viserra Targaryen

In the predawn hours, as the first rays of sunlight began to paint the sky in hues of gold and rose, Viserra Targaryen found herself begrudgingly stirring from her slumber. Mornings were not her forte, she thought grimly as she reluctantly peeled herself from the warmth of her bedchamber. Yet duty called, and Viserra knew that she could not try if she wished to attend to the matters that weighed heavily upon her mind.

As she made her way through the corridors of Summerhall, her footsteps echoing softly against the stone walls, Viserra's thoughts turned to her nephew, Aemon Targaryen. The young prince was a creature of habit, rising with the dawn to begin his training before the rest of the castle had even stirred from their dreams. It was a routine that baffled Viserra, who had always preferred the comfort of her bed to the rigors of physical exertion. She had heard it was commonplace among Northerns.

Today, however, Viserra's purpose was clear. She sought an audience with Aemon to discuss Aegon's Day, a proposed holiday in honor of the legendary conqueror. It was a kind gesture so that the common folk could celebrate with a grand fest and festival once a year every year, and it would be something to help unify the people even further. Yet she knew that her nephew's attention had been preoccupied of late, consumed by the company of another.

Saera had spent considerable time in Aemon's company lately due to Aegon's Day, a fact that did not escape Viserra's notice. She knew all too well the intentions that lay beneath Saera's charming facade: the desire to claim Aemon's affections for herself and secure her place as the true princess of Summerhall.

Frankly, Saera was far too good at her seduction, and it was infuriating; unlike Viserra and their sisters, Saera was no longer a virgin. Saera had f*cked another man, three men non-Valyrian men, men whose co*cks were not worthy of entertaining their c*nt, and Aemon still entertained the notion. Saera was a master of her craft, even if her form of seducing Aemon was a far different approach than Viserra's own.

To Viserra Saera seemed to be a Valyrian shadow with silvery-blonde hair and lilac eyes. Viserra watched it and studied how Saera did her craft. She would bait Aemon with a promise of some reward, so satisfaction, some pleasure, and it Saera would always be just outside Aemon's reach and grasp. She toyed with him in a way, a master of playing back and forth b for Aemon, making him sway from hope and frustration. Aemon may have been a great leader, to most of the realm, a feared man, but those who knew that Aemon in his heart was a contradiction; he was a conqueror in the body of an honorable man. Conquerors were not honorable; they pillaged, stole land, claimed the world, and did horrible things to achieve their goal, harming the just and the unjust, but an honorable protected and defended, never harming another soul without provocation, and yet Conqueror killed to claim land without provocation. Aemon was a contradiction, and yet his face held no emotion. Saera played at that; Aemon wished to conquer and claim her, and she held all the power. Saera was good, but Viserra would have been better.

Viserra could not fault her sister's ambition, for she harbored similar aspirations herself. Like Saera, she longed to remain by Aemon's side, bask in his presence's warmth, and shield him from the machinations of courtly politics. They were family, after all, bound by blood and duty, and Viserra could not bear the thought of seeing Aemon wedded off to another for the sake of political gain; she could not bear it to happen to herself even more so.

As she approached Aemon's solar, Viserra steeled herself for the task ahead. She knew that she must tread carefully, for the game of love and power was treacherous, filled with pitfalls and snares. But for the sake of her family and her own heart's desire, Viserra was prepared to navigate its perilous waters, whatever the cost may be.

Viserra Targaryen swept into the room with the grace of a queen and the allure of a siren, her presence commanding attention from all who dared to gaze upon her. She beheld the scene before her, half expecting to find her nephew and her sister entwined in a lover's embrace, but then realized that would be impossible for Aemon was far too honorable to do such things, not the realm thought him honorable.

Yet, Aemon and Saera were engrossed in their work, their attentions fixed upon the papers and parchments strewn across the table before them. Saera, ever the diligent scholar, perused the documents with a furrowed brow, her violet eyes scanning the intricate script with a keen focus. Aemon, meanwhile, sat at his desk with quill in hand, his brow furrowed in concentration as he penned a letter to some lord whose name escaped Viserra's notice.

As Aemon glanced up from his task, Viserra met his gaze with a sultry smile, her lips curved in a knowing arc that promised mischief and desire. She was well aware of the effect she had on him, the way his stoic facade faltered in the face of her beauty and charm. Aemon may have been a man of few words, but to Viserra and her sisters, he was an open book; his desires laid bare for all to see. Only his eyes were enough of a tell. There was somehow a difference between cold desire and cold indifference; she would admit this: the Stark men, who were as cold as the Wall, would make good players in the Red Keep if they cared about the game of thrones at some level.

Dressed in a maroon gown that clung to her curves like a second skin, Viserra exuded an aura of sensuality that left no room for doubt. Her neckline dipped tantalizingly low, drawing the eye to the swell of her bosom, while a necklace adorned her throat, its shimmering jewels catching the light and accentuating her allure. She knew how her appearance affected Aemon, how his gaze lingered upon her form with a hunger that betrayed his stoic facade.

Viserra reveled in the power of her beauty, knowing full well the sway it held over men's hearts. Valyrian blood flowed through her veins, a legacy of ancient majesty and divine grace, and she bore its mark with pride. With every sway of her hips and every toss of her silver-gold locks, she commanded attention and admiration, a queen in all but name.

As she stood before Aemon, a vision of temptation and desire, Viserra knew that she held him captive with nothing more than a smile and a glance. As the firelight danced upon her flawless features, she resolved to seize the moment and claim what was rightfully hers, whatever the cost.

Viserra's strides were slow and deliberate, each movement calculated to draw the eye and ignite desire in the hearts of those who beheld her. With every step, her hips swayed in a sinuous rhythm, accentuating the curves of her body beneath the fabric of her gown. Her gown, a masterpiece of craftsmanship, clung to her form like a lover's embrace, leaving little to the imagination as it traced the contours of her figure with tantalizing precision.

Her silver-gold locks cascaded down her back in a cascade of lustrous waves, catching the light and shimmering with an otherworldly brilliance. Her eyes, pools of amethyst, smoldered with an intensity that spoke of hidden desires and forbidden pleasures. And her lips, full and inviting, curved into a smile that promised ecstasy and abandon to any who dared to taste their sweetness.

As she drew closer to Aemon, Viserra exuded an aura of raw sensuality that left no room for doubt. She was a creature of desire, a siren luring unsuspecting sailors to their doom with her bewitching beauty and beguiling charm. And as she stood before him, a vision of temptation and allure, she knew that she held him captive in the palm of her hand, his every thought consumed by the fire that burned within her gaze.

Viserra Targaryen cast a sidelong glance towards her sister, Saera, and caught the subtle roll of her eyes in response to Viserra's provocative display. Saera's demeanor betrayed a hint of disdain, a silent rebuke directed at Viserra's unabashed sensuality and the daring cut of her dress, which left little to the imagination. Yet Viserra paid her sister's disapproval little mind, for she knew all too well the power she wielded over men's hearts, a power born of beauty and allure that few could hope to resist.

For all her intelligence and grace, Saera lacked the instinctual understanding of desire that came so effortlessly to Viserra. Where Saera was poised and reserved, Viserra exuded an aura of raw, unbridled passion, a force of nature that commanded attention and admiration in equal measure. She knew how to play the game of seduction with a finesse that Saera could only envy, drawing repressed and rational men like Aemon into her web with a skillful blend of charm and allure.

Saera had once jested that Viserra was a seductress, a femme fatale whose beauty and wiles could spell disaster for any man who dared to become entangled in her embrace. But Viserra dismissed such notions with a scoff, for she harbored no ill intent towards Aemon, nor did she seek to cause him any undue distress. If anything, her affection for her nephew ran deep, and she would sooner lay down her own life than see him come to harm. Or at least, until Aemon asked her to give him some form of distress, she could imagine it; truly, she could, Aemon the stoic high prince, who commanded respect and held great power, truly being such a glutton for the reverse behind closed doors. She hid her laugh.

As she stood before Aemon, her gaze locked with his own, Viserra felt a surge of warmth and longing that threatened to consume her. She knew that Aemon was a man of honor and duty, bound by the strictures of his station and the weight of his responsibilities. But in the quiet depths of his eyes, she glimpsed a flicker of desire, a hunger that mirrored her own, and she could not help but wonder what lay hidden beneath his stoic facade.

For Viserra was not content to simply exist in this world; she sought to revel in its delights, to indulge in its pleasures, and to leave her mark upon it in a blaze of passion and ecstasy. And as she stood before Aemon, her beauty a beacon in the dim light of the room, she knew that she was destined for greatness, a goddess among mortals, a temptress without equal.

As Viserra cast a coy glance in her nephew's direction, her silver-gold locks cascading like liquid silver down her back. Aemon, ever stoic and composed, greeted her with a nod, though the subtle twitch of his lips betrayed a hint of amusem*nt at her audacious entrance.

"Why have you come, Viserra?" Aemon asked in Valyrian, Aemon's voice was as calm and steady as the waters of a dead sea, yet a simmering undercurrent of curiosity lay beneath the surface.

Viserra, undeterred by Aemon's impassive demeanor, flashed him a mischievous smile, her violet eyes sparkling with mischief. "Do I need a reason to spend time with my dear nephew?" she purred, her words dripping with honeyed charm.

Ever the voice of reason, Saera interjected with a cool and collected tone. "Viserra, we are both rather busy. Surely you must have a reason for intruding upon Aemon's time."

Viserra's smile faltered for a moment before she regained her composure, her gaze flitting to Aemon's attire with a critical eye. "I suppose if I were to lie, I would say that I came to ensure my dear nephew is dressed appropriately," she remarked, her tone laced with playful sarcasm. "After all, a prince of the realm should attire himself in something more fitting than black leathers."

Aemon glanced down at his clothing, the black fabric clinging to his form like a second skin. "I like my clothing just fine," he replied evenly, though a flicker of uncertainty danced in his eyes.

Viserra raised a delicate eyebrow, a knowing smirk playing upon her lips. "Even if you like it, that doesn't make it any less unpresentable," she retorted, her voice tinged with playful teasing.

Ever the pragmatist, Saera pressed Viserra for the true reason behind her visit. "You said the lie; now, what is the truth? What is the real reason you are here, Viserra?" she inquired, her tone calm and collected.

Viserra sighed, her facade of playful banter crumbling ever so slightly. "I spoke to Maegelle and Rhaella," she confessed, her voice softening with sincerity. "They expressed some concerns about the upcoming holiday you've proposed, Aegon's Day."

Aemon's interest piqued at the mention of the holiday, his gaze flickering up from his papers to meet Viserra's own. She moved subtly, her movements drawing his attention to her ample bosom, and for a fleeting moment, his eyes lingered there before returning to her face. Even if his eyes were drawn to them, by her intention, his brooding face had never changed.

Viserra continued, her voice measured and composed. "For the most part, everything is on schedule," she explained. "But it seems there may be more visitors than anticipated from other kingdoms and even the Free Cities."

Saera arched an elegant brow, her expression thoughtful. "I ran the numbers," she said calmly. "There should be more than enough space for the celebration in Aegon's Square."

Viserra shook her head slightly, her silver-gold locks shimmering in the soft candlelight. "Perhaps," she conceded. "But it never hurts to be prepared for the unexpected. Maeglle thought moving the celebration from Aegon's Square to Aenar's Hill might be beneficial. A better view during sunset, the smallfolk would love it, closer to the Colosseum and Amphitheater."

Aemon placed his papers down. He glanced to Saera for approval but saw as much emotion as Viserra usually saw on Aemon, which was nearly none. "It would cause an increase in profit for the merchants, and we could increase the tax and make more profit ourselves."

Saera looked to Aemon with a cold glance, "And yet you wished for the people to be near the available apartments to make sure they were closer to their home and closer to the City Watch to keep potential thieves and criminals underfoot."

"I am amendable when I have wise council," Aemon pointed out.

"You would rather increase profit over security?" Saera asked skeptically as if the thought was foolish.

"My City Watch is strong and honorable, more than half are knights from the Reach and the Vale of Arryn, both places that take the oaths of knights as truly as a dragon takes the skies. Say what you will about the Vale disliking me, the knights of the Vale take the words of House Arryn to heart. As high as honor," Aemon countered.

"Lust is the death of honor, Aemon. You and I both know all it takes for a man, is for the lower head to rise and for the upper head to wilt into stupidity as a result. And all it takes is one stupid man to commit a crime even if the knights are honorable and capable, " Saera pointed.

"I doubt any man would be stupid enough to listen to their lower head enough that they forget that Balerion and six dragons are in the Dragoncaves and that I am more than willing to feed any man who breaks my laws to them," Aemon pointed out.

"They might not forget but by the time they are to be punished the act is already committed and could not be undone. People will drink, Aemon, and once they are drunk enough they will be doing foolish things. It would be wise to keep the gathering near Aegon's Square where most of the City Watch is housed and would be able to handle the situation better if the need should arise," Saera said seriously.

"This is one of the few times where I think desires win out over practicality, Saera. The people would love the view from Aenar's Hill far more. They will be more willing to spend the coin, the merchants would benefit, and the Amphitheater and Colosseum would be closer," Aemon replied.

Viserra, seeing that this debate would last another ten thousand years, as it did with the pair when debating logistics, grabbed a piece of parchment, crumbled it into a ball, and threw it. It bounced off Aemon's head just enough, due to his sitting, the paper ball gained more altitude and hit Saera perfectly in the face. Both turned to look at her, Saera with disapproval and Aemon with a slight level of amusem*nt.

Saera then picked up the paper and uncrumpled it to see the wet ink. It was now bleeding through, and the letter was ruined. "That was a letter to King's landing about a growing future concern to the crown. Aemon is terrible at formulating his words on parchment; he's been at it for half an hour, writing one page."

"That's not terribly long," Aemon defended himself.

Saera looked unbearably tired of the conversation already. "Aemon, you only had three sentences on the damn thing."

"What was the letter about?" Viserra asked.

Saera looked at her sister with the same dismissive glare she would often find on her. "Nothing that concerns you."

"It is of something that might grow into a threat, something in regards to the Stepstones. I believe it might be advantageous for us to put an end to the challenge early and claim the land for ourselves," Aemon said with little hesitation. He grabbed more parchment and began rewriting his letter, far quicker than either Saera or Viserra thought he would. He placed the wet ink near the candle to dry it and quickly handed the dried parchment to Saera to read over.

"That did not take long. Were you merely wasting my time?" Saera asked with a half-hearted glare. She continued to read it as Viserra noticed Aemon grab some loose paper, crumble it up into a ball, and wait for Saera to finish. Once she did, she raised her head to say something but found a paper ball flung into her open mouth. She coughed slightly, but the ball was thrown too lightly to be in danger of choking. The paper ball was slightly out of her mouth, almost like an apple in the mouth of a pig.

Viserra laughed outright; it was not sultry, it was not a lustful chuckle that made man think of both an innocent girl and a seductive whor* both at once, but a laugh that was loud and a single huff almost like a single exhale. She turned to look at the culprit, Aemon brooding but a slight smirk on his lips.

"Viserra is right; you need to learn to relax my dear, beloved aunt," Aemon joked.

Viserra laughed; she couldn't stop herself. It was not very dignified, but it was well worth it. Aemon rarely made jokes; he always looked so very sad, as if though he had seen too much, and his heart was heavy. But she supposed Aemon did. She would never admit this aloud, but Aemon had done much for them and had washed his hands in blood for them. Aemon strived for honor and yet only thrived and flourished in times of truly monstrous acts. Aemon rarely made jokes; he always seemed as though he was either too tired or too solemn to try. It was almost as though he only gained joy from the joy he saw in Viserra and her sister.

She liked that smile. She would like to see it more, not for any romantic reason but as a person who cared for another, not adding any desire to wed Aemon. She truly wished he had smiled more. And just when she began to appreciate the smile on Aemon's lips, his eyes grew distant once more. Once more, his eyes shadowed and grew hollow, looking past Saera and Viserra, almost as though Aemon was looking to the distant future or the distant past. Still, Viserra could never know which one he was looking to, no matter if it was the thousandth time it happened in the week alone.

Daenerys Targaryen

Daenerys leveled her arrow at the target, so close to her cheek as she stared into the target before her. She could hear some of the other squires doing much the same. Daenerys fired an arrow into the target before her; the thump of the string as the arrow flew from the bow quickly, cutting through the winds harshly as it was almost instantly in the target before her, perfectly in the center. After she had shot the target, she slightly turned her head to the side, to the rest of the training field, to find her sister Aerea.

The training grounds lay bathed in the soft glow of the sun, casting long shadows across the earth as Daenerys Targaryen watched her sister, Aerea, hone her skills with Oathkeeper, the gleaming Valyrian steel blade that had become an extension of her very being. Aerea moved with a grace and fluidity that seemed almost otherworldly, her movements a mesmerizing dance of lethal precision.

Aerea's silver-blonde hair, pulled back in a high ponytail, shimmered like spun moonlight as she deftly parried and countered the attacks of her opponent, a hapless squire who dared to challenge her. With each swing of her blade, Aerea seemed to blur into a whirlwind of steel, her slender frame a testament to the power of agility over brute strength.

Daenerys observed with a mixture of admiration and pride as Aerea effortlessly outmaneuvered her opponent, her movements a symphony of speed and evasion. Though lacking in raw physical strength, compared to a squire, Aerea more than made up for it with her unparalleled agility and lightning-fast reflexes. She never struck, keeping Oathkeeper firm behind her back, with little movement other than ease dodges that seemed to take as much effort as a breath.

Clad in a leather jerkin that hugged her lithe form, Aerea danced across the training grounds with the finesse of a Braavosi water dancer, her every step a testament to the unorthodox fighting style that Aemon had imparted upon her. It was a style rooted in the traditions of Braavos, where speed and precision were valued above all else, and Aerea had mastered it with a skill that left even seasoned knights in awe.

She saw as a larger squire, more a man than a boy, rushed forward. He swung widely as Aerea bent backward, just barely dodging the strike, doing so with such ease and simplicity that it made it look as though there was no effort. The squire went for a downward slash, and Aerea twisted her body slightly as the swing missed; thrice more, the squire swung, but Aerea dodged each without moving the sword from behind her back.

Daenerys recalled the squires would mock the fact that Aerea was too small to be a swordsman, those brave enough, and yet still too cowardly not to mock Aerea before Aemon himself. When Aerea told Aemon, begrudgingly, Aemon said that it was good that she was smaller than the squires, which made her a smaller target and much harder to hit.

As the clash of steel rang out across the training grounds, Daenerys couldn't help but feel a swell of pride for her sister. Aerea was a force to be reckoned with, a true warrior in every sense of the word, and watching her wield Oathkeeper with such mastery filled Daenerys with a sense of awe and admiration. Aerea had to learn an adjusted version of the Bravosii water dance due to the fact that Oathkeeper was not the sword used for the style, but the light weight of the sword made it just as fast as the way it should be.

Daenerys Targaryen stood with quiet confidence, her long hair intricately braided over her right shoulder, framing her face like a cascade of spun silver. Her gaze was focused, unwavering, as she gripped the bow made of dragonbone, a weapon as dark as the abyss and as deadly as the creatures from which it was forged.

Daenerys was not like her sister Aerea, who wielded a sword with the grace of a Braavosi water dancer. No, Daenerys preferred the bow and arrow, a weapon that allowed her to strike her foes from afar with lethal precision. And she was indeed skilled, her proficiency with the bow matched only by the legendary archers of old.

Eighty paces away, the target stood, a simple wooden circle marked with concentric rings. With a steady hand, Daenerys notched an arrow to the bowstring, her movements fluid and practiced. Drawing back the string, she felt the tension building, the anticipation mounting with each passing moment.

Then, with a release that was almost imperceptible, she let fly the arrow, the projectile streaking through the air like a bolt of lightning. It struck true, embedding itself deep within the heart of the target, the sound of impact echoing across the training grounds.

But Daenerys was not finished. With a swift and practiced motion, she drew another arrow from her quiver, her movements almost too quick for the eye to follow. Again, she released the arrow, and it flew with deadly accuracy, piercing straight through the center of the first arrow with uncanny precision.

Not content to stop there, Daenerys continued to draw and fire, each arrow finding its mark with unerring accuracy. Three arrows flew from her bow in rapid succession, each one finding its own bull's eye with almost supernatural precision.

As the last arrow struck home, embedding itself in the target with a satisfying thud, Daenerys lowered her bow with a satisfied smile. She may not have been a swordsman like her sister, but with her bow in hand, she was a force to be reckoned with, a true master of her craft.

Daenerys Targaryen observed the comings and goings of the young squires, lords, and ambitious knights who roamed the grounds like restless spirits. It was a scene she had grown accustomed to, yet one that still grated on her nerves with each passing day. There were many young lords and knights in Summerhall, far too many for her count, it reminded her almost of the Red Keep in that regard.

The courtyard buzzed with the energy of youth and ambition, the air thick with the scent of sweat and leather as squires and knights alike honed their skills in the art of combat. But amidst the clamor of steel on steel, Daenerys couldn't help but notice the lingering glances directed towards her and her sister Aerea.

It was no secret that Summerhall had become a gathering place for the sons and daughters of noble houses, all drawn to the court of Aemon Targaryen like moths to a flame. Many of these young lords and ladies had been sent as hostages, and their families were unable to pay their debts to the Summerbank. For years, the halls of Summerhall had echoed with the laughter and chatter of these noble hostages, their presence a constant reminder of the power wielded by Daenerys' nephew. And with the hostages in Summerhall and the fact they owed much coin to Aemon, it was no wonder why most were concerned about the amount of power Aemon had over the realm, not including the fact he had Balerion.

At first, Daenerys had bristled at the influx of guests, resenting the intrusion into her home and the disruption of her peace. But as the years passed, she had grown numb to their presence, accepting it as a necessary evil in the grand game of politics and power.

For Aemon, the presence of so many lords and ladies was a boon, a tool to be wielded in his quest for dominance. With each noble hostage under his roof, he tightened his grip on the realm, using their presence to exert control over their families and manipulate the delicate balance of power.

But while Aemon reveled in the game of thrones, at least it looked as much to the outside realm but Daenerys doubted he truly liked it, Daenerys found little solace in the company of squires and aspiring knights. They buzzed around her like flies, their admiration bordering on worship as they vied for her attention and favor. And yet, despite their adulation, Daenerys remained aloof, her gaze fixed on her sister as Aerea bested yet another challenger in the training yard.

In the end, Daenerys cared little for the politics and machinations that swirled around her. She was a Targaryen, born of fire and blood, and her loyalty lay with her family above all else. As long as Aemon held sway over Summerhall, she would stand by his side, a silent guardian amidst the chaos of courtly intrigue.

The squires began turning over Aerea and her movements; they began speaking and dissecting her movements, which were elegant, almost dance-like rhythm and grace. Aerea was good, but Daenerys wouldn't call it a dance, especially since Daenerys knew full well her sister was sh*t and dancing. The squires desired her; they tried to beat her with their swords and yet could never come close; only Aemon could do so now. A hush came upon the training ground, and Daenerys only knew one thing in all the world could do so, and he would do so daily. Aemon had come to see Aerea and Daenerys training.

As Aemon Targaryen made his way to the training grounds, or rather the balcony just above it, a hush fell over the assembled crowd like a blanket of snow, the air thick with anticipation and longing. Daenerys Targaryen watched from the corner of her eye as the young ladies whispered and giggled amongst themselves, their voices a melodic chorus of admiration and desire.

Many squires tried to come up and speak to Aemon, but their knights came forth and spoke to Aemon instead. Aemon's brooding eyes never showed any emotion as people smiled and shook his hand. Each one showered him with compliments and praise and yet Aemon made no response.

Daenerys heard as the ladies swooned, and she scoffed. Aemon did not care for women who swooned so openly. She would laugh at the idea of Aemon choosing a swooning, prime, and proper lady compared to a woman who could challenge him in some way. Challenge his desire in Viserra. Challenge his mind in Saera. Challenge his skill with a blade in Aerea. Daenerys just chose to challenge him just for the sake of it. Maegelle and Rhaella challenged his morality; they were loved by the people, and he was forced to conform to what they thought the people needed him to be.

"Have you seen Prince Aemon?" one of the ladies whispered, her voice barely above a breathy sigh. "He looks positively dashing today."

"Indeed," another replied, her eyes alight with excitement. "His dark hair and brooding gaze make him look like a true northern lord, all wild and mysterious."

"He's like a dark prince from one of the old tales," a third chimed in, her voice tinged with awe. "I would give anything to be the one to make him smile."

The words drifted through the air like petals on the wind, each one a testament to the magnetic allure of Aemon Targaryen. Daenerys couldn't help but feel a pang of envy as she watched the ladies vie for his attention, their hearts fluttering like birds in a gilded cage.

Meanwhile, Aemon stood on the balcony overlooking the training grounds, his gaze fixed on the figure of Aerea as she sparred with her sword. He was a picture of stoic determination, his features carved from stone as he observed his sister's prowess with a critical eye.

Despite the clamor of admirers below, Aemon remained aloof, his thoughts a mystery to all who sought to unravel them. And yet, for all his enigmatic allure, there was something undeniably captivating about him, a magnetic pull that drew all eyes to him like moths to a flame. As the whispers of adoration swirled around him like a gentle breeze, Aemon remained unmoved, a silent sentinel amidst the tumult of courtly intrigue.

"Aemon!" Aerea's voice carried across the distance, her tone a mixture of excitement and challenge. "Are you going to stand there all day, or are you going to come and spar with me?"

Aemon's lips quirked ever so slightly, a hint of amusem*nt dancing in his dark eyes as he replied, "I came to observe, not to participate. My duties await, and I cannot afford to be distracted."

Aerea scoffed, her gaze narrowing as she crossed her arms over her chest. "That's just a fancy way of saying you're afraid," she retorted, her tone laced with playful taunting.

A small smirk tugged at the corner of Aemon's lips as he shook his head. But his emotionless face had returned once more. "Afraid? Hardly," he replied, his voice dripping with confidence. Aemon's lips turned into a small smile. "I could defeat you with both hands tied behind my back and with a cloth over my eyes," he replied, his tone teasing yet confident.

Aerea's eyes widened in mock indignation, a playful glint dancing in her lilac-eyed gaze. "Is that so?" she replied, her voice tinged with amusem*nt. "Well, then prove it. Spar with me, Aemon, and let's see who emerges victorious."

But Aemon remained steadfast, his resolve unyielding. "Not today, Aerea," he said, his tone firm but not unkind. "Perhaps another time."

As Aemon turned to address Daenerys, Aerea shot him a playful glare; her lips curved in a mischievous smile. "You're just afraid I'll embarrass you in front of everyone," she teased, her voice filled with playful banter.

Aemon chuckled softly, a hint of amusem*nt dancing in his dark eyes. "More so you embarrassing yourself," he conceded with a shrug. "And truly I care for you too much to watch you humiliate yourself in front of such lords, knights, and squires."

Daenerys watched the exchange with amusem*nt, her own lips curved in a knowing smile. "You two never cease to entertain," she remarked, her voice tinged with affection. "But if we're talking about skill, I dare say I could beat both of you at archery."

Aemon raised an eyebrow, his smirk growing wider. "Is that a challenge, Daenerys, and here I thought you would stay as quiet as Rhaelle today?" he asked, a hint of mischief in his tone. The court laughed at Aemon's jape. Aemon was the perfect prince; even the solemn man could make the courts laugh.

Daenerys laughed, a melodious sound that echoed across the training grounds. "Perhaps," she replied coyly. "But I'd hate to embarrass you in front of your adoring fans, much like how you would hate to do the same to Aerea."

Aemon's smirk faltered for a moment, replaced by a look of mock indignation. "You wound me, dear aunt," he replied, his voice dripping with mock hurt. "But fear not, I'll graciously concede defeat to you in the realm of archery. You have no equal, and I will not claim to be a contender."

"Yes, yes, you are sh*t at archery," Aerea said loudly. Most of the court gasped slightly at such brazen words to the Night King of all people. But those who spend the most time in the training yards knew well that Aerea was the only person in all the realm with enough gall and enough of Aemon's affections to not have swift retaliation. Aemon raised his eyebrow. All knew Aemon might not be known for his archery, but he was fair enough, just as most knights and soldiers were. Aerea's silver-blonde hair shimmered in the sunlight as she spoke, the golden son causing her ponytail to look more like a golden arch, like a rainbow, than a silvery one, her voice ringing out clear and confident. "It's about time you joined me on the training grounds, Aemon," Aerea remarked, her eyes gleaming with challenge. "The competition has grown rather stale without you."

Aemon regarded his aunt with a stoic expression, his dark eyes betraying nothing of his thoughts. "I do not train for the eyes of others," he replied evenly, his voice calm and composed.

His gaze drifted to the slight armor adorning Aerea's form. She mostly wore leather jerkins, but she also wore a breastplate, mostly to help restrict her breasts from being a true hindrance when she swung her sword. Daenerys once saw Aerea swing her sword with nothing restricting her breast, like tightened cloth or a breastplate, and the way her breast jiggled made her think Aerea did it purposely, but she supposed when they got as large as Aerea's, their movements were erratic and unpredictable with a single burst of speed or a jump.

Aemon's eyes are on her breastplate armor. "Your armor is quite impressive," he remarked, his tone neutral. "Not a scratch to be seen."

Aerea's lips curved into a confident smile as she shrugged, the metal plates of her armor glinting in the sunlight. "I've faced many opponents," she replied, her voice tinged with pride. "And not a single one has been able to lay a finger on me."

Aemon's expression remained impassive as he listened to his aunt's boast, a hint of skepticism in his dark eyes. "You must have chosen your opponents wisely," he remarked coolly. Daenerys fought off the laugh, the jab at the fact Aerea may have chosen opponents that were easy to defeat was quite obvious to those who at least had some level of intellect.

But Aerea shook her head, her gaze locking with Aemon's unwaveringly. "That's precisely why I want to fight you," she declared boldly, her voice filled with determination. "To prove once and for all who the superior swordsman truly is."

Aemon smirked, and for a second, Daenerys thought Aemon might actually spar with Aerea. He was so secretive about his skill; not a soul had seen him use two blades since the Reyne-Tarbeck Rebellion, and that was solely due to the fact that Aemon did not want to use Balerion to burn down the armies and wanted to prove that his militaristic skill laid beyond just dragons. Daenerys truly wished to see him spar; he was good, not considering the fact she cared for him as family and was biased; he was of a level that was ungodly compared to those he fought. Daenerys may not be a swordsman, but she knew enough to know Aemon would easily beat Aerea; even Aerea was skilled enough to be worthy of Valyrian steel. But alas, Saera came forth and informed Aemon it was time for him to hold court and that there were a large sum of matters for him to attend to, and that was that. Leave it to Saera to be the one to make everyone long for something more than ink and declarations.

Maegelle Targaryen

As Maegelle Targaryen retired to her chamber in the castle of Summerhall, weariness weighed heavily upon her shoulders, a burden born of the day's labors in service to the gods and the people of Summertown. The Summer Sept had been her sanctuary throughout the day, a haven of prayer and solace where she had tended to the needs of the faithful and offered comfort to those in distress.

Like all the princesses and those of the highest nobility, the rooms were not simple bed chambers but rather large compartments and apartments. Each chamber, and apartment, had a center living room, with some cases, upwards of seven chambers connected to the main living area. While many of the chambers had tapestry and sigils of their own Houses, it was the sigil of the Targaryens of Summerhall that must be displayed as well; in all its mostly white and black glory, Maegelle had the banners and black and white coloring in copious amounts. But truly, it was impossible to avoid the coloring of white and black when Saera and Aemon made sure that each chamber, each room, for guests, for residence, for meetings, councilors, or personal events, was furnished with the white bark of weirdwood trees and black bones of dragons.

Maegelle would forever name it a blessing of the gods that her sisters and nephew held enough wealth to buy enough dragon bones, a rare enough thing to furnish an entire castle. She did not care much for the weirdwoods, but Aemon was half northern, his mother a Stark, and Maegelle would show respect to the woman who bore her nephew even if she disliked the trees and the religion that tried to dissuade people from the proper gods.

Black and white were all over the castle; the city was amply named the White City. She did wish there was a tad bit more color, and it was surprising when her quiet sister Rhaella convinced Aemon to allow for the gardening of winter roses and dragon's breath flowers throughout the entire city. The blues and reds did wonders in bringing more color to such a beautiful white city. Maeglle supposed that the winter roses and the dragon's breath flowers describe Aemon rather well, even if he did not care for such things, despite Viserra claiming in public that he did to help foster a more elegant view of Aemon among the people. The Summer Sept had many winter roses and dragon's breath flowers, Maegelle truly did like the flowers.

The Summer Sept stood as a testament to the benevolence of her nephew, Aemon Targaryen, who had bestowed upon her and her sister Rhaella the opportunity to serve as the septas of the realm, even if he did not allow them to truly take the vows, claiming that he would not allow any sole with a dragon swear themselves off to the Citadel or the faith. Though the work was taxing, Maegelle found solace in the knowledge that she was fulfilling her duty to the gods and making a difference in the lives of those who sought refuge within the sacred walls of the sept.

Now, as she retreated to her chamber, Maegelle felt the weariness seep into her bones like a chill wind on a winter's night. Her chamber, though spacious and elegantly appointed, offered little solace from the exhaustion that gripped her weary soul. With each step, she could feel the weight of the day's responsibilities pressing down upon her, threatening to crush her spirit beneath their burden.

But even in her exhaustion, Maegelle found a sense of contentment in the knowledge that she had served her gods and her people with unwavering devotion. As she prepared for bed, her mind drifted back to the events of the day, to the faces of those she had helped and the prayers she had offered on their behalf.

With the assistance of her servants, Maegelle bathed and dressed for bed, shedding the trappings of her role as analmost-septa, as Viserra had called it, to reveal the woman beneath. Though her body ached with fatigue, her spirit remained unbroken, fortified by the knowledge that she had done her duty and served her gods with honor and devotion.

And as she sank into the soft embrace of her bed, Maegelle offered a silent prayer of gratitude to the gods for granting her the strength to carry out their will and the opportunity to make a difference in the world. With a weary sigh, she closed her eyes and surrendered herself to the embrace of sleep, knowing that tomorrow would bring new challenges and new opportunities to serve. She rested peacefully for quite some time.

In the stillness of the night, when the moon cast its silver glow upon the castle of Summerhall, Maegelle Targaryen was jolted awake by a muffled scream that pierced the silence like a dagger through the heart. Her eyes flew open wide with fear as the chilling sound echoed through the corridors of the castle, sending shivers down her spine.

With a gasp, Maegelle sprang from her bed, her heart pounding in her chest like a drumbeat of dread. She knew all too well the source of that anguished cry, for she had heard it many times before in the dead of night. It was the voice of her nephew, Aemon Targaryen.

With a sense of urgency that bordered on desperation, Maegelle rushed to the hidden door concealed within the shadows of her chamber. Swiftly, she pushed it open and disappeared into the labyrinthine corridors that wound their way through the bowels of the castle, the secret passageways Daemon had started and Aemon and finished construction too. Mysteriously, similarly to what Maegor the Cruel had done, all those who built the secret passageways had died, not all the constructors and builders but those who built the secret passageways and corridors and rooms. Maegelle had asked Aemon if it was his doing, but Aemon denied it, claiming it might be the works of his father, Daemon, but he did not publicly denounce the unsaid accusation for it aided his image of a man not to be questioned.

The flickering torchlight cast eerie shadows upon the walls as Maegelle hurried along, her footsteps echoing in the darkness like whispers of the night. With each passing moment, the cries grew louder, more desperate, until they seemed to reverberate within the very depths of her soul.

At last, she reached the door to Aemon's bedchamber and flung it open with trembling hands. As she stepped inside, her heart clenched with a mixture of sorrow and fear at the sight that greeted her.

There, upon the bed, lay Aemon Targaryen, his once noble visage contorted in agony as he thrashed and twisted beneath the sheets. His brow was furrowed with lines of torment, his lips parted in silent screams that tore at Maegelle's heart like razors.

A cold sweat glistened upon his brow; his body wracked with spasms of anguish as he battled against unseen foes in the realm of his nightmares. With each convulsive movement, he seemed to be transported to a realm of darkness and despair, where the demons of his past tormented him without mercy.

Maegelle could do naught but watch helplessly as her nephew suffered, her heart heavy with the weight of his pain. She longed to reach out and comfort him, to banish the shadows that haunted his dreams and bring him solace in the embrace of the waking world. She had not seen it this bad in quite some time; the night terrors were worse than they had been in moons.

The demons that haunted Aemon's dreams were as insidious as they were relentless, and there was no further proof that it was the same dream almost every other night. All she could do was stand by his side, a silent sentinel in the darkness, and pray that dawn would bring an end to the torment that plagued him.

In the dimly lit chamber, Maegelle Targaryen knelt beside her tormented nephew, her heart heavy with sorrow as she watched him writhe in the grip of his nightmares. With trembling hands and a voice laced with tenderness, she reached out to him, her touch light as a feather as she sought to ease the pain that haunted his slumber.

"Shh, Aemon," Maegelle murmured softly, her voice a gentle lullaby in the darkness. "It's all right, nephew. You're safe here with me."

But Aemon's cries echoed through the room like a haunting refrain, his anguish palpable in the air as he called out names that were unfamiliar to Maegelle anywhere but outside his slumber, the only times he ever said such names, names that spoke of sorrow and loss.

He clutched his bedding, tears streaming down his face. "Margaery," he cried, his voice raw with emotion. "Forgive me, Margaery. I failed you. I tired. Please, Margaery, please. I'm sorry. Please."

Maegelle's heart clenched with empathy at the agony in his voice, the weight of his guilt heavy upon her shoulders as she longed to ease his burden. But she knew not the story behind the name, only that it brought her nephew profound pain. Maegelle did not know who Margaery was but she hated her, Aemon was strong and just the dreams of this Margaery made him weak. Maeglle knew she should not hate soul, it was against the faith, but she was sinful like all men and women were and this one sin she would not let go easily.

And then came another name, whispered in desperation as if torn from the depths of his soul. "Arianne," he pleaded, his voice thick with emotion. "Don't leave me. I'll protect you, I swear it. Trust me, please. They are coming. Arianna, they are coming! Please, Ari, listen to me, please!"

Maegelle's brow furrowed with confusion at the mention of yet another unfamiliar name, at least outside Aemon's night terrors, her mind racing with questions that had no answers. But at that moment, all she could do was offer her nephew the solace of her presence, a silent beacon of comfort in the darkness.

"I am here, Aemon," she whispered, her voice a soothing balm against the storm raging within him. "You are not alone. It is but a dream, my dear nephew. Let it pass."

But still, his cries persisted, his words a testament to the depths of his anguish as he pleaded for the safety of those he loved. Aemon stirred slightly in his dreams, and it was then he began leaning into Maegelle's touch while he slept. "Rhaegar, Alyssa," he cried, his voice fierce with determination. "No one will harm you. I will protect you, I swear it. Your Kepa, will protect you."

With each word, Maegelle's heart ached with the weight of his pain, her own eyes moist with unshed tears as she watched him suffer. But she refused to let despair claim her, for she knew that she must be strong for his sake. Rhaegar was a familiar name; it was the name of the bard that inspired Aemon to be a singer and a player of the harp, and yet, in Aemon's dreams, he named a son after the man.

Rising to her feet, Maegelle moved to his side, her touch gentle as she brushed the sweat-soaked hair from his brow and pressed a kiss to his fevered cheek.

"Sleep now, my dear nephew," she whispered, her voice a gentle murmur in the darkness. "Let the shadows of the night pass you by, and know that you are loved."

With infinite care, Maegelle began to caress Aemon's brow, her fingers tracing soothing circles upon his furrowed skin. She could feel the tension in his muscles, the tremors that wracked his frame as he struggled against the unseen terrors that haunted his sleep.

But Maegelle refused to be deterred by the darkness that threatened to engulf him. With each caress, each gentle word, she sought to anchor Aemon to the present, to remind him that he was not alone in his suffering. And as Aemon's cries grew louder, more desperate, Maegelle felt a surge of empathy welling within her heart. She knew not the names of the women he called out to in his sleep, but she could sense the pain and anguish that filled his words.

"Margaery, Arianne," she murmured softly, her voice a soothing lullaby in the night. "They cannot hurt you here, Aemon. You are safe with me."

But still, Aemon's cries echoed through the chamber, a haunting refrain that pierced the silence like a dagger to the soul. And so Maegelle pressed on, her touch a balm to his troubled spirit as she whispered words of comfort and reassurance into the darkness.

Maegelle Targaryen knelt beside her tormented nephew, her movements gentle and deliberate as she sought to ease his troubled slumber. With a soft touch, she caressed his brow, her fingers tracing soothing patterns against his clammy skin as she whispered words of comfort into the darkness.

"Shh, Aemon," she murmured, her voice a gentle melody in the night. "You are safe now, my dear nephew. Let the darkness fade, and the light embraces you."

But Aemon's struggles persisted, his body writhing beneath the weight of his nightmares as he cried out in anguish. His breath came in ragged gasps; his brow furrowed with pain as he battled against unseen foes in the depths of his mind.

Maegelle's heart ached at the sight of his suffering, her fears, and worries pushed aside as she focused solely on easing his torment. With each passing moment, she poured all her love and strength into her efforts, determined to bring him peace amid his turmoil.

And then, as if by some silent miracle, she felt Aemon's tension begin to ebb, his struggles gradually subsiding as he leaned into her touch. It was a small victory but one that filled Maegelle with a sense of relief as she continued to soothe him with gentle words and tender caresses.

But as the minutes stretched into eternity, Maegelle sensed a presence in the room, a silent gathering of figures drawn together by the shared bond of love and concern for their troubled nephew. One by one, her sisters slipped into the chamber, their faces etched with worry and compassion as they joined Maegelle at Aemon's side.

Vierra, Daenerys, Saera, Rhaella, and Aerea stood in silent solidarity, their presence a silent testament to the strength of their familial bond. It was Rhaella who silently moved. First, she walked up slowly and sat next to Aemon on the bed; she fixed herself under the cover and rested her head on his shoulder before slowly messaging his chest. Aemon slowly leaned into her touch, and his soft whimpers drifted to almost silent groans. Viserra looked up and then walked forward; she walked sensually, more so to anger Saera if Maegelle would wager; she walked over, climbed the bed, and straddled Aemon for a second before doing the same as Rhaella, and the others soon followed suit. Together, they formed a protective circle around Aemon, their combined efforts serving as a beacon of hope in the darkness.

And as they worked together to calm their troubled nephew, Maegelle felt a surge of gratitude wash over her, a deep sense of pride in the resilience of their family. Aemon's dreams and nightmares were often, and only after all six were together did Aemon ever have true sleep. For in that moment, as they stood united against the shadows that threatened to engulf them, Maegelle knew that no matter what trials lay ahead, they would face them together, bound by the unbreakable ties of kinship and love. They fell asleep on the bed, each one falling asleep with Aemon in the center. Maegelle would watch over Aemon, for he was strong to the world, and if he were weak in private, she would be stronger still then; Aemon was only weak with them; he only showed emotion with them; Aemon was only truly Aemon with them. And Maegelle thanked the gods that Aemon trusted them enough to at least do that.

Chapter 33: Viserra Plays With Her Toys

Chapter Text

Summertown 112 AC

Viserra Targaryen

In the wake of Aegon's Day, Summerhall buzzed with activity. Viserra stood upon the cobbled streets of Aenar's Hill, her gaze tracing the swirl of colors of sigils, banners, and cloth. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine, mingling with the joyful laughter that echoed through the narrow lanes.

In place of Summerhall's grand halls, the heart of the celebration had shifted to Summertown, where Aenar's Hill rose majestically, a beacon of warmth and camaraderie amidst the chill of winter. Aemon and Saera had worked on the logistics and the decrees, but Maegelle and Rhaella were the ones who informed and brought excitement to the people of such a

celebration; Viserra had to guess it was because they dealt with smallfolk so often in the Summer Sept.

Rhaella and Maegelle had convinced Aemon to mirror the festivities to be similar to one's own name day due to the fact that some smallfolk never had the chance to celebrate the day of their birth. So what better day to celebrate and give gifts than the day of Aegon the Conqueror's own birth? Maegelle would convince the adults and parents to buy small gifts for their children and to give them to the children once dawn broke on the day. Rhaella, who was often the quietest of her sisters, had an innate skill with children and spoke to them about being surprised with presents on the day of Aegon the Coqneror's birth from their parents, and they would need to be extra kind and good if they wished for the best presents.

It took little effort from the pair to convince the stoic, solemn, brooding Aemon to decrease the costs of certain products to be sold for the children due to the fact it was the first year of this event. Viserra would admit that the days, weeks, no, the entire month leading up to Aegon's Day was a feeling of warmth and bliss, kindness, and love that went past those of her own family, but as though all the people seemed happy and glad. She felt a warmth she rarely felt. There were no worries; there were no politics, no wars, or grief, just the celebration of those once held dear. Aemon was known, wide and far, for being a solemn and serious person when not in the presence of the Princesses of Summerhall, but Aegon's Day had won him much love from the people.

Viserra placed her hand on the Valyrian steel necklace that Aemon had given her. He had bought six, one for each one of his aunts and her sisters, but no two were alike. Each was made so the front looked as though they were the scales of a dragon; each one died to look like the scales of the dragon they rode. Individual Valryian diamond-shaped curved scales were laid over one another; the scales in their cluster were in shape to perfectly fit in the space of a low necklined dress as if just barely fully covering the epode upper breasts. Viserra's own was a maroon, a deep red crimson. Each necklace looked beautiful as the dyed controlling contrasted with the dark Valyrian steel ripples. She had said it before and would say it again. Aemon rarely spoke, not in her or her sister's presence, but it was his actions that spoke a thousand times louder.

Aemon's decree had transformed this day into something akin to a royal banquet on the streets of Aenar's Hill, yet with a twist uniquely his own. Gifts, not mere trinkets but tokens of affection and esteem, exchanged hands like whispers in the wind. Each offering bore the weight of sentiment, a testament to the bonds forged in the fires of friendship and family. From what Viserra could coax from Rhaella and Maegelle, the children had risen bright and early, without their parents' need to wake them, and they woke them in excitement and smiles. Their mothers and fathers had not seen such joy before, and they were gladdened by it in ways that they could not express.

But it was after the presents and time of family were over, near midday, that people truly left their homes and came to Aenar's Hill to celebrate what Aemon and Saera had been debating and working on for nearly three moons.

The streets teemed with life as merchants peddled their wares, their stalls adorned with baubles and treasures of every kind. From the humblest of homes to the grandest of estates, the denizens of Summertown came forth, their hearts brimming with goodwill and cheer.

Viserra observed as children darted through the throngs, their laughter a symphony of innocence amidst the cacophony of revelry. Their eyes sparkled with wonder as they beheld the wonders laid before them, their tiny hands clutching tightly to the promise of joy and merriment.

And so, beneath the watchful gaze of the Seven, Aenar's Hill became a tapestry of delight, a sanctuary where all were welcome to partake in the bounty of Aegon's Day. On this day, the barriers of class and creed dissolved, replaced by the shared embrace of kinship and community. Viserra and her sisters walked among the people. The lords and ladies, knights, and squires from Summerhall were encouraged to enter the streets and partake in the event, and none regretted attending such a festival.

As the sun climbed its arc through the sky, casting its golden rays upon the teeming streets of Summertown, the true revelry of Aegon's Day burst forth in all its raucous splendor. The city roared to life, a cacophony of sights and sounds that echoed from the grand Colosseum to the humblest corners of the slums.

Within the towering walls of the Colosseum, the air thrummed with the thunderous clash of steel upon steel as gladiators, fierce and unyielding, faced off in battles that ignited the passions of the masses. The crowd roared with each savage blow; their fervor was matched only by the ferocity of the combatants who fought for glory and honor upon the blood-stained sands.

Meanwhile, in the sprawling expanse of the Amphitheater, the air was alive with the dulcet strains of music and the melodious cadence of actors on the stage. Tales of heroism and tragedy unfolded beneath the watchful gaze of enraptured audiences, their hearts swaying to the rhythm of the unfolding drama, lost in a world of make-believe and wonder.

Yet it was upon Aenar's Hill, at the heart of Summertown, that the true feast of Aegon's Day took root. Here, amidst the throngs of merry-makers and revelers, the air was thick with the heady aroma of roasting meats and bubbling cauldrons of spiced wine. The tables groaned beneath the weight of sumptuous fare, a bounty fit for kings and paupers alike.

Gone were the airs of refinement and etiquette that often graced the feasts of the Red Keep. Instead, the revelry was wild and untamed, a celebration of life and laughter that knew no bounds. The smallfolk danced with abandon, their laughter mingling with the strains of lively music that filled the air.

Summerhall, in its generosity, provided food and drink in abundance, ensuring that no thirst went unquenched and no hunger went unsated. From dawn to dawn, from Aegon's Day until the rise of the sun the following day, the festivities raged on, a whirlwind of joy and merriment that swept through the streets like wildfire, leaving in its wake a trail of smiles and memories that would linger long after the last reveler had staggered home.

Viserra and her sister rode their dragons in the skies, and the smallfolk cheered, pointed, and laughed. Children ran the streets pretending to be dragons themselves. But it was at night that it truly came a love for the dragons flying and breathing their colorful flames. Saphire and maroon flames mixed once more, just as they did years ago when Viserra and Maeglle helped Aemon fight the Greyjoy flee; they danced and twirled. They stretched across the skies of Summertown and brought the dark night's colors a bright life. Amythest and platinum-silver flames mingled and twisted. They arced and spun as if the flames were dancers caught as a pair. Sunset orange and pure white mingled with one another as they nearly exploded in the skies randomly and sporadically. The flames of orange, maroon, sapphire, white, purple, and silver caressed the skies like the hands of a lover. Fathers, mothers, wives, husbands, boys, girls, and all those in Summertown cheered and were amazed at the beauty.

It was a good day.

As the days passed, she observed, with growing unease, the mounting workload that burdened her nephew, Aemon, who was burdened with the usual duties thrice as much as he usually had.

Viserra's sharp eyes caught glimpses of Aemon's weariness. The lines etched deep into his brow betrayed the weight of his responsibilities. But what troubled her most was the veil of secrecy that shrouded his actions, the letters that arrived from every corner of the realm bearing secrets he refused to share.

Viserra knew Aemon to be diligent and dedicated, but his sudden preoccupation left her unsettled, her curiosity piqued by the mystery surrounding him. She watched as he conferred in hushed tones with her sister Saera, their conversations veiled in secrecy, their intentions unclear.

Aemon received letters from every House across the realm, mostly from the houses of the lords and squires who resided in Summerhall. At first, she assumed they were mostly from the Yornwoods, Daynes, and Fowlers, as they had many knights and squires in Summerhall, by Aemon's permission, but she noticed sigils from the Houses of the Seven Kingdoms, not just Dorne. Aemon would gain these letters and only speak to Saera for advice, and time and time again, Aemon threw one of the few into the fires, pretending it never came. Once every few letters, Aemon would grow angry, those whose solemn faces betrayed nothing, Aemon was among them, and Viserra wondered if Aemon would climb Balerion and set fire to half of Westeros for what had to be some sort of insult. However, Aemon was calm and patient, yet Aemon did not tell a soul what was in the letters.

Aemon sent off his letters and often spoke to Maester Vaegon, asking for his thoughts on them but never speaking in a language that Viserra knew. Aemon was truly annoying in his skill with his swords, books, and words, and the fact that he spoke more than just the Common Tongue, and High Valyrian was irritating when she didn't understand what he was saying, which was rare, making each instate truly a vexing time for her. When she asked her brother, Maester Vaegon, what language they were speaking, he responded that Aemon would switch every word from Dothraki, Qarth, and Old Tounge, mixing them so that no one person save for Vaegon himself could ever truly follow. Yet, Vaegon admitted that it was a challenge to follow when all three languages have different ways of wording and organizing their grammar. He credited Aemon for his skill in switching back and forth almost flawlessly.

Viserra's frustration grew with each passing day, her determination to uncover the truth burning bright within her. And so, with the cunning of a serpent and the audacity of a dragon, she set her plan in motion, determined to shake Aemon from his reverie and force him to confront whatever shadows haunted his thoughts.

Drawing upon the lessons learned from her sisters, Saera and Aerea, Viserra concocted a scheme so bold and unexpected that it would demand Aemon's attention, drawing him out from the shadows and into the harsh light of reality. Viserra, found herself contemplating the intricate web of relationships that bound her family together. She knew well the closeness between her nephew Aemon and her sister Aerea, forged through the shared fondness of spars and swords. Aerea's wild spirit had always drawn Aemon like a moth to a flame, their connection deepening when she took flight upon her dragon, disappearing into the vast unknown.

And then there was Saera, whose reckless dalliances and scandalous escapades had earned her notoriety after she decided to f*ck three men and not know who the father of the child he had growing inside her was. Despite her wayward ways, Aemon remained steadfast in his concern for her, a silent guardian watching over her as she danced along the edge of decency.

Viserra could sense the unspoken bond that tied them together, forged in the crucible of shared experiences and tempered by time.

But now, as Summerhall bustled with the aftermath of Aegon's Day, Viserra felt a stirring within her, a desire to shake her nephew from his reverie and remind him of the world beyond his duties. She knew drastic measures were required, something as wild and scandalous as Aerea's dragon flight or Saera's infamous exploits. With determination burning in her veins, Viserra plotted her course of action and audacity that would compel Aemon to take notice.

Viserra Targaryen, a vision of allure and mystique, graced the training ground with her presence, her beauty a beacon that drew the gaze of all who beheld her. With each step, she exuded an air of confidence and allure, her movements fluid and graceful, like a dancer weaving a spell of enchantment.

Dressed in a maroon gown that clung to her curves like a second skin, Viserra knew the power of her allure. Her ample bosom, a testament to her femininity, was on display, and the neckline of her dress plunged tantalizingly low, teasing the imagination of those who dared look upon her. Her maroon Valyrian dragon scale necklace just barely covered her bust.

As she moved among the squires and knights, Viserra's eyes sparkled with mischief and intrigue; her lips curved in a knowing smile that promised untold delights. She toyed with her silvery locks, allowing them to cascade down her shoulders in shimmering waves, each strand a testament to her ethereal beauty.

With practiced grace, Viserra engaged the men in conversation, her voice like honeyed silk, weaving a web of charm and seduction around them. She listened intently to their words, leaning in ever so slightly to catch their every utterance, her gaze locking with theirs in a dance of desire and longing.

Viserra moved with enough skip in her step to cause him to blossom her heavy and large breasts jiggle. She could see the squires try to hide their looks from her pristine fair skin; she could see the thought of them wishing nothing more to see her bare and naked. She came close to them and moved with a sensual grace that only a woman that perfectly combined a lady of court and whor* of a brothel can do. The squire placed his sword on the ground and rested on the handle, leaned his wait atop it, and leaned closer to Viserra. "I couldn't help but notice you from across the training yard, my dear, ser knight."

The squire came forth, Viserra seemed to struggle to look up at her face, and immodesty got lost in her lilac eyes. Squires were far too easy. "Thank you, my princess, that's very kind of you to say. However, I am no knight yet."

Viserra lowered her gaze as if she were bashful, "Mayhaps, but for long would that be the case. I would truly wish to be the first to claim you as my knight, good ser," her voice husky and sensual, airy and deep. The squire already seized her, that was for certain; if only Aemon were half as f*cking easy, she would have been the Princess of Summerhall before the sunset the first day. "It truly is a noble calling, and any man who would be knighted is a man who could be knighted is an honorable man indeed."

The man lowered his head and gulped. "Your Grace, it would be an honor and a privilege to one day be your knight."

Viserra looked at the poor little boy; the squire was just around her age of fifteen, and he looked so awkward and meek. "To be a knight of House Targaryen, I would need to know who would protect me. I remember seeing you in the Colosseum two weeks ago, if I am not mistaken, during Aegon's Day." She could see pride in his eyes, shining like stars. You were rather good. Mayhaps.." she said shyly, cooly, just enough to draw his vanity and protectiveness out. "...I would like to see the skill of the man who mayhaps become my future knight. A knight who would have access to me in body and soul. The man who could protect me from all but one person."

The squire grew strong; he gained courage and leaned closer as if shielding her from the world around her. Men were easy. "And who would I need to protect you from, Your Grace? Any man who dares come before you would be brought down before they could harm you. I would be there for you, in body and mind."

Viserra leaned in, her voice deep and airy; her voice sounded like silk upon the ear of all those around her. She whispered into his ear, drawing upon every ounce of desire she could pull out. "Yourself," she said so innocently. "If you are to protect me from the world, who would protect me from you."

Viserra could see the struggle; she was blatantly over the top, but men wanted the same thing repeatedly. They wanted more, and a Targaryen was most definitely more. More beautiful. More political position. More power. More status. Viserra could already see the man mind f*cking her atop her maroon dragon and tearing off her equally colored dress. "I would never harm you, Your Grace. I live to serve and protect the realm and your House, especially you more still. I will do anything you ask. I would cause you no pain, no grievousness, no distress."

Viserra looked to him in the eyes, narrowing her gaise ever slightly, moving her arms just enough to cause her tit to push up against him. "And if I ask you to cause me some pain." She asked huskily. "If I wanted some grievance." She then moaned slightly into his ears before saying her final words. She touched his arm slightly and caressed him slightly. "I want you to cause me.. distress." She pulled back her arm enough to make him long for it even further.

"Your Grace," he gulped, choking back a groan. "I would do anything you wish of me."

She walked back, swaying her hips enough to draw the man's gaze once more, but she would not need to touch him any longer, no longer need to seduce him, for he wanted her, and now she must not give it to him. She wanted to make him want it, but he no longer received her touch or voice. "How would you protect me? Tell me, what would you do once knighted? Ser knight? What do you desire?"

The squire looked to Viserra and then to her arse; he lusted for her, and she had him. "Kingsguard. I would like nothing more to defend you with the white cloak. I would do anything to protect you and bring you honor. If you favor me, I would fight tourneys and win jousts in your name. I would give you the world as easily as Aegon gave the continent to his sister-wives."

Viserra twirled her hair in her hand as she asked so innocently. "You would claim me as your wife as Aegon did Rhaenys or Visenya? So scandalous, a Kingsguard married to his princess charge." Viserra smiled bashfully, but her eyes showed nothing but desire. "Mayhaps one day you can be that for me, my Kingsguard, protecting me from the world and protecting me from anything but your own desires. Keeping me from all but yourself. So selfish. So greedy," she said huskily and wantingly. Men were easy. It did not take long to convince him to prove himself her future knight by doing one challenge, and the man so greedily accepted.

She knew how to seduce a man; most ladies at court learned one way or another. Aemon was a pain to even attempt, but her charms would easily work on lesser men, and every man was lesser when compared to Aemon. Men were easy; they just found the one thing they liked and asked a question about it, with a level of desire and intrigue that would cause the man to show off his knowledge. Find out the desire and cause the man to think all the woman desires is to know this topic, and the man would speak and speak, continue on and on.

The squires wanted nothing more than to flirt with a princess, especially a Valyrian princess, more still, Viserra the Beauty. They would wish to speak of how great they were, and she listened and pretended to care. They would speak of great tourneys and battles at the Colosseum. But she didn't care; they weren't dragon lords or great princes, nor had they won wars. She would not admit that Aemon fit all three categories, but she would listen to them as they boosted, happy to have the ear of the realm's princess. She would ask who would best work in a fight and watch as squires fought over one another, claiming their skill, just enough to cover the fact she was drawing on their iniquity to try and prove themselves by hiding it under the competitive nature between one another.

But it was not just her physical charms that ensnared the hearts of those around her; the subtle hint of innocence lurked beneath her sultry exterior. Viserra knew how to play the part of the innocent maiden, casting herself as the object of desire and longing, a delicate flower waiting to be plucked by the hand of fate.

With each flutter of her lashes and coy smile, Viserra wove her spell, drawing the men deeper into her web of intrigue and desire. As the day wore on and the sun began to dip below the horizon, she knew she had succeeded in her mission, leaving a trail of smitten hearts in her wake. Viserra was a seductress whose allure knew no bounds.

She had thought of seducing the squires and several knights from Drone but chose otherwise. It was an open secret between all the Seven Kingdoms that Aemon, after besting the Dornish in the Fifth Dorinish War, the Black Burn of Summerhall, had tried to foster positive trading relations between three of the most important Houses, outside the Martells, in Dorne, the Yronwoods, Fowlers, and Daynes. She had heard from Saera that the Yornwoods were more wealthy than the Martells, the Daynes had far better swordsmen, and the Fowlers themselves, while not open of their strength outside of Drone, were secretly able to oppose the Martells if needed. Each one of the three Houses was capable of contending with the Martells.

Saera even said that, like the Riverlands, Dorne had far too strong bannermen, far too strong and independent, and only the pride in Rhoynar blood and the strength of Dorne itself was enough to keep the more independent and powerful of Houses to do as they wished. It had taken much effort from Aemon to convince the three Houses to start any training relations, five years worth of it, and once the profits grew exponentially, Aemon reached out to foster some of their squires and knights to show positive relations. Viserra knew that if she truly tried to bring one of their squires into her scheme, she would ruin anything that Aemon had tried, and while she desired his attention, she did not want his ire, ruining his plans with the three Houses of Dorne would win her nothing but his pure anger. She knew not why he was dealing with those Houses, but she knew that there was discontent with those Houses and House Martell, and Aemon would be enraged if Viserra destroyed the work he had already started and was invested in.

Viserra Targaryen, a vision of allure and grace, stood before the assembled squires with a coy smile playing on her lips, her eyes dancing with mischief. As she surveyed the eager faces before her, she knew that she held them in the palm of her hand, their desire to prove themselves to her palpable in the air.

With a playful twinkle in her eye, Viserra leaned in close, her voice a soft purr that sent shivers down the spines of those who listened. "My dear squires," she began, her words dripping with honeyed sweetness, "As many of you know, my sworn shield, Ser Anderon Blackwood, passed due to wounds he sustained from the Colosseum during Aegon's Day. I am in need of a brave and strong protector. Someone who is not afraid to face danger head-on and would do anything to ensure my safety. My nephew is known to be a difficult man with a most high position. Trust me when I say that any man who becomes my knight is a man closely tied to my dear nephew. But only a man of courage could ever be allowed by Aemon to protect his dear aunt."

A chorus of eager voices rose up in response, each squire vying to prove themselves worthy of Viserra's favor. "I am brave, my lady," one exclaimed, puffing out his chest with pride. "I would lay down my life for you without a moment's hesitation!"

Another squire stepped forward, his eyes alight with determination. "If you but command it, Princess Viserra, I would move mountains and part seas to ensure your safety!"

Viserra Targaryen, her voice dripping with allure, addressed the gathered squires with a coy smile playing upon her lips. "My dear squires," she began, her tone suggestive and teasing, "I have often found myself in need ofprotection... though I must admit, I usually have no shortage of friends willing to come to my aid." She moved ever slightly to showcase her figure.

A ripple of laughter swept through the group as Viserra continued, her words laced with innuendo. "But you see," she murmured huskily, her gaze lingering on each squire in turn, "my greatest protector is not a man but a dragon. Vēttir, my faithful companion, is always by my side."

A chorus of murmurs and whispers broke out among the squires, their eyes widening with a mixture of awe and trepidation at the mention of the legendary creature. One brave squire dared to speak up, his voice tinged with bravado. "A dragon, my lady?" he chuckled. "I'd say there's no better guardian than that!"

"Princess, I think I can say with no sense of humiliation that I cannot compare to the protection of a dragon," he said with a chuckle.

Viserra's lips curled into a knowing smile as she leaned in closer to the young men, her words a sultry whisper that sent shivers down their spines. "Oh, you have no idea," she purred, her tone laden with suggestion. "I spend so much time with my dragon, you see... and let's just say, he's quite... formidable. Dragons are known for their large size, after all," she said. She noticed but did not let it be known that all the squires stared at her chest.

Viserra's laughter, melodious and enchanting, filled the air like the tinkling of silver bells. "Ah, but my dear squires, have you ever spent time with a dragon?" she teased, her words laced with playful innuendo. "For I assure you, they can be quite...demanding." Her lips were full, and her voice was husky. "Riding dragons is truly such a tiring affair," she said, her voice deep and filled with honey. She moved just enough of her form for all the squires to look at her unholy, lustful body. Maegelle once told her that Viserra was graced with an angel's face but the mind and body of succubus, brought up from the hells to claim a poor, unthinking soul.

A chorus of nervous chuckles erupted from the squires, their eyes wide with anticipation and curiosity. Viserra leaned in closer, her gaze smoldering with intensity as she continued to weave her spell of seduction.

"So tell me, brave squires," she whispered a sultry whisper that sent shivers down their spines. Are you prepared to face the trials that come with winning the affection of a dragon's mistress?" No one said a word. No one spoke. It was as though the sound was ripped from their bodies. Viserra's soft and alluring voice cut through the tension like a knife. "My dear squires," she murmured, her gaze sweeping over them with a mixture of desire and mischief, "you speak of strength and bravery, yet you tremble at the mere mention of a dragon." She moved closer to them, her movements graceful and seductive, as she continued to weave her web of temptation. "Know this," Viserra whispered, her breath warm against one squire's ears, "one day, I shall be sold off and married to some lord, but his wealth and title will not win my affections." Her words dripped with sensuality as she spoke of her desires, her voice a siren's call that beckoned them closer. "I crave only the embrace of a strong and brave knight, a man who is unafraid to ride alongside me on the back of a dragon."

A squire, emboldened by Viserra's words, stepped forward with a boastful grin. "There is no man stronger than I," he declared, puffing out his chest with pride.

But before he could finish, another squire interjected, his voice filled with bravado. "Nay, I am braver still," he countered, his eyes gleaming with determination.

A third squire joined the debate, his words echoing with confidence. "And I am both strong and brave," he proclaimed, his voice ringing out with conviction.

Viserra listened to their boasts with a knowing smile, her eyes alight with amusem*nt. "Ah, but talk is cheap, my dear squires," she teased, her tone playful yet tinged with desire. "Actions speak louder than words; if you wish to prove yourselves worthy of my favor, you must be willing to undertake a true test of courage."

The squires leaned in closer, eager to hear Viserra's challenge. "Tell us, my lady," one of them asked, his voice trembling with anticipation, "what must we do to prove ourselves to you?"

Viserra's lips curved into a seductive smile as she revealed her proposition. "Any squire, any man who dares to venture into the Dragoncaves and place their head in a dragon's mouth, shall earn my maidenhead," she declared, her words hanging in the air like a tantalizing promise. "And once you are knighted, you shall be mine forevermore."

The squires exchanged uncertain glances, their hearts pounding with fear and desire. Viserra's offer was both tempting and terrifying, a test of courage that would separate the weak from the strong. And as they stood before her, caught in the web of her allure, they knew that the path to her heart lay shrouded in peril and passion alike.

The group of squires, about a dozen in total, followed Viserra into the depths of the Dragoncaves, their hearts pounding with a mixture of fear and anticipation. Each squire was armed with nothing but a torch and their courage, their footsteps echoing through the cavernous tunnels like whispers in the dark.

The Dragoncaves were a labyrinthine maze of winding passages and shadowy alcoves, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and ancient stone. The flickering light of their torches cast eerie shadows upon the walls, creating an atmosphere of unease as they ventured deeper into the unknown.

Viserra led the way with an air of confidence, her movements graceful and fluid as she navigated the treacherous terrain with ease. She seemed to know the caves like the back of her hand, guiding the squires through narrow passageways and hidden alcoves with a sense of purpose.

As they journeyed deeper into the heart of the Dragoncaves, the darkness seemed to close in around them like a suffocating cloak, enveloping them in a shroud of uncertainty. The sound of dripping water echoed through the caverns, a constant reminder of the ever-present threat of danger lurking in the shadows.

Despite their fear, the squires pressed on, driven by a mixture of curiosity and the desire to prove themselves to Viserra. Viserra thought it was in small part for the desire to f*ck her. Each step forward brought them closer to their goal, yet also deeper into the unknown depths of the Dragoncaves.

Hours passed as they ventured deeper into the labyrinth, their torches burning low as they continued their journey through the darkness. The walls of the cave seemed to twist and turn, leading them ever further into the heart of the mountain.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they reached their destination: a vast chamber deep within the bowels of the Dragoncaves. The air was thick with anticipation as they stood on the threshold, their hearts pounding with a mixture of fear and excitement.

Viserra turned to the squires, her eyes gleaming with a mixture of mischief and desire. "This is it," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the sound of their own breathing.

Viserra stood her ground, her heart pounding in exhilaration as the majestic form of Vēttir emerged from the shadows of the Dragoncaves. The dragon's scales shimmered in the dim light, their maroon-red hue matching Viserra's dress and necklace. Each scale was the size of a shield, gleaming like polished rubies in the torchlight, and they seemed to ripple and dance with a life of their own as Vēttir moved.

As Vēttir approached, her massive wings unfurled with a powerful sweep, casting long shadows across the cavern walls. The air thrummed with the deep resonance of her roar, a sound that echoed through the labyrinthine tunnels like thunder rolling across the sky. Yet beneath the roar was a melodic trill, a soft and soothing sound that seemed to emanate from the very soul of the dragon.

The squires stood frozen in fear as Vēttir drew nearer, their faces pale and their hands trembling. The sounds of other dragons hidden within the cave reverberated through the air, their low growls and ominous rumblings adding to the sense of dread that hung heavy in the darkness.

The Dragoncaves were a sight to behold, their walls lined with ancient carvings and intricate patterns that spoke of a long-forgotten time. Yet now, they served as a foreboding backdrop to the unfolding scene, their dark recesses filled with unseen dangers and lurking shadows.

The squires hesitated, their courage faltering in the face of such overwhelming terror. Each step they took seemed to echo through the cavern, the sound amplified by the oppressive silence that enveloped them like a suffocating blanket. And as they stood on the precipice of the unknown, they knew that they were at the mercy of forces far greater than themselves, for the Dragoncaves held secrets that few dared to uncover.

Viserra watched as the squires remained frozen in fear, their eyes wide with terror as they stared at the colossal form of Vēttir. She knew she needed to spur them onward, to push them past their paralyzing fright. Though she despised the idea of revealing herself in such a vulnerable state to anyone other than Aemon, she understood the necessity of her actions.

Viserra's heart pounded in her chest as she made her decision, her mind racing with conflicting emotions. She knew what she was about to do would be considered scandalous by any measure, but she also knew that it was necessary to achieve her goal. With a trembling hand, Viserra reached for the straps of her sleeveless dress, her heart pounding with trepidation.

With a determined resolve, she reached for the straps of her dress, pulling them down with a slow, deliberate motion. As she slid the fabric aside, the dress cascaded to the ground in a soft whisper, revealing her ample bosom to the stunned onlookers. Her breasts, round and full, spilled forth from their confines, their pale pink nipples standing proudly in the cool air of the cavern.

Viserra possessed an hourglass figure that would make even the most renowned courtesans of Lys envious. The flickering torchlight accentuated her curves, casting shadows that danced across her flawless skin. Her waist was slender, her hips enticingly curved, and her legs long and shapely, adorned with the delicate lines of femininity.

Her skin glowed like moonlight on snow, smooth and flawless, and the subtle curves of her muscles hinted at the strength that lay beneath her delicate exterior. But it was her breasts that commanded attention, full and round, with nipples as pink and inviting as the petals of a rose. They swayed gently with each movement, drawing the eye like a beacon in the night, and the sight of them sent a shiver of desire down the spines of the watching squires.

And between her thighs lay a thick bush of silvery-blonde pubic hair, unshaven and untouched, a tantalizing glimpse of the forbidden hidden beneath her skirts. The sight of her unshaven intimacy, just slightly trimmed and tantalizingly exposed, sent a surge of primal lust coursing through their veins.

Viserra's face truly captivated those who beheld her. With silvery long hair cascading down her back like a waterfall of moonlight, her lilac eyes sparkled with an otherworldly beauty. Her features were ethereal, her skin as smooth as porcelain, and her lips full and inviting, painted with a rosy hue that beckoned to be kissed.

Her body, sinfully beautiful in every way imaginable. From the soft curve of her neck to the gentle swell of her hips, she exuded an aura of allure that was impossible to resist. And as the squires gazed upon her with unabashed desire, their eyes alight with longing, Viserra knew that she had succeeded in her aim to spur them onward, even if it meant baring herself in the most vulnerable of ways.

A squire, his face contorted with a mixture of fear and determination, took hesitant steps toward Vēttir, the massive maroon dragon that loomed before him. His heart pounded in his chest like a drumbeat of impending doom, every fiber of his being screaming at him to turn and flee. Yet, something compelled him forward, a reckless impulse driven by the intoxicating allure of Viserra's naked form and the promise of glory that lay beyond.

As he drew nearer to Vēttir, the dragon's towering form seemed to swell with menace, its crimson scales gleaming like molten lava in the dim light of the Dragoncaves. The squire's breath caught in his throat as he beheld the sheer magnitude of the creature before him, its one-footed stature a testament to the raw power that lay within.

Fear etched lines of terror across the squire's face, his eyes wide with disbelief at the sight before him. Every instinct screamed at him to flee, to run as far and as fast as his legs would carry him, but still, he pressed on, driven by a desperate desire to prove himself worthy in the eyes of Viserra.

With each step closer to the dragon, the tension in the air grew palpable, thickening like a suffocating fog around them. The squire's muscles tensed, his heart hammering in his chest as he braced himself for whatever fate awaited him. He stole a glance back at Viserra, her naked form bathed in the soft glow of the Dragoncaves, a vision of temptation and danger that spurred him onward.

Vēttir, the colossal maroon dragon, loomed menacingly over the squire who dared to approach. Every inch of the dragon's massive frame seemed to quiver with latent fury, its eyes blazing with an infernal fire that spoke of untold power and wrath.

As the squire drew closer, Vēttir's growls reverberated through the cavernous space, the sound echoing off the walls with a bone-chilling intensity. The dragon's jaws parted in a menacing snarl, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth gleaming in the faint light, ready to rend flesh from bone with a single swipe.

But before Vēttir could unleash its fury upon the helpless squire, a deafening roar echoed through the Dragoncaves, a primal cry that seemed to shake the very foundations of the mountain range itself. The sound reverberated through the chamber like a thunderclap, sending shockwaves rippling through the air and causing all present to fall to their knees in awe and terror. All were forced to cover their ears.

Even Vēttir, mighty as it was, seemed momentarily taken aback by the sheer force of the roar, its growls faltering as it recoiled in response. The dragon's eyes darted towards the source of the sound, its gaze filled with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation, before slowly retreating back into the depths of the caves from whence it came.

Viserra, still reeling from the sudden turn of events, watched in bewilderment as the dragon vanished into the shadows, her mind racing with questions and uncertainty. Balerion, that roar belonged to Balerion, and the dragon was often quiet unless a dragon was dumb enough to enter his territory. In the more common case, Aemon was purely enraged. Aemon often kept his emotions in check and never showed them, but Balerion was connected to them. Aemon may not show his rage but Balerion acted on it.

Before she could gather her thoughts, a flurry of armored figures burst into the labyrinth, their swords drawn and their expressions grim. They wasted no time seizing the squires, their swift and efficient movements as they restrained the bewildered young men.

Viserra's confusion deepened as she watched the knights apprehend the squires, her mind swirling with questions about how they had been discovered and who had sent the knights to intervene. The sudden appearance of the armored men only added to the mystery of the situation, leaving Viserra grappling with a sense of unease and apprehension about what was to come.

And then, amidst the chaos and confusion, Viserra's gaze fell upon her nephew, Aemon, his dark almost black eyes blazing with an intensity that she had never seen before. Gone was the quiet, brooding demeanor that he so often wore like a cloak of shadows; in its place was pure, unbridled rage, a tempest of emotion that threatened to consume her whole.

The sheer ferocity of Aemon's expression sent a shiver down Viserra's spine, his glare piercing through her with an intensity that made her feel as though she were standing naked before a winter storm. In that moment, she realized that she had never truly seen the depths of her nephew's wrath until now, and it filled her with a cold dread unlike anything she had ever known.

Viserra's heart hammered in her chest as she turned to face her nephew, Aemon. His dark eyes were ablaze with a fury that seemed to radiate from the very depths of his soul. Aemon's brooding countenance, framed by locks of jet-black hair that fell in disarray around his face, was a stark contrast to the rage that contorted his features into a mask of pure wrath.

Without a word, Aemon swiftly removed the wolf's fur cloak from his back and draped it over Viserra's nude form, his movements deliberate and purposeful as he shielded her from prying eyes. The gesture was both protective and possessive.

As Aemon helped her to her feet, Viserra could feel the weight of his anger pressing down upon her like a suffocating blanket. His grip was firm yet gentle as he guided her out of the Dragoncaves. With each step they took, the tension between them hung heavy in the air, a palpable reminder of the tumultuous events that had just unfolded.

In that moment, as they emerged from the darkness of the caves into the dim light of the outside world, Viserra couldn't help but feel a sense of unease gnawing at her insides. For she knew that whatever had transpired in the depths of the Dragoncaves had changed something between them, something irrevocable that would linger long after the echoes of their footsteps had faded into the night.

Aemon's anger simmered beneath the surface like a dormant volcano, threatening to erupt at any moment. Yet, despite the tempest raging within him, he couldn't ignore the concern etched into every line of his face as he hovered over Viserra, his dark eyes piercing hers with a mixture of fury and worry.

"Are you alright?" Aemon's voice was a low rumble, laced with an undercurrent of barely contained rage. "Did they lay a hand on you? Did they harm you in any way?" Aemon's jaw clenched with a quiet rage, his hands balling into fists at his sides as he fought to contain the fury that threatened to consume him. "If they harmed you in any way," he growled, his voice low and dangerous, "I will make them rue the day they crossed you. I will feed them to Balerion himself."

Viserra felt a swell of gratitude at Aemon's genuine concern, tempered though it was by the seething anger that radiated from him like heat from a forge. She shook her head faintly, her voice barely more than a whisper as she reassured him, "I'm fine, Aemon. They didn't touch me, they didn't... do anything."

Aemon's brow furrowed with a deepening scowl, his next question spoken with a vehemence that made Viserra flinch. "Did they strip you naked? Tell me, Viserra, did they dare to lay eyes upon you in such a manner?"

Viserra shook her head again, her gaze dropping momentarily before meeting Aemon's once more. "No, they... they didn't, Aemon. I swear."

Aemon's jaw clenched visibly harsher, his fists balling at his sides as he struggled to contain the torrent of emotions roiling within him. Viserra could see the battle raging behind his dark eyes, the conflict between his fierce protective instincts and his simmering rage threatening to consume him.

"Why were you in the Dragoncaves alone, Viserra?" Aemon's voice was tight with restrained fury, his words a barely controlled growl. "Without an escort, without protection... What were you thinking?"

Viserra felt a pang of guilt gnawing at her conscience as she met Aemon's gaze, knowing that her actions had only added fuel to the fire of his anger. Yet, even as she braced herself for his reprimand, she couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for her nephew, trapped in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.

Aemon's jaw tightened with renewed resolve, his dark eyes ablaze with an intensity that belied the turmoil raging within him. "You should have known better," he admonished sternly, his tone laced with a mixture of reproach and affection. "It's not safe to wander the Dragoncaves alone, especially not with a group of squires with glory and lust on their minds and balls full of seed."

Viserra nodded, her expression chastened as she took in the gravity of Aemon's words. "I know, Aemon," she whispered softly, her voice tinged with remorse. "I'm sorry."

Aemon's gaze softened slightly, his anger giving way to a profound sense of protectiveness as he gently cups Viserra's cheek in his hand. "I'm just glad you're safe," he murmured, his voice tinged with emotion.

Viserra's voice trembled with a mixture of defiance and fear as she turned to face her nephew, her lilac eyes flashing with a hint of defiance. "How did you know I was there?" she demanded, her tone laced with accusation.

Aemon's expression darkened with a shadow of frustration as he cast a pointed glance in her direction. "One of the guards overheard you," he replied tersely, his voice tinged with exasperation. "He heard you offering yourself to any man foolish enough to face a dragon."

Viserra's cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she recoiled from his words, a sense of shame washing over her at the realization of her folly. "I... I didn't think anyone would take me seriously," she lied to herself, her voice barely above a whisper. She knew had manipulated the situation but she did not think she would win so much of Aemon's rage. Aemon was never angry. Brooding and solemn, yes, but angry and wrathful, never.

Aemon's brow furrowed in consternation as he shook his head in disbelief. "That was a foolish thing to do, Viserra," he admonished sternly, his tone tinged with reproach. "You could have gotten yourself killed."

Viserra's gaze dropped to the ground, her shoulders slumping with the weight of her own guilt. "I was with Vēttir," she protested weakly, her voice tinged with desperation. "I thought she would protect me."

Aemon's expression softened slightly, his dark eyes filled with a mixture of concern and frustration. "You know as well as I do that being bonded to a dragon doesn't guarantee your safety," he reminded her gently, his tone tinged with regret. "Dragons are territorial creatures. They won't hesitate to attack anyone who threatens their domain."

Viserra's heart sank at his words, a cold shiver running down her spine as she contemplated the gravity of her situation. "But Vēttir would protect me," she insisted stubbornly, her voice tinged with defiance.

Aemon's gaze softened with a mixture of pity and understanding as he reached out to gently grasp Viserra's trembling hand in his own. "Would Vēttir be able to save you from Balerion?" he asked softly, his voice tinged with sadness.

Viserra's breath caught in her throat, her eyes widening with a dawning sense of realization as the weight of Aemon's words settled heavily upon her shoulders. "I... I don't know," she whispered hoarsely, her voice barely above a whisper.

Aemon sighed heavily, his heart aching with a profound sense of remorse as he pulled Viserra into a strong embrace, his arms enveloping her trembling form with a reassuring warmth. "I'm sorry, Viserra," he murmured softly, his voice filled with regret. "I didn't mean to scare you. I just... I couldn't bear the thought of losing you."

Viserra buried her face against Aemon's chest, her tears mingling with the fabric of his cloak as she clung to him desperately, seeking solace in the comforting embrace of her nephew. In that moment, all the walls she had built around her heart crumbled away, leaving her vulnerable and exposed in the arms of the one person she trusted above all others.

Viserra did not notice that Aemon led her to his room. She was in a mixture of emotions. She had made a mistake; that was clear. She received Aemon's attention. However, she had never seen him so angered, so disappointed. It felt wrong. She felt wrong. She regretted her choice, something she had not done often. Viserra did not care for the squires; she did not care if they died. Boys die doing stupid things all the time. But Aemon was angry, and that was something she did not like. The concern she had expected, pure rage that melted through his cool face, she disliked it; she had taken things too far. Was this how Aemon reacted to Aerea? To Saera? Aemon had taken them aside to look over them, and Viserra and her sisters had not seen his reaction to either of their actions, but they assumed it was a punishment, not equal parts worry and pure unadulterated rage. For the first time, Viserra did not see a Targaryen with the fiery and bloody scales of a dragon, but a dragon who had been as cold as the North, and it was jarring.

As Viserra drifted into the realm of sleep, she found herself enveloped in a strange sense of tranquility, cradled within the comforting embrace of Aemon's presence. His chest's rhythmic rise and fall beneath her cheek served as a soothing lullaby, lulling her weary mind into a state of serenity. Yet, even in the depths of slumber, she remained acutely aware of the weight of his gaze upon her, a silent sentinel guarding her against the encroaching shadows of the night.

Throughout the long hours that stretched into the depths of the night, Viserra remained ensconced in the warmth of Aemon's embrace, her mind drifting between moments of restless wakefulness and fleeting dreams. She felt the gentle rhythm of his breathing, the steady cadence of his heartbeat, a silent testament to his unwavering vigilance over her fragile form. Yet, despite the encompassing stillness that surrounded them, she could not shake the sense of unease that lingered within the recesses of her mind.

As dawn broke upon the horizon, casting its ethereal glow across the chamber, Viserra found herself awash in a tumult of conflicting emotions. Regret gnawed at the edges of her consciousness, a bitter reminder of the consequences of her reckless actions. She berated herself for having caused Aemon such distress and allowed her desires to cloud her judgment and jeopardize their tenuous bond.

Yet, a flicker of defiance stirred within her breast even amid the shadows of remorse. She refused to yield to the constraints of convention, to the stifling expectations that sought to confine her spirit. In the throes of uncertainty, she found solace in the knowledge that she had dared to defy the confines of propriety, to chart her own course amidst the tumultuous currents of fate.

A servant told Viserra the following morning that Aemon had summoned her to his solar. She was anxious as she got ready, in the halls and walked through them, and at the door with several guards waiting outside her nephew's room. She stepped into Aemon's solar; she was met with a scene of tranquil normalcy. Aemon sat at his table, his features masked in a veil of stoic composure, while her sisters conversed in hushed tones, their expressions betraying no hint of the events that had transpired in the darkness of night. It was as though the tumult of the previous evening had been naught but a fleeting dream, a shadowy specter vanquished by the light of day.

Aemon sat at his imposing desk, a formidable structure wrought from dragon bones as black as the abyss and wierwood bark as white as freshly fallen snow. The desk commanded attention, its intricate carvings depicting scenes of ancient battles and long-forgotten legends, casting an aura of solemnity over the chamber.

Aemon's quil danced across the parchment with practiced precision, the scratching sound echoing softly in the stillness of the room. He was engrossed in his task, his brow furrowed in concentration as he meticulously penned his thoughts onto the blank canvas before him. Ghost, the white dire wolf the size of a large bear, lay resting by his side.

Meanwhile, Viserra's sisters were scattered throughout the solar, engaged in various activities, their presence lending an air of familial warmth to the chamber. Saerea sat beside Aemon, poring over the stack of papers and letters that adorned his desk, her keen intellect dissecting the contents with scholarly precision.

Maegelle and Rhaella occupied a corner of the room, their heads bent together in earnest conversation. They spoke in hushed tones, their voices laced with concern as they exchanged news of their recent endeavors within the Summer Sept. Their words carried the weight of shared responsibility, a testament to their unwavering dedication to their duties.

Meanwhile, Daenerys sat at the window ledge, her slender fingers deftly crafting a delicate arrow with practiced ease. Her gaze was focused, her mind lost in the intricacies of her craft as she worked tirelessly to perfect her creation. Aerea was cleaning her sword, Oathkeeper, as she nodded at Viserra. Aerea and Daenerys engaged in a lively debate over the events that had transpired on the training grounds, their voices rising and falling in animated discourse.

Their greetings were warm but devoid of any hint of the tumultuous events that had transpired in the previous night's darkness. It was as though not one of them had heard of how she had caused Aemon to be so wrothful.

Daenerys was the first to voice her inquiry. Her impulsive nature was barely contained beneath a facade of curiosity, her words cutting through the silence like a dagger. "Why have you gathered us here, Aemon?" she asked, her tone tinged with a hint of urgency. She was not patient, and Aemon was wearing her down to the bone.

Aemon finally placed his quill down, which was enough to stop everyone else from speaking, and now he was giving him all of their attention. Aemon's expression weary yet resolute, drew a heavy sigh before responding. "Because," he began, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken truths, "you are all sisters despite your differences. Every single last one of you seems to be more alike than any one of you would care to admit, and yesterday was more proof than I wanted in a lifetime."

Aerea, her skepticism palpable and her temper barely restrained, scoffed at Aemon's words. "I am not like Viserra and her vanity," she retorted, her tone laced with defiance, "nor am I like Maegelle and her sanctimonious piety."

Maegelle interjected gently, ever the voice of reason and compassion, seeking clarity amidst the brewing storm of emotions. Viserra doubted Maegelle would ever be angered enough to stoop low to the low blow Aerea had done, Maegelle never did anything wrong. Aerea makes it seem that Maegelle's religious ways were uncalled for, a little much, even for Viserra. "What do you mean, Aemon?" she inquired, her gaze fixed on her nephew with a mixture of concern and curiosity.

Aemon sighed heavily, his gaze drifting to the parchment strewn across his desk. "I have spent these past days secluded in my solar, attending to matters of the realm. I have been drowning in a sea of parchment, and Saera and Maester Vaegon are the only ones who were able to aid me in it," he explained wearily. He paused, his dark eyes scanning the faces of his sisters. "It seems that each of you, in your own way, sought to capture my attention and draw me out of my solar," he continued, his voice tinged with frustration. "But in doing so, you only succeeded in causing discord and strife." Aemon's words hung in the air, the weight of his disappointment palpable. "I will not divulge who did what and which of you did the most stupid of actions to take my attention. But somehow, each of you decided to take up my solidarity and deal with it separately, all on the same day. Frankly, each of you did something stupid and I was stuck for the entirety of the day trying to clean one mess after another," he declared firmly, his jaw set in determination. "But know this: I have delayed this conversation far too long." Aemon's frustration simmered beneath the surface as he slammed the stack of letters onto the table, their weight heavy with the burden of expectation." Every day since Aegon's Day," Aemon began, his voice tinged with weariness, "I have been inundated with requests for betrothals from nearly every House in the realm."

Daenerys's voice rose in disbelief. "Every day?" she exclaimed, her eyes widening in shock.

Aemon nodded solemnly. "Every day," he confirmed, his gaze fixed on the parchment before him.

Aerea, her tone defiant, declared her refusal. "I will not be used as a pawn in some lord's game of politics," she asserted, her silver-blonde hair catching the light as she spoke. "I will not marry a man who sees me only as a Princess or covets my dragon."

Aemon's response was grim but resigned. "Unfortunately, Aerea, finding a lord who desires neither your title nor your dragon is a near-impossible task," he admitted, his voice heavy with regret. "I'm sorry, but the truth of the matter is that every man in the kingdoms wants a dragon and the connection to the crown. As a Prince of Summerhall and your nephew, I must at least navigate this and decrease the chance of me making a new House of dragon riders."

Viserra, her mind still clouded with the previous night's events, spoke up hesitantly. "I, too, will not marry outside of Valyrian blood," she confessed, her lilac eyes flickering with uncertainty. Aerea and Daenerys looked at each other and then at Viserra, wondering why she was so hesitant; Viserra cursed herself for not being able to hide her hesitation.

Aemon's expression softened slightly at his aunt's words. "While I understand your sentiments, Viserra," he said gently, "the reality remains that every lord in the Seven Kingdoms seeks to secure an alliance with House Targaryen."

Maegelle, ever the voice of reason, offered her perspective. "I never imagined myself marrying," she admitted softly, her gaze drifting to the window. "If not for my dragon, I would have likely become a septa."

Aerea's laughter filled the room, the sound a mixture of amusem*nt and relief. "I knew it," she exclaimed triumphantly, a mischievous glint in her eye as she glanced at her sisters.

Aemon then grabs more letters from his some cabinets under the table and throws them on the table. "I have letters from the North, the Reach, the Westerlands, the Riverlands, the Crownlands, the Free Cities, and even Dorne."

Saera's eyes flitted through the parchment, her expression shifting from curiosity to disbelief as she absorbed its contents. "Dorne?" she exclaimed, her voice tinged with incredulity. "A betrothal letter from Dorne?"

Aemon nodded solemnly, confirming Saera's inquiry. "Indeed," he replied, his tone grave as he read the letter. "Qoren Nymeros Martell seeks the hand of Daenerys Targaryen in marriage."

Daenerys' response was swift and vehement. "Qoren can take his proposal and shove it up his arse!" she declared, her eyes flashing with defiance.

Aerea's laughter rang out in agreement, her silver-blonde hair shimmering in the candlelight. "I second that sentiment," she chimed in, her amusem*nt evident.

Saera, ever the pragmatist, argued her case. "Think about it, Daenerys," she urged, her brow furrowed in concern. "Marrying into House Martell could bring Dorne into the fold of the Seven Kingdoms. It could strengthen our position, especially if Aemon is to ascend the throne."

Daenerys's resolve remained unshaken. "I will not be bartered away like some political pawn," she retorted, her voice laced with determination. "I will marry for love, not for the sake of political alliances."

Aemon's sigh echoed through the room, his weariness palpable. "In many Houses, the women do as they are bid without question," he remarked, his gaze heavy with resignation.

Viserra, ever the voice of dissent, offered a rebuttal. "But we are not like other Houses," she interjected, her tone firm. "We are dragonlords, and our blood runs hot with the fire of our ancestors. We do not bow to the whims of politics; we carve our own path."

Aemon unveiled the contents of yet another letter, each word carrying the weight of destiny. "I have a proposal from Lord Corlys for Maegelle," Aemon announced, his voice solemn as he regarded his aunt. That had taken all of their attention, and Viserra turned quickly to give Aemon all of her attention. " Corlys, on behalf of Laenor Velaryon, seeks her hand in marriage." Viserra should not be surprised. Corlys was not dumb enough to ask for a princess and give a son of one of his brothers or cousins as the groom.

Aerea's laughter rang out like a bell, sharp and piercing. "You'd be wedded to a sword swallower, Maegelle," she teased, her tone laced with mischief. Aerea laughed, a single loud bark of laughter before Daenerys smacked Aerea upside the head to make her quiet down. Aerea returned by kicking her sister off the ledge she was lying on.

Maegelle's expression remained composed, her eyes betraying her inner turmoil. "I cannot marry a man who sins against the Seven," she declared, her voice steady with conviction.

Viserra joined in the jest, her laughter echoing through the chamber like a cascade of silver bells, she would force herself to sound as she normally was. "If that were the case, none of us would ever marry," she quipped, her lilac eyes dancing with amusem*nt.

Aemon interjected, his tone grave as he sought to dispel the levity.

Aemon's brooding face turned to the letters. "Laenor Velaryon is a dragonlord and heir to Driftmark," he explained, his voice tinged with urgency. "By uniting our bloodlines, we ensure the preservation of our dragon-riding heritage. House Velaryon is one of the wealthiest families in the realm, and their alliance would help mend the fractures caused by the Grand Council of 101 AC." No one said anything against it; Aemon had a point. He always had a point; it was annoying that he was often right.

As the weight of Aemon's words settled upon them, Viserra's attention was drawn to the letter in his hand. "And what of me?" she inquired, her gaze steady as she awaited his response. "I must have received a letter better than all of the dear sisters, tenfold even," she chuckled to herself.

Aemon's expression remained impassive as he spoke. "For Viserra, I have a letter from the North." He grabbed the letter by breaking the wax and then began reading it. "Lord Theomore Manderly seeks your hand in marriage," he revealed, his words hanging heavy in the air.

Viserra's response was swift and unequivocal. "I will not be wed to an old man who has already sired sons and grandsons," she declared, her voice firm with resolve. "I would just be his fifth wife. Not the first, but his f*cking fifth. And the man is old enough to be my grandfather!"

Saera then spoke, her own eyes filled with rare mirth. "Our father was old enough to be our great-grand-sire, remember that." Saera then smirked when Viserra returned a glare. "But I will concede that it would not be much benefit for Viserra since the man already has an heir, and his heir has an heir. It would leave Viserra rather far from the line of succession, and it would bleed our family of dragon riding blood for nothing more than a son that might not be born due to Lord Manderly's age, and even if the child was born, it would at least by thirtieth in line for land that is barely fertile by Northern standards. Not wise for us, in truth," Saera pointed out. Viserra gave her sister a nod in appreciation. She might find Saera annoying, but she had her moments. Saera seized a parchment from the cluttered table, her eyes scanning the contents with a mix of curiosity and skepticism. "Lord Bartimos Celtigar seeks Aerea's hand for his son, Clement Celtigar," she announced, her voice ringing clear in the room.

Aerea's response was swift and dismissive. "Celtigar is hardly a House of consequence," she retorted, her tone tinged with disdain.

Aemon, ever the voice of reason, interjected with a measured response. "House Celtigar boasts a storied history, with several members serving on the small council and even as Hand of the King," he countered, his words carrying the weight of authority.

Saera, undeterred, offered a counterpoint laced with ambition. "Marrying into House Celtigar could elevate them to dragonlord status, as it did for the Velaryons through Rhaenys," she proposed, her eyes alight with fervor.

Aemon nodded in agreement, his gaze unwavering. "A House loyal to Valyria and strategically positioned near the Red Keep would prove invaluable," he affirmed, his voice resonating with conviction. "Besides, it would be rather easy for us or those in the Red Keep to manage them; a dragon or two would keep them at bay. At least Celtigar is from Valyria and respects the position of dragon lord and not just the power that comes with it.

Viserra, ever the astute observer, interjected with a wry observation. "It seems the only one advocating for purity of blood is the one whose own lineage is in question," she remarked, her tone laced with subtle irony.

Aemon's response was swift and decisive, his words cutting through the tension like a blade. "Yet it is that same ruler, half-Valyrian though he may be, who commands the loyalty of Summerhall and rides Balerion," he declared, his tone brooking no dissent.

Daenerys, her gaze unwavering, spoke first, her words laced with defiance. "I've yet to encounter a squire, knight, or lord who stirs my interest enough to consider marriage," she declared, her tone resolute.

Aemon's grave expression was countered by a hint of resignation in his voice. "Traditionally, the head of a House dictates marital alliances without regard for the desires of the woman," he explained, his words heavy with the weight of duty.

Her lips curling into a sardonic smile, Daenerys leveled a pointed retort. "You care far too much for our well-being to simply marry us off like bargaining chips," she remarked, her tone dripping with condescension.

Aemon, his patience waning, slammed his fist against the table in frustration. "Then what would you have me do?" he demanded, his voice tinged with exasperation.

Viserra knew what she should say, what she would say the day before, but fought against it; Aemon was angry; his mood had not been better since what she had done last night, and even worse, he was angered at all these betrothals. She fought against what she should say and what she would say; she looked up to see Aerea and Daenerys both looking at her; she assumed both knew she would have said something already. She forced the words out to save face and hide the fact that nothing had happened the night before. Viserra, her voice dripping with sarcasm and pride, offered a suggestion with a touch of defiance. "Perhaps you could simply refuse to marry us off against our will," she proposed her words cutting through the tension like a knife.

Aemon's frustration reached its zenith, his voice raised in a cry of desperation. "Even I do not hold power above tradition and duty! Even if I established the Summerhall and Summertown as separate from the Targaryens of the Red Keep, I am still bound by the dictates of our House!" he exclaimed, his words tinged with resignation. His fist clenched, and then his hand opened, his palm opening wide as if trying to grasp air, to move each finger as far from the other as possible. He only did so when he was truly at his wit's end.

Aemon was often calm and solemn, but he had been far more rash for the last several weeks. Whatever the letters were reading, he must have already been nearing the end of his own sanity, on top of which the Aegon's Day celebration, running a castle, and a city all at the age of four and ten. Viserra had never seen Aemon so tired before.

Saera, her eyes alight with realization, pieced together the puzzle with sudden clarity. "Viserys is pressuring you to secure matches for us and a bride for yourself," she observed, her voice tinged with sympathy.

Daenerys, ever the voice of reason, interjected with a note of protest. "But Aemon is but fourteen, too young to be wed," she protested, her words carrying the weight of concern.

Aemon, his resolve faltering, offered a somber acknowledgment. "Fourteen is old enough for a betrothal," he conceded, his voice heavy with the weight of duty. "King Viserys was married to Queen Aemma when he was fourteen and she was eleven. Viserys has ordered me to secure matches for each of you and myself," he admitted, his tone laden with regret. "We must marry," Aemon uttered, his voice a mere whisper, carrying the weight of resignation. "There is no escaping it. The Night King they may call me, as loath as I am to admit it, but King of the Seven Kingdoms I am not."

Saera then looked to Aemon; she looked to her sisters; she looked tired as well. Viserra could only imagine how much Saera and Aemon went back and forth arguing over this. Neither of them wanted to marry. Frankly, Viserra hadn't ever seen Aemon take an interest in any woman. She would have thought him a sword swallower if not for the fact that she had seen him gaze at her teats and those of Saera and Aerea more times than she had cared to count. Viserra knew that Aemon lusted off a Valyrian's looks; if he didn't, then Viserra would think him an eunuch rather than a sword swallower, and frankly, she didn't know what would hurt his reputation more.

Saera sighed and finally sat down rather than stand the whole time. "We've tried. Aemon and I have tried to put this off as long as possible. We are fifteen years of age. Frankly, most Houses would have at least betrothed us once we bleed. Aemon has been putting it off too long."

Aemon nodded along. "I have no say in this. Uncle Viserys, has given me no room to work with. He wants the Targaryens of Summerhall to be a separate branch House for future generations and stability, and yet he manages almost every decision I make as if I am his second-born son, all the pressure and none the benefit of being the heir. He might not make direct orders to me, but he sends indirect guiding by word of Lord Beesbury whenever the man comes from the Red Keep to speak of finances and the Summer Bank."

His words hung in the air, a somber acknowledgment of the inescapable fate that loomed over them all. Aemon's admission was met with a heavy silence, each member of the room grappling with the gravity of his pronouncement.

Viserra, her facade of allure and seduction momentarily cast aside, regarded Aemon with a mixture of sympathy and understanding. She knew the weight that burdened him, the sacrifices he made for their House, for their family.

With a heavy sigh, Viserra broke the silence, her voice tinged with resignation. "I made my choice long ago," she confessed, her words carrying the weight of inevitability.

Aemon's weary gaze lifted, his eyes meeting hers with a mix of surprise and disbelief. "Thank the gods," he breathed, relief evident in his voice yet tempered with caution."And who is it that you have chosen?" Aemon inquired, his tone tinged with a hint of apprehension.

Viserra's response came without hesitation, her words spoken with unwavering resolve. "I choose you, Aemon," she declared, her voice steady despite the weight of her confession.

Aemon recoiled at her words, his expression a mixture of shock and disbelief. "Viserra," he chided gently, his voice heavy with admonishment.

But Viserra remained steadfast, her gaze unwavering as she explained her decision. "I chose you when you fought for us during the Greyjoy Rebellion," she confessed, her words filled with sincerity. "You fought not just for Summerhall, but for each of us. You protected us, Aemon, when no one else could."

Viserra could see it in his eyes: desire. He wanted to; some part of him wanted to forego choosing anyone and be with her, or mayhaps one of her sisters, but he did not wish to marry some lady of another House. "Marrying me would not benefit the family," Aemon stated firmly, his voice tinged with conviction.

Saera, ever the voice of wisdom, interjected sagely. "Marrying within the family would consolidate our strength," she countered, her tone measured and thoughtful. "It would reduce the chance of another family gaining dragons."

Aemon furrowed his brow, his gaze unwavering as he contemplated her words. "Isolating ourselves from the realm could be detrimental," he argued, his voice steady despite the weight of his concerns. "Integration into all the kingdoms would serve us better in the long run."

Viserra, her demeanor as regal as ever, scoffed at his suggestion. "We ride dragons," she declared haughtily. "Dragons are more than enough to keep the other Houses in check."

Aerea, her resolve unyielding, added her voice to the debate. "Power and strength keep the lords in check," she asserted, her words carrying the weight of her convictions.

But Aemon remained steadfast in his beliefs, his tone resolute as he addressed the gathering. "There is more to ruling than fear and subjugation," he argued, his voice unwavering despite the dissenting opinions. "Marriages of alliance breed loyalty. Any man who can win a war with words alone is far more powerful than one who relies solely on strength."

Saera, her gaze steady, nodded in agreement. "The ability to maintain authority and prevent others from overreaching is paramount," she concurred, her words echoing with wisdom. "Marrying within the family allows us to keep the dragons, to maintain our strength."

Aemon nodded in acknowledgment, his gaze flickering with understanding. "We must marry for an alliance," he concluded, his voice a solemn decree in the midst of uncertainty. "I understand the need to keep the blood pure, but marrying one of you to the Velaryons or the Celtigars would keep them pure, bring more dragon riders, and both other Houses would never betray us even if they had as many dragons as us. We keep them in check, gain new dragon lords, gain an alliance, and keep the blood as pure as possible; marrying within House Targaryen does not give us an alliance, and frankly, I don't see us making more dragon lords; just keeping it within the family."

"If you want more dragon lords, we could just f*ck until you have more than enough," Aerea said boldly. Daenerys went to hit her sister; Aerea ducked, and while ducking, she did not notice Daenerys kicked behind the knee, causing her legs to give out and making Aerea collapse. Daenerys chuckled and fixed her dress.

"Marrying one another would ensure that our children are of purer blood," Saera stated with a hint of resignation, her gaze fixed on Aemon.

Aemon's response was swift and decisive. "Conversely, it would dilute your blood and that of your sisters," he countered, his tone tinged with a sense of duty. "Marrying into a pure Valyrian House would ensure the purity of our lineage. Each of you could marry a Celtigar or Velaryon; then your pureblood children could be married back into the Targaryen line to help purify it once more. Rhaenyra is not pure of blood; on three-fourths Valriryian, I am only half; the Corlys's children are less Valryian since Rhaenys is part Baratheon who is not full-Valyrian themselves. But the Velaryon cousins are pure; all the Celtigars are pure. Chances are Rhaenyra will not marry of pureblood, and frankly, I dislike the notion of us losing the blood to the point where we have fewer and fewer able to ride dragons."

Daenerys's features etched with amusem*nt couldn't help but interject with a sardonic chuckle. "Is the bloodline all you care about, Aemon?" she queried, her voice laced with skepticism.

Aemon turned to her with a serious gaze. Daenerys may have been the freer and more caring of Viserra's more outspoken sisters, but even she knew when Aemon was growing too serious and angry to continue baiting him. "How much Valyrian blood in our body is too little for us to even mount a dragon, Daenerys?" Aemon turned to her, but she said nothing. He then turned to all of her sisters, and no one said anything. "None of us know, and I am not keen on finding out, for it would be too late when we do. How many bastards are out there with Targaryen blood?" Again, no one said anything. "Whatever number it is, we are fewer in number than they. How much longer until someone finds a way to get a bastard on a dragon, and we have a rouge dragon rider? If they take a new hatchling, such as Sunfyre, that is one thing. I could stab a babe dragon with Blackfyre and be done with it. But what if they mount Vermithor? What if they attack King's Landing before we have time to counter? How many would be dead?"

Aerea looked at Aemon; she looked uncomfortable. Viserra could tell, but she would be headstrong. "I think you are overthinking this, Aemon."

Aemon then nodded, conceding the point. "But not a single one of you are thinking of this enough," he replied. "Tell me, how many dragon riders are in the Red Keep? How many does Driftmark?"

"Three," Saera said quickly. "And two."

"They are nearly equal in power; House Targaryen, not including us, is slightly stronger," Aemon said solemnly. "If any one of the riders in Targaryens in the Red Keep dies, and House Velaryon gains another dragon? The power will switch hands. Marrying into the Velaryons would placate them for some time. Marrying a Celtigar may give them a dragon and another House to keep the Velaryons in check, and the Celtigars are nowhere as ambitious to make a bid to test us as the Velaryons often try subtly and likely never will be."

Viserra, ever the voice of defiance, spoke up next. "We should have the right to choose our own partners," she declared, her tone unwavering.

Aemon's frustration simmered beneath the surface, his patience wearing thin. Viserra could see Aemon thinking of something; he said nothing, but she could see in his eyes he was looking far beyond the room he was in. He was thinking of what to do; she could see him thinking of what it would entail to marry one aunt and what betrothals he could gain for the rest of her sisters. "Fine," he relented begrudgingly. "I will consider marrying one of you. But what of the other five?" he demanded, his tone tinged with exasperation.

Viserra's chuckle was like the crackling of flames in the hearth, mischievous and knowing. "Dragons are greedy creatures," she quipped, her lilac eyes glinting with mischief.

Realization dawned on Aemon's features as he processed her words. "You want me to marry all six of you?" he asked incredulously, his voice tinged with disbelief.

Viserra's response was cryptic yet laden with meaning. "On our family sigil, there are seven dragon heads," she remarked, her words lingering in the air like a prophecy waiting to be fulfilled. "It would be a shame to have to change it so soon."

Viserra could see Aemon grow tired; she turned to her sisters and saw them all look at one another. Aemon placed his hand over his face and rubbed his eyes. Her sisters all knew that the only time to convince Aemon, truly convince him, was after he was born and tired. It was manipulative; they all knew this, but they would rather be the ones to keep this weakness in check than some Andal. They knew Aemon; only they could keep him from his worst weakness, his own honor and morality, something that had been dying out, something they all needed to kill for their family's good. Aemon was a monster, or at least she heard him mutter that to himself before, and sometimes a monster keeps the demons at bay, and now many demons looked upon her family's throne.

Aemon lifted his head and looked to Viserra. "It would be unwise to forgo all alliances," Aemon asserted firmly, his tone resolute.

Viserra, ever the fiery one, retorted with defiance. "We are dragons, Aemon. We answer to no one but ourselves," she declared, her words carrying the weight of centuries of Targaryen pride.

Aemon's brow furrowed in frustration as he countered Viserra's argument. "It would cause issues with the faith. They do not take kindly to marrying within the blood. Even marrying within the family could lead to complications, even an aunt and nephew union. Even if we are two generations separated, the commonfolk will not know much difference," he reasoned, his voice tinged with concern.

Maegelle, ever the voice of reason, interjected with a calm demeanor. "The septons made concessions for our family before," she pointed out, her words tempered with wisdom. Viserra, at this moment, was glad Maegelle had taken her teachings in the faith so seriously. "King Jaehaerys made concessions and deals with the faith. The faith prioritized the hatred of incest between Aunt Rhaena Targaryen and Uncle Aegon the Uncrowned over the rise of Maegor's claiming of the throne and the success of the Trial of Seven. The gods had shown the Septons and the faith that due to us being of Valyrian blood and a dying people, marriage to keep pure blood is the sole exception to incest."

Aemon's rebuttal was swift and pointed. "But they have said nothing of marrying multiple wives," he argued, his tone laced with apprehension.

Saera, her expression thoughtful, raised an eyebrow in contemplation. "Aegon the Conqueror had two wives," she remarked, her words hanging in the air like a challenge.

Aemon's frustration reached its peak as he raised his voice in exasperation. "Maegor the Cruel had six!" he exclaimed, his words echoing off the solar walls. "And I count six women in this room," he added, his tone dripping with irony. "Ever since I claimed Balerion, the two names I could not get rid of to be compared to were the Conqueror and the Cruel, but now, you want me to give the people more reason to be seen as Maegor!"

Viserra stepped forward and grabbed Aemon's hands softly. "We are dragons, Aemon. And dragons do not care for the opinion of sheep."

Aemon looked at her, his eyes hard, his brooding face never changing. "It is the sheep that the dragon rules, aunt. Some lords might not care for the smallfolk, Viserra, but everyone seems to forget that the high lords were once just as common. Empires rise and fall, enemies wax and wane just as quickly, and we seem to ignore the smallfolk who, by all rights, would be our enemies the moment we f*ck up."

"The smallfolk of little consequence. They raise no armies; they have no power," Saera replied. Aemon turned around and glared at her. "The common people pray for rain, health, and a summer that never ends. They don't care what games the high lords play."

Aemon nodded his head. Viserra had never thought of it, but she was right, and Aemon agreed wholeheartedly. Aemon pressed his lips together before speaking. "You are right; no words have ever been more true, Saera. But remember this: the armies we have, who are they comprised of?" Viserra did not say the words but thought of them,smallfolk.Her sister came to the same conclusion from the looks on their face. "Who trains these armies?"We do."And who holds the power in the realm?"

"We do," Daenerys impatiently voiced.

Aemon then turned to all the others in the room; Viserra and her sisters nodded to Daenerys. Aemon seemed to dislike their answer. "Power is a curious thing. Saera, I have a riddle for you, one given to me by a man named Varys, a cunning man interested in curious things and politics." Saera nodded for Aemon to continue. "Three great men sit in a room, a king, a septon, and the rich man. Between them stands a common sellsword. Each great man bids the sellsword kill the other two. Who lives? Who dies?"

Saera thought of her response; Viserra was terrible in riddles and thought Saera might have a better chance of reaching an answer. "Depends on the sellsword."

Aemon nodded along absentmindedly as if the answer was neither right nor wrong. "Does it? He's not the crown, no gold, no favor with the gods."

Saera was quick; Aemon's no answer truly irked her, something Viserra would need to practice if it flustered her almost instantly. "He has the sword, the power of life and death."

Aemon 's tone did not shift as he seemed to have regained himself, able to show why the realm feared him, his cold voice a unique one to the Targaryen line. "But if the swordsman rules, why do we pretend kings hold all the power? When Aegon the Uncrowned was killed, who was truly responsible: Maegor who sent Balerion to eat Quicksilver, the Black Dread who committed the act, the faith for allowing Maegor to rise, or something else?"

Aerea scoffed as she sat down, annoyed. "I have decided I don't like riddles."

Aemon smirked at the response. "Power resides where men believe it resides; it's a trick, a shadow on the wall, a man or even a woman can cast a very large shadow," he said. He then turned to the rest of her sisters. "The commonfolk are the sellsword; we train them, put them in armies, and give them power. And yet we lie to ourselves, saying that we care not for them. If we truly do not care for them, it would only take one reason, one f*ck up, for them to gather as an army, at put the sword at our throats, and they will decide if we, the crown, the septon, or the rich men die. And remember this aunt, the faith is the only one of the three factions that outwardly aids them. We are just the people who tax them and send them off to war. Send them off and watch as their sons, brothers, fathers, uncles, and cousins die." He sighed once more. "If I marry all six of you, the smallfolk, with their sword in hand, waiting to choose which of the three dies, will be reminded of the worst king in their histories, the king that burnt down and subjected the faith, the only faction of the three that care for them."

A hushed silence descended upon the room as Aemon's words lingered, the weight of their implications sinking in like stones in a still pond. Rhaella stood up, all eyes on her. Viserra watched as her shy sister fidgeted under the eyes of the few people she would be brave enough to speak aloud to. She walked to the other side of Aemon, as Viserra's hand was still on Aemon's. She took a deep breath before placing her hand on his shoulder.

"If power...if power is an illusion, the people still think it resides with dragons," Rhaella said seriously. Her voice was just above the sharp wind; Viserra rarely heard her sister speak, and it was so light and weak that Viserra feared it would shatter.

Saera placed her hand on Rhaella; Viserra was proud her sister was at least able to speak her mind. "The Red Keep has three dragons. Driftmark, two dragons. Summerhall, seven dragons, and the largest dragon ever recorded," Saera told Aemon. "By your own account, you have the power in Westeros, the smallfolk see you as the most powerful. And as long as you have the dragons and wealth, the people will think you have the power and will not act, even if you think they are the ones who truly have it. You gave them power by teaching them to be armies, and they give the power back to you in fear of dragons."

Rhaella smiled, her smile soft. It looked like a fading memory brought into the living world. "We are strong together, all seven of us. I...I trust you, who loves me like family and as a friend, to honor me more than a lord who only wants my Valyrian blood."

There were no words left to say. Aemon did not respond. Viserra did not know if Aemon accepted it, but he had much to think of for now. Viserra looked to all her sisters and knew that if they worked on him a bit more, they would get what they wished. They would not be separated from one another. All six of them would remain together, and if they could keep Aemon around as well, it would be all the better.

Chapter 34: {Meet The Targaryens}

Chapter Text

Viserra

Titles: Princess of Summerhall, Viserra the Beautiful, the Red Desire

Princess Viserra Targaryen is often named the most beautiful of her sisters and, without contest, the most alluring with excellent cause. Her lilac eyes are light, almost pale, and she, out of all her sisters, takes pride in her figure and delights in teasing and revels in the squirming of squires as she showcases her lustful gaze, mind, and body. Viserra took pride in her ample, lustful body, claiming it was a gift from the Valryian gods. Pale, buxom and beautiful, with typical Valyrian coloring, large pale purple eyes, and long, thick silvery hair that falls in ringlets to the middle of her back. She has a heart-shaped face and thick and curly Targaryen silver-gold hair that she wore long. She has full lips, a husky voice, and round, ripe breasts with huge pink nipples that resemble rose petals. It is known that she enjoys teasing her nephew, Aemon Targaryen, more than any other living soul. Viserra is renowned as a beauty and seductress. Secretly Viserra was a great reader, even at an early age, and spoke many languages, more than High Valyrian and Common Tongue, mostly out of anger that she did not understand every language her nephew, Prince Aemon, spoke and disliked that he could keep secrets from her when he spoke them plainly in a different tongue in her presence and she maintained a large library but rather than read books of wisdom, economics, politics, war or other topics that interest more lords and ladies, she rather histories of Old Valyria, like her nephew King Viserys, for she takes great pride in her Valyrian blood. Easily a contender for the most emotionally manipulative of her sisters, she used her beauty as a weapon to bring any before her to their knees before using them for her means. She is known to have said the only times she has ever regretted using such tactics is regarding her nephew Aemon, even more so after the Scandal of the Dragoncaves. Her pride is truly her most well-known trait, for it is said, behind closed doors, that she has more vanity than all Lannisters to have been, who are, and ever will be. When asked of her sister Viserra, Princess Saera replied, "Nothing is more dangerous for a man than a beautiful woman who is unimpressed. And men rule this world, and Viserra is impossible to impress when the name of the man in question is not Aemon Targaryen. My advice to all those with a co*ck between their legs, in her hand lay the heart you gave her, and she would not let go until it scars."

Dragon:Vēttir, who is deep maroon-red hue.

Title: The Bloodfyre

Size: 140 feet

Wing span: 280 feet

Saera

(I tried a dozen times to make a version of her, using AI for the image, making her look more Targaryen but nothing came out right)

Titles: Princess of Summerhall, Saera the Cunning, the White Dragoness

Princess Saera Targaryen is regal in pose and elegant in movement. Her beauty is more natural as she cares more about looking presentable than desirable. Her eyes are so dark that, like her nephew Aemon, her purple eyes look almost black. Saera is a strikingly beautiful woman with curly hair closer to white, more than silver, deep purple eyes, fair skin, and a slender, graceful figure; she is taller than her sisters and is of equal height to most men.Saera is willful, ambitious, and, according to her nephew Prince Daemon, a maester with teats. She is hungry and greedy for power. Saera is subtle and politically astute, sometimes making great schemes and plans and giving the most credit to her nephew if the need requires it. She uses her nephew's public reputation to conduct her own plans, business, and projects under the guise of being an extension of him, with all the power and none of the repercussions. She hates being excluded from power on account of her gender and resents the Andal customs and conventions put on her because she is female; she thanks her nephew Aemon for all the freedom he has given her despite the customs of the Andals. After her failed pregnancy and her supposed rape, as the entire Seven Kingdoms believed to be despite the scandal being over own desires, most of her fiery personality gave way to an almost cruel and calculative stature, she embodies the personality that most of the Seven Kingdoms believe Aemon Targaryen has, and yet she is the true cruel, manipulative, and opportunistic mind behind the face that is her nephew. It is said that the princess may have, in truth, been the cause for the start and end of the Reyne-Tarbeck rebellion and she had been the grand manipulator of the event by sending out spies and letters in secret to coax them to rebel and whispered words of strength to Aemon to put them down. When asked of Princess Saera, Prince Aemon said, "She is loyal to her own, and those who prove themselves loyal and caring of her, win an alley better than all others. To many, she is cruel and cold, almost like the winds of the Shivering Sea, and yet there is something beautiful in the fact that the ocean comes to kiss the shore no matter how many times it is turned away."

Dragon:Sōna, who is white and pale. (most beautiful of the the dragons)

Title: The Snowfyre

Size: 110 feet

Wing span: 220 feet

Rhaella

Titles: Princess of Summerhall, Rhaella the Timid, The Quite Dragon

Princess Rhaella Targaryen is the shyest and mostrecluse of her sisters, with a beauty that most claim makes her Rhaenys, the sister-wife of Aegon the Conqueror, come again. Her eyes were the purest, amethyst, deepest, and richest purple a Targaryen could have. Rhaella is a beautiful woman with her silver-gold hair, more akin to white, which she kept long and wore loose, purple eyes, and a slender body, often wearing long dresses with long sleeves to keep herself modest as she once wished to be a septa. Often thought of as meek and the most overlooked of her sisters, she is easily the most observant. In truth, Prince Aemon nor her sister Saera never informed her, she received most of the betrothal requests of her sisters due to the notion that she is the ideal representation of what a lady of the realm should be, meek and submissive, and her nephew Aemon almost burnt down no less than a dozen castles in the rage of it. It is rumored that she is the aunt that Aemon is most protective of and the one who calms him the most when he is in a rage. A woman of the faith, her patience is second to none, and her following of the Seven is comparable only to her sister Maegelle. Rhaella was said by many to be a quiet and timid princess, but she was also known to be a strange and lovely girl who wore flowers in her hair; more often than not, it is the children of Summertown who placed the flowers in her hair as they made crowns of flowers to place upon their head. She is known to spend more time with children than with lords and ladies. While timid with high lords and ladies, it was known that she would dance strangely and sing with the smallfolk and the children in the sept. Some considered the strange Rhaella half-mad, but her nephew, Prince Aemon, claims that there has never been a member of their family who was truly mad. When Rhaella quietly reminded him of Maegor the Cruel, who defied the faith of which she was devout, he claimed that a dragon must sometimes make enemies of the gods if he is to claim the heavens; in response, Rhaella, who often did not speak, screamed loudly in the castle, loud enough that the smallfolk thought it was the dragons from the Dragoncaves, and she cursed him in High Valyrian, she would not speak to him for another month afterwards. When asked how best to describe his aunt Rhaella, Prince Aemon said, "She is beautiful and bright in the way the flame is beautiful and bright from a distance, but only a fool would dare forget that a fire still burns and even the smallest flame can burn down a forest."

Dragon:Perzys, who is sunset and orange in coloring

Title: The Sunset Queen

Size: 110 feet

Wing span: 220 feet

Daenerys

Titles: Princess of Summerhall, Daenerys the Defiant, the Princess of Amethyst

Princess Daenerys Targaryen is the eldest of her sisters and often tries to take the lead in any situation or journey the six may go on. However, she is known to be impulsive, adventurous, reckless, and impatient. Her silver-white hair is often dirtied; she has thought many times over to cut her hair bald because Valyrian silver-blonde hair was notorious for being nearly impossible to keep pristine. A young woman in her early teens, Daenerys has the classical Valyrian look; she has violet eyes, pale skin, and long, pale silver-gold hair. Daenerys is slender in frame, with larger breasts, a common thing among her sisters and yet something rare for Valyrians themselves. Daenerys loves the sea, as it makes her feel free, as do the sailors and their songs and stories. She also loves to read children's stories and songs from the Seven Kingdoms about the hall and handsome heroes, more so about their adventures than their looks or how comely they are. Daenerys is best with a bow in hand and is known to shoot the eye of a crow a hundred paces away as a bet against Aerea. She is known to be the best horse rider of her sisters and is known to give food to the poor of Summertown. Daenerys, while not able to claim the title of the best rider of her sisters, spends arguably the most time with her dragon, Averilla, a dragon of purple coloring. Maester Vaegon, her elder and last living brother, claimed that she spends as much time upon Avirlla as Rhaenys, the sister-wife of Aegon the Conqeuor, did with her dragon Meraxes.She had grown even more outspoke after a summer fever had nearly killed her after three whole weeks of sweats, coughs, fevers, and groaning. Prince Aemon stood by her side for day and night to look over her. It was when she recovered, leaped upon her dragon, and rode across the skies from dawn to dusk, cursing the gods for nearly killing her. When her sisters Maegelle and Rhaella came to her and said that it was sacrilege and heathenry for such talks, Daenerys said the words that go into history, immortalized for it was true of all dragonlords, " Like our dragons, we Targaryens answer to neither gods nor men."

Dragon: Avirlla, who is purple and amethyst in coloring.

Title: The Violet Death

Size: 150 feet (largest dragon)

Wing span: 300 feet

Aerea

Titles: Princess of Summerhall, Aerea the Untamed, the Wild Dragon

Princess Aerea Targaryen is a spirited girl interested in fighting and exploration, far and wide as the wildest and most unpredictable of her sisters. She is known to be a great beauty but oftentimes cares so little for things such as looks that most claim her to be a lost cause in the womanly arts. Having the typical silvery hair and lilac eyes of Valyrian blood, most of her sisters.Aerea often wears cloth and breastplates to hold back her breasts, for, in her opinion, her breasts are in the way of getting anything done when swinging a blade and were usless bags of flesh. Aerea wanted to learn how to fight with a sword and forced Prince Aemon to teach her, alongside more dragon riding training, eventually making her the best dragon rider of her sisters and making it so her only rival with the blade was Prince Aemon himself. Years ago, she flew upon dragon back to Essos and to Old Valyria; she was turned with an illness that lasted several days, and Prince Aemon stood by her side from dusk to dawn. She is known to have no equal with a blade and practices the Braavosii style of the sword for her slimmer and more flexible form. Prince Aemon could never say no to her, just as he indulges her, and it is known that if the other Targaryen sisters were princesses, then Princess Aerea is a dragon bound in human form. She is impulsive, rash, chaotic, sporadic, and wild. She is unpredictable, and the only two people in her family who can either calm her or manage her are her sister, Daenerys, and her nephew, Prince Aemon. While it is known that Prince Aemon is more apathetic to his father, Prince Daemon, Princess Aerea is known to argue and clash with said nephew often and loudly like two dragons. Once, in one of the few times Prince Aemon was in his cups, he was noted to say. "Aerea and Arya, the only difference between them is the last name and the f*cking dragon." No maester or individual close to Prince Aemon was able to learn who this Arya was. Prince Daemon even claimed that "Lyanna was beautiful, and willful, and dead before her time, but Aerea continued on in her place."

Dragon:Dȳñes, who is silver-platinum in coloring.

Title: The Silver Wraith

Size: 130 feet

Wing span: 260 feet

Maegelle

Titles: Princess of Summerhall, Maegelle the Devout, The Heavenly Dragon

Princess Maegelle Targaryen is gentle and quiet, but not as much as her sister Rhaella , intellectual and exceedingly bright. She was said to read from theSeven-Pointed Starevery night before sleep and was eager to take the vows. Maegelle attached herself to her elder sister, Princess Rhaella. Princess Maeglle has far more soft, supple, gentle facial features and lacks the high cheekbones most Valyrians have. She is taller than most women, yet with a slender, petite frame; as a contradiction, not many know that her breasts are quite large, something she despises, as she covers herself in long sleeves and dresses as well as using a cloth to wrap her breasts and make them easier to manage. Princess Maegelle wished to be septa, much like her sister Rhaella; however, once they brought it up to Prince Aemon, he forbade it, for he would never allow the Andal gods to access the gift from the Valyrian gods. Similarly, when she said it could court better relations with the faith, Prince Aemon argued that the decree from the Doctrine of Exceptionalism, from King Jaehaerys, showed firsthand that Valyrian blood and traditions should always stay within Valyria and no other cultures, Andal, Rhoynar, First Men, or otherwise have no hold over them and have no right to the traditions and abilities of Old Valyria. Princess Maegelle admittedly disliked the thought but chose not to argue with her nephew and instead spent time praying in the Summer Sept. Throughout the Seven Kingdoms, it is known that the relations between the crown and the faith are fully reliant on Princess Meagelle. But in truth, it is known through the family that the sweetest and gentlest of the sisters is the one known to wish to truly anger, for she is all too willing to bring fire and blood as repayment. When asked how best to describe her sister, Princess Saera said, "An angel, they call her. And yet, people forget that angels and demons are the same; devils don't come from hell beneath us. No, they come from the sky. The guardian angel who protected the army of the devout is seen as the demon of death and destruction by those who were conquered."b

Dragon: Jēdar, who is light blue and sapphire in coloring.

Title: The Azure Wrath

Size: 115 feet

Wing span: 230 feet

Aemon

Titles: Prince of Summerhall, Protector of Summertown, Prince of the North, the White Wolf, the Black Prince, the Night King, the Third Head of Balerion, the Conqeor Reborn, Maegor's Second Coming

Prince Aemon Targaryen was a handsome man with dark purple eyes, which looked almost black, black hair, and a long face that could be traced to his Stark blood. Aemon Targaryen is quiet, solemn, and broods quite often and is always seen wearing black and with black wolf fur. It is said that the day of his birth, the day his mother died, had marked him with great loss, and he felt it from his birth to his death. In his earlier years, he was known to have been the greatest prince who ever graced the halls of the Red Keep. Still, after the end of the Great Wildling Invasion, the death of King Jaehaerys, the Greyjoy Rebellion, and the Reyne-Tarbeck Rebellion, it was rare that he smiled, and most of his days were known to have his brood. After claiming Balerion the Black Dread, the victories in the Great Wildling Invasion, where he defeated an army of one hundred thousand handly, the Greyjoy Rebellion, and the Reyne-Tarbeck Rebellion, it was known that Aemon was an enemy that none could afford to have, conversely after creating the Summer Cannael, Summerbank, Summer Sept, the Amphitheater, the Collesume, the Ctidael of Summerhall, and discovering the Dragocaves, he removed the power the Hightowers had over the faith and the maesters, as well as became the wealthiest man I all the Seven kingdoms, making him an alley that all lord and ladies courted to have favorable relations with. As the first true Prince of Summerhall, he ensured that the position of Prince of Summerhall and the Targaryens of Summerhall was a separate House entirely from the Targaryens of King's Landing. Prince Aemon Targaryen is known as the true power behind the Iron Throne and the main reason King Viserys maintained the King's Peace. When asked to describe his nephew, King Viserys said, "There many worlds and gods, there are the Valryian gods, the Andal gods, the Old Gods, Mother Rhoyne, many gods in Essos, and yet I think they all have not made enough world for Aemon Targaryen himself. As honorable as he is, he is a conqueror, ambitious, powerful, determined, and strong; the world is his by right; the only issue is that the world itself does not yet know it, and honor itself is the only reason he has yet to claim his birthright."

For any further information about Aemon Targaryen, please read History Before the Dance of Dragons

Dragon: Balerion, who is pure black in coloring (largest and most dangerous dragon in Targaryen histories)

Title: The Black Dread,

Size: 940 feet

Wing span: 1,880 feet

Chapter 35: Sigils and Letters

Chapter Text

Summerhall 112 AC

Aerea Targaryen

The days following their discussion with Aemon, he weighed heavily on Aerea's mind, each passing moment a reminder of the looming specter of marriage that seemed to hover over her like a dark cloud. She despised the very notion of being shackled to some high lord, forced to bend to his will and bear his children while confined within the walls of his castle.

As she reflected on her predicament, Aerea couldn't help but acknowledge the rare freedom that Aemon had afforded her. Unlike most lords who would confine women to the stifling roles of wife and mother, Aemon had allowed her to pursue her passions, train, wield a sword, and roam freely like the dragon she so dearly cherished.

Yes, Aemon had indulged her, granting her the liberty to train, to fight, to swing her sword with abandon. He had fostered her spirit of adventure, allowing her to explore and ride her dragon to her heart's content. In Aerea's eyes, this newfound freedom was a precious gift, one she was unwilling to relinquish for the sake of a loveless marriage to some lord who would surely seek to clip her wings and confine her to a life of submission.

Aerea loved Aemon, and for that, she knew. She did not know what it meant to love him as a man, but she cared for him deeply. Dragons were greedy, possessive, and territorial, and more than anything, dragons were powerful and free. Who was more accessible than a dragon in the skies? Who was more powerful than a dragon breathing flame? And Aemon gave her freedom and the chance to be powerful. She would not allow some other lady of any kingdom to take that away. She would ensure that whatever care she had for Aemon as a nephew and friend would be enough to make things work. And even if she failed, her sisters would aid her. She didn't care about marriage; marriage was stupid, but she cared about her freedom and being able to swing her sword and be what she wanted, and Aemon would allow her to keep her freedom.

Despite the pressures mounting around her, Aerea remained resolute in her conviction. She would not sacrifice the freedom she had fought so hard to attain, not for any lord or kingdom. For in the depths of her heart, she knew that true happiness lay not in the confines of a lord's castle but in the boundless skies she soared through with her dragon by her side.

In the predawn light, the training yard was a realm of shadows and whispers, a place where the echoes of steel against wood reverberated like a haunting melody. Aerea stood amidst the silence, her breath visible in the crisp morning air, her training sword gripped tightly in her hand.

With a fierce determination burning in her lilac eyes, Aerea unleashed a flurry of strikes upon the hapless training dummy before her. Each swing of her sword was a symphony of precision and power, each movement calculated to strike with lethal accuracy.

As the first rays of sunlight pierced the darkness, casting an ethereal glow upon the training yard, Aerea's movements became even more fluid and graceful. She danced amidst the shadows, her sword a blur of motion as she executed a series of intricate slashes and stabs.

Aemon was one of the few who bested her in fights nowadays, and when she trained, it was he she imagined she was facing. She recalled the fights she had with him, the ones who bested her easily and the ones where she failed to capitalize on her own mistakes. She envisioned him swinging at her throat; she moved her body back, bending backward, and just like then, Aemon had capitalized by going for a trip to her legs. She stepped out of the way and spun to the side, set her legs once more, and then lunged for a strike at where Aemon's throat would have been.

With a fierce battle cry, Aerea launched herself into a whirlwind of movement, her body a blur of speed and agility. She parried and dodged with lightning reflexes, her every movement a testament to the countless hours she had spent honing her skills.

With each swing and twirl, Aerea's determination only grew stronger, her resolve unyielding as she pushed herself to the limits of her endurance. The morning sun rose higher into the sky, casting long shadows across the training yard, but Aerea paid no heed to the passage of time.

For in this moment, she was not just a princess of House Targaryen; she was a warrior, a force to be reckoned with. As she continued to train with unrelenting fervor, she knew that she was one step closer to mastering the art of combat, one step closer to becoming the warrior she was destined to be.

The training yard was emptied; she had never known why Aemon had chosen to train so early. There was no one to annoy her, praise him, or ask her questions; there was no need to do any politics. It was truly annoying to have to practice such polticing when she just wished to train her sword. Who should she train with, and who should she not train with? How long should she train for without the other lords thinking the pair were courting or putting her or her sisters in questionable positions? Training enough to refine her skills but not enough to question her position as a capable princess.

Aemon and Saera had to nearly force it into her that she could not fight the lords and squires from Dorne. She had beaten a squire from House Dayne, and when she won, she may gone a tad overboard and embarrassed the poor boy. To make peace with the Daynes before it got to any sort of discourse, Aemon beat her in a fight in public, the first time he trained in public in quite some time, and beat her soundly. Then, he offered to train with House Dayne, Yornwood, and Fowler in public to reinforce his wish for positive relations, as well as offer both Danerys and Viserra to take the Dornish ladies hopping in the Street of Rhaenys in Summertown.

Aerea was visually displayed by Saera verbally afterward since. Then she realized why Aemon stopped training so openly; when training, he also had to practice politics. Saera had told her, "There is war in politics just as much there is politics in war. Any true lord must master both separately and privately before ever doing so publicly. Aemon has mastered both far better and earlier than all need to, while most lords had forgotten how to do either while in Jaehaerys' peace." Aemon had to apologize to her privately to ensure that she knew that he was not angered but barely able to salvage the situation, actually strengthing it with his training of the squires and knights and offering them time to spend with her sisters in the street known for silks, dresses, and more lady like intrests.

Aerea's sword sliced through the air with lethal precision, each movement calculated to strike her imaginary foe with deadly accuracy. As she trained, a sense of unease prickled at the back of her neck, a feeling that she was being watched.

With the instincts of a warrior, Aerea spun on her heel, her training sword ready to strike at the intruder. Before she could land a blow, her attacker deftly deflected her strike, her blade grazing off the opponent's sword, then sliding it to the tip of their blade, and sidestepped her attack. Then, she spun their wrists, her sword circling outward, enough for her blade to be moved to the outside of their shared guard and personal space, grasping her wrists. The aggressor swiftly shoulder-tackled her to the ground; the shoulder to the chest was close enough to her gut that she lost her air; while still grabbing her sword hand, he was able to disarm her, her sword in his hand. A sharp gasp escaped her lips as she felt the cold steel of a blade press against her throat.

"You Southron's always fall for the same trick. Too much honor, when fighting, can never prepare for a shoulder to the chest. Loss of breath gives a better chance to a loss of sword," she heard the familiar voice say.

"You do realize you are asouthronas well, right? You were born in King's Landing," Aerea countered. She smiled as she mocked the way he said southern; for some reason, he had a little to no accent of his mother and his northern kin, but when saying the word southern, he sounded as much northern as any one of them.

"My mother was of the north, and I have been beyond the Wall. I have been further north than most Northmen. I believe I could do whatever I want," he replied condescendingly. "And I proved that Northmen are better fighters. Case and point, you, dear aunt, are on your arse."

"You snuck up on me; where is the honor in that?" she asked.

"Honor dies on the battlefield. It is good for times of peace but dies in times of war. Those who survived the war decided what was honorable or not. Those who would argue against it are already dead," he advised.

As she lay on the hard earth, a sword pressed threateningly against her throat, Aerea's gaze met the impassive visage of Aemon. His dark eyes bore into hers with an intensity that sent shivers down her spine, a silent acknowledgment of his victory. Aemon was good, and if he wished, a light flick of his wrist would end her days as her red life blood would seep out from the severed neck.

Summoning her trademark sarcasm, Aerea quipped, "Didn't anyone ever teach you it's rude to harm a lady?"

Aemon's response was as stoic as ever, his voice carrying a hint of amusem*nt as he retorted, "I'll keep that in mind when I meet one."

Aerea rolled her eyes in mock exasperation, the corners of her lips twitching with suppressed laughter. "Rude," she remarked dryly. Aemon chuckled, a rare display of humor, as he extended a hand to help her up. Aerea playfully swatted his hand away, opting to rise to her feet on her own accord. "Why is it," she quipped, dusting herself off, "that every time we cross paths, I somehow always end up on the ground?"

Aemon's expression softened ever so slightly, a ghost of a smile dancing in his dark eyes. "In a duel," he replied evenly, "the lesser opponent either yields or falls. I was simply kind enough to let you yield."

Aemon handed Aerea her sword, the weight of the weapon familiar and comforting in her grip. She watched in surprise as her nephew readied himself to spar, a determined glint in his dark eyes. Aerea looked to the sparing sword, wishing that it was Oathkeeper, and looked to Aemon's sparing sword.

"Are you going to spar with me?" Aerea questioned, eyebrows raised in disbelief.

Aemon glanced at her with a hint of amusem*nt. "It would seem so," he replied dryly, adjusting his stance. She truly now wished she had Oathkeeper, and Aemon had Blackfyre or Longclaw. Valyrian steel facing one another was so rare that even if the fighters were just average with no skill, tales would be sung of how the swords clanged, slashed, and clashed. But Aemon, trained with Aerea, she knew she was skillful; she knew that most claimed already that Aemon was the best swordsman in the kingdom, even if he rarely proved his skill in tourneys, if they swing with their Valyrian steel at one another she knew that all eyes would be them. Yet no one was there except for the pair, and even if the story was not told, she would love nothing more than to face Aemon with their true blades in hand. "A girl, that believes herself a half-decent swordsman, told me that I have grown rusty."

Aerea couldn't suppress a smirk as she recalled her earlier comment about Aemon's supposed rustiness. "Well, I suppose that girl must have been right," she remarked sardonically.

Aemon chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. "I'm here to prove her wrong," he declared with quiet determination.

Aerea feigned innocence, her gaze twinkling mischievously. "But I'm just a princess," she quipped, "what do I know about swords?"

Aemon's laughter filled the air as he shook his head in amusem*nt. "Even if you knew how to use it, it wouldn't change the outcome," he retorted teasingly.

Aerea's eyes lit up as she faced Aemon's challenge head-on. "We'll see about that," she replied, a competitive edge creeping into her voice.

As they squared off, Aemon offered a jesting piece of advice. "Do you want some advice?" he asked, a playful glint in his eye.

Aerea scoffed playfully. "I would appreciate any advice that helps me beat you," she replied with a smirk.

Aemon's lips curved into a wry smile. "Stick me with the pointy end," he quipped, his tone laced with mock seriousness.

With a shared laugh and a newfound determination, Aerea and Aemon launched into their sparring match, their blades flashing in the morning sunlight as they danced across the training yard, each striving to outwit and outmaneuver the other in a display of skill and camaraderie.

The clash of steel echoed through the training yard as Aerea launched herself into the spar, impatience driving her movements. She advanced with a swift and determined stride, her training sword held firmly in her grasp, ready to strike. Aemon, ever composed, awaited her approach with calm confidence, his own sword poised for defense.

Aerea's first strike came with lightning speed, a fierce determination burning in her eyes. But Aemon was quicker still, effortlessly deflecting her blow outward, leaving her momentarily exposed. In the blink of an eye, he had closed the distance between them, his own sword pressing against her throat in a mock victory.

Cursing under her breath, Aerea stepped back, her frustration fueling her resolve for the next bout. With a deep breath, she lunged forward once more, her movements calculated and precise. Aemon deflected her strike once again, but Aerea anticipated his counterattack this time. With a graceful sidestep, she avoided his slash, her determination shining through her every movement.

Aerea went for a stab at his chest, and Aemon easily deflected the strike with a flick of his sword and pushed her sword to the outside of her guard; she did not relent as she tried to shoulder him in his chest just as he had done to her. Aemon was able to step back but left his foot in the way, so she was forced to disengage and move to the side before she could fully commit to the lung and trip over his foot. The pair, with limited movement space, continued to slash at each other in such close corse combat, within their personal space, that she was forced to move her wrists over and over to try and get her sword in the opposing side of his sword into his guard and slash at him. Still, he did the same, causing quick slashes, counters, and repetitive clashes of blades, all within while there was only a foot of space between them. She quickly went for a slash at his chest, but he blocked the strike, twisted his wrist so his sword was now on the opposing side of her sword, and, within the same movement, flicked his sword downward into a slash that would have gone through the top of her head. She moved her wrist, so her blade pushed into the direction of the subtle and close slash and blocked the strike.

Aemon took a step back, and Aerea did not wait for him to regroup and center himself as she went for a stab at his head. He slashed his sword and battered her attack, striking it to the side, but before he could advance, she slashed once more to force him to disengage his forward momentum. The two swung simultaneously as the sword clashed, and then for a second and a third time. He stabbed forward as Aerea made a clockwise turn of her blade to deflect the strike, and with her sword now back from making the whole circle, she slashed not at his head but at his wrist. Aemon saw this and was able to bring his sword back, barely blocking the tip of her blade from striking his wrist with the lower part of his blade, in the same motion, tilting his blade so the moment of the two blades clashing allowed the tip of his sword to come down with force at the top of her head, she would have been slashed through the top of the head if he used Valyrian steel, which he often used, even if the moment of the slash was less than what it took for a steel blade to puncture flesh, and both knew it.

As the spar continued, Aerea pressed on, her strikes coming fast and fierce. Aemon met each blow with expert skill, their swords clashing in a symphony of steel. Aemon went for a downward slash at the same time Aerea went for a horizontal, both strikes within their range. The two strikes remained locked against one another. Aemon's overhead strike would have cut through her skull just as her strike was horizontal and would have cut through his neck, the two strikes remaining in the position as Aemon's overhead strike was far closer to her head than her strike was to his neck, Aemon's strength pushing downward and was barely being restrained by her sword holding him at bay. The two swords locked against each other as the metal sound of grinding, almost as though metal was being sharpened, hung heavy in the air, neither willing to yield ground.

But Aemon's strength began to show, his relentless pressure forcing Aerea back step by step. With a sudden burst of force, he delivered a well-placed kick to her legs, sending her tumbling to the ground. As she rolled away from his follow-up strike, Aerea scrambled to her feet, her muscles tensed and ready for the next onslaught.

With renewed determination, she launched a flurry of slashes, each one aimed with precision. But Aemon was a formidable opponent, his defenses unyielding as he easily blocked each attack. The spar raged on, a fierce dance of blades and wills, as Aerea and Aemon battled for supremacy in the training yard.

"You lunge," Aemon pointed out. "While it is good to commit, lunging with too much force leads to overextending yourself. I took advantage of that three times while counting. When you lunge, do not make it as though you are trying to tackle the person down like a bull. It is obvious which direction you are going, and all I need to do is put my sword there for you to stab yourself instead."

Aerea grew frustrated and went for a quick stab. Aemon was right; she knew it. She was supposed to be graceful and calm. She was only supposed to strike after defending. She was never supposed to be the first to strike but to counter once she forced her opponent to overextend. She took a deep breath.

Aemon saw this and went for a slash at her throat. Aerea used the training sword to slightly deflect the strike to the side while also, in the same motion, going for an upward slash at his throat. Aemon took a step back, avoiding the strike. Aerea stepped into the strike and went to stab at his chest; Aemon easily deflected but allowed his blade to glide atop her strike, sliding over the blade and barely avoiding the training sword's hilt. He would have pierced her in the heart if she had not twisted her wrist, causing her sword to spin clockwise, causing Aemon's counter-stab to miss her barely. The two stayed locked in the stalemate.

The pair kept their sword locked, moving their wrists so they constantly made minor slashes with the blades in close quarters. Aemon dropped his wrist, twisted, and was able to enter with her guard trying to hit her head. Aerea could barely move her wrist, twisting her sword in the opposing direction, forcing the attack back and keeping the pair in a stalemate.

Aemon held Aerea back. She was getting angry. Aemon's sword was heavier than the average tourney sword, commonplace in Summerhall. Still, Aemon's speed, even with a sword nearly five times heavier than the average, was comparable to great knights. And while he was stronger than her, Aemon favored speed over strength; it was better to strike quickly and end a slower opponent than allow them to use their strength against you. Aerea was more agile, but it mattered little when Aemon's speed could counter the strikes that would have killed lesser men.

Aemon changed his tactic, and Aerea saw his stance change; he changed his fighting style into one in which Aerea was best at beating with her speed. He was f*cking mocking her, bating her into striking to show that he could beat her with a disadvantage and her with the skill and practice to play against the disadvantage. He went for a heavy-handed swing, a slash towards her skull with the force of a hammer to an anvil. She was not stupid; she would not block; she sidestepped to the left and tapped her sword on Aemon's own to help deflect the blow from her body. Once outside of his guard and now on his right side, she went for a stab to his head. Aemon was far too quick as he moved his right arm upwards, causing his sword to barely block the strike, not at the tip of his blade near the base of the hilt. Aerea went for another slash quickly; Aemon deflected just as easily but was forced to take a step back to give himself room.

She went for one last strike, which Aemon deflected. Aerea kept her eyes on his sword, ready to block any counterattack. But she forgot one thing, the same thing Aemon had said before. Honor dies on the battlefield. He fainted a strike with his sword, and when she went to block, she did not see the punch to her gut that left her windless. She gasped for air before Aemon once more kicked her legs from under her. She looked up to see his sword at her throat once more.

"I killed countless men that same way," he sighed. "If you were to die, all I need to say is I fought you honorably, and no one would be able to argue it since no one but I survived."

Aerea cursed under her breath. "Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!" Aere cursed to herself. Aerea should have never forgotten that Aemon would use his fists; it was common for Northerners to do as such, and while Aemon spent most of his life south of the Neck, the man was as northern as any Stark should be. "I suppose you won't show a princess mercy?" she asked playfully.

Aemon's eyes almost glazed over; his dark eyes looked so far away for a fleeting second. She had not seen him do as such in some time, the eyes of a man that bleed in war, not like she who fought on dragon back, no, he fought, severed, and killed men the same distance away she was to him right now. Aemon looked at his hands, and for a second, Aerea could see them bathed in blood, just as she had supposed Aemon to be seeing right now. "Ruthlessness is mercy," he told her, devoid of emotion.

She stood up once and tightened her grip on her sword. "Again!"

Aerea loved this; she was fine with the losing, Aemon was teaching her, and frankly, everyone else was far too sh*t to do anything more than have to team up to beat her. She was now up to facing three squires at once to train her effectively. But Aemon was beating her with one hand, not even his main right hand, which he was best with, which should make no sense, and fighting with one hand or the other should mean little, but when using a long sword or bastard sword, swords meant for two hands, and he used one in each hand.

Aemon rarely trained with others nowadays; he was too busy and did not want others around him swooning day and night. So when he took the time to train with her, it made her happy. He didn't treat her as a dainty little flower; when she made a flower, he made sure the lesson on it was learned painfully, but she would rather that than it be a fatal mistake on the battlefield. After some time, Aemon had to leave, and Aerea stayed to train.

She disliked it; the level of skill was no longer the same. She could outclass her opponents. The number of people increased as the sunrise turned into mid-morning. She did not want to leave and do her princess duties; they were too dull, too boring. So, as she had done many times before, she would train until she collapsed and Daenerys came to collect her.

She trained with several squires, three at the time, as she did commonly. But these squires were those of Dorne. She knew not why Aemon thought it prudent to make dealing with the three Houses, but Aemon allowed them to write often of their time in Summerhall and Summertown and made it clear that they were free to come and go as they pleased. Relations between the three Houses and the Targaryens of Summerhall were more than strong. It took at least a little for Aemon to begin communications with the Yornwoods. Aemon said that House Yornwood was to House Martell as the Boltons were to the Starks, and while Aemon hated the Boltons, he could see the benefit to the Yournwoods.

Once the Yornwoods gained profit from trading food stocks, which the Yornwoods had more access to than most of Dorne, jewels, furs, silks, and other commodities that most of the Kingdoms were trading to Summertown, the Yornwoods became a far stronger House in Dorne, something they were trying to recover from the last time they tried to rebel aginst House Martell. Once the Yornwoods were amendable, they brought their blood ties to House Fowler and Dayne, and they, too, reaped benefits as well as the loyalties of the Houses that were once sworn to them when they ruled half of Dorne before the Martells ruled all of it, the Houses Blackmont, Jordayne, Qorgyle, and Wyl. Aemon made it clear that they were to foster good relations with the Dornish in Summerhall despite the Black Burn, and the best way for Aerea to do so was to train and spar with them, while Viserra and Daenerys spent time shopping in the Street of Rhaenys and playing court with the Dornish ladies.

The Dayne slashed at her, and she ducked under it while keeping an eye on the made to not lose him. Aerea tripped the man as he had overextended and lunged into the slash at her; she then turned around and deflected the slash from the Dayne squire, the swing stronger than her deflection, causing her to barely deflect the strike. With the Dayne's blade out of the way, she thrusted her sword forward, stopping just before the sword would have stabbed Dayne's head, making it clear that she would have killed him if she wished. The squire yielded and stepped back.

She turned quickly and circled her head back, just enough to dodge the strike coming from the Yornwood squire. The Fowler squire had now risen once more. The two attacked her at once. Each one swung their sword, and when one had missed a strike, or Aerea deflected their blade, the other was already struck to not allow Aerea the chance to recompose herself, center herself to attack, or defend as she wished. Each time one struck Aerea, she deflected and was forced to defend the second and third strikes; the two squires continued one, and Aerea had no chance to attack but deflect and roll out of the strikes.

Aerea deflected a strike of the Fowler squire, not outwards but into the way of the following strike of the third squire. The two squire's blades clanged into one another. Aerea, using her smaller form, snaked between the pair and tripped the first squire once more while at the same time using her tourney sword, it being blunt, hitting the wrist of the third squire, making him drop his sword. Aerea kicked it away before he could reach for it and placed her sword at the neck of the Fowler on the floor. It was clear that if the downed squire was defeated first, the Yornwood squire being disarmed would have been quick work. Aerea's victory was secured.

Aerea noticed that no squire, the only other one in the area, was looking upon her victory. The other squires rushed up to her and congratulated her, kissing her arse as if it was the only thing in the world that mattered. Boys were stupid, and it was the first nor last time she came to such a conclusion.

A servant rushed over and handed Aerea a towel as she cleaned her face of sweat. Her hair clung to her face; she could barely see the squire, a boy with dark hair and eyes, trying to hide from her sight. She tied her hair into a bun, which was not the most elegant or able of hairstyles, but more than enough to cause her accursed hair to stop covering her eyes. She wished to cut her hair, but she would find Viserra's and Daenerys' complaints of their chopping the most beautiful hair color in all the world, claiming that Aerea would be selfish for doing so.

Aerea quickly drained a golden mug of water before walking over to the squire who had caught her eye. The boy looked shy, even if Aerea knew he was anything but. "Why aren't you down there training? I bested three of them; they could have used a fourth for aid," Aerea asked him.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but I can not," the boy said.

Aerea looked at him; his name was Theon, not that she called him that; she preferred the name stupid c*nt, for he was the perfect example of both, a distant cousin to the Mormonts, a bastard. Aemon had taken an interest in him when he had come a few moons ago to see his uncle Cregan in the North. Aerea looked at him strangely. "And why is that?"

The squire gave her a half smile. "Bastards are not allowed to damage young princesses," Theon said. "Sane men are not allowed to damage the aunts of the notorious Night King," he said with a bit of a chuckle towards the end.

"If Aemon had heard you, then he would geld you," Aerea said with a chuckle.

"I doubt that the prince would kill his squire so easily," Theon replied.

"And now my fool of nephew is up to what, three squires? The man's greed has greed," Aerea chuckled to herself. It had taken much for Aerea to even tolerate Theon, but he was Aemon's squire, and Theon, seeing how Aemon and Aerea acted to one another, knew that Aerea would punch him if he acted as most men did to the princess. Theon had told her that he was used to strong women, for his mother was recently made Lady of Bear Island, and the women of his family acted more like men than dainty, flowery girls. Aerea liked them on principle alone.

"The White Wolf is more like my namesake, Theon Stark, the Hungry Wolf. Never satisfied," Theon said with a condescending smirk.

"Your proof of such an acusation?" Aerea asked.

"Summerhall, Summertown, the Summer Canal, the Summer Bank, the Summer Sept, the Colosseum, the Amphitheater, the Citadel of Summertown, gaining the largest dragon in reordered history, discovering the Dragoncaves, and I heard he wishes to start building a Summer fleet. So selfish, so ravenous, devouring so much and leaving us with so little," he said with a mocking false jape. "I hope our prince doesn't grow fat in his gluttony. The Fat White Wolf doesn't sound as appealing," Theon returned in his gruff accent.

Aerea laughed slightly. He was funny. She would give him that. Aerea noticed his gaze upon Aemon, who had been stopped before he could fully leave. She had thought he had left long ago, but it would seem a crowd had come and stopped him. Aemon's coat of arms was upon his back. It was a gift from Viserra; she had gotten him angry recently; she felt guilty and had sown it for him. He had initially declined it, saying he was the head of their House and would need to wear their own personal coat of arms often and proudly, but Viserra almost cried and forced him to make her happy. No doubt the needlework was exquisite. The arms were divided down the middle; on one side was the red three-headed dragon of the royal House, and on the other, the wolf of Stark.

"Prince Aemon is proud," Theon observed, but both knew him well enough to know it was a jape. "You'd think the royal sigil would be sufficient, but no. He makes his mother's House equal in honor to the King's."

"The woman is important, too!" Arya protested. "Besides, I would think a northerner would be happy to see more wolves and Stark sigils so far south of the Neck."

Theon chuckled. "Wolves have flees, such dreadful things," he returned.

"So do bears," Aerea returned with a cheeky grin.

Theon pressed his lips together, not in disagreement but in amusem*nt to consider her words. "Perhaps you should do the same thing, my princess. Wed Targaryen to Velaryon in your arms in honor of your grandmother being a Velaryon."

"A dragon with a seahorse in its mouth?" It made her laugh. "That would look silly. Besides, if you forget, my parents were siblings; I am pure Targaryen."

"Mayhaps that's the secret to it then," Theon laughed. "We have to wed within our own blood to ensure our sigils remain unaltered. No wonder you want your own nephew. And here I thought it a queer custom, but in truth, you all were ahead of the curb. You'll keep your newly made sigil." Theon replied. Aerea, at the moment, wished the idiot still pretended to be shy, like he did to most others he was not accustomed to, the stupid twat.

"I am this close to feeding you to my dragon, you bear f*cker," Aerea returned with a deadpan. "Honestly," she laughed to herself. "You might be right; I do like the coat of arms we made here for the new branch of our House, here in Summerhall. I do not wish to marry some c*nt lord who would force me to display their colors and sigils. Aemon might be the only way for me to keep the one we made. Unfair really. I have to give up my sigil for a future husband when I did more for my family than most men have done since my father first was crowned King," she muttered. "Besides, if a girl can't fight, why should she have a coat of arms?"

Theon shrugged. "Girls get the arms but not the swords. Bastards get the swords but not the arms. I did not make the rules, my princess."

"f*ck the rules," Aerea muttered to herself. Aerea looked at Aemon the entire time, her eyes never leaving him as she watched ladies swoon and touch his shoulders. She was not the jealous type; however, it was annoying when it happened every single time he was in public.

"Or you f*ck the rule maker," Theon pointed out. Aerea turned to him; she realized he was gazing at her the whole time her eyes were on Aemon. Aerea waited for Theon to explain. "Prince Aemon once told me something. The King may rule the kingdom, but it's the queen who rules the King." With that, Theon walked off to train on a wooden dummy.

Daenerys Targaryen

Daenerys rode on her mare, a silvery white, almost the silver of her hair, a horse meant for future horse breedings in Summertown. She, Rhaella, and Maegelle had gotten the idea from hearing how Dorne was known for their horses, so she had convinced Aemon to purchase enough for Rhaella, Maegelle, and herself to begin breeding. Maegelle and Rhaella spoke to the people and prayed in the city. Her sister may not be septas, due to Aemon all but denying it due to them having dragons and Aemon harshly stating he would never allow the faith to have any dragons, but they were devout.

The open woods were beautiful; Daenerys could see the Red Mountains behind her as she rode in the woods. She had her own guards just far enough not to hinder her freedom but still close enough to rush to her aid if needed. Daenerys loved the freedom. Summerhall was beautiful, but she craved the open space. She craved the freedom. She would have liked to ride her dragon, but she felt it was a nice change in pace to ride a horse instead. She watched deep, lush greens; she had recalled Aemon had made maintaining the gardens and forests around and in Summertown an important work and job.

Daenerys did wish for her sister to be there. Rhaella was a very quiet and shy person, and it was hard to get her to do anything outside of the work of the faith. But Rhaella loved horses; even like all their sisters, they all agreed that dragons ruined riding horses for anyone. Daenerys had come from the stables to look at the new two dozen or so new breeding stallions, half of which were some of the greatest racing horses in all of both Westeros and Essos, the other half warhorses, equally as expensive and important. Aemon never knew how to say no to Daenerys or her sisters, even if he was being stubborn about the betrothal.

The racehorses were lean and quick, some of the fastest horses ever bred. The warhorses were thick and strong, muscular beasts half a head taller than most other horses. Aemon had instructed that they would be used for nothing more than breeding. Daenerys decided that she was going to find the most fertile of the gleaming white mares, almost pearl in color. They would begin breeding the day after next. And the mare she was currently was known to be the quickest of them; she would be bred with a racehorse on the morrow.

The sun was bright in the skies, she urged the mare. Quicksilver was running like the wind itself. Daenerys's long silvery hair rushed behind her as she felt like a silver comet riding a strong star. The wind whispered and caressed across her skin, and she laughed and chuckled with reckless abandon.

She then heard another set of hooves. She turned her head to see a stallion as black as night, with fur that seemed to steal the light around them. The stallion was slower than Quicksilver; it was not meant to be faster. It was a warhorse meant for strength, power, and long rides, not quick bursts of speed for racing like Quicksilver. Daenerys slowed her mare enough for the warhorse to catch up and reach pace with her.

The dark horse reached Quicksilver, over a head and a half taller than her mount; it was an intimidating sight. "Showing sympathy is unlike most dragonesses," Aemon pointed out once he got close enough to speak.

Daenerys looked up, her nose just high enough for her to be looking down on her nephew, who still sat on the giant horse. "I fear for your reputation, nephew if others find the son of Lyanna Stark losing a race upon horses," Daenerys returned checks. Aemon's stoic face did not change. "What are you doing here? I had thought you would be locked in your room, looking over the betrothals, even though we have all expressed our desires."

She could see Aemon was tired of this conversation. "Daenerys, you and I both know it is not that simple. You all are ignoring the implications and situation we would put ourselves in if I married all of you at once."

Daenerys smiled before reaching her left hand onto his leg; he was too high up for her to reach his shoulder and guide her horse. "In Valyria, there is no greater form of love or honor than to wed your sibling. If not possible, it is almost as honorable and just for a man of Valyrian blood to marry his aunt, cousin, or niece." She needed to be gentle. Viserra, Saera, and Aerea were more aggressive in their pursuit of betrothal with Aemon, Rhaella was too timid to do anything more than what she did in the room, and Maegelle was very busy being more involved than Rhaella with the faith.

"How do I win an argument when one side only runs off emotion, desires, and wants when I combat it with logic and sense?" Aemon asked aloud, both horses now in step, no longer racing but trotting alongside one another. "I need to focus more than just making all of you happy, Daenerys. By marrying all six of you, I ensure that the next generation of Targaryens is no longer pure of Valyrian blood."

Daenerys smiled. "I am no fool, Aemon," she said. "I will concede that your point was important. If we degrade our blood too much, there is no telling if the later generations have too little blood to ride dragons, or even worse, if the blood is passed those outside the blood and making new dragon riders that are not our own." Daenerys chuckled when she saw him look at her twice, one stockily knowing that he was right, then the second looking in shock for conceding the point. "Oh please, is it that shocking that I agree with you."

Aemon's face was serious once more before speaking. "I'm just surprised that I won an argument against six women," Aemon said.

Daenerys would give him that; he was smart, but intelligence means nothing in the face of six dragonesses, especially those of royal blood. "You were right, but that doesn't mean you have to remain as such." Aemon looked confused. "Saera and I looked into some other families with pure Valyrian blood."

"There are no more in the kingdom save for the cousins and other lines outside Lord Corlys of House Velayron and the entirety of House Celtigar," Aemon pointed out.

Daenerys nodded along, her silvery white mare almost losing footing over a dip in the open woods, and yet Aemon's own warhorse did not move, so sure-footed and strong. "Who said anything of merely looking in Westeros?" Aemon turned once more to Daenerys. " Saera and I have come to find twenty, nearly thirty, Houses, families of lords or magisters in both Lys and Volantis, with pure blood. Saera looked into their bloodlines and could confirm pure blood, some even marrying siblings, such as the dragon lord way, to keep the blood. Not that any of them came from dragon lord families. The most influential of these families were not unlike the Velaryons when Valyria ruled."

"You found families of pure Valyrian blood?" Aemon asked, skeptical, his voice unchanging.

Daenerys knew it sounded absurd; Valyria had fallen exactly two hundred ten years ago; no family outside of the dragon lords would attempt to keep the families so pure outside of such things. "Lys, technically, has more Valyrian blood than any other place in the world, but they are not noble; most of them descend from bastard Valyrians and make names for themselves in the city. Volantis takes pride in being Valyrian; they are the First Daughter of Valyria, as we all know. They used that position to conquer Lys and Myr and seek to claim back the Freehold. Volantis takes their pure Valyrian blood seriously. Some families are as pure as possible. Volantis has a stature comparable to that of House Velaryon. While Lys has..."

"Those of House Celtigar and our forebears were too proud to marry into House Celtigar because they had no standing in Valyria," Aemon realized. "But the purity of their blood is important. I am already in close ties with House Celtigar, and I made it known to Lord Celtigar that I would make sure my descendants would marry his own. Keeping House Celtigar and those Houses in Lys and Volantis would more than keep the blood pure and allow us to keep our dragons indefinitely. "

Daenerys looked at him; she felt like the man was planning too far in the future. "You are not yet betrothed, and you are already marrying off our children?" she asked as she looked to the trees again. Aemon seemed not to notice she used the wordour.

Aemon thought of it for some time before speaking. "House Velaryon rose to the position of dragon riders, and they are ambitious. We could raise House Celtigar, and they will be submissive. They have ships, and in our most recent letters, I insinuated that the more they work upon themselves to grow in power, the more likely I would join our lines."

"I thought you wished to keep the dragons within our House," Daenerys asked.

She looked into his eyes for some time. He showed a haunting look. His face may have been brooding, but like a thousand times before, his eyes looked a thousand yards into the past or future but not the present. "Valyria is more than one House of dragon lords, and so too must there be many who ride dragons to end the winters to come. Winter is coming."

Daenerys did not know the meaning of his words. She disliked the Stark words. Most Houses had their words to boast of glory, strength, and prosperity, but not House Stark. House Stark's words, winter is coming, only promised that harsh times were to come and it was time to prepare, for the best times to prepare for harsh times were when the times were plentiful. Similarly to the Starks, nor truly were the words of her own House, of the Targaryens of Summerhall for that matter. In other words, the realm is now fearful of their words,a Targaryen who always pays their debts, only promises prosperity to their allies and pain to those who dispute them. She liked her words more, but those of House Stark were not something to boast; they were words to humble.

"Do you fear another doom?" she asked her nephew. She then realized something. "You had a dream." She and her sister knew of Aemon's dreams; they knew him to have more than nightmares. Rarely did he dream of what was to be, but the dreams were of high importance to the House of the Dragon, the dreams of Daenys the Dreamer had been the reason their House had survived.

Aemon looked at the sun; the skies were beautiful. His eyes were haunted, as they were when his dreams were harsh and painful. "Summerhall and Summertown are to be Valyria reborn, Daenerys. They are to be the spark that causes the blaze that was the empire. The empire will be reborn from Summertown. Winter is coming, but summer is the end of winter."

"But winter is far away, nephew. It is too far away to care for now," she replied. She was right; there was a relatively long winter after what Aemon had done to the Reynes and Tarbecks. A winter of five years that he had to force his men to work through, even if the winters were so far south in the Stormlands that they were almost Dorne that the winters were warmer than most summers further north, to complete the Summer Sept, the Summer Bank, the Summer Canal, the Amphitheater, Colosseum, and Citadel of Summertown.

"It is not the winter that we must weather first but the storm of fire and blood," he said under his breath.

Daenerys did not know what his words meant, but whatever his dreams were telling him was affecting him more and more recently. Aemon knew something was coming, and with every passing day since the turn of the new year, 112 AC, Aemon had grown more and more worrisome as if he knew he was running out of time and had to prepare sooner. His moves were becoming increasingly more subtle as if he did not want a single person to know his plans, almost as if he didn't even want himself to know. He spoke more to the guests, the second, third, and fourth sons of other Houses, hostages in all but name, and made good relations with them.

Aemon was preparing for something; she knew it, and her sisters knew it, but not one of them could tell what was so terrifying that he was preparing for it when nothing seemed out of place. He was preparing for war, and while it sounded mad that Aemon was preparing for war, he was the foremost mind of war in the entire continent of Westeros. He had fought and won three, and no man was foolish enough to question the person with more experience in war than any man living. Most would think him mad, but Daenerys trusted Aemon in war as much as she trusted a dragon to breathe fire, and if Aemon was preparing for war, that meant war was on the horizon.

She inwardly laughed, while her father, King Jaehaerys, ruled; there were nearly fifty-five years of relative peace, no large-scale wars but battles that started and ended quickly being put down by dragons. But just after that, Aemon was born and had been through three wars before turning fourteen. Aemon knew war, and while she did not see it on the horizon he somehow knew it to be a finality. She would trust him in this, better if he prepared and be proven wrong than if he did not prepare and be proven right.

Daenerys knew better than most that the best way for Aemon to stop those lines of thought was to distract him with something else. "I pray to the gods above that our children do not have your skill for brooding. I fear I might find a babe standing at the railings, looking to the setting suns, contemplating why the gods saw fit to give man life."

Aemon smirked; she could see it from the corner of her eyes. "Our?"

"I already countered the purity reason for marrying us, showing that in a few generations, the blood would be as pure as it could ever be, and if marrying with Lys or Volantis would make them realize they could have blood ties to dragon riders and each one of those families would make sure they are as pure as possible to continue such connections in the future. I understand it was vital, but now purity is no longer an excuse. We already spoke about consolidating the power in Summerhall, which would be important since the people fear dragons, and that keeps the realm in check. Also, the opinions of the people would not matter if we focused on the fact that faith gave their blessing to marriage within our family."

"And the fact that I would hypothetically marry six women, like Maegor the Cruel?" Aemon asked in rebuke.

Daenerys smirked triumphantly. "Six plus one equals seven, nephew. And here I thought you were an intelligent man. What else is associated with seven, outside of our hypothetical marriage?"

Aemon chuckled. She was happy; she had him. He could not argue it any longer. He would have to concede the victory to her. "The faith of the seven and almost everything of religious importance to the Andals we Valyrians rule over. Well played. But as I said before, the faith will not like the idea of incest," Aemon pointed out once more.

Daenerys then looked at her nephew as if she truly thought he was a fool. "Are you purposely trying to ignore the Doctrine of Exceptionalism signed by my father? You and I both know Maegelle has made this argument before."

Aemon smirked, the soft smirk hidden between such a solemn gaze. "I half expected all of you to not know the actual name of the law and its details."

Daenerys' glare turned into one of intrigue as she smirked. "Since you seem so pompous and so proud of the knowledge you are trying to withhold, how about you enlighten such a foolish girl in what my father's law truly says?"

Aemon laughed; his horses neighed at the same time. "And fall into your trap? Please. I am trying to show you all the reasons why we should at least consider other marriages, not feed into your plan of forcing me to have to hear six women fighting with each other for the rest of my life and then nailing my coffin, ensuring that I never win an argument again."

Daenerys smirked. "If you do not wish to indulge me, then mayhaps I would just fly off upon my dragon like Aerea did."

Aemon did not look amused. "And have me chase you down in Balerion."

Daenerys played with her hair coyly, mockingly. "Balerion is strong but slow. I think Quciksilver here might be faster," she mocked.

"The day a horse outraces a dragon is the day Syrax could eat Balerion whole in a single bite," Aemon countered.

"All I hear is an argument from a man who knows prolonging the inevitable still leads to the undesired result on your part," Danerys replied sweetly.

Aemon sighed. Danerys knew Aemon would grow tired of the back and forth and merely fall in line. She would admit that having her sister help keep Aemon exhausted from the argument and that he willingly gave in to her desires might be a larger benefit than she thought.

Aemon looked at his horse, who turned his neck to look Him in the eye. "Women are a pain; remember that." The horse seemed to neigh in approval, but Quicksilver neighed. Aemon's horse turned to Quicksilver and slumped ever so slightly as if he, too, had lost an argument. "Traitor," Aemon cursed to his horse. Aemon turned to Daenerys as she smirked in victory. "Fine! Fine. You win. The Doctrine of Exceptionalism stated that the Faith of the Seven had been born in Andalos of old, where the laws laid down by the Seven in the holy texts decreed that incest was an abomination. The Doctrine of Exceptionalism confirmed this but with one caveat: the Targaryens were not like other men, as they rode dragons and were the only ones in the world to do so since the Doom of Valyria. In addition, we, the Targaryens, did not have their roots in Andalos but in Valyria, where different laws and traditions held sway. We can and would continue to wed brother to sister as the Valyrians had always done, and as the gods had made them this way, it was not for men to judge."

"With that logic, the faith has no sway over whether you marry me or, as Aerea would say it, f*ck me stupid," Daenerys said with a chuckle.

Aemon sighed once more. "I could bring an entire continent to heel, I could get Corlys Velaryon to cross from the Narrow Sea to attack the Greyjoys in the Sunset Sea, I could make all other men fall in line, and yet from all the arguments and debates, I never win an argument with my aunts."

"As you say, you can make any man fall to your demands, but I, dear nephew, am no man," she said with a wink. "Now you have nothing to say against the marriage," she said. Daenerys and her sisters had worked hard to try to counter Aemon. He was cunning, and it would take cunning to get their way.

"What if I do not wish to marry any of you?" Aemon asked her.

Daenerys kicked her horse for some speed, just enough to run before Aemon, and turn her horse to block his path, stopping his horse. She moved her horse just close enough to touch him. She reached her hand delicately and gently as she grazed his shoulder. Aemon looked into her eyes, and Daenerys could look deep into his dark eyes; she could see, for the first time in a long time, that his dark eyes were not black or dark gray but deep, rich purple. She had forgotten her nephew was blessed with at least one piece of Valyrian looks. She felt her hand grazed his leg; she felt his co*ck harden ever slightly; she was glad that while Aemon's top head showed no emotion, his lower head would not lie to her. Her voice was husky as she whispered. "You are a bad liar, my dear nephew."

Aemon said nothing for some time as Daenerys drew her hand back. She could see the desire in his eyes and thought him ready to grab her arm and pull her closer, but he made no move. His eyes shifted, and Daenerys moved her gaze to the side to follow him, seeing the guards and men. He would not move on a woman not betrothed in front of others.

Her eyes half-lidded and narrowed, she gazed upon her nephew, desire in his eyes, and yet his body would not allow himself to move, whether in fear of dishonoring her or in fear of doing so in public, she did not know, but she liked this. Aemon craved her, and she could see it, yet he could not claim her. He could not have her, and it was maddening to him; his face did not show it, but his eyes burned with a passion, and they seemed far more violent than ever before; gone were the dark near blacks, in the shining sun they looked as purple as lilac. "Why do you fight it?" she asked him, her voice as sweet as a siren's call.

He muttered to himself, but Daenerys could hear him. "My aunts will be the death of me. No f*cking wonder Aegon obeyed his wives' words; if he was this obedient with two wives, I would be defeated by six."

Daenerys laughed at it. She drew back, knowing full well he wished to pursue her. She kicked Quicksilver's side, and the pair rode off hard and strong. It did not take long for Daenerys to hear more hooves once more as Aemon gave chase to her. Daenerys would have to give credit to Viserra and Saera; they both always get what they wish, and the pair made sure none of their sisters lacking in skill to bring Aemon to the option of marriage to them, and it would seem that their skills held true once more.

She had fun as Aemon gave chase to her. She laughed and giggled; she felt free, as free as a dragon rider could be when riding a horse and not a dragon, but still just as fun. She noticed that Aemon had been growing more concerned lately, focusing much on betrothals and alliances. She knew he thought a war was coming; it was the only reason he would be so worried about finding them proper matches, even if they themselves had already decided on which match they wanted. She had noticed that Aemon had been spending far more time with her and her sisters. Aemon was scared, or was he stubborn and did not wish to let go of his happiness? She did not know. But Daenerys knew that whatever was drawing Aemon's worry was closer at hand.

She had seen him spend time with Rhaella and Maegelle in the Summer Sept and spend time with the people. She had seen him train and spar with Aerea. He had raced with her on horseback. He had taken Viserra shopping through the city of Summertown and sat there as she measured and created a new black and white jerkin in their sigil colors. He spent time with Saera while she was studying in the libraries. Aemon was spending more time with them as of late than he had done before. As though trying to soak himself in their presence. As if he was scared, it would no longer be the same soon enough.

Later that day, Daenerys would enter her nephew's solar once more, alongside her sisters, and learn that Ameon had received another letter from the King, not just a reminder of finding proper betrothals for her and her sister but something else. The Heir's Tourney would celebrate the pregnancy and birth of the next King, which would happen during the time of the tourney. Aemon had supposedly known for a week and spent his time trying to spend time with his aunts rather than preparing for departure, but he had put it off for too long.

But the one thing she did notice was when speaking of the Heir's Tourney; the color drained from Aemon; he was stoic and brooding, but his eyes held a fear that she had never seen upon. Nor was she the only one to take note of this. But one thing was for certain: the Targaryens of Summerhall would return to King's Landing for the first time in nearly a decade.

Chapter 36: The Return to King's Landing

Chapter Text

King's Landing 112 AC

Rhaenyra Targaryen

In the vast expanse above King's Landing, Rhaenyra Targaryen found profound solace upon the wings of her mighty dragon, Syrax. As she ascended into the heavens, leaving the clamor of the city far below, a sense of liberation, so potent it could be tasted, enveloped her. The sun, a radiant orb of golden fire, cast its warm glow across the land, igniting the clouds in a symphony of hues.

King's Landing, a sprawling metropolis of stone and steel, its streets and buildings awakening to the promise of a new day, like a living, breathing entity.

With a deft hand upon the reins, Rhaenyra guided Syrax through the ever-shifting tapestry of clouds, their journey a dance of trust and companionship. Syrax roared, a sound that reverberated through the skies, as if claiming the heavens for herself, the sound more like a trill or purring gentle bellow than the full roar of her elder and more ferocious counterparts. The dragon's mighty wings beat rhythmically against the air, propelling them forward with effortless grace. Each gust of wind whispered secrets of the world below, carrying the scent of salt from the distant sea and the fragrance of blooming flowers from the countryside.

For Rhaenyra, there was no greater joy than the sensation of flight. The rush of wind against her skin, the exhilaration of soaring above the mundane concerns of the realm, stirred something primal within her soul. With every twist, turn, dip, and ascent, she felt a profound connection to the ancient magic that bound dragon and rider together, a magic that transcended the limitations of the world below.

As they soared higher, the sun climbed ever higher in the sky, casting long shadows across the land below. Rhaenyra's heart swelled with a sense of freedom, her spirit unshackled by the constraints of mortal existence. For in that fleeting moment, she was not merely a princess or a dragon rider but a creature of the sky, bound only by the vastness of the heavens and the boundless depths of her imagination.

The heavens stretched out before them like an endless canvas, a masterpiece crafted by the hand of the gods themselves. She wondered if flying over Old Valyria, back when the Freehold was strong and true, would have been as liberating. Her father was obsessed with the histories of the dragon lords before the Conquest. From what she could gather, the politics was far worse. House Targaryen and two Velaryons had full control of the dragons in Westeros, and while the old Houses were strong, they would pale before dragons; the word of a Targaryen was law. But in the Freehold, the Valyrian Empire, House Targaryen was a weak dragon lord House, and each of the other families kept House Targaryen in check, meaning being a Targaryen was not liberating; they were not obeyed; they were merely one of many and most use tact to get some semblance of power that they now bestowed on others on a whim. No, Rhaenyra had decided that being a dragon lord after Aegon's Conquest was far better than before, with far fewer of them and far more freedom to do as they wished.

Syrax, mischievous and wild, danced through the air with a grace that belied her massive size. With a flick of her mighty tail, she sent ripples cascading through the clouds, her yellow scales gleaming in the rising sun's light. His expansive and powerful wings caught the wind with a thunderous roar, propelling them ever higher into the boundless expanse above.

Rhaenyra clung to Syrax's back, her silver-blonde hair streaming behind her like a fire banner due to the rising sun. Her laughter echoed through the heavens, a joyous symphony that mingled with the rush of wind and the beating of dragon wings. With each twist, turn, and daring maneuver, she felt the thrill of freedom coursing through her veins.

Syrax was a creature of boundless energy, her spirit as untamed as the raging sea. She barrel-rolled through the sky; her movements were fluid and unpredictable, leaving trails of shimmering light in his wake. Rhaenyra screamed in delight, her heart pounding with exhilaration as they soared like shooting stars.

Together, dragon and rider carved a path through the heavens, their bond unbreakable, their spirits intertwined. They were a vision of primal beauty, a testament to the ancient magic that flowed through their veins. And as they danced among the clouds, they became one with the sky, a living embodiment of freedom and grace.

High above the realm, where the sky stretched like an endless sea of blue, Syrax let out a triumphant roar that pierced the silence of the heavens. Her mighty voice echoed across the empty expanse, reverberating off the distant clouds like thunder rolling across the mountains. But amidst the fading echoes, a chorus of other roars answered his call, their haunting melodies weaving through the air like a ghostly symphony.

There were other dragons in the skies.

Rhaenyra, perched atop Syrax's back, felt both excitement and uncertainty as she scanned the skies for the source of the mysterious roars. Her sharp and keen eyes searched the billowing clouds for any sign of movement, any hint of the dragons that dared to challenge their dominion of the sky. But try as she might, she could find nothing but the endless expanse of azure above.

And then, as if conjured from the very mists themselves, four dragons emerged from the depths of the clouds, their majestic forms silhouetted against the brilliant sky. Each one was a magnificent creature, its scales shimmering in the sun's light, and its wings spread wide as it soared effortlessly through the air.

The first dragon, a deep maroon red, glinted like polished ruby in the sunlight, its eyes ablaze with fierce determination. The second, a silver-platinum marvel, gleamed like a celestial being, its scales reflecting the myriad colors of the rainbow. The third dragon, adorned in a rich, deep purple, exuded an aura of regal elegance, its movements graceful and fluid. And the fourth, a pale white wonder, seemed to glow with an ethereal light, its presence both awe-inspiring and serene.

As the four dragons drew near, Rhaenyra felt awe and apprehension wash over her. They were formidable creatures, each easily capable of matching Syrax in size and strength; no, they might be just a bit bigger. But there was something else, too, something ineffable and profound, a sense of kinship that transcended the boundaries of flesh and blood.

Rhaenyra Targaryen was surrounded by a sight she had longed for yet never dared to hope would come to pass. Her beloved aunts were riding on the backs of majestic dragons, each accompanied by their formidable dragon. She may have to change her opinion, for if Old Valyria had sights like this, dragons of hundreds of colors, sizes, and shapes, flying through the at once in the early morning, it might have been better.

Viserra, her fiery aunt, rode atop Vēttir, whose scales gleamed like polished rubies in the sun's golden light. The dragon's deep maroon-red hue spoke of strength and passion, mirroring the fierce spirit of its rider. Vēttir climbed into the skies, reaching the sun before twirling in the air, spinning and dropping down for a steep drop towards the Blackwater. Rhaenyra didn't hear her aunt Viserra say the words, but her dragon spewed maroon, deep ruby red flames from her mouth like a flaming geyser, and the flames slammed into the Blackwater as steam and smoke exploded from the watery surface. The smoke reached high into the skies and covered a portion of the Blackwater in steam. Rhaenyra looked down to find her aunt and her mount, concerned, but before it turned any worse, she heard a roar as Vēttir shot upwards from the steam, leaving a trail of white smoke trailing behind her, making her seem like a red comment shooting from the ground.

Aerea, the more active of the group and, from what she could recall, the best rider, was astride Dȳñes, whose silver-platinum scales shimmered with an otherworldly brilliance. Like a celestial being descended from the heavens, the dragon exuded a sense of tranquility that calmed the tumultuous winds. Dȳñes shot forward into the skies to give Viserra and her own mount a chance. Visera and Vēttir noticed this and sped up their flight. Dȳñes flew faster and, with Aerea's command, spewed her torrent of flames, silvery-platinum, at her counterpart. The silver flames were not aimed at Dȳñes but just above the dragon, and instead of one shot of the flames, it was a continuous volley, a stream of silver flames. Dȳñes kept it up, never aiming for his brother but just above, and even while diligently not aiming for the dragon, he overtook Vēttir, the maroon dragon now lagging. Vēttir tried to catch up, but Dȳñes, with all his silver scales, began to ascend into the clouds. Even when being followed higher and higher, Dȳñes seemed to gain more distance into the clouds, his chancer growing more distant, but just before Vēttir could try and reach him once more Dȳñes, tucked his wings and dove down with speed that Rhaenyra had never seen dragon outside Meleys, the fastest dragon alive, had ever reached.

Daenerys, regal and adventurous, guided Averilla through the skies. The dragon's rich palette of deep purple and grape colors was a testament to its royal lineage. With each beat of its powerful wings, it seemed to carry the weight of centuries of Valyrian history upon its broad shoulders. Averilla swerved in the skies, almost like a snake. Rhaneyra noticed that Dȳñes, with his silvery flames, and Vēttir, with his maroon, had sent a torrent of flames towards Averilla in the skies when trying to play with one another. Rhaenyra looked in fixed horror as she saw the explosion of flames, almost like a flaming cloud in the skies, roaring and burning brightly. Rhaneyra watched as Daenerys, instead of trying to fly around it, smiled before opening her hands widely as if hugging the newly formed sun, embracing it, and flying straight into it. Averilla flies directly into and is consumed by the floating burning mass. Rhaneyra screamed in fear and concern, only to see Daenerys and Averilla, in all his purple glory, fly out with no concern. Daenerys laughed and smiled as broadly as Rhaneyra had ever seen her.

And then there was Saera, Rhaenyra's aunt of ethereal beauty, whose dragon Sōna embodied grace and elegance in its pale white scales. Like a ghost drifting through the clouds, it moved with a serenity that belied its immense power, its presence a beacon of hope in the darkest times. Sōna acted calm, not moving, just drifting into the skies, quiet, almost. The white dragon mixed and danced with the clouds, making it nearly impossible to see in the day and in the clouds, much like Rhaenyra had heard of Balerion in the night or storms. Sōna was the most beautiful of the dragons, and he held an elegance for surpassing any Rhaneyra had ever seen.

For years, Rhaenyra had yearned for this moment, to fly alongside her aunts on their dragons, to share in the bond that only those who rode the skies could understand. And now, as they soared through the heavens together, she felt a sense of belonging that she had never known before, a connection forged in fire and blood, in the shared legacy of House Targaryen. She had not flown with Caraxes and Daemon for some time, and now Rhaenyra had gained only one new flying partner but four.

Amidst the vast expanse of the sky, a breathtaking spectacle unfolded as Rhaenyra Targaryen and her aunts soared upon the backs of their majestic dragons. With wings outstretched and scales gleaming in the sunlight, the dragons danced through the air with a grace rivaling the gods. Daenerys, Aerea, and Viserra are playing and chasing one another and doing maneuvers Rhaenyra had not even seen her uncle Daemon do before.

As they flew, the dragons engaged in playful antics, weaving in and out of one another's paths with a fluidity that defied the laws of nature. Vēttir, with his deep maroon-red scales, chased after Dȳñes, the silver-platinum brilliance, their movements a blur of color against the backdrop of the azure sky. Sōna, in his pale beauty, spiraled gracefully through the air, his movements mirroring the tranquility of the clear Valyrian sky. And Averilla, with her rich palette of deep purple and grape colors, joined in the fray, her roars of laughter echoing across the heavens.

Amidst the chaos of their aerial ballet, Rhaenyra felt an overwhelming sense of joy wash over her. Here, high above the world below, she was free from the burdens of duty and expectation, free to revel in the simple pleasure of flight. With each beat of Syrax's wings, she felt a connection to something greater than herself, a connection forged in the ancient bond between dragon and rider.

Together, they soared through the sky, a living testament to the power and majesty of House Targaryen. As they danced among the clouds, Rhaenyra knew she was not alone. She was surrounded by family and kin, bound together by the shared legacy of their bloodline. She felt truly alive and at peace in that fleeting moment, as if she had finally found her place in the world.

As the dragons gracefully descended from the heavens, their massive forms casting long shadows upon the earth below, Rhaenyra Targaryen's laughter rang out like a peal of bells in the crisp Valyrian air. For so long had she soared upon the back of Syrax, the thrill of flight coursing through her veins, and now, as they touched down near the Dragon Pit with a resounding thud, she could scarcely contain her joy.

Watching as her aunts gracefully dismounted their dragons, Rhaenyra followed suit, sliding down from Syrax's back with exhilaration that lingered long after the flight had ended. She watched with pride and fondness as the dragon keepers led Syrax and her aunts' dragons into the dark caves below, their forms disappearing into the depths like ghosts in the night.

Turning away, Rhaenyra approached a wheelhouse where her closest friend, Alicent Hightower, awaited her. Ser Westerling of the King's Guard stood by her side, a stalwart figure in gleaming armor, his expression a mix of relief and concern.

"Welcome back, Your Grace," Ser Westerling said with a respectful bow. "I trust your flight was...enjoyable?"

Rhaenyra chuckled, shaking her head as she leaned against the wheelhouse. "Enjoyable is one way to put it, Ser Westerling. Although I must admit, I didn't expect you to be so relieved to see me return."

The knight's lips twitched in a wry smile. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but every time you return from a ride on that yellow beast; it saves my head from being placed on a spike for the disappearance, especially after the stunt Princess Aerea pulled some years ago."

Aerea was by far the most unruly of the daughters of Jaehaerys, and somehow, the stoic and perfect Aemon Targaryen fed into her unladylike ways. He would spar with her, one of the few Aemon would allow in public, and he even gifted Princess Aerea with a sword, one of his Valyrian steel swords, but Rhaenyra did not know which one. She heard tales of Aerea besting some of the guards of Summerhall on horseback; the girl was wild and free, and no man dared to question her and face the wrath of Aemon Targaryen; the two were as thick as thieves.

Rhaenyra bristled at the mention of her dragon as a yellow beast. "Syrax is not a yellow beast," she protested, her voice tinged with anger, but the smile on her lips showed it was more in light heated emotion than pure distaste. "She is a noble creature, as good a companion as any pet."

"Dogs don't breathe fire and burn down castles, my princess." Ser Westerling raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusem*nt dancing in his eyes. He looked at her and saw that Rhaneyra looked ready to protest or add something to her previous statement. " Of course, Your Grace. I meant no offense. But you must admit, your dragon does have a penchant for unpredictable behavior."

Rhaenyra sighed, conceding the point with a weary shake of her head. "Perhaps. But that is what makes him so special. And besides," she added with a mischievous glint, "where would the realm be without a bit of excitement now and then?"

As Alicent stepped out of the wheelhouse, her eyes catching the warm sun, she found Alicent Hightower approaching her. Alicent's gaze lingered on Syrax, the mighty dragon who had just carried Rhaenyra through the skies, and she couldn't help but comment on his size.

"Syrax is getting rather large, isn't she?" Alicent remarked, her voice filled with a mix of awe and apprehension. "Soon enough, she'll be as big as Caraxes."

Rhaenyra chuckled at the notion, nodding in agreement. "Yes, he's growing quite quickly. Before long, he'll be large enough for you to join me on a flight, Alicent."

Alicent smiled politely, though her eyes betrayed a hint of trepidation. "I think I'll be quite content to remain on solid ground, thank you."

Before their conversation could continue, a voice rang across the courtyard, drawing their attention. It was one of Rhaenyra's aunts, Daenerys, just a year or so older than Rhaenyra herself. With a cry of delight, Daenerys rushed forward to embrace her niece, her arms wrapping around Rhaenyra tightly.

Daenerys wore her riding leather dyed purple, a rich purple of wine coloring to match her dragon's coloring. Around her neck was a new necklace, and she could see the signs of the black ripples of Valyrian steel metal; somehow, her aunt had received a necklace made of Valyrian steel, made to look like the scales of a dragon and dyed to match the purple she wore. "Rhaenyra! My sweet niece, how I've missed you!" Daenerys exclaimed, her voice filled with genuine affection.

"And I've missed you too, Ñamar Daenerys." Rhaenyra returned the embrace, feeling a surge of warmth at the sight of her beloved aunt. " Why didn't you visit if you missed me so?"

Aerea's riding leathers looked more fit for a boy than a princess, but they were silvery like her own dragon, which made Rhaenyra chuckle since silver was not something she thought her Ñamar, aunt, liked. Rhaenyra noticed that Aerea, like Daenerys, had a similar necklace dyed silver. Aerea chimed in, her tone tinged with a hint of defensiveness. "We've been busy, Rhaenyra. Aemon had to keep all the dragon lords in Summertown while we established and stabilized the city. Not to mention the preparation for Aegon's Day had put everything we wished to accomplish, outside of the holiday, a near impossibility."

Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in her eye. "Surely riding your dragons would have made traveling back and forth from King's Landing to Summertown quick and easy. Every few weeks or moons, a single trip for at least one of you is completely acceptable and would do wonders for your stress."

Aerea scoffed before taking a long whiff of the air, exaggeratingly so. "It wouldn't have done any good for our noses, however. The air in the city smells of horse sh*t." Daenerys hit Aerea on her shoulder somewhat hard, enough for Aerea to realize that she had misspoken and cursed in public but not enough for Aerea to actually care.

Saera wore her riding leathers, pale, white coloring with the same matching necklace. Rhaenyra did not know how, but somehow, they could all find and wear Valyrian steel; the cost was telling since no new Valyrian steel had been forged since the fall of Old Valyria. Saera's voice was even, with no emotion on her face; it reminded Rhaenyra of the glass dolls and masks she heard were made in Yi Ti. "Summerhall is still growing, Rhaenyra. It takes a lot of our focus. There is a reason that there are seven of us in Summerhall, and it would benefit us more if more were allowed in. However, we only have ten Targaryens in our family overall. "

Daenerys added, with a smirk, "The only reason we came was for the tournament being thrown. Rhaella could not stop speaking of how it would be so grand to be on the receiving end of a feast and tourney rather than the ones to initiate it. Seeing our dear niece was a bonus. Purely coincidental."

Rhaenyra laughed, the tension dissipating as she exchanged playful banter with her aunts. It was known that Rhaella rarely spoke; the would-be septa spoke to few, and even those she spoke to only heard her voice when the sun came out at night, in other words, never. Moments like these, surrounded by family and friends, made her feel truly alive and at home. In truth, she doubted what they said; there was no coincidence about it. Aemon Targaryen was a calculated man and would only allow his aunts to leave Summerhall if he knew it was more beneficial for them to do so.

As Rhaenyra and her aunts continued their conversation, Viserra spoke up, her voice carrying a hint of wistfulness. "It's been far too long since I've had the freedom to fly around King's Landing," she admitted, her eyes reflecting the boundless sky above. "Aemon can be far too overbearing at times." Rhaenyra looked at her aunt's maroon riding leathers and noticed the dragon-scale Valyrian steel necklace barely covering her upper breasts.

Saera looked to her sister, her cold dark purple eyes bearing into the eyes of the beauty. Saera's tall, lean frame contrasts greatly with Viserra's buxom seductress form. "And whose fault was that?" Saera asked Viserra in High Valyrian with a bit of heat and anger. "Aemon had to do much to clean up your mess."

Viserra's eyes turned angry. "I'm not the only one of us to get a squire to lust over me. But at least I didn't lose my maidenhead, sweet sister." Rhaenyra fought off the urge to gasp; Viserra mentioned the fact that Saera was almost raped, which was cruel. It was known throughout the realms that Aemon had to stop a would-be rape on Saera and had the squires feed to Balerion; it was rather cruel to mock Saera for such.

Aerea rolled her eyes, which Rhaenyra felt was common among the sisters. "The both of you are stupid. Frankly, I think you're both handfuls," Aerea said with an exasperated sigh.

Saera leveled her glare at her next sister. "You beat the Dornish squires nearly to a bloody pulp, and Aemon had spent the better part of a week to appease them. Aemon was forced to make an example of you, then convinced Daenerys and Viserra to spend time with the Dornish ladies. You are no septa either, Aerea," Saera pointed out with her eyebrow raised.

Daenerys laughed once more. "It looks like I'm the only good one out of the four of us. I deserve a reward for my lack of bad qualities!" she laughed loudly.

Rhaenyra smirked. "More like a reward for your great humility," she chuckled.

Daenerys smiled widely, her smile broad and glowing. "Of course, no one is as humble as Daenerys Targaryen, Princess of Summerhall, eldest of the daughters of King Jaeherys, rider of the great Violet Death!" Daenerys could no longer keep her false pride as she began laughing loudly at her own expense, causing Rhaenrya to follow suit, Viserra and Aerea, and finally, Saera gave a chuckle.

Rhaneyra looked at Viserra for a second longer than she thought she would. Valyrian was known for beauty beyond beauty, an ethereal beauty beyond anything, yet even among her fellow pureblood Valyrian sisters, Viserra was far more beautiful. Rhaenyra knew that she might have the coloring and most of the looks of a Valyrian. Still, a quarter of Rhaenyra's blood was Arryn, and even if Rhaenyra looked as close to the scion of Valyrian as any other, the daughters of Jaehaerys were far more beautiful, whispers reached the Red Keep of Viserra being known to be thrice as beautiful as her sisters. And Viserra's pride let no one forget that.

Rhaenyra, intrigued by her aunt's words, after recalling that Viserra initially said that Aemon allowed them little freedom, furrowed her brow in confusion. "Doesn't Aemon allow you to do anything for fun?" she asked, genuine curiosity coloring her tone.

Daenerys, ever the diplomat, offered a gentle smile. "Aemon is kind, Rhaenyra. He allows us more freedom than most men would," she explained. "But Viserra here," she added, gesturing to her youngest sister, "is always quick to complain. It seems that's the only thing Viserra is good for."

Saera, not one to shy away from confrontation, spoke up defiantly. "Viserra argued with Aemon on our way to King's Landing. He looked half ready to put a sword in someone by the end of the little spat," she revealed, her voice exhausted from dealing with Viserra so often—at least that was what Rhaenyra could gather.

Rhaenyra's eyes widened in shock. "Aemon is here in King's Landing?" she exclaimed, her heart skipping a beat at the thought of her stern and imposing cousin. All she could imagine was a man who looked more Stark than Targaryen, with black garb and black wolf's pelt cloak, his white dire wolf, walking through the Red Keep.

She should have known Aemon was in King's Landing, Saera was in the city, and even Rhaenyra heard how much Saera held Aemon's ear. She was cunning, as cunning a serpent as many would whisper, and wrapped herself rather well around Aemon; no decisions were made without the advice of her aunt Saera. There were even rumors that it was with Saera's advice that Aemon killed off both the Reynes and Tarbecks, but Rhaenyra did not know if it was fully true or not.

Aerea, who looked confused herself, nodded solemnly. "Of course, Aemon is here," she confirmed. "It's the Heir's Tourney, after all. Aemon needs to show face. Aemon did pay for part of it, and it wouldn't do for the Heir's Tourney to take place without the heir to the current heir being there to congratulate and attend. Even I know that, and I f*cking hate politics."

Viserra, her expression unreadable, interjected with a hint of surprise in her voice. "I'm surprised Aemon left Summerhall. He hasn't shown any interest in leaving for almost a decade. I honestly thought the only thing that would cause him to leave the city was if he had the chance to speak to House Yornwood or House Martell in person." Rhaenyra had heard that Aemon had been growing close to the Dornish as of late. The entire court had been going abuzz with speculation, theories, and rumors, but due to Aemon being, well, Aemon, it was not the wisest course of action to theorize such things so openly.

Daenerys sighed, her gaze distant as she spoke. "Aemon is needed in Summertown and Summerhall. He cannot simply leave whenever he pleases."

Rhaenyra felt uncertain, her thoughts swirling like the tempestuous seas that crashed against the shores of Dragonstone. Before she loomed the enigmatic figure of her cousin, Prince Aemon, a man shrouded in shadows and whispers, his presence casting a pall of hesitation over her soul.

Since their days as children, much had changed within the realm and within Aemon himself. Tales and rumors swirled around him like a maelstrom, each one painting a different portrait of the man he had become. He had stood against the Wildling Invasion, a valiant defender of the realm, yet his methods had been ruthless, his actions steeped in bloodshed and sacrifice.

Aemon's hand had been the instrument of fate in the downfall of the Ironborn, his wrath unyielding as he sought retribution for their sins. The extinction of the Reynes and Tarbecks, once proud Houses, reduced to naught, but dust and ash bore the mark of his ambition and cunning.

But Aemon was not merely a warrior or a conqueror. He had carved his own city from the wilderness, established his own House, and bowed the knee to no king but himself. The people hailed him as a savior, a prince who could sing with the voice of angels, whose intellect was as sharp as Valyrian steel, and whose devotion to the gods was unwavering.

And yet, for all his accolades, some whispered of darker truths, who saw in Aemon a tyrant disguised as a savior, a man without honor who ruled with an iron fist. They spoke of his treatment of his enemies, his ruthless pursuit of power at any cost, and his willingness to sacrifice the lives of innocents for the sake of his ambitions.

Rhaenyra had once been close to her cousin, a bond forged in the innocence of youth. But he was a different man now, a stranger who had left her alone in the Red Keep without so much as a word of farewell. As she thought upon Prince Aemon's looming figure, she could not help but wonder what lay beneath the veneer of his golden facade, what darkness lurked within the heart of the man who had once been her kin.

And yet, through it all, she would have loved him still if he had not just left and abandoned her. Aemon left her in the Red Keep, then took his aunts with him to Summerhall. Aemon had left Rhaenyra, and not a single thought was spared for her. She was forgotten, and yet she was the daughter of the King. While she would not show dislike for Aemon, she disliked what he had done, and he left without a goodbye.

As Alicent Hightower approached the group of princesses, her smile was warm as the smile reached her eyes. Her eyes flickered with a subtle arrogance that did not go unnoticed by the royal sisters. Rhaenyra watched the found smile on Alicent's lips; she truly looked happy to see them on some level.

"Ah, Viserra, Saera, Daenerys, Aerea," Alicent greeted them without formality, her tone casual. Rhaenyra did not know why she spoke such a way; it sounded sweet, kind, and generous, but Rhaenyra knew that Alicent had not much of a liking to the Targaryens of Summerhall, for Aemon had openly and often had disputes with her father in letters. Alicent had spent more time with her Tully cousins, who had despised Daemon and his line as of late. "It's been quite some time since I've seen you, hasn't it? Not even a letter."

Viserra raised an eyebrow at Alicent's lack of decorum. "When referring to the princesses, proper titles are needed, Alicent," she chided gently. "We are princesses, after all, while you, my dear, are not."

Alicent looked to be caught off guard for a sliver of a second but simply nodded, a hint of irritation flashing across her features before she composed herself. The group of girls then made their way into the wheelhouse, the richly decorated carriage serving as their transport to the Red Keep.

Once settled inside, Rhaenyra turned to her aunt Daenerys, her curiosity piqued. "How is Aemon?" she inquired, her voice laced with both concern and apprehension.

Daenerys let out a weary sigh, her expression clouded with frustration. "Aemon never changes," she replied, her tone tinged with resignation. "He remains a brooding, stoic, honorable fool. He's done thrice as much brooding since he's been dealing with the betrothal letters and offers."

Rhaenyra couldn't help but chuckle lightly at her aunt's candid assessment. "That's not what the people say about him in court," she remarked, a hint of amusem*nt coloring her words. "There are conflicting accounts of Aemon. I do not know which ones I should believe."

Viserra laughed, she smiled, a rueful smile, one of mischief and appeal. "None of them, all of them. Makes no difference, Rhaenyra. As long as they fear him enough then it is all for not."

Rhaenyra did not know what to think of that. She supposed Viserra was right in that regard; the realm feared Aemon Targaryen. Seven kingdoms united in fear of the Night King, in fear of Aemon Targaryen. She did not know what the high lords feared more, Aemon as the prince or the dragon he rode upon. She had heard too many accounts to truly know why he was feared more.

Daenerys chuckled as she spoke in Valyrian, "If you care what the people think of you, then we must reconsider which of the princesses remained in the one place where all the people could do is speak and think."

Rhaenyra looked confused. "I would think the opinions of the people who control the kingdoms were the most important opinions to have and consider," Rhaenyra returned.

Saera looked surprised as she raised her eyebrow, "Rhaenyra, I believe we all know the power of the Seven Kingdoms no longer resides in the Red Keep. Aemon has seen to it, and our dear nephew, your father, has done nothing to stop it."

Rhaenyra did not want to believe such talk. It was true that Aemon had done much in the last decade, but she did not believe he ruled the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms. "My father is king, my dear aunt," Rhaenyra reminded. "My father has the power."

Aerea spoke just above a whisper as she looked to the outside through the opening. "Power resides were people believe where it resides," she said in common tongue.

Saera's cold eyes returned to her as she looked to the skies; her dark eyes seemed to now grow a light shade as the sun's rays highlighted them just a bit. "For a princess in the Red Keep, Rhaenyra, you seem to lack an understanding of politics and power. And frankly, it will get you killed,"Saera advised.

Rhaenyra laughed slightly,"I have a dragon, and I doubt any House in the Seven Kingdoms would dearly threaten House Targaryen." Rhaenyra said, now seriously. Her kind eyes shifted to hidden annoyance.

Daenerys gently placed her hand on Rhaenyra's shoulder. She smiled with sympathy, "Your dragon is far from the largest, and you seem misinformed." Daenerys looked to the dragons once more before turning back to Rhaenyra. "The Houses in the Seven Kingdoms do not care for threatening House Targaryen; they fear that Aemon doesn't take acts of aggression lightly, not since the Greyjoy Rebellion. Case in point: the Rains of Castamere."

Viserra, ever the picture of pompous arrogance, scoffed dismissively. "The sheep will always have opinions of dragons," she declared haughtily, her voice dripping with disdain. "But that doesn't mean the dragons need to care."

Saera, her demeanor calm and composed, interjected with a note of reason. Rhaenyra wondered if her aunt had learned such a demeanor during the issues where the knights tried to rape her; Rhaenyra did hear how Aemon had taken a far more hands-on approach to dealing with their aunts. "Aemon is often very busy," she explained calmly. "He has little time for things other than work nowadays."

As the wheelhouse rumbled along the cobbled streets of King's Landing, Alicent Hightower engaged the princesses in conversation, her curiosity piqued by the recent developments in Summertown.

Alicent looked so eager, almost giddy. "How is the new sept in Summertown, my princess?" Alicent inquired, her tone laced with genuine interest. "And what about the new Citadel?"

Viserra, always quick with a jest, arched an eyebrow teasingly. "Curious about the competition now that Oldtown no longer holds the monopoly on the Citadel and the Starry Sept, Alicent?" she quipped, a playful smirk dancing upon her lips.

Alicent's response was measured, and her words were chosen carefully. "I'm simply happy to see the Faith growing," she replied diplomatically. "And it's good to have another place for learning and education." Viserra opened her mouth to respond, but before she could utter a word, Saera leveled a pointed glare in her direction, causing Viserra to huff in annoyance and fall silent.

Saera then looked to Alicent, her eyes narrowing almost in an alluring, cold way. Rhaenyra could see it in her eyes. Saera might have been the most cunning and most intellectual of the sisters, but the woman was a siren stuck in the form of Valyrian. "The Summer Sept is doing rather well. Maegelle and Rhaella are the ones overseeing all things in relation to the Faith and the people. Summer September has been growing in popularity recently; the number of weddings and festivities has grown quite large."

Daenerys sighed happily, "Overseeing the festivities has been a pain. But the royal family is burdened with a glorious purpose. " Daenerys sighed before sinking deeper into her seat. "It doesn't make it any less exhausting, though."

Rhaenyra looked to Alicent, both coming to the same question, but judging by the fact that her aunts disliked it when Alicent was out of line, it would leave Rhaneyra asking. "Aemon allows you to advise for the city?"

Alicent then turned to Rhaneyra for support; Rhaneyra nodded her head to her friend. "Forgive me, princess, but it's rare for a man to allow a lady any say in such business."

Viserra scoffed once more. "Advice is one way to say it," she chuckled. Viserra then looked Alicent in the eyes. "A lady may not get much say, but a dragon lord? Aemon allows us more privileges than most."

Saera leveled a glare once more, then sighed at her sister. Rhaenyra wondered if Saera had turned this way after Aemon had had his grip on her for so long. She was once as wild as Viserra. "Maegelle and Rhaellae are privileged to lead and be ambassadors to the Faith and the smallfolk. Aerea deals most with the City Watch and the forces of the castle. She trains with the knights and squires quite often, even if we have been given some more leniency as of late from Aegon's Day. I work alongside the Summerbank, dealing with financial matters. Daenerys speaks most with the Citadel, whatever matters Vaegon had not already dealt with."

"Maesters care little for women's opinions," Daenerys offered. "Keeping information flowing to and from them takes a more forceful approach. Because of that, I deal almost as much with Summertown itself. Maegelle and Rhaella might deal with the less fortune, but I deal with the Amphitheater, Colosseum, and projects around the city."

"And you, Viserra?" Rhaenyra asked.

Viserra's smirk never left her face. "Who do you think keeps Aemon's image?" she asked with a chuckle. "He despises looking fashionable; the man would only wear pure black, like a Night's Watchmen, if he had his way. It takes more effort to keep his public image than you think, sweet niece."

"I thought you said a dragon doesn't care for the opinion of the sheep?" Rhaenyra co*ckily asked, trying to prove her previous point.

"I don't do it for the sheep, just for the future dragons to aspire for," Viserra responded as she looked over her dress once more. "Who better for a dragon to aspire to be like than another, greater dragon."

Rhaenyra always disliked the level of pride Viserra had; her family had arrogance. She knew that to be true, but Viserra had a level of it that was beyond it, almost pure pride. And that pride seemed to be a cornerstone of the Targaryens of Summerhall. Rhaenyra disliked how that pride, the person who was the head of said pride, Aemon, seemed to show no emotion to anyone, anyone not worth the attention of the Night King.

Rhaenyra could see it well. Aemon had given their aunts anything they wished; he had given them a chance to be free, and all he asked was for their loyalty and trust. She may not care for the politicking, but she saw it every day in the Red Keep, and no matter how much she cared for her family, it did not dissuade how she saw it happening. Aemon gave them a chance to rule and have a position most men would not give women. Aemon then fed into their pride and believed that dragons were above all others, almost isolating them from anyone who wasn't him. Aemon was good, even if no one wanted to admit it, seeing him as nothing more than a northern savage with the name Targaryen. This illusion has crumbled in on itself ever since the Greyjoy Rebellion.

Daenerys, ever the peacemaker, interjected with a polite inquiry. "And how have you been, Alicent?" she asked, her voice gentle and inviting.

Alicent offered a gracious smile in return. "I've been quite well, thank you, princess," she replied. Rhaenyra disliked how much her aunts forced Alicent to adhere to appearance rather than familiarity. "Although I must admit, I'm not accustomed to seeing so many dragons in flight. Usually, it's only Rhaenyra who takes to the skies."

Aerea chimed in with a matter-of-fact statement. "Aemon ensures that each dragon lord rides at least once daily. Even though he flies Balerion daily, it helps normalize the dragons for the people and allows them to grow more accustomed," she explained calmly.

Rhaenyra, intrigued by this revelation, furrowed her brow in thought. "But why does Aemon insist on daily flights?" she wondered aloud. "I enjoy flying, but I don't feel the need to do it every day."

Saera, her tone measured and thoughtful, offered an explanation. "Aemon believes the dragons should spread their wings daily," she replied. "And for the dragon lords to hone their skills and be proficient in their craft."

As the wheelhouse made its way through the bustling streets of King's Landing, the city sprawled before them like a sprawling labyrinth of stone and timber, its myriad alleys and thoroughfares teeming with life and activity. Towering structures of weathered stone loomed overhead, their ancient facades bearing witness to centuries of triumph and tragedy.

At the heart of the city stood the imposing silhouette of the Dragon Pit, a massive colossus of blackened stone and twisted iron that rose like a dark sentinel against the backdrop of the sky. Once a symbol of the Targaryen dynasty's might and power, it now stood as a silent testament to the passing of an era, its gates sealed shut and its halls shrouded in shadow.

As the wheelhouse trundled onward, the sights and sounds of the city enveloped them like a cacophony of voices, each one clamoring for attention amidst the chaos of the streets. Vendors hawked their wares from makeshift stalls, their voices rising above the din in a chorus of commerce and trade. The scent of roasted meats and exotic spices hung heavy in the air, mingling with the acrid tang of smoke and sweat.

Amidst the throng, the wheelhouse made its way through the winding streets, its occupants gazing out at the ever-changing tableau that unfolded before them. Children played in the dusty alleyways, their laughter echoing through the narrow streets like the tinkling of bells. Old men sat hunched over cups of ale, their weathered faces etched with the lines of a thousand untold stories.

And then, at long last, they reached their destination: the Red Keep, a massive fortress of red stone, loomed atop Aegon's High Hill like a sentinel of ages past. Its towering walls rose high above the city below, their ancient ramparts bristling with the promise of power and authority.

As the wheelhouse came to a halt before the gates of the Red Keep, the princesses stepped out into the courtyard. As they made their way through the towering gates and into the heart of the fortress, the group of princesses and Lady Alicent made their way through the Red Keep; the air was thick with the murmurs of courtiers and the rustle of silk finery. Lords and ladies mingled in the grand halls, their voices blending into a symphony of polite conversation and whispered intrigue. All around them, eyes turned to take note of the arrival of Princesses Saera, Daenerys, Viserra, and Aerea, the rare gathering of Targaryen royalty a cause for no small amount of speculation and gossip.

Undeterred by the attention, the group pressed on, their footsteps echoing against the polished marble floors as they ascended the winding staircases and passed beneath the towering archways of the Red Keep. At last, they reached the Queen's chambers, where Queen Aemma Arryn lay attended by her servants, her swollen stomach evidence of her impending motherhood.

Rhaenyra's mother sat almost lying on her back on a couch near the balcony as the morning sun's rays entered the room, illuminating it with a warm, gentle glow. She could see stress and worry leave her mother's form when she saw her daughter enter the room. Rhaenyra knew that her mother despised dragons; she didn't know how it was possible. Aemma Arryn was a Targaryen through her mother being a daughter of King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne, and the blood in her mother's veins was Valyrian, at least half of it was, and it was such a queer thing that her mother had no liking for dragons when her blood was of the dragon.

Rhaenyra's heart clenched at the sight of her mother, the Queen's pale face drawn with fatigue as she lay on her bed. Despite the heat of the chamber, beads of sweat dotted her brow, a sure sign of her discomfort with her condition. With a mixture of concern and guilt, Rhaenyra approached her mother's bedside, her eyes filled with remorse.

Rhaenrya forced a smile but could not force the worry out of her voice or eyes. "Mother," she greeted softly, her voice tinged with regret.

"Rhaenyra," Aemma said, her eyes knowing. Rhaenyra and Aemma knew that the other knew that Rhaenyra had gone on Syrax for a flight in the early morning. Queen Aemma's eyes were gentle but firm, her gaze holding a hint of reproach. "You know how I feel about your reckless behavior, Rhaenyra," she chided gently. "But it's not just for my sake. You put yourself in danger every time you mount that beast. I dislike you flying on those things in this condition."

Rhaenyra sighed, knowing her mother's concerns were well-founded. "You dislike me flying in any condition," she countered quietly.

Aemma looked displeased as a servant rushed over and placed wet cloth upon Aemma's brow and fussed over her pillows. "I could never understand your fascination with those creatures," Aemma sighed.

Viserra laughed, slightly covering her mouth exaggeratingly. Rhaenyra noticed how softly and gently Viserra moved, even among fellow Valyrian blooded women; Viserra was above the norm in beauty, far more graceful than Rhaenyra could ever hope to be. It infuriated her; she wished she could be as such. Viserra's smile was enough to disarm anyone, something Alicent had learned in the Red Keep but something Viserra seemed to master in Summerhall. "Now, now, my dear beloved niece, it was those same creatures that eventually allowed you to be named queen."

"A burden I carry as well as the babe in my belly," Aemma smiled.

Saera raised a lone brow at the Queen with a slightly bemused smile, her eye transitioning from Queen Aemma fanning herself to the swollen belly. "I say you are doing rather well at both," Saera smiled, the slim smile Rhaenyra had seen on many lords and ladies in the Red Keep.

Queen Aemma smiled naturally, and the Queen missed her aunts; Rhaenyra knew this to be true. Even if Aemma was only half Targaryen, half her blood was a dragon, and dragons sought out more dragons. "I don't know if I should laugh at the obvious joke or clip you by your ear for the sarcastic remark, young lady. My aunt, you may be, but both your elder and your queen I am to you, and you would do well to remember that."

Turning her attention to her other aunts, Queen Aemma's expression softened with genuine affection as she greeted them each. Ever the picture of charm and grace, Princess Saera offered a warm smile and a fond greeting, her words dripping with familial affection, even if Saera was known to do neither often.

"Gods be good, it has been quite some time," Aemma said. Princess Daenerys, Saera, Viserra, and Aerea came forth and hugged Aemma tightly.

"It's been too long since we last spoke, niece," she remarked, her voice filled with genuine warmth.

Daenerys's concern was evident in her eyes as she stepped forward with a gentle inquiry. "How are you feeling, Aemma?" she asked, her tone soft and concerned.

Aemma smiled as she looked at the girls. Rhaenyra had not seen her mother smile so truly since her first moon with child. The pregnancy was trying and hard for her mother. "Rather well, thank you."

Daenerys sat near Aemma and placed her hand on Aemma's head. "Did you sleep?" Rhaenyra watched as her mother nodded her head in response. "How long?"

Aemma chuckled softly, a glint of amusem*nt dancing in her tired eyes. "I don't need mothering, Daenerys," she replied with a wry smile. "But I appreciate the concern. I have servants to do that for me."

Aerea laughed broadly and, without a care in the world, rather unlike a lady, jumped onto one of the chairs and sat sideways to lay her back on the armrest instead. Rhaenyra could see Alicent was not very accustomed to the rather brazen display. "They seem to worry about your dragon, which will spawn from your legs rather than you yourself."

As the conversation unfolded in the Queen's chambers, Rhaenyra couldn't help but notice the deference shown to her mother's unborn child, a fact that irked her more than she cared to admit. She felt as though they worried over the possible heir more than the one carrying him and the courts only spoke of the future prince rather than the pregnant mother.

"It seems the servants are more concerned with the babe in your belly than with you, Mother," Rhaenyra remarked, her tone tinged with frustration. "They forget that you are the one carrying the child."

Before the discussion could delve any deeper, the heavy oak doors swung open, admitting two figures into the room. Rhaenyra turned to see her remaining aunts, Princess Maegelle and Princess Rhaella, entering with a grace that belied their conservative attire. Maegelle's smile was gentle as she spoke, her voice carrying an air of solemnity.

"The babe in Queen Aemma's belly is the future King of the Seven Kingdoms," she declared softly, her words weighted with significance. "That would seem like a rather important thing to look after."

Rhaenyra sighed, her frustration bubbling to the surface. "The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms deserves respect as well," she countered, her tone firm.

Maegelle chuckled lightly, the sound echoing softly in the chamber as Rhaenyra approached to greet her aunts with warm embraces and smiles. As the tension dissipated, Rhaenyra couldn't help but express her surprise at their presence in the Red Keep.

"I didn't realize both of you were here," she admitted, her brow furrowing in confusion. In truth she should have guess due to the fact that their sisters and Aemon were already in the Red Keep as well. "I thought there must always be a Targaryen in Summerhall, as my cousin often states in his letters to the council."

Daenerys looked confused before turning to Rhaenyra. "You know what is said in the council?"

Saera walked over to the far side of the room, found a pitcher of wine, and poured herself some. It was rather early into the day for such things, but it seemed her aunt cared little. "She's Viserys' cup bearer."

"I see," Daenerys replied. Well, to answer your question, technically, our elder brother, maester Vaegon, oversees the castle and city. He is rather good at it, but we do not wish to leave him for too long; Summerhall and Summertown are rather busy and cannot be left to one man for too long."

Maegelle's response was laced with warmth and affection. "We wouldn't have missed the birth of a family member for the world," she replied, her tone sincere. But then, her expression grew somber, her eyes betraying a hint of urgency. "That wasn't the only reason I came," she confessed. "I was asked to remind you of the small council meeting."

Rhaenyrs had the urge to roll her eyes; she did not wish to attend the small council meeting, not when all the Targaryens were in the Red Keep once more. "By who?" Rhaenyra asked.

Maegelle then turned Rhaella, and she squirmed under her gaze. "Aemon," Rhaella spoke softly, just above a whisper. "King Viserys asked Aemon to attend, and he asked if you were going."

Maegelle looked proud of her sister as she rubbed her sister's hand with a soft smile. "Aemon thought you might wish to attend."

Rhaenyra thought for some time. She was the King's cupbearer, but frankly, she didn't want to speak to Aemon just yet. She didn't know what she would say to him, and she would put off even seeing him until she came to an answer. " I would like to spend a bit more time with the aunts I have not seen in some years; one small council meeting would not mean much; they are rather dull, after all."

Viserys Targaryen

In the small council chamber, Viserrys Targaryen sat amongst the gathered lords and advisors, his presence commanding respect as he presided over the weighty matters of the realm. The atmosphere crackled with a tension that only the politics of the Seven Kingdoms could bring, yet there was a palpable sense of camaraderie amongst the assembled council members.

Lord Strong, Lord Beesbury, and the Grand Maester Runciter exchanged knowing glances, their faces illuminated by the flickering torchlight that cast long shadows upon the chamber walls. Lord Otto Hightower, ever the stoic figure, sat with a furrowed brow, his mind undoubtedly occupied with thoughts of statecraft and strategy. Three members of the King's Guard stood vigilant at their posts, their gleaming armor a testament to their unwavering dedication to the crown. With a twinkle in his eye, he regaled the council with a jest that elicited hearty laughter from the gathered nobles.

"That is when I told him that he might be looking up the wrong end," Viserys laughed at his own joke. Lord Beesbury and Lord Strong were the first to laugh at his joke, Lord Beesbury the louder of the pair. Viserys turned to Otto and saw nothing more than a slight smirk, a sly chuckle. But the others began laughing in earnest.

The jovial atmosphere was soon interrupted by the solemn voice of Lord Corlys Velaryon, his words cutting through the mirth like a sword through flesh. "My lords," Viserys heard. He looked up to see it was Lord Corlys who spoke, a map in hand; he rose to his feet and talked to the new silent council. "The growing alliance among the Free Cities has grown far more capable over the last year. It has become something worth interest. They are currently naming themselves the Triarchy."

As Lord Corlys unfurled a map before them, his finger tracing the outline of the islands known as the Stepstones, a hush fell over the room, the gravity of the situation weighing heavily upon the gathered lords.

"The Triarchy has established a stronghold on Bloodstone," Lord Corlys announced, his voice tinged with concern. "And they have begun to eradicate the pirate presence on the Stepstones, with Prince Craghas Drahar of Myr leading the charge as prince-admiral."

Viserys couldn't help but chuckle at the irony of the situation, his eyes twinkling with amusem*nt as he turned to address Lord Corlys. "It sounds suspiciously like good news, Lord Corlys," he remarked, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

Lord Corlys met Viserys' gaze with a measured nod, his expression grave. "Indeed, my lord," he replied solemnly. Although Prince Craghas' methods have earned him the moniker of the Crabfeeder amongst his people, his actions have undoubtedly disrupted pirate activity in the region."

King Viserys, ever the pragmatist, raised an eyebrow at Lord Corlys' assessment. "Am I supposed to shed tears over a few dead pirates?" he queried, his tone tinged with skepticism.

Lord Corlys offered a respectful shake of his head. "No, Your Grace," he replied evenly. "But it is worth considering the implications of a powerful alliance controlling such a strategic location in the Narrow Sea."

Viserys heard a cough and turned to see Lord Beesbury. The man's graying locks were wild as he glanced at Viserys. "Mayhaps Prince Aemon could give us his thoughts on such matters." The older man looked so frail now, weak, yet he seemed almost to praise the ground Aemon had walked upon. Viserys had known that Beesbury was rather close to Aemon or, at the very least, in Aemon's pocket. Aemon had known things in the small council that no one had ever spoken outside the chambers, yet Aemon had known, and the only times such things could have been possible were when Lord Beesbury traversed to Summertown. The man had grown far more wealthy in the few years in close proximity to Aemon than most of his tenure as master of coin.

All eyes turned to the young prince, as he was writing some documentation, Aemon had flown from Summerhall alongside his six aunts just this morning. Aemon ignored the statement or simply did not hear it. Aemon continued to write down on the parchment. All those in the room shifted uncomfortably as Prince Aemon continued to write, the quill scratching on the parchment echoing loudly in the now quiet chambers. Viseyrs felt like he was intruding on something, and yet he had been the one to invite Aemon into the meeting. Aemon tapped the quill back into the ink and resumed his writing.

Viseyrs glanced at Otto, her copper brown-red hair pulled back neatly and her beard trimmed, but Viserys could see irritation in his eyes. "Care to add to the discussion, my prince," Otto nearly spat out. Aemon continued to write a bit longer, ignoring the Hand of the King.

Viserys had seen Aemon speaking to Lord Celtigar, the two being rather well acquainted, far more than most Targaryens were with Celitgars, which saddened Viserys. While House Celtigar was one of the three remaining Houses of Valyria, it was known that House Celtigar was not on par with House Targaryen or even House Velayron, for unlike the two, House Celtigar was no noble House in Valyria, and for that reason, ties were not as close. But Aemon seemed to have intentions with House Cetligar, mayhaps interests in the pure scion of Valyria. Viserys had to nearly pry Aemon from the meeting to convince his nephew to come to the small council meeting as a representative of Summertown, the now largest city in the kingdoms, and representative of the Summerbank.

Aemon somehow had this presence of him, where even when writing, he was still writing and not paying attention to those near him; it was as though all those around him had a need to pay attention to him. The way he sat his back straight, his eyes never leaving his work, the confidence and pride, nearing arrogance, but not enough, the power and confidence, even when he did not need to, his nephew had the attention of all those around him. His presence commanded attention despite his youth. Viserys, the King, regarded his nephew with curiosity and scrutiny. Viserys wondered how it would have been if Aemon had their ancestors' silvery hair and true purple eyes. His face was cold, unreadable, and stoic; it looked almost like he had been sculpted from ice.

He wore his black leather tunic and his black wolf's pelt cloak, but there were hints of white and the seven-headed white dragon of the Targaryens of Summerhall upon his left breast. With his raven-black hair and piercing dark eyes, Aemon resembled the Starks of Winterfell more than his dragon-blooded ancestors. Yet, an undeniable aura of ethereal beauty marked him as unmistakably Targaryen. Viserys had once met the boy's grandfather, and the resemblance was uncanny. Viserys had even heard that his nephew had gained a new uncle in the North, implanting him as heir to Winterfell, but it was for the best, for Aemon had more important things to worry over.

Viserys turned his full attention to his nephew. "Your thoughts, Aemon?"

Aemon wrote his final word before blowing on the parchment; he then folded the parchment, poured wax upon the letter, and stamped his sigil on the parchment from a Valyrian steel ring with the Targaryen seven-headed dragon upon it. His eyes were cool and calm, almost detached when he finally looked upon the council. "The Triarchy is an alliance that warrants caution," Aemon began, his voice measured and deliberate as he addressed the council. Lord Corlys Velaryon regarded Aemon with a begrudging nod of acknowledgment, recognizing the wisdom in the prince's words. "The Stepstones may lack geological significance, at least upon the surface, but economically, they are of paramount importance," Aemon continued, his gaze unwavering as he met the eyes of each council member in turn. "They must either remain neutral or fall under the control of the Seven Kingdoms."

Lord Corlys nodded in agreement, his expression grave as he considered the implications of the Triarchy's growing influence in the region. "If the Triarchy gains control of the Stepstones, they will have unfettered access to pillage our ships and impose taxes that could cripple our ports," he conceded, his voice heavy with concern.

Lord Otto Hightower spoke up in rebuttal, his tone dismissive as he waved off Aemon's warnings. "The power of the Triarchy pales in comparison to that of the Seven Kingdoms," he declared, his confidence unwavering.

But Aemon was not so easily swayed, his gaze hardening as he met Otto's steely glare with a stoic resolve. "You said the same about the Greyjoy Rebellion, Lord Hand," Aemon countered, his voice laced with conviction. "And yet, your council of inaction led to nine months of war."

Otto's temper flared at the prince's audacity, his voice rising in anger as he reprimanded Aemon for overstepping his bounds. "Remember, Prince Aemon," he snapped, his words cutting like a whip. "You are here as an advisor, nothing more. The crown and small council will take your words as advice, not as demands."

But Aemon met Otto's ire with a calm defiance, his demeanor unyielding as he spoke his truth. Viserys would say this if nothing else: Aemon was far better at keeping his calm than any lord of the Red Keep should ever be, and that was telling: "All members of this council are mere advisors to the king," he asserted, his voice unwavering. "Even the Hand of the King is but a servant to the crown. And your council of inaction led to the Greyjoy Rebellion while Lord Corlys advocated for action. The Triarchy's actions mirror those of the Greyjoys, and we ignore the parallels at our peril. It seems interesting that once again, Lord Corlys voices action, and you voice inaction."

Viserys had rarely even seen Otto force back his rage like this; only Daemon had been able to do such things. Viserys forced back the chuckle. He supposed the son took after the father, even if neither knew it as much. While Daemon angered Otto with jabs and barbs, Aemon angered Otto for one reason: Aemon was right and could never be dismissed. Daemon could be a threat on a battlefield, nothing in politics, and yet he was here often. Aemon was a threat in both and had never used it in the small council, and Otto had no choice but to swallow his own failure, which Aemon harshly forced down his throat. No one in the small council would have dared to question Otto, even with the failure of the Greyjoys, and yet Aemon forced it in the open and brought the man some humility.

Lord Beesbury's voice was almost shaky; the poor man had been growing older and frailer. "Mayhaps Prince Aemon is correct, Your Grace," he offered. "The Crown would do well to protect its investments."

"And what investments are these?" Lord Strong asked the elder man.

"Why the ports themselves," Lord Beesbury replied as if it were fact.

Lord Otto was just about to speak, but Lord Corlys beat him to it. "If the Triarchy is pushing the pirates from the Stepstones, the pirates would have to retreat somewhere, and that could lead to them making port to our towns and settlements on the coast. If they reach north enough, they could reach the Blackwater, and we may have the beginnings of the Greyjoy Rebellion once more, but far closer to the Red Keep than it was initially."

Lord Beesbury spoke with his wavering voice in support of Lord Corlys. "It would be terrible for pirates to roam the entirety of the Narrow Sea; the costs of their actions could leave us in an unsavory position. Prince Aemon may have relieved us of our debts, but another war would be costly."

Aemon Targaryen's voice cut through the air like a sharpened blade, commanding the attention of all those present. "The Triarchy has long been a force to be reckoned with," Aemon began, his tone solemn yet resolute. "An alliance forged from the ashes of the Valyrian Freehold, uniting the Free Cities of Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh in a bid to counter the looming threat of Volantis over the Disputed Lands."

Aemon nodded in agreement, his features set in a mask of grim determination. "Indeed, Your Grace," he replied, his voice steady. "But while they remain united, they threaten our interests, particularly in our economic prosperity. Throughout history, the Narrow Sea has been seen as more important than the Sunset Sea. To control the Narrow Sea is to control the face of trade not only for Westeros but also for Essos, and controlling the Stepstones is the first step to controlling the Narrow Sea. If we allow the Triarchy to remain on the Stepstones, undisturbed and unimpeached, we allow Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr to dictate our finances like Braavos had done."

Otto turned back to Viserys and spoke quickly. "Your Grace, if what Prince Aemon has said of the Triarchy being formed solely to oppose Volantis is true, then it is a matter of time for either Volantis to retaliate for their previous encounters or Braavos to take notice and do something themselves."

Viseyrs turned to the Grand Maester as he sat still on his chair; the man had said little to help the conversation. "The Free Cities have fought one another since the fall Valyria, and it would take little for each one to turn upon one another as they have done for nearly two hundred years, Your Grace."

Aemon's eyes did not change as his stoic eyes remained on Viseyrs. "As both represent the wealthiest House of the realm and the Summerbank, I advise the small council of the threat that is still in infancy and ask that you plunge the dagger into the babe's heart before it becomes a man-grown," Aemon said, eyes each member. Sensing an opportunity amidst the uncertainty, Aemon offered his counsel to the King, his words carrying the weight of strategic insight. "We must give them something to quarrel over," he suggested, his gaze unwavering. "Send spies to sow discord among their ranks and let them tear themselves apart from within."

Viserys considered Aemon's proposal thoughtfully, his mind already churning with possibilities. "I will take your counsel under advisem*nt, Prince Aemon," he conceded, his tone measured. "But for now, let us focus on more immediate concerns."

With a subtle shift in focus, Viserys broached the subject of the upcoming tournament, a rare moment of levity in the midst of political intrigue. Turning to Lord Beesbury, the master of coin. "Lord Beesbury, do the prediction and accounts of coin for the upcoming tourney hold true?'

Lord Beesbury consulted his ledgers with a practiced eye, his brow furrowing in concentration. "All costs appear to be well within reason, Your Grace," he reported, his voice steady. "We have adhered to the spending limits set forth by the council, and all arrangements are in order."

The small council continued to speak of the preparations for the Heir's Tourney, but Viserys felt as though he had Corlys and Aemon's eyes upon him for the rest of the time, and neither seemed pleased that there was no resolution to be had here. But Aemon felt as though he had a slim air of disapproval; Aemon was stoic, a brooding boy, more a man than a boy now that the man was fourteen years of age.

Lord Beebury then spoke of the costs of Daemon's new crusade to better the City Watch. It was not much on Viserys' part to tell Lord Beesbury that any costs, no matter how high, should be considered well invested on the Crown's end if Daemon is focused on his present tasks of bettering the City Watch.

All in all, Viserys was proud of the meeting, not that Aemon seemed to agree. The meeting was rather long, but it was successful; as far as small council meetings go, governing the realm was such a dull affair. It was often the Hand who made most of the ruling, while the King cast down the final judgments and declaration; that was why the position of Hand was so important; as long as there was a good Hand, Viserys could be lacking in certain qualities for time to time, and yet his Hand was often quarreling with his heir and his heir's heir.

Aemon was often quiet; quarreling with Otto was not something Viserys envisioned Aemon doing, but it seemed neither liked the other very much, and the grade was far colder, like an Aemon often was, in comparison to the fire anger between Otto and Daemon. He supposed he would need to right this wrong between the Hand and his heirs, for it would not be due for the House of the Dragon. He would set accomplish such a thing; Aemon was a good prince, the perfect heir, in truth if Aemon was Viserys' own son, Viserys would have abstained from the throne the moment the boy ended the Tarbeck Rebellion; a strong military commander was often times the necessary King to keep all other lords in check. Aemon may have honor questioned, but his strength never.

He would set out to right whatever grievances Otto had with Daemon and Aemon, but before that, he would go see his wife. Aemma had seemed far more weakened on that than she had been most of the week. He would check if she was fine; she might even be happy knowing all the Targaryens were once more under the roof of the Red Keep. It would be even better soon when Rhaenys came with her own children, all branches of the House of the Dragon together at last; it had not been since the Tourney of Harenhal that marked the begging of the Greyjoy Rebellion that it had been so. Viserys was happy; for now, the House of the Dragon was strong, and he vowed to keep it as such for his reign until he could pass it down stronger than he had received it as Jaehaerys had done for him. That was what it meant to be a good Targaryen king.

Chapter 37: The Rogue Prince Returns

Chapter Text

The Red Keep 112 AC

Princess Rhaenyra

The Red Keep stood proud and formidable, its ancient stones whispering tales of the countless nobles who had walked its halls both in the past and present. As Rhaenyra traversed its corridors, she walked quickly, whether to leave the small council room now that Aemon had made it more his home than she had ever been able to or for the fact that Ser Harold had told her that her only uncle had returned, her favorite uncle, she did not know. She supposed her mother had an elder brother or two from her father's previous marriage, but both had perished, and her mother, Queen Aemma, no had full-blooded siblings. Uncle Daemon was truly the only uncle she had, and Aemon was her closest cousin in blood; it was strange that she sought out her uncle to escape her cousin when, by age alone, it should be the reverse.

The keep's walls were adorned with rich tapestries depicting scenes of valor and conquest; their colors faded with age but were still vibrant in their storytelling. Her father had told her that the tapestries were ancient works of silk and cloth that were done in the hearts of Valyria, some depicting more intimate, sexual displays, but that would not often be noticed due to people speaking and plotting in politics through the halls. One tapestry showed a woman sucking a co*ck while her other hands played with the co*cks of two other men, and a fourth man f*cked her from behind. Yet, not a soul noticed, for they cared more about politics than such displays, she realized they might not be the best for the capital of the Seven Kingdoms, though she found she did not care much. Torchlight flickered against the stone, casting dancing shadows that seemed alive in the dimness of the few areas and hallways not bathed in the sun's light coming through the many open windows or opening to the outside, adding an eerie ambiance to the already imposing structure.

Servants scurried about, their movements quick and efficient as they attended to their duties. Lords and ladies, their faces masked in varying degrees of deference, bowed and curtsied as Rhaenyra passed, their eyes flickering with curiosity and awe at the sight of their princess. She paid them no mind; she would usually nod or show a small smile to show some recognition, but now, she might be the sole person, royal, in the castle to know that her uncle Daemon had returned. She had an inkling of a thought that neither Daemon nor Aemon knew that the other was in the castle, and once either one learned of the other, there was no telling what would happen. Rhaenyra would not wish to be caught in their eventual reunion; she did not know how Daemon or Aemon felt about the other in the last few years.

No one knew how Aemon felt about anything since the Reyne and Tarbeck Rebellion.

No emotion was to be seen, even as he had his dragon eat the squires that nearly raped her aunt Saera.

Aemon was of no emotion; he was stoic and calculating.

Daemon was of passion, strength, and anger.

Both were ambitious and prideful to a fault.

But from some of the conversations she had heard through the halls, some servants had learned, and other lords and ladies had overheard. If word spread, it would reach her father, King Viserys, and then Prince Aemon. Some people were not too keen to have the Rouge Prince and the Night King in the same kingdom, let alone the same castle or, even worse, the same room. While Aemon was known as the main force for the fall of House Greyjoy and the Ironborn, it was not overlooked that the pair together were feared, a great example of fire and blood bound in the form of a human.

Through the crowds of people, Rhaenyra moved with purpose, her steps measured yet determined. Ser Harold Westerling, stalwart and unwavering at her side, cut an imposing figure in his silvery white armor, each piece meticulously crafted and polished to a mirror-like sheen. She liked the look of the armor and chuckled more than once when the sun's shine bounced off the armor and made a lord or lady squint or flinch back due to the bright light. His white cloak billowed behind him, symbolizing his unwavering loyalty to his charge. He walked briskly by her side, the cloak moving through the air as it caught wind; she recalled Alicent calling the kingsguard white shadows.

Rhaenyra's attire was simple yet elegant, befitting her status as a princess of the blood. Her light tan hue dress flowed around her like liquid sunlight, the fabric soft to the touch yet sturdy enough to withstand the rigors of courtly life. Intricate golden stitching adorned the edges, catching the light and casting a subtle glow upon her form as she moved. It was a gift from her cousin, Lady Arryn of the Vale.

The current Warden of the East did not like the spread of word about the closeness of Aemon and the Warden of the North compared to the Vale, Rhaenyra, and Aemma. The rivalry between the Riverlands and Vale against the North had been growing far more pronounced as of late, not that the Riverlands had enough military power to be a threat to the North, especially since they were seen as lesser for fighting alongside the Ironborn, against their will but none cared for such details. The Vale may have had more men due to little involvement in the Greyjoy Rebellion, but the Northmen had been proven twice, The Great Wildling Invasion and the Greyjoy Rebellion, before and were enough to make the two kingdoms rivals in strength. Due to the fact the North was known for being stronger and more proven, the Vale resorted to larger resources and wealth to show their betterment; sending a dozen dresses or two to the princess of the realm was enough to show that their wealth was more than the North.

Rhaenyra once asked Alicent why she thought the Vale cared so little for the North when the transgressions between her uncle Daemon and late- aunt Lyanna and their former betrothed had been settled almost fifteen years ago. Alicent had said that her Tully cousins say the Riverlands hold deep grudges, and the Riverlands despised the North, for the North killed the most Riverlanders when they set the Riverlands free of Ironborn. Rhaenyra then asked why the Vale disliked the North, and Alicent could only come up with one answer: the Vale had an Arryn queen, but the North had the Night King.

Together, Ser Harold and Princess Rhaenyra made their way through the labyrinthine corridors of the Red Keep, their destination clear in their minds. The throne room awaited, its imposing doors beckoning like the maw of a great beast hungry for the souls of those who dared to enter.

Ser Harold Westerling, his demeanor as unyielding as the stone walls of the Red Keep, delivered his report with the solemnity befitting his station. "Prince Daemon has crossed the threshold of the Red Keep's gates at first light, my Princess," he intoned, his words echoing faintly against the castle's interior.

Rhaenyra's violet eyes, ablaze with a mixture of intrigue and concern, bore into the seasoned knight beside her. "Does my father know of my uncle's return?" she inquired, her voice a delicate melody.

"Nay, Princess," Ser Harold responded, his gaze unwavering. “King Viserys remains unaware of Prince Daemon's presence within these walls. I believe the King would have left halfway through the small council meeting if he had; it had been some moons since the Prince's departure."

Rhaenyra smirked at that; she could see her father ending a boring council meeting to see his unpredictable and almost chaotic younger brother. But that would not do for Aemon would be left alone unchecked for not Lord Otto nor Lord Corlys were able to keep him at bay. "I do believe you might be right in that regard." A furrow formed upon Rhaenyra's brow as she pondered the implications of her uncle's return. "And what of my cousin, Aemon?" she pressed, her curiosity piqued. "Has he learned of his father's homecoming?"

Ser Ryam's response came swift and sure. "I can confirm that neither Prince Daemon nor Prince Aemon is privy to the other's presence within the Red Keep," he declared, his tone betraying no hint of doubt.

A wry smirk danced upon Rhaenyra's lips, a flicker of amusem*nt amidst the weight of the revelations. "Fortuitous," she mused aloud, her mind racing with the possibilities. "I doubt the Seven Kingdoms would weather the storm if those two were to clash."

Ser Harold nodded in agreement. "The Iron Islands already hadn't, my princess." Rheanyra needed no reminder of the last time the two princes were with one another; the entire island and cast were reduced to a single molten stump, almost like twisted candle wax.

With a shared nod, the duo approached the towering doors of the throne room. As they swung open with a ponderous creak, revealing the splendor within, Rhaenyra and Ser Harold stepped. The doors opened with loud creaking and groaning. The doors were large and made of thick reinforced metals to withstand and potentially siege or introduce barging into the castle. Rhaenyra and Ser Harold stepped over the threshold, their eyes drawn inexorably to the imposing centerpiece of the room—the Iron Throne.

A grotesque masterpiece of twisted metal and jagged edges, the Iron Throne loomed like a spectral behemoth, its asymmetrical form a testament to the brutal realities of power. To behold it was to confront the essence of authority, a seat of dominion so towering that it seemed to scrape the heavens themselves.

But amidst the formidable presence of the throne, another figure sat perched upon its unforgiving spires—a familiar and unsettling silhouette. Ser Harold's breath caught in his throat, a gasp escaping his lips as he beheld the unexpected sight.

"Gods be good," he murmured, his voice tremulous.

Rhaenyra placed a calming hand upon the knight's arm, her gaze unwavering as she surveyed the scene before her. "Compose yourself, Ser Harold," she commanded, her tone firm yet measured. "Allow me a moment to address our... esteemed guest."

With measured steps, Rhaenyra approached the Iron Throne, her expression an impish, mischievous smile. She cast a mocking smile towards the figure seated upon the twisted metal throne—a man whose features bore the unmistakable stamp of Targaryen blood, with silver hair cascading like moonlight and eyes of amethyst that gleamed with a dangerous intensity.

Rhaenyra looked at her uncle, his silver hair tied back near the top of his head, long and reaching past his shoulders. Dark Sister was in his grasp as he sat on the Iron Throne. The thousands of swords, two hundred or so, were melted not to the throne but almost to the floor, as shape spikes protruded from the molten metal ground. "What are you doing, Uncle?" she spoke in High Valyrian.

"Sitting," he replied quickly, amusem*nt in his voice.

"I could see that. And what, pray tell, brings you to grace us with your presence, Uncle?" Rhaenyra inquired, her voice a razor-edged whisper that sliced through the chamber's silence.

Daemon Targaryen, his countenance as imperious as the throne on which he sat, regarded his niece with amusem*nt and disdain. "Merely taking my rightful place, my dear beloved niece," he replied, his tone laced with arrogance. For one day, the Iron Throne could be mine."

Rhaenyra's laughter rang out, a discordant melody in the hallowed halls of power. "Not if you are executed, Uncle," she retorted. The tension between them crackled like lightning, the air thick with unspoken animosity. Rhaenyra's eyes narrowed as she continued verbal sparring, each word a carefully aimed barb. "You have not been at court for quite some time," she remarked, her voice laced with suspicion. "A curious development, given you are the Commander of the City Watch. One can't very well lead the City Watch if they are not in the city to begin with."

Daemon's lips curled into a sardonic smile, a flicker of amusem*nt dancing in his purple gaze. "Ah, but the courts are so frightfully boring, my dear niece," he replied, his tone dripping with disdain.

Rhaenyra would consider the point: out of all the Targaryens, the only two for a mind in politics were Aemon and Saera, the only two who truly knew how to rule and succeed at politics, an enate skill compared to the rest being forced into it due to royal blood. "Your son seems rather well-versed in it," she pointed out. "Word has spread that he is in bed with Celtiagars as of late and that he is on trading terms and good relations with the Yronwoods, Fowlers, and Daynes of Dorne."

"Trading with the Dornish would make my son many enemies," Daemon concurred with a chuckle.

"Riding Balerion leaves him with little care of them," Rhaneyra replied to the suggestion. "Not many voices will be higher than a whisper of protest against the man who caused the Black Burn, the Great Burn, and put an end to the Reynes and Tarbecks."

Daemon thought about it, his eyes quirked, before a devious smirk came upon him. "And why would my son care for the Dornish? He crushed them before and could do so whenever he wished," Daemon asked skeptically.

Rhaenyra smirked; it was rare that she knew more politics than another in the Red Keep. While she disliked speaking of her cousin, as he had often been the center of topics and conversation over the last few years, she felt proud that she knew more than Daemon. "The Martells no longer trust the Daynes, Yornwoods, and Fowlers. Aemon has been making good trades with them."

Daemon made a face, but Rhaenyra could not tell, in no small part because of the darkness of the throne room. Yet she doubted Daemon himself knew how to feel: "Aemon may have inherited his skill for politics from somewhere, but I assure you, it was not from his father or mother." Daemon then smirked triumphantly. "He did inherit our skill with a blade and horse, at least."

"But talking about Aemon is not why you are back in the Red Keep. As we both know, Aemon has spent less time here in the last decade than you have." The tension in the throne room thickened like wildfire as Rhaenyra, each word a dagger aimed at the heart of her uncle's intentions. "And what, pray to tell, has drawn you back to the Red Keep after such an absence?" she demanded.

Daemon Targaryen, ever the master of intrigue, reclined upon the Iron Throne with an air of nonchalance, his silver hair cascading around him like a veil of moonlight. "Rumors," he replied, his tone as smooth as silk. "Word reached me of a grand tournament to be held in my honor," he declared, his tone tinged with amusem*nt.

Rhaenyra's laughter echoed off the stone walls, sharp and mocking. "A tournament in your honor?" she scoffed. "The Heir's Tourney is to celebrate the King's chosen successor," she corrected.

Daemon leaned forward, a smirk playing upon his lips. "Indeed," he chuckled, the sound rich with amusem*nt. "That is precisely what I said."

A frown creased Rhaenyra's brow as she regarded her uncle with suspicion. "The tournament is for the king's new heir," she countered, her voice edging with a defiant note.

Daemon descended from his lofty perch upon the Iron Throne, his movements predatory as he stalked toward his niece. Rhaenyra stood her ground. "Until your mother graces us with a son, the realm is cursed to suffer me as its heir," Daemon declared, his velvet whisper sending shivers down Rhaenyra's spine.

She remained unfazed, her emotions in check. "Then let us pray for a son," she retorted, her words a challenge flung into the face of destiny. "Or that my father names my cousin over you."

Daemon finally stopped before her. "I got you something." As Daemon approached Rhaenyra with a regal grace befitting a Targaryen, he bore a treasure, a glimmering trinket that caught the light like a shard of starlight. The necklace, wrought of fine metal and adorned with delicate craftsmanship. "Do you know what it is?"

With a flourish, Daemon presented the necklace to his niece, its beauty starkly contrasting the grim realities of their world. Rhaenyra's fingers traced its intricate patterns, her eyes alight with wonder and recognition. "Valyrian steel," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "Like Dark Sister."

A shadow passed across Daemon's features at the mention of the legendary sword, but he quickly masked it with a wry smile. "Correct, my dear niece," he replied, his tone laden with a hint of mystery.

Rhaenyra's curiosity flared like wildfire, her gaze fixing upon Daemon with intrigue and suspicion. "Valyrian steel is rare and expensive," she remarked, her voice tinged with skepticism. "How did you come by such a treasure?" But Daemon evaded her question with practiced ease, urging her to turn around. With a sigh, Rhaenyra complied, her movements fluid and graceful.

As Daemon fastened the necklace around her neck, the cool metal touch against her skin sent a shiver down her spine. "Now we both carry a piece of our ancestry," Daemon declared, his voice low and melodious.

Rhaenyra turned to face him again, her gaze searching his for elusive answers. "Where have you been, Uncle?" she pressed, her tone laced with urgency.

But Daemon's response was enigmatic, his words a cryptic dance of half-truths and evasions. "Does it truly matter? I have returned, have I not?" he countered, his eyes gleaming strangely.

Rhaenyra's frustration bubbled, her words tumbling in a torrent of emotion. "Without you, I had no one to ride the skies with," she confessed, her voice raw with longing. "Today was the first time in months I had anyone to share the skies with."

Daemon's brows furrowed in confusion, a flicker of concern crossing his features. "And who did you fly with when I was not by your side?" he inquired, his voice tinged with curiosity.

Rhaenyra's hesitation was palpable, her mind racing with the weight of unspoken truths. With a muttered curse, she finally relented, her words whispering in the wind. "Aemon and our aunts," she confessed, her voice barely audible above the tumult of their thoughts. "They have returned from Summerhall to attend the Heir's Tourney." She hesitates for a moment longer before speaking once more. "I just saw him in the small council meeting."

Daemon's expression shifted, myriad conflicting emotions flickering across his features like shadows dancing upon the surface of a moonlit pool. It had been years since he had seen his son since their last conversation had ended in bitter words that could never be unsaid. And yet Rhaenyra could see the same unreadable face. It was not stoic and brooding, like Daemon's son; no, it was almost as if his heart and mind could not make an emotion for his face to reveal. His eyes were dark, almost black, like Aemon's, but his face, his prideful smirk, remained somewhat.

But even amidst the bitterness and regret, Rhaenyra sensed a glimmer of something more—a flicker of paternal concern that lingered beneath Daemon's stoic facade. Despite their differences, despite the wounds that still festered between them, she knew that some part of him still cared for Aemon, even if he could not bring himself to admit it. She knew not what Daemon thought of Aemon nor what their last words were, but she knew that she did not wish to be in the room when they first spoke, for she knew not if Daemon would raise his hand for his sword or raise his hand to embrace his son.

Silence hung between them like a shroud for a long moment, broken only by the soft rustle of fabric and the distant echoes of the Red Keep beyond. Then, finally, Daemon spoke, his voice heavy with the weight of years gone by. "It has been quite some time since all the Targaryens were gathered in the Red Keep," he mused, his words laden with melancholy.

Rhaenyra seized upon the opportunity, her gaze unwavering as she met Daemon's with a steely resolve. "Will you seek out your son, then? Leave me here in the throne room while you look for Aemon. I recall he wished to speak to my father alone," she inquired, her voice laced with skepticism.

But Daemon merely chuckled, a sound both mirthful and wistful. "Aemon is a man-grown now, Rhaenyra. He was a man grown since he returned from the f*cking wildlings, no, from before that. Aemon has never been my son; Viserys, my father and grandfather saw to that," he replied, his tone tinged with resignation. "We have little in common, he and I. I would much rather spend my time with my favorite niece."

Rhaenyra's skepticism lingered in her thoughts, a whirlwind of uncertainty and doubt. And then, like a bolt from the blue, Daemon's next words shattered her illusions, leaving her adrift in a sea of disbelief. It felt wrong, but she felt happy that Daemon chose her over Aemon; he might be the only person in the Seven Kingdoms who could say the same. Daemon spent more time with Rhaenyra than ever with Aemon, and she was glad that Daemon wanted her more. It should feel wrong, for it was the connection between father and son, but she forced that guilt down.

Daemon grew closer to her and placed his hand on top of her own before lightly grasping her wrists, almost caressing them. "Do you know, my dear niece, that you were once betrothed to Aemon?" he remarked his words a dagger aimed straight for her heart.

Rhaenyra recoiled, her mind reeling as she struggled to make sense of the revelation. "You lie," she protested, her voice trembling with emotion.

But Daemon's expression remained unchanged, his gaze unwavering as he met her eyes. "I have no reason to lie," he declared, his words hanging like a curse. "However, your father stopped it, for what reason I do not know."

As Daemon's revelation hung like a dark cloud, Rhaenyra's mind spun with conflicting emotions. She felt as if the very ground beneath her had shifted, leaving her adrift in a sea of uncertainty.

The image of the young Aemon, with his tousled dark hair and dark eyes filled with laughter, clashed violently with the knowledge of the man he had become—a warrior, a conqueror, a man forged in the fires of ambition and strife. She tried to reconcile the two, to bridge the gap between the boy she had once known and the man whom she had heard so many tales of, but the task seemed insurmountable.

She had heard the whispers, the rumors that painted Aemon as a cold and ruthless man driven by ambition and thirst for power. And yet, she couldn't shake the memory of the kind and generous boy she had grown up with, the boy she had once loved with all the innocence of youth.

There had been a time when she dreamed of marrying Aemon and ruling by his side as his queen. But now, faced with the reality of who he had become, she grappled with doubt and uncertainty. Could she truly love a man who had become a stranger to her? Could she trust the whispers of her heart when the world around her seemed so uncertain?

As she stood there, lost in the labyrinth of her thoughts, Rhaenyra felt a wave of sadness wash over her—a sadness born of a past that could never be reclaimed, that the boy she had once known was lost to her forever.

She still had no idea how she felt about Aemon, but for now, she would not think of him.

She prayed that she would not have to think of him for some time.

She knew not what to make of Daemon’s words, and from a quick glance to her uncle, he either did not notice her thoughts or did not care, mayhaps both.

Viserys Targaryen

Viserys Targaryen emerged from the dimly lit chamber where the Grand Maester had been tending to the wound on his back. The pain had been a constant, gnawing presence, and he had claimed it was merely a cut from the jagged edges of the Iron Throne, but deep down, he feared it was something far worse. The dull ache had persisted for weeks, and despite the Grand Maester's and Otto Hightower's insistence on cauterizing the wound, Viserys could not shake the sense of foreboding that clung to him like a shroud. The Grand Maester had wondered which of the Citadels to write to. Otto had told the Grand Measter to write to Oldtown, but Viserys intervened and told him to write to both. Viserys may admit to how bad the wound was, a round thing of puss with the consistency of rotten milk, but he would trust both Citadels with the health of the King of the Seven Kingdoms.

The smell of charred flesh still lingered in his nostrils.

The wound had been seared shut with a red-hot iron, and Viserys had endured the agony with clenched teeth and white-knuckled fists. The wound seemed contained for now, but the maester's uncertainty gnawed at him. What if it continued to fester beneath the surface, a silent assassin biding its time? Since he was young, he was told that the Iron Throne chose who was worthy of it; Maegor the Cruel had died, and with no one to blame, the rumors say that the Iron Throne was the culprit since those swords ran him through. But he had hoped it would be a lie, for if Viserys were cut, that meant he was a failure of a king. Maegor was cut, and Aenys was cut as well.

Viserys refused to think of such things.

Seeking solace, Viserys made his way to the private baths, the cool stone floor a welcome relief beneath his feet. The room was dimly lit, steam rising from the warm waters that filled the large, sunken tub. As he entered, he saw his wife, Queen Aemma, partially submerged in the soothing waters, her eyes closed and her breathing soft and rhythmic. Her pale skin glistened in the dim light, a vision of tranquility amid his turmoil.

Viserys considered joining her for a moment, the thought of the warm water easing his aches and pains tempting him. But he hesitated, unwilling to disturb her peace. Instead, he stood at the edge of the bath, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she slept.

He thought of letting her rest; she seemed so tired as of late. He had asked the Grand Maester for advice to help his wife with her swollen belly, and he was told that gently lifting the belly from underneath and holding the weight to help relieve Aemma's back from the baby’s weight in her belly would work. But he was advised not to do so in front of high lords, for it could be seen as something unbecoming for a king; Viserys did not know why, but he did understand that if both the Grand Maester and Otto agreed on that much, Viserys should at least heed the advice. "You spend more time in the bath than I do on the Iron Throne," he remarked softly, his voice a low rumble that echoed in the stone chamber.

Aemma stirred at the sound of his voice, her eyes fluttering open. She regarded him with a sleepy smile, her expression of weary affection. "The waters are the only place I can find comfort these days," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "I rather this than metal spikes poking my rear for hours on end."

"And here I thought that with beauty comes pain." he chuckled to himself as he tried to make himself look more like his wife, and she chuckled in response. Viserys' heart ached at her words. He knew the toll that the past months had taken on her, the strain of failed pregnancies and the ever-present pressure to produce a male heir weighing heavily upon her. She had sought refuge in the baths, the warm waters offering a fleeting reprieve from the burdens of her station. Viserys even wondered if the water helped the weight of the baby weighing her down.

Viserys walked closer to the bath as the flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows on the stone walls. The steam rising from the water mingled with the soft, golden glow, creating an almost otherworldly ambiance. He approached the large, sunken tub where Aemma rested; her eyes closed, a faint smile playing on her lips as she soaked in the tepid water.

Kneeling beside the tub, Viserys dipped his hand into the water, feeling its warmth—or lack thereof. "The waters are tepid," he observed, his voice gentle but tinged with concern.

Aemma opened her eyes and looked at him with a tired smile. "The waters are as warm as the maesters would allow," she replied, her voice a soothing melody that seemed to ease the tension in the room.

Viserys let out a soft chuckle, the sound resonating warmly. "Do the maesters not know that dragons prefer heat?" he asked, his tone playful.

Aemma chuckled in response, a light, airy sound that filled the room with a fleeting joy. "I know of one dragon who works far better in the snow and cold," she quipped, her eyes sparkling with a mischievous glint.

Viserys smiled and gently laid his hand on her shoulder, his fingers brushing a strand of damp hair from her face. "I've heard from our aunts that Aemon takes baths in water so scalding hot that it looks nearly white due to the steam, and it bubbles like the lakes near the Fourteen Flames in Old Valyria," he said, a hint of admiration in his voice.

Aemma's smile widened, and she nodded. "Even for those of us who are only half Valyrian, like myself and Aemon, the blood of the dragon runs thick," she said, her hand absentmindedly caressing her swollen belly. Suddenly, Aemma's expression shifted to one of discomfort. She felt a sharp kick from within and grunted in pain, her hand instinctively moving to her belly. "After this miserable pregnancy," she cursed softly, "I would not be surprised if I birthed an actual dragon."

Viserys' concern deepened, and he leaned in closer, his brow furrowing with worry. "Do you need anything? Should I call for the maester?" he asked, his voice filled with genuine care.

Aemma shook her head, though the pain was evident in her eyes. "No, it's just the babe making his presence known," she said, trying to smile through the discomfort. "He's a lively one."

Viserys' hand remained on her shoulder, his touch a small comfort amidst her pain. "You are stronger than any dragon, my love," he whispered, his voice filled with admiration and love.

Aemma looked up at him, her eyes softening as she took in his words. "And you, my king, are my strength," she replied, barely a whisper.

Viserys chuckled softly, his voice echoing through the chamber. "With our strength, my love, we'll be able to embrace our son even if he's born with wings, horns, and a tail."

Aemma smiled a tender light in her eyes. "Rhaenyra has already declared that she is to have a sister," she said, her tone a mixture of amusem*nt and affection.

Viserys raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. He thought of his daughter; maybe it was high time he changed his schedule and gave her some more time, in private, without the high lords. "Has she now? "

Aemma tried to better her seat, but she failed as her belly made it difficult for her to move in the tub. Viserys helped them back to her previous position. She sighed before continuing her words. "Yes," Aemma replied, nodding. "And she's already named her."

Viserys leaned in, his interest growing. "Dare I ask what name our daughter has been bestowed?"

Aemma's smile widened, a hint of mischief dancing in her gaze. "She named her Visenya."

Viserys let out a hearty laugh, the sound rich and full. "May the Mother give mercy. We already have Rhaenys acting like the Visenya of old. Do we truly need another Visenya to make matters even more chaotic?"

Aemma joined in his laughter, the shared humor a balm to their weary souls. "If it is a girl and we name her Visenya, perhaps with our luck, she'll turn out more like the Rhaenys of old, acting opposite to her name."

Viserys shook his head, still chuckling. "It would be wiser to name our future son Aegon, to balance everything out, rather than naming him after one of his sisters."

Aemma's laughter softened into a warm smile as she considered his words. "Aegon… a name that carries the weight of our ancestors' legacy. It might bring balance or perhaps more chaos. However, I am taken with the name Aemon."

"And yet the name has already been taken," Viserys pointed out. "What would you have us do? Name one Aemon the Elder and the other Aemon the Younger?"

"Mayhaps having two Aemons at once would be as interesting as having the Conqueror reborn again. Lady Redwyne said just an hour ago that with our nephew keeping most of the lords’ sons, daughters, and heirs, as guests, for she dare not say hostages, the world has grown rather stale for lack of conflict. Mayhaps a bit of chaos is needed," Aemma laughed to herself.

Viserys shrugged, his eyes twinkling with mirth. "My love, chaos, and balance are often the same with our family." The Viserys truly heard the first part of what she said. "I would think the realm happy that peace has consumed the land rather than a longer war."

"It would seem a near decade of peace is a rather long spout of peace for the tastes of the lords who had missed the Greyjoy Rebellion," Aemma said. "I have even received letters from the Vale asking for more tournies to prove their men."

Viserys sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I was just scolded like a child by Aemon, Otto, and Lord Beesbury because I seemed to be speeding thriftily with my tourneys. Gods help me. I never had Otto and Aemon agree on anything, and they agreed on limiting the coins I spent, and your family wants me to spend even more." Viserys smiled mirthfully as he now began to grow ever more dramatic. "Whatever should I do, for I doomed to anger my nephew and Hand or my lovely wife."

Aemma rolled her eyes. "I would think the person with the c*nt that you so crave is the one you obey."

Viserys nodded in agreement. "I suppose our aunts were right in the end then. You are either a c*nt, have a c*nt, or ruled by one. Mayhaps it all comes down to co*cks and c*nts at the end of the day."

Aemma looked on with disgust, but a slim smile graced her lips. "If only the realm could see us now, the King and Queen discussing the importance of co*cks and c*nts. How the maidens would faint in displeasure in the courts." Viserys smiled ever slightly. Aemma leaned back in the tub, her hand resting gently on her swollen belly. "Rhaenyra has also chosen a dragon's egg for the cradle, which reminded her of Vhagar."

Viserys' eyes widened with surprise. "An egg like Vhagar? Gods be good," he muttered with a chuckle. "Our daughter has the spirit of a dragon, choosing such a significant egg. Please inform me if she accidentally coughs up some smoke or begins to breathe fire when she yawns."

Aemma nodded, her smile tinged with pride. "She's fierce and determined, just like her father."

Viserys reached out, his fingers brushing against Aemma's cheek. "And like her mother," he whispered, his voice filled with love.

Aemma's eyes flickered with curiosity as she broke the brief silence. "Have you heard any word from your brother Daemon?"

Viserys shook his head, a hint of exasperation in his voice. "No, but I'm certain Daemon will return for the tourney. He could never stay away from the lists."

Aemma's lips curled into a sardonic smile. "The tourney to celebrate the newborn son that we currently do not have." She paused, her tone growing more pointed. "You do understand that this will not magically grant the baby a co*ck if he doesn't already possess one?"

Viserys turned to face her fully, his expression resolute. "The child is a boy," he declared with a conviction that seemed to fill the chamber. "I have never been more certain of anything in my life." Viserys clung to this belief in his heart with an almost desperate hope. He needed a son, an heir, to continue his line and secure the legacy of House Targaryen. His voice softened, becoming almost reverent as he recounted his dream. "I had a dream clearer than a memory. Our son was born wearing Aegon's Valyrian steel crown. I heard the sound of thundering hooves and clashing swords. I placed him on the Iron Throne. The bells of the Grand Sept rang out, and all the dragons roared as one."

"Born with a crown on his head, Valyrian steel no less." Aemma sighed, a mixture of discontent and weary amusem*nt on her face. "Birth is already unpleasant enough as it is," she said with a wry smile, echoing Viserys' words about their son being born with a crown.

Viserys took her hand, lifting it to his lips. He kissed her fingers tenderly, his gaze lingering on her with an intensity that spoke of profound love and devotion. He saw in her not just his queen but also his partner, his confidante, the mother of his children, and the woman who gracefully bore the weight of his dreams and fears.

His eyes, usually burdened with the cares of the realm, softened as he looked at her. They traced the lines of her face, the curve of her lips, the delicate arch of her brow. He saw the strength beneath her gentleness, the resilience that had seen her through so many trials.

Aemma sighed deeply, her words hanging heavy in the humid air. "This will be our last time, Viserys," she said, her voice laced with sorrow. She turned to grasp his hand and look him in his eyes, her blue meeting his rich purple. "I've lost one baby in the cradle, two pregnancies ended far before their term, and two stillbirths. I've lost five babies in twice as many years." Aemma looked at the hand touching his own. "A mother has only so many tears to give her children before she could nothing more than trace the tear stains on her cheek and weep ever more for she has done nothing else in so long."

Viserys looked at her, truly seeing the frailty that had taken hold of her body. She appeared so weak, her skin pale and her eyes dull with exhaustion and pain. His heart ached at the sight of her. He reached out, gently caressing her cheek. "Aemma," he called softly, worry etching his voice.

Aemma's eyes filled with unshed tears. "It is the duty of a wife to bear her husband strong sons. It had been as such before Valyria and continued long after it fell. I must provide you with an heir, and I am sorry I have failed you. Truly, I am, Viserys. I have mourned all the dead children I could bear to mourn."

Viserys, steady but filled with love, replied, "As long as I have you, we can face anything together."

Aemma took a deep breath, her gaze unwavering. Viserys could see a fire in her eyes once more, one of the dragons that she inherited from her mother. She would say something, something that was difficult for her to say. He could see the wane of resolve as if she almost convinced herself not to say such words, but then the fire and determination replaced it again. "If this child is not a boy or if the child is stillborn, I want you to name Aemon as your heir."

Viserys' face filled with concern. "I cannot do that, Aemma. I cannot simply skip over Daemon."

"Aemon is more your son than he ever was Daemon's," she insisted, her voice calm but firm. "Daemon was building Summerhall while you and I raised him in these halls. I sang to him and stood by his side when he had a fever and nearly died as a baby. Where was Daemon?"

"In Summerhall, where he blames my father for ripping his son from him. I have heard a thousand times how much my father angered Daemon for taking away Lyanna's boy from him," Viserys sighed.

"He was my son far more than he ever was her's!" Aemma screamed, her voice broke. She looked to the waters in her tube, refusing to look at Viserys. "I hated Daemon so much, and I feared his son. And the gods cursed me to watch as an innocent child nearly died in my arms. I promised them I would raise and love him like my own, and I have done that." Her voice began to waver. Viseyrs could feel the tightening behind his throat that showed him choking back tears and worries, something he supposed Aemma had felt since she first said these words. "I cried in fear when he left to war, not once, nor twice, but thrice! I screamed in joy when he returned victorious! I threw a ball and feasted in response to him gaining Balerion! Where was Daemon?" She gripped the tub tightly. "I was there. That boy is my son. Not Lyanna's! That boy is your son. Not Daemon's! And he should be your heir. Not Daemon."

Viserys looked to her, then to the candles. "Aemon was able to raise himself far more than we did. He has been alone since he was old enough to leap upon Balerion's back. No, since before then. He has never needed someone to raise him." Viserys smiled fondly before his face grew serious once more. "Daemon would be wrothful if he is supplanted," Viserys argued, the tension clear in his voice.

Aemma's eyes showed a plea that Viserys had not seen in a while. "He would not be so angered if it was his son chosen," Aemma countered, her logic piercing through the room.

Viserys shook his head. "I would not supplant Daemon." Viserys nearly slammed his fist on the tub. "Jaeherys said much the same to me. Trying to convince me that Daemon would not bode well as an heir. But just as I told him, I will tell you. Daemon will not be supplanted."

Aemma's eyes softened with understanding but remained resolute. "Aemon is the better choice, Viserys. He has proven himself in battle, ruled over his lands with wisdom, and has the fear and respect of many lords. No man would cross him like Daemon, but he can rule much as Jaehaerys himself did. He has the Conqueror's sword and dragon and has the devotion of the North, forty thousand strong, in support of him without question."

"You would have me make an enemy of Daemon," Viserys said, his voice rising with the tension. "It would not be wise to make an enemy of him."

"Daemon is impulsive, chaotic, rash, and ambitious," Aemma replied calmly, her gaze steady.

Viserys sighed, his mind wrestling with the dilemma. "What precedent would it set for a king to choose his current heir's son over the heir himself?"

Aemma's eyes glinted with a steely resolve. "It would show the realm and establish the precedent that the King can choose who is best suited to lead the realm. It would build on what Jaehaerys already decreed. The male line would rule and continue hence forth, but it would be the King who chose which male would do best from his line or the line closest to him."

Viserys sighed once more. "You have thought of this for some time, I wager."

"Have I thought of the outcome should no son be born to me just as it had been for the last five pregnancies? Yes, yes, I have, Viserys. And you should, too. For I tell you this as your wife and queen, if worse comes to worst, and the babe is not born, or if the babe is born a girl, the realm will descend on the corpse of our would-be son like crows and vultures and just as Jaehaerys had to choose his heir in you, in fear of blood being shed, you to will be forced to make a decision that shapes our dynasty."

"By choosing Aemon, I disinherit Daemon!" Viserys said pleadingly and harshly. "Aemma, there is no other way around it. By choosing Aemon, I hurt my brother and left him to the vultures, and my brother has many who would feast upon his corpse for gain."

Aemma looked at her husband with a seriousness that he had not seen in quite some time. "Better the crows feast on the corpse of one dragon than that of all those who remain."

Viserys looked into her eyes, seeing her weariness and the iron determination beneath. He knew her words held wisdom, yet the thought of the conflict it would bring with Daemon gnawed at him. He leaned forward, kissing her forehead, his touch filled with tenderness and love.

Viserys grew distant; his gaze clouded as he prepared to speak the harsh truth that lay heavy on his heart. "Aemon cannot remain in Westeros," he said, his voice barely above a whisper yet heavy with conviction. "Just as Aenar the Exile looked west to survive, just as Aegon the Dragon, the Conqueror himself, looked west to be made King and start his conquest, looking forward, Aemon must look backward; he must look east for his future lives in our past."

Aemma's eyes widened with concern and a spark of anger. "What do you mean?" she demanded.

Viserys took a deep breath, his words hurt and halting. "In my dreams of our son being born, I saw visions of Aemon accomplishing feats and conquering lands that rivaled Aegon the Dragon himself. Here in Westeros, he is bound to keep the other lords in check for us in the Red Keep to flourish; his name and presence strike fear so that we may be viewed in reverence." His voice broke slightly, and he struggled to continue. "He will accomplish much, but he would have no ability to accomplish such things if his power and will are used for our benefit alone. Aemon cannot do such things if he is bound to the Iron Throne."

Aemma rose from the bath abruptly, her nude form glistening in the flickering candlelight. Her swollen breasts, filled with breast milk for their future son that would be born in the coming weeks, swayed with the movement, and her thick cluster of silver c*nt hairs were now visible. Viserys eyes looked down for a fleeting second in desire; he truly came into the room for his wife, both in love and lust, if not for the conversation that happened.

Her anger was palpable as she screamed at him. "Do you intend to banish Aemon?"

Viserys looked away, his voice distant and filled with sorrow. "I am doing what is best for him. Aemon will achieve great things, but they must be done outside the Crown."

Aemma's fury did not abate. "You intend to send away the one boy who has been like a son to me when I have no other?" Her voice trembled with emotion. "You wish to take from me the boy I nursed to health when sick and dying! Viserys, you will do no such thing as long as I live and breathe!"

Viserys, his eyes pleading, his voice weak and almost breaking, asked, "What do you wish me to do, Aemma?"

Aemma's voice was a mixture of anger and desperation. "Try to keep our family together by making Aemon heir. He will protect our family as he protected our aunts as a favor to our grandfather, Jaehaerys."

Viserys's mind raced as he thought of the Song of Ice and Fire. His hand tightened around the dagger at his hip, the weight of his secret pressing down on him. He longed to tell his wife the truth and share the burden of his knowledge with her. He knew that Aemon's dreams were stronger and more accurate than his own, and he suspected that Aemon's feats and knowledge came from those dreams. But he could not reveal this to Aemma, which pained him deeply.

How he wished to breathe the words that his forebear gave to him. Viserys knew it; Viserys knew that Jaehaerys needed a male heir who bore the name Targaryen. He knew that the night would come with a dreadful winter with no end. He wished to tell Aemma, just as he wished to tell Rhaenyra, Daemon, and his aunts, but he knew that while only Targaryen took stock in dragon dreams, he also knew that secrets could be kept between three people when two were dead. Passing the words of the first king to his heir, and his heir, and so on, it was a difficult thing to convince a Targaryen to believe, and yet it would make the ones who bear the secret doubt it even more if everyone knew of it and began to dissuade the belief.

He looked at her with love and regret, wishing he could confide in her, wishing he did not have to lie. The conflict within him was almost unbearable. "As you say, that boy has been everything I wished a son to be, even if he is not that to me, if only by blood alone." He had thought of this for the last three moons, and the same answer came forth! "He may not have been the fruit of my loins, but he has a name; he has my blood!" he screamed.

Viserys did not know what else he could do. He had visions and dreams of fiery blood raining from the skies and the roars of a dozen dragons. He had not once told a soul of these dreams for fear of speaking it would solidify the visions into the reality of the world of man. But Viserys, he felt, in his heart, that mayhaps Aemon would find a way to avoid this. But he could not avoid it if he was dealing with it. Viserys had once thought of fully naming Aemon a member of his small council and making a new position for him, but it was selfish. He wanted Aemon with him, but Aemon was to be his own man on his journey. Viserys could see desperation in Aemma's eyes.

Viserys sighed to regain his rage, his frustration. "Aemon will one day do things that will make me prouder than any man has ever been of his son," Viserys said, his voice thick with emotion. "I will watch him achieve great deeds with pride and contentment, but I cannot make him my heir. Aemon has more important things to do."

Aemma's eyes filled with tears, her anger giving way to a deep sadness. "You are tearing our family apart, Viserys," she whispered, her voice breaking. "For what?" She then glared at him. "If you are making Aemon heir, would anger Daemon. Banishing Aemon from the realm, for nothing, not anything the boy had done wrong, that will have the flames of Caraxes licking the Red Keep walls before the rooster crows three times!"

Aemon knew of the Song of Ice and Fire; the boy knew it, and as long as he knew it, Visery doubted the boy would hate him too harshly for the decisions made. Aemon knew the song, and the boy had prepared. Never had been as grand as an addition to the Conqueror's words since he laid the dream bear to his heirs. But Aemon knew, and the boy was preparing for it; Viserys may not know every way the boy was preparing, but the boy was preparing. But Viserys felt it in his heart that the boy would prepare best without worrying about the fairs of the Crown for some time. Mayhaps giving Aemon distance would give the boy enough room of breath to act for the benefit of their House, mayhaps not for the benefit of today, tomorrow, or even for their generation or century. Still, Viserys knew Aemon needed the time and space to grow strong enough for the foundations of their family to stand firm for the great winter Aegon spoke of and feared.

Aemon needed to leave the Seven Kingdoms.

How pathetic was he, a king and a dragon lord, that he trusted a boy not even in his majority yet? Was this how Jaehaerys felt when he told Aemon of the Song of Ice and Fire and then confirmed that Aemon himself held the key to their survival? Viserys would not dare to assume the mind of the Conciliator, but he would presume to think that he felt wrong to entrust so much to the hands of a boy that, at the time of when Jaehaerys had told him, his hands were smaller than the head of a kitten.

His wife's words held. Daemon would be wrathful when he hears Aemon would be sent away from the Seven Kingdoms. But Viserys was willing to anger his family if it meant they lived.

"For the realm," Viserys said softly, his eyes glistening. "For the future. Aemon's destiny lies beyond the Iron Throne, and we must let him follow it."

Aemma's tears fell silently as she turned away, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Viserys had dealt with several pregnancies with his wife and knew that pregnancies forced women to feel thrice as much emotion as they do on most days. Viserys moved to comfort her but stopped short, knowing that his words had only added to her pain. He felt the weight of his decision like a dagger in his heart, the pain of it almost too much to bear. But he knew it was the only way, the only path that would lead to their family's survival and the realm.

As the candlelight flickered and the shadows danced around them, Viserys stood there, a king torn between duty and love, his heart heavy with his choices and the secrets he kept. It was one of the few times in their life that Aemma refused to sleep in the same room as her husband.

The following morning, Otto Hightower called an emergency small council meeting. The hour was early, and the Red Keep was still shrouded in dawn's soft, muted light. Otto personally fetched King Viserys from his chambers, and together, they made their way through the winding corridors of the keep.

As they walked, the castle seemed to come alive around them. Lords and ladies, some still bleary-eyed from the night's festivities, bowed respectfully as they passed. Servants hurried along their tasks, casting curious glances at the pair. The air was filled with the soft murmurs of hushed conversations, the clinking of armor, and the rustling of tapestries that adorned the stone walls. Targaryen triumphs: dragons soaring above fields of battle, Aegon the Conqueror wielding Blackfyre, and the majesty of Old Valyria before the Doom.

Otto's face was a mask of barely contained anger and irritation. "It is an unprecedented gathering of every criminal, thief, and rapist in the city," he said, his voice low and simmering with rage. "Prince Daemon and the City Watch collected all of them and passed cruel judgment on those they deemed worthy of punishment."

Viserys's brow furrowed as he listened. "What did he do, Otto?"

Otto's voice tightened with barely concealed disdain. "Daemon made a public show of it, Your Grace. He caused the resulting dismemberments, severing heads, arms, legs, and, in some cases, cleaving men in half. All with Dark Sister. They needed two two-horsed carts: one for the severed limbs, another for the heads."

Viserys sighed deeply, a prayer escaping his lips. "Gods be good."

As they reached the doors to the small council room, the guards, clad in the crimson and black livery of House Targaryen, pushed them open. The room was richly furnished. Heavy drapes hung from the windows, and intricate tapestries decorated the walls, each telling a story of Targaryen history. A large, ornate table dominated the center of the room, surrounded by high-backed chairs. The other small council members were already there, standing and waiting for their King. Each one slightly bowed their heads to welcome King Viserys to the small council.

The air was thick with tension as Otto continued, "Prince Daemon cannot continue to act with such unchecked impunity."

Viserys's eyes scanned the room, coming to rest on his brother, Daemon, who was lounging arrogantly in his seat. Daemon's silver hair shone in the candlelight, and his violet eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint. His black armor, made of Valyrian steel itself, with dragons and scales engraved into it as Dark Sister rested by the side of his chair. Viserys knew not how Daemon had obtained such armor, but he knew the armor would be on his brother when he fought in the tourney. Viserys would guess that his brother made a strong effort to obtain this armor after his son had a dozen swords, including Blackfyre, a ring with the seven-headed dragon sigil of his own House, several necklaces gited to their aunts, and even an ingot of pure Valyrian steel that he had yet to do anything with. Valyria was breathing and living through Aemon and Daemon; that was true enough. A smirk played on Daemon’s lips as he said, "Brother."

Viserys met his brother's gaze with tired, weary eyes. "Daemon," he said, the name heavy with disappointment and frustration. He walked to his seat and sat down heavily, the weight of his crown and the burdens of his reign pressing down on him.

Daemon's smirk widened, and he leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly on the hilt of Dark Sister. The tension in the room was palpable, the other council members shifting uneasily in their seats. Viserys took a deep breath, steeling himself for the confrontation to come.

Daemon's eyes scanned and rested on Otto, and for a fleeting second, Viserys was gladdened that Aemon was not here, for if both father and son were here, he would not know what he would be more scared of both confronting one another or both working alongside one another against Otto. Both prospects left Viserys not wanting.

Daemon's mirthful eyes turned serious as he glared at Visery's Hand. "Now, go on. You were saying something of my unchecked impunity."

Visery looked to Otto as he had to recompose himself for Daemon's blunt words recalling what Otto had said. Otto looked to Daemon with utter contempt but elected nonetheless. "You are to explain your doings with the City Watch."

The doors creaked loudly, loud enough to draw the attention of all in the room. It was then that Viserys fully heard the doors open, and in came the one soul Viserys had not wished to join this meeting, Aemon, and he was not alone. The boy had his small group of lords alongside him. He recognized the Valryian coloring of silvery hair and purple eyes, the Velaryon sigil, and the colors on the clothing of the five of them. From the raised brow of Lord Corlys, he recognized them as well. It took him more time to realize them as the nephews of Corlys Velaryon, but for his life, Viserys could only recall the names of two, Malentine and Rhogar. The other three were wearing red and white, with equal silvery hair and purple eyes; Viserys could only assume them of the House Celtigar.

Aemon's eyes narrowed on Lord Otto before speaking. "And you, my dear lord Hand, are to explain the issue of referring to a prince of the blood with no such recognition of the status that he is, in fact, above you. Such a revolting display, my lord Hand."

Only Aemon had enough power to speak so openly and rudely to Otto, for Aemon had access to the Summer Bank that funded the Seven Kingdoms, for Aemon had seven dragons, and Aemon had won more wars than any man living.

Otto looked to Aemon with almost the same rage as Daemon, but his face did not hold back the cold disposition. "Forgive me, my prince; I meant no disrespect," Otto said. "But, my prince should recall that I, as Hand to the King, should also be treated with respect."

Aemon nodded; his dark hair had been pulled back once more. His black jerkin was hidden well under the black wolf's pelt. Viserys wondered where Ghost had gone. "I do understand that, my lord. Not once have I called you anything other than your position, something you have failed to do for my father, and when using the world revolting, it was at an action itself rather than you. Just as a high-born lord can bed a whor*, the act is revolting and degrading on a man of such high standing, but I am not calling the lord revolting, am I not? No, merely the act itself."

Viserys liked this not, for while Otto could try to undermine Daemon's skill in politics and wordplay, Otto would be a fool to do the same with Aemon. Aemon had called Otto revolting and made a jab at him, but Otto could do nothing but take it. If he were to retaliate, Aemon had already covered himself so Otto could either dig his own grave or further humiliate himself. Otto's best bet would be to say nothing and quickly change back to the matter.

Daemon looked at his son, and the pair did not change their sight from one another. Viserys often thought Daemon was exactly what a dragon was: chaotic, unpredictable, strong, sporadic as flame, acting on instinct and pleasures. But if Daemon was a dragon, Aemon was the prime example of what a Targaryen king was to be: cold, calculating, handsome, decisive, strong, and quiet until it was time to speak, and when he spoke, no man dared to not give anything less than more than all their attention.

Viserys wondered which would win out first, the chaotic, smug pride of Daemon or the cold, calm, arrogant, noble pride of Aemon. Neither said a word, and it hurt Viserys to see the father and son look at one another more so strangers, one almost a man grew with more maturity than men five times his age and the man with the heart and temperament of a child that only cares for f*cking and dragon riding.

Daemon nodded once, then twice, in agreement with his thoughts, his lips tight pressed in a smug smile, but his eyes held no love. "That was not needed. I could defend myself," Daemon said in High Valyrian. “You've seen firsthand how I can deal with Otto's words."

Aemon showed no emotion, but his brooding face had never changed as his dark eyes looked at nothing save for his father's purple. "You did not, and I have seen you handle yourself more than enough to give proof to your words," Aemon agreed. "And yet, you are my father, and I will come when it is needed."

Daemon smirked as if he had won something. "I did not think you put so much stock and love in me."

Aemon said nothing for some time but looked to each of those of the Valyrian blood in the room, first the Celtigars, then Velaryons, then finally the two remaining Targaryens. "You are a Targaryen, and even more so, you are my father. You might not be the Targaryen I am closest to, but you are still one of us."

"So obligation rather than loyalty or love?" Daemon asked.

Aemon did not respond or answer if it were any of the three. His cold eyes turned to Otto, showing no respect for the man. "The blood of the dragon runs thick," Aemon said, and the message was clear.

Otto took that time to intervene before the pair could conduct this entire conversation in Valyrian. "My prince, this room is for small council members only, and those outside the council are not permitted to enter unless otherwise invited."

Aemon took several steps forward; his cold eyes looked at Otto, the boy who caused the end of Wildings, Ironborn, Dornish, and the Reynes and Tarbecks, quite literally looking down on the sitting Otto as Aemon stood tall.

Otto looked so very small. Meek. Weak.

His cold eyes continued to look at Otto, which made the man almost squirm, but Otto did not move. The way Aemon looked down on him was enough to make any lesser lord turn his eyes away, but Otto had enough resolve to keep his eyes on Aemon. Viserys could see any man shrink from Aemon's eyes; the way the almost black eyes looked deep into the soul made any man think twice, thrice, four times before making any choice of word to voice against Aemon.

It was akin to watching a small faun look at a mountain, unchanging, unmoving, daunting, and too high to see the top. Viserys had noticed that once Aemon entered any small council meetings, he truly held them in his grip, similar to how a viper does its prey. Aemon was far too good at controlling the mood and flow of the small council meetings, as though he had done it a thousand times before.

His dark eyes never left Otto, looking down on the man. It was as though, with his gaze alone, Aemon was stealing away Otto's will and strength. And yet Otto never faltered.

Otto then glanced away, flinching ever slightly.

Aemon's emotionless face looked Otto in the eyes with no fear. "That is true, and I find no issue with it. My uncle, King Viserys, has said that I am always permitted to enter the small council to advise the representative of Summertown due to many Targaryen investments being housed in my domain. If I recall correctly, he said I was invited to all meetings under his rule. So imagine my surprise when I heard a meeting called and was not notified by any servant or lord. It was by sheer luck that I met my cousin, Princess Rhaneyra, and she informed me she must ready herself for the meeting. Such a curious thing," Aemon said with no change in tone or pitch.

Otto did not say a word; his eyes turned to the side as if he found nothing he wished to fight in the eyes of Aemon. "Such a curious thing indeed," Otto replied evenly. "And of your companions, my prince, while words of our king welcome you, it did not extend to those in your company," Otto started. Viserys could not help but notice how Otto emphasized the word as if showing Aemon that he had little power in the room.

Aemon nodded, but his stoic face revealed nothing, no frustration, no shock, no fear, no cowardice. "Unlike some, my lord, there are other things that draw my attention rather than the deeds of men far greater than myself." Viserys could hear Daemon smirk and chuckle at his son's accusation. "I was in a meeting finalizing agreements with these fine lords. I find a glorious company; sad to say; one had to leave to begin his share of it."

Finally, Corlys spoke. "I know my nephews, my prince, and none are lords unless you have cause to challenge my claim to Driftmark," his words were both accusatory and curious.

Aemon's eyes glazed over Corlys but returned to Otto before speaking. "Some wars are won with blood and steel; others are quill and ink, good cousin," Aemon mentioned. Visrys could see a near sneer coming on Lord Corlys' face as Aemon called him good cousin rather than Lord Corlys. Aemon was making enemies; of this, Viserys was certain. Even if Aemon's words were so lacking in jabs that one would think that Lord Corlys found mocking when there was none. But Viserys knew Aemon knew Lord Corlys enough to know what words would gain his ire. "If I had reason to challenge Driftmark, it would be openly on d ragon's back, good cousin, rather than empowering those in your own House to see it self-destruct; however, tried and true, the method has been over the thousands of years since kings have been named on the continent. I will give you at least that currency since you are Valyrian and an important House, Lord Corlys." Viserys did not know how, but somehow, Aemon had said the words that both lowered lord Corlys ire and returned it to curiosity once more.

"And the presence of my nephews is due to what?" Lord Corlys asked. "As I said before, they are no lords, knighted, yes. But they have no lands nor titles."

Aemon nodded before turning his full attention to Lord Corlys as if the answer to the question that Otto had not fully asked but alluded to was more deserving to Lord Corlys rather than Otto, another thing in favor of Corly's pride and another strike at Otto's. Viserys did not know what to make of Aemon's intentions or actions. "I, alongside your nephews, have come to a mutually beneficial agreement. They will become vassals of the Targaryens of Summerhall, and your nephews, as well as those of House Celtigar in my small group, will be given command of small forts, which will eventually become castles and keeps alongside the Summer Canal. It would do to protect my investment."

Lord Corlys' eyes narrowed ever slightly. "The reason for my kin being chosen, my prince."

"House Velaryon has been leal and loyal since House Targaryen first stepped foot on Dragonstone. House Celtigar is the last of the Valyrian Houses. I have several ships from my conquering and ending of the Ironborn, as well as a few bought from the Redwynes and even several dozen from Braavos. Currently, I have a total of one hundred eighty ships. Nowhere near the number of either the Redwyne fleet or the current rebuilt fleet of your own Velaryon fleet, Lord Corlys, each having over three hundred, but it is something of note." Aemon said casually.

Lord Corlys' lips tightened. "Of that, I can agree."

Aemon's eyes never left Corlys as if challenging him to disagree, but his face still showed nothing. "Who better to help my newfound fleet than the kin to the lord of the Tides? I have divided my fleet into nine groups of twenty, equally. Eight keeps alongside the Summer Cannal, each keep and its lord, sworn to me and mine to protect my investment. Due to the Crown generously confirming that the entire stretch of the Summer Canal, from the Narrow Sea to the Sunset Sea, is my domain, I can raise keeps and lords as I see fit," Aemon replied.

"Nine," Lord Corlys pointed out. "You said nine. And yet I count eight with you, including my five nephews."

Aemon nodded, but his eyes glared at Lord Corlys even more. "True, as I said before, one lord left to finish his portion of our negotiation. Lord Vaemond Velaryon, your younger brother, has been confirmed as my new Fleet Admiral of the Summer fleet and will go to Summerhall as soon as possible to help confirm his position and ready the fleet to complete most of the trade needed on my canal. Lord Vaemond will be given a keep closest to Summertown so that I may converse and work alongside my new chiefest vassal lord freely and often; my other lords will be given loans to help construct their keeps from the forts I had already made. Within a few months, it should increase trade and profits by at least half the current amount, which is added to its current numbers."

Viserys clapped his hands in pride. Aemon had done well, helping raising Velaryons and Celtigars would do much to win both branches of House Targaryen with the Valyrian kin. Viserys was happy to see Aemon work almost autonomously for the benefit of himself and the family. "Wonderous news, Aemon. Well done. Well done." Viserys decided then to bring Daemon into the conversation. He smiled broadly before turning to Daemon. "You see that, Daemon. This is what the future of our House should be: strong and keen in intellect."

Daemon said nothing but nodded to his son. But before Viserys could continue, Otto interrupted. "Your Grace, we still must discuss what has recently occurred."

"Oh, come on, Otto. Will you not indulge me in this pride I have for my nephew? He did well enough," Viserys replied.

Otto nodded in agreement, but his eyes returned to Aemon's own. "I applaud the Prince and his cunning. However, as previously stated, while he is welcome, his new vassals have little to add to this discussion, and it is the father's actions that brought this meeting about rather than the son's accomplishments."

"Gods be good, fine, Otto," Viserys sighed once more. "My lords, congratulations on the agreement, but I must ask you to leave for this meeting."

The lords looked to Viserys, then Lord Corlys, who seemed to show little emotion, then to Aemon, and after a nod from Aemon, the eight bowed their heads and left. Viserys should be angered that they looked to Aemon's approval before they left, but he would allow them some freedom. Viserys did note that Corlys and Otto disliked what had occurred. Viserys questioned why Aemon brought the new lords with him; Aemon knew that they would not welcome the information; it was something Viserys would assume Aemon would keep close to his chest for the time being. Aemon was plotting something behind closed doors, and Viserys did not know what to make of it. He had brought the lords to make sure Corlys and Otto focused on such news.

Viserys would have to worry about Aemon's plots later. Aemon sat down in his seat, and Corlys and Otto only matched his stoic face. Aemon was far too good. "Now that is settled," Visery said before turning back to his brother. "Your new gold cloaks made quite the impression last night. Daemon, care to explain your actions of the night before?"

Daemon's smile didn't falter as his eyes remained on his son. "I've cleaned up the streets of King's Landing, brother."

Otto's eyes narrowed, but Viserys noticed Daemon did not care; his eyes were solely on his son. "The City Watch is not a sword to be wielded at your whim. They are an extension of the crown."

"On that, we can agree," Aemon said stoically. Daemon's eyes seemed to narrow from what Viserys could tell, but it was so narrow that Viserys thought only he noticed. "They are an extension of the Crown and a sword to be wielded against those who seek to bring injustice and instability to King's Landing. Prince Daemon has done just that."

Daemon smirked slightly. "The City Watch was enforcing the Crown's laws, brother. I thought you'd be pleased."

Viserys's hand tightened around the arm of his chair. Leave it to Daemon to somehow rile him once he had felt pride for his son. The boy had done something well for their family again, and Daemon had to somehow word his smug pride to draw out Visery's ire. What had Jaehaerys once said, family members knew every chink in the armor of a man, for they are the ones who placed them there in the first place? "Pleased? Pleased! With this... barbarism?"

Daemon continued to show almost no shame as he shifted in his seat, almost with no decorum or showing of respect. "I thought the ends justified the means, and for now, there will be no crime in your city, brother."

Viserys pointed to Daemon accusatory. "Not once has the ends justified the means, Daemon. You cut a man clean in half," Visery sighed as he rubbed his brow. "If a road is paved upon corpses, the smallfolk will not walk upon the road because they know that the dead lurk under their feet."

"On that, we will disagree, brother. Look at the Conqueror himself. How many men had he burned with Balerion, and now we reap the benefit of his killings as kings and queens," Daemon said. Viserys eyes shifted quickly to Aemon, who nodded along and pressed his lips as if conceding the point in amusem*nt.

Viserys slammed his fist on the table. "You are no Conqueror, Daemon. You've turned the city into a charnel house!"

Daemon shrugged, his expression calm. "Justice must be seen to be done. The people need to know that the Crown is strong and will not tolerate disorder. As I said, I am only enforcing the laws of your kingdoms."

Otto interjected, his voice cold and precise. "This is not justice, Prince Daemon. It's wanton cruelty." Otto took a breath before continuing. "Making a public spectacle of cutting off arms, slashing feet from legs, and chopping heads off shoulders is hardly complying, let alone enforcing the Crown's laws."

Daemon showed no interest; he leaned ever forward in his black armor. "Hundreds of high lords and their Houses are coming from my brother's tourney. Would you like them protected beforehand or after they begin to complain of their purses stolen, their women raped, and their sons murdered? You might know this if you ever left the safety of the Red Keep, Otto, but most of King's Landing is seen by the smallfolk as lawless and terrifying." Daemon turned back to Viserys. "Our city should be safe for all its people."

Viserys sighed. It was not necessary to indulge in this any longer. Viserys nodded once. "I agree. I just hope you do not need to maim half my city to achieve this."

Otto Hightower leaned forward. "If it is to continue as it is, Prince Daemon would maim all of Westeros to ensure no crime is King's Landing alone, Your Grace."

Daemon's eyes flicked to Otto, his smile fading. "The people will respect strength, Hightower. They always do. Worked well in the Greyjoy Rebellion."

Viserys a deep sadness. His brother's ambition and ruthlessness were becoming increasingly difficult to control. "Strength without honor is nothing, Daemon. You cannot rule through fear alone. To rule by fear and strength would make me no better than Maegor."

Daemon leaned forward, his eyes hardening yet softening for Viserys. "And yet ruling with no punishments and no adverse measures would make you no better than Aenys."

Lord Corlys then spoke from the other side of the long table. "We installed Prince Daemon as commander of the City Watch to promote law and order. The criminal element should fear the City Watch."

Daemon nodded his head once. "Thank you for your support, Lord Corlys." Viserys watch as Aemon's eyes ever slightly narrowed at the interaction, almost as though he had put something together.

"If only the Prince would show the same devotion to finding a new lady's wife, Your Grace," Otto said loudly. “The Crown has shown many marriage prospects and instructed you to find a new lady wife some time ago."

Daemon raised his brow but replied rather devoid of any bite or emotion, even if his smirk showed otherwise. "Forgive me for being sentimental. But I have more pressing matters to focus on; as you can see, I was rather busy last night."

"Mayhaps it would be best for you to have used your recent absence in search of a lady to wed," Otto offered. But even Viserys could see that Otto was merely trying to get rid of Daemon.

"I would happily help you find a woman alongside me if you are in need of a woman to warm your bed. Your lady wife passed recently," Daemon said evenly. Otto rose from his chair and looked down on Daemon in contempt. And yet, for Viserys, the impact of his eyes peering down, quite literally looking down on Daemon, did not have the same effect as Aemon's had on him. "Did she not?" Daemon asked for clarification. "I know a brothel in the Street of Silk. For hands of gold are quite cold, but a woman's hands are rather warm."

Otto looked ready to reality, if not for his position as Hand, but before Otto could say another word, Viserys intervened. "Otto. Do not indulge him. You know me how my brother makes sport of receiving your ire. " Otto stood for a bit longer before sitting down and apologizing to Viserys. "Daemon, this Crown, at great expense, bettered the City Watch to your exacting standards. But make no mistake, any further acts like last night's ones will be answered.

"Of course, Your Grace," Daemon replied evenly before rising, grabbing Dark Sister, and leaving the room. Before leaving, Daemon's eyes looked to his son, who did not look at him but rather at several pieces of parchment for the negotiations that he had recently made before finalizing certain things with ink and quill. Daemon left the room quietly. Viserys did not doubt that Daemon would continue to make things more difficult for him. Viserys would admit the confrontation was nowhere near as catastrophic as most of the Seven Kingdoms, and himself, had thought it would be.

Chapter 38: Royal Betrothals

Chapter Text

Yornwood 112 AC

Princess Tyene Martell

Princess Tyene Martell walked into Yronwood Keep with a sense of trepidation clinging to her like a second skin. The last time she had ventured this far from the sun-soaked sands of her home was a distant memory, and now, she was stepping into a stronghold she had never set foot in before. Despite her lineage—her grandmother being a Yronwood—she harbored no illusions about the freedom she might find here. The Yronwoods were proud and formidable; their allegiance was not easily won.

The keep loomed before her, a dark and imposing structure at the southern end of the Boneway, the ancient and vital passage that guarded against intruders. The castle's walls were thick, weathered by countless years of vigilance, their stones echoing with the whispers of bygone warriors. Its towers reached skyward like jagged teeth, piercing the sweet mountain air. Near the mouth of a river whose source lay to the west near Skyreach, the foothills of the Red Mountains cradled the keep, offering a stark contrast to the sun-scorched plains Tyene called home.

As she crossed the threshold, the scent of pine and damp earth filled her nostrils, a fragrance foreign to Dorne's arid climate. The fertile lands surrounding Yronwood were lush, verdant with life, and rich with iron, tin, and silver deposits. The air was crisp and invigorating, a refreshing change from the oppressive heat she was accustomed to. She paused to admire the lush vegetation, the dense forests teeming with the promise of spring.

High meadows stretched north of the castle, where the nights were cool, and the stars seemed to burn brighter against the velvet sky. The lush pastures were scarce and rare in Drone, aiding House Yornwood's wealth.

Silently, she prayed to Mother Rhoyne. She needed all the help she could muster. Her task was daunting—she was here to speak with Lord Yronwood and broker an agreement between him and her husband, Mors. The stakes were high, and Dorne's future was hanging in the balance. She could almost taste the metallic tang of blood on the wind, a grim reminder of what would happen should she fail for even she knew that a war against Aemon Targaryen, the Night King, was not far along now.

She looked over her silken flowing dress and looked to her two guards. All three were wearing the orange and red of Hosue Martell, the House she now claimed as her own. She sighed before renewing her determination. She walked with a brisk pace as she watched some servants and lords look up at her tan skin and dark hair in her eyes; she was a beauty; once married into her husband's House, she was named the Sunset of Dorne for her beauty was only matched by the most beautiful sunset in all the known worlds, which could only be found in Dorne itself.

The halls of Yronwood Keep were dimly lit, the flickering torchlight casting long, wavering shadows on the stone walls. As she moved deeper into the castle, her footsteps echoing in the silence, she steeled herself for the coming negotiations.

The sigil of a black portcullis grill over yellow field, representing the sands of Dorne, scattered across the keep. The entire keep was well furnished, far more so than any other outside of Sunspear itself, but she knew in her heart that with the wealth House Yornwood recently began privy to due to dealing with the Targaryens of Summerhall, House Yornwood could make far more extravagant purchases and examples of wealth.

She finally reached the great hall, its high ceilings and imposing architecture designed to awe and intimidate. Lord Yronwood awaited her, his expression inscrutable, his eyes cold and calculating. This was a man who had seen much and weathered the storms of politics and conflict with resolve as unyielding as the mountains sheltered his keep.

Tyene took a deep breath, summoning all her courage and cunning.

Lord Yornwood sat in the great hall on his wooden throne, holding court as knights and servants and lords sat among him, watching him as he welcomed her. She saw that the hall was filled with those wearing yellow and black dresses with gold and jewels and lords wearing the finest of jerkins and tunics with silver swords by their sides. She knew it, Dorne knew it, House Yornwood was the wealthiest of the Houses, and the Targaryens of Summerhall had ensured that while cementing a sliver of loyalties for the gold.

The seats and chairs were stationed on the balcony above the main grand hall, and Lord Yornwood, with wet, long blonde graying hair, beard, and piercing blue eyes, looked at her with near contempt. None made to rise as they looked at her. House Yornwood was no friend of Hosue Martell, and now they were growing in power; they would not bend to her nor show her the respect she rightfully deserved as their ruling princess.

"Princess Tyene Martell of House Gargalen!" the announcer bellowed into the halls as some stood in respect, but as she expected, not many followed suit. House Yornwood had been at odds with House Martell for quite some time. Before Nymeria had come to Dorne, they were the High Kings of Dorne; they were and still are the Bloodroyals, and no House, not even House Martell, was able to remove the reverence some of the other Houses had for them, especially Houses Blackmont, Jordayne, Qorgyle, and Wyl, who had been their vassals long before they were the vassals of House Martell.

With the alliance of House Yornwood, Dayne, and Fowler, the three rich Houses, Yornwood being the only one with more wealth than House Martell, and adding on the Houses Blackmont, Jordayne, Qorgyle, and Wyl, it shows that House Yornwood had control of just over half of Dorne. Princess Tyene was now more glad than ever that she forced her husband to heed her warnings because if things remained the way her husband wanted, and House Martell be at odds with House Yornwood, especially after the loss of the Fifth Dornsih War at the Black Burn of Summerhall caused much faith to be lost in her husband across the entirety of Dorne, she knew the odds were not in their favor if civil war broke out.

Seeing that there were members of each House she had seen From Dayne, Fowler, Blackmont, Jordayne, Qorgyle, and Wyl, each one in attendance almost acting as though Lord Yornwood were holding court, it was not shaping to be something she liked. Her husband may be shrewd, but the gamble he made at Summerhall had not come in their favor; cunning little Aemon Targaryen capitalized and promised riches and gold to the Yornwoods, Daynes, and Fowlers.

Now Dorne was in a less-than-ideal prospect, especially with the boy still growing more ambitious and powerful and he being the closest lord to Dorne. She worked too hard to get the Prince of Dorne to choose her as his wife so that he could squander and allow a rivalry long before he was born between their House and House Yornwood to fester and cause her to lose everything. He was a cunning man, but he did not know that sometimes, to better your House, you must make peace with your rivals, even if that meant playing their game or making them stronger.

She looked up at the older man, nearing his seventies, with his graying blonde hair and near- blind blue eyes looking down at her. He sneered and looked at her with such lustful eyes. His wrinkles were sagging, but even if his body was weak, she knew well that the man was as cunning as any maester and as sharp as Valyrian steel.

He coughed and made sounds as if reaching at the back of his throat to clear it. "Yes, well, get on with it! What are you doing here?" he asked with little decorum. Lord Yronwood did not waste time on pleasantries. "What do you want, Princess?" he asked bluntly, his voice carrying a rough edge that hinted at his disdain.

Tyene bit down on the sharp retort that rose to her lips. By all rights, the old lord was beneath her in status, but she knew that respect, or at least the semblance of it, was crucial in this delicate negotiation. She knew the man had married five times in twice as many years, and the man had a lust for younger women. Tyene, being just past her mid-twenties, may stay young enough to arouse some lust from him.

She remained the perfect lady as her silken orange dress shone in the candlelights and caused the shape of her body to be seen in the fabrics, the shape of her teats clearly seen, even if her darkened nipples and her nude form were not. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you, my lord," she said, her tone smooth and respectful. "I have heard many stories of your valor and wisdom."

Lord Yronwood scoffed, his lips curling into a sneer. "Oh, spare me your flattery. If Prince Mors Martell wanted to speak, he should have come himself. Is he too proud to stand before me?"

Tyene's eyes flickered with a brief flash of irritation, but she maintained her composure. "My husband has great respect for you, my lord. He sent me because he believed a softer touch might be more... persuasive."

The old lord scoffed again, louder this time. "What am I supposed to do with you, Princess?" His gaze shifted dismissively to his sons standing nearby, one of whom dared to speak up. "You are not even a Martell by birth. You have little respect for relations that your House and mine have had since before your husband's forebear, Nymeria, took my family's Crown. You are of no royal blood, and your grandmother being my cousin wins you no favor from me or mine."

In the crowd, a man on the far right stood up with blonde hair and blue eyes, and the yellow and black jerkin was nice and rather expensive in taste. "Father, please, show some kindness. Princess Tyene is the wife of the ruler of Dorne. We should—"

"Who asked you?" Lord Yronwood snapped, cutting his son off sharply. "If I wanted advice, I would have asked for it. Until then, keep your mouth shut."

Tyene took a slow, calming breath. "Lord Yronwood, perhaps there is somewhere we could speak."

The old man gave her a skeptical look, his eyes narrowing. "I believe we are speaking now, Princess. If you have something to say, say it. If not, I have other matters to attend to."

Tyene's patience was wearing thin, but she forced a polite smile. "I would very much appreciate a private audience, my lord. The matters I wish to discuss are sensitive."

Lord Yronwood's expression hardened, suspicion evident in his gaze. "To trust a Martell, even one married into the House, in a private audience is asking for a snake not to bite the hand that it sees as a threat."

Tyene met his gaze steadily, her voice calm and firm. "I assure you, my lord, I come with no ill intentions. My only aim is to find a way to spare our people unnecessary bloodshed. Surely, that is a goal worth a private conversation."

Lord Yronwood said nothing for a long moment, his eyes boring into hers as if trying to discern the truth of her words. "As I said, Princess," he said, his voice a low growl. "Speak your piece, either now or leave my hall with no words being said."

Tyene cursed under her breath. "Thank you, my lord. I have come to propose an alliance that would benefit both our Houses and ensure the safety and prosperity of Dorne. Prince Mors and I believe that we can achieve a lasting peace with your support."

Lord Yronwood's eyes remained cold and calculating. "Peace," he echoed, the word dripping with skepticism. "And what would this alliance entail, Princess? What do you offer that would make me trust a Martell?"

Tyene took a deep breath, choosing her words carefully. "We offer mutual protection, trade agreements that would enrich both our lands, and a pledge to honor and respect the sovereignty of Yronwood as your House was great kings while still being our vassal. We, as House Martell, would recognize your House as first among its equals. We recognize the strength and importance of your House, my lord. We can ensure that Dorne remains united and strong against any external threats."

"Wealth I have, Princess, the Night King of Summerhall has seen to that. The boy has more wealth than all Westeros knows to do with and, in a matter of a decade, put things into motion that would certify his branch House as an important figure for generations." The old man smiled a crooked, wicked smile. "He has been kind enough to make good deals in the trade of food, crops, and jewels, and he even helped some of my House's personal investments and interests. There is little House Martell could offer that I already do not possess." The old lord's gaze did not waver. "But let us say I agree. And what assurances do I have that your husband will honor this agreement?"

"You have my word," Tyene replied earnestly. "And I know that words can be empty, but I am willing to negotiate terms that will bind us in a way that ensures mutual trust and respect. Let us work together to build a future where our children do not have to shed blood on the sands."

"A Martell's words shift like the sands you wish to keep blood from spilling on," he said rather quickly.

Princess Tyene Martell's gaze drifted to the corner of the hall where a small girl stood, her dark hair framing a face that was yet untouched by the cruelties of time. The girl's eyes, wide and curious, reflected a mixture of innocence and wariness. Noticing Tyene's interest, Lord Yronwood followed her line of sight, and a rare smile crept across his weathered face.

"She is a pretty one, isn't she?" he said, his voice softening momentarily. "That girl is my new wife. We were married three moons ago. She's thirteen. First, bleed a moon before our marriage."

Tyene inclined her head, masking her discomfort at the lord's casual revelation. "Congratulations, my lord. I am sure the new Lady Yronwood will bless you with many sons."

The old lord's smile twisted into a sardonic grin. "Prince Mors Martell was not at the wedding."

"My husband was ill," Tyene replied smoothly. "He remained in Sunspear to recover."

Lord Yronwood's grin turned into a scowl. "Prince Mors was ill for the one before that as well, and the one before that. House Martell has never cared for me or my House. You only take an interest when House Yronwood becomes slightly more powerful." Tyene opened her mouth to protest, to offer an apology, but the lord cut her off sharply. "Don't deny it. You know it's true. I have twenty-five true-born sons and nine true-born daughters, yet neither your husband, nor his father, nor his father's father saw fit to marry any of them. House Martell has always kept us at arm's length."

"Whatever the reason," Tyene said, striving to maintain her composure, "House Martell must govern all of Dorne. Many other Houses must be considered. We cannot marry all our sons and daughters to one House alone."

Lord Yronwood snorted dismissively. "I don't need reasons. I need sons and daughters married off. They keep on piling up." He raised his voice, ensuring that everyone present could hear. "So, Princess, why are you here if you can neither give me anything I do not already have nor marry my children?"

Tyene drew a steadying breath, ignoring the murmurs of the gathered crowd. "I am here to ask for a trade alliance, my lord. To keep Dorne together. Just as your trading alliance with Aemon the Night King has brought you much."

"If that were truly your reason, your husband or his father would have sought an alliance long before House Yronwood became a threat to them once more," Lord Yronwood said, his voice dripping with cynicism. "Why should I care now?"

"House Yronwood has sworn to be a vassal to House Martell," Tyene reminded him firmly.

"Yes," Lord Yronwood agreed, his tone measured and cold. "I did swear those words. But long before that, I swore to do what was best for my House. And right now, I do not see a trading alliance with House Martell as being particularly beneficial."

Tyene took a step closer, her eyes locking onto the old lord's. "An alliance with House Martell is not just about trade, my lord. It is about ensuring Dorne's stability. Your strength, combined with ours, can protect us from external threats and internal strife. We can build a future where our children and grandchildren do not have to live in fear of war."

Lord Yornwood looked not impressed. "If I had half a mind, I would swear for Aemon Targaryen and be done with it."

Princess Tyene's lips tightened. "Then why don't you?"

"Martell, Targaryen, Hightower, Velaryon, Stark, Baratheon, Lannister, give me one good reason why I should spend a single f*cking thought on any of you," Lord Yornwood said bluntly. "The boy makes me coin, nothing more, nothing less."

Princess Tyene's hands finally turned to fists, but she regained her elegance once more. "If a trading alliance is not something you wish, the how of one of blood then?"

Lord Yornwood leaned in closer once more. "Now you have my interest."

"I have two sons and two daughters; you have a number of daughters and sons," she reasoned rather calmly."

"If you want my complaince, one wedding is not enough," Lord Yornwood said evenly. "Your son, Qoren Martell, is fourteen and heir to Sunspear and to Dorne. He will marry one of my daughters, any of his choosing, and your daughters will marry my grandsons, my heir's heir, and my heir's spare."

"That is a steep price, my lord," she said with refrain, elegance, and pose.

"Either my heirs have Martell blood and the next Prince of Dorne, after your son, has Yornwood blood, or no alliance will be made.

Red Keep 112 AC

Viserys Targaryen

King Viserys sat in his solar, a room befitting the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. Viserys leaned back in his chair, a goblet of wine in hand, as he conversed with his Hand, Lord Otto Hightower. Otto stood beside the desk, a sheaf of papers in his hands, his expression one of careful consideration.

Viserys looked at some parchment that Aemon had given to him the day before, looking over the sums of the repayment to loans from the Iron Bank. "The Crown's coffers have become more favorable," Viserys remarked, swirling the wine in his goblet. "Our efforts to stabilize the realm are bearing fruit. The money owed to the Iron Bank by most of Westeros has nearly been paid off."

"Indeed, Your Grace," Otto agreed, nodding. "Our careful management and the increase in trade have bolstered our finances. The taxes collected from the merchants in King's Landing and the tariffs from the ports have exceeded our expectations. It is a promising sign. Trade with Volantis through the Tiger party, who had housed your aunts when they were young, has helped alleviate some of the debt still owed to Braavos."

Viserys smiled, a rare moment of satisfaction crossing his features. "And what of the Iron Bank? They have always been a thorn in our side."

Otto consulted the papers in his hand. "Most of the debt has been settled, Your Grace. There are still a few outstanding amounts, but they are minor in comparison to what we have already paid. The Iron Bank is satisfied with our progress and has even offered more favorable terms for future loans, should we need them."

"Good," Viserys said, setting down his goblet. "A stable economy is essential for the peace and prosperity of the realm. With the debts nearly cleared, we can focus on other matters."

Otto hesitated for a moment, then continued. "There is another issue, Your Grace. I do not believe that Prince Daemon is capable of maintaining the City Watch."

Viserys's brow furrowed. "We've spoken of this already, Otto. Daemon has brought crime in King's Landing to nearly nothing. The Gold Cloaks are more effective under his command than they have ever been."

"With all due respect, Your Grace," Otto said carefully, "having a criminal to keep other criminals in check is not a wise course of action. Daemon is the least lawful man in the Seven Kingdoms. The spectacle he orchestrated just the day before is proof of it."

Viserys's expression darkened. "Daemon is my brother and has proven himself in this role. The streets are safer now than they were under any other commander."

"Your Grace," Otto continued, his tone respectful but firm, "I must insist. Daemon's methods are brutal and unpredictable. He may have reduced crime, but at what cost? The people live in fear of the Gold Cloaks, not respect. This is not a sustainable way to maintain order."

"Be careful, Otto," Viserys warned, his voice low. "Daemon is still a prince and my brother. I will not allow any man to mock him in my presence."

Otto bowed his head slightly. "My apologies, Your Grace. I mean no disrespect. However, Prince Daemon cannot maintain law and order when he thrives on chaos and bloodshed. His actions bring instability to the very streets he is meant to protect."

Viserys sighed, rubbing his temples. "I understand your concerns, Otto, but Daemon has always been... unconventional. Yet his results speak for themselves."

"Unconventional, yes," Otto replied, "but dangerous. His presence in the City Watch is a double-edged sword. It might be effective now, but it will not last. The people need to trust their protectors, not fear them."

"And yet, without him, the City Watch would never be as strong as it is now," Viserys said seriously but with a slight smile. "He gave them their gold cloaks, and the men are now strong and take pride in their duties."

Otto nodded. "Yes, Your Grace. He gave them their gold cloaks, a sigil, a banner, something to take pride in. He gave them something to be proud of and loyal to. But loyalty to someone who is chaotic and wild is not something we should be proud of. They would follow him if he chose to do his public massacre again."

The king was silent for a long moment, lost in thought. Finally, he nodded. "Very well, Otto. I will speak with Daemon. We will find a way to temper his methods while maintaining the peace he has brought. But remember this: he is still my brother, and I will not see him cast aside lightly."

"Of course, Your Grace," Lord Otto said, bowing once more. "I only wish to serve the realm and ensure its stability."

King Viserys leaned back in his plush velvet chair, the rich fabric cool against his skin as he studied the Hand of the King, Lord Otto Hightower. Viserys' goblet of wine stood untouched beside him, the king's attention fully on Otto. "You had something else to discuss, Otto?"

Otto Hightower nodded, a shadow of concern crossing his face. "Yes, Your Grace. House Manwoody of Dorne has been causing skirmishes at the Prince's Pass. There has been fighting across the border between Dorne and the Reach."

Viserys's demeanor grew serious. "Is it only House Manwoody, or have other Dornish Houses taken up arms at the Prince's Pass?"

"At the moment, it is solely House Manwoody," Otto replied. "However, three other Houses deeper into Dorne have sent men to support Manwoody's efforts. Their combined forces are creating considerable unrest."

Viserys frowned, his fingers drumming lightly on the armrest. "Send a letter to House Tyrell. They are to deal with these skirmishes immediately. Another letter should go to House Baratheon to keep an eye on their side of the Prince's Pass. We must ensure the conflict does not spread to their territories."

"As you command, Your Grace," Otto said. "While precautionary measures are wise, I fear it may not be so simple."

Viserys raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean, Otto?"

"The Dornish are cunning," Otto explained. "They attack at the Prince's Pass and then retreat. Additionally, I have reason to believe that some Dornish Houses are preparing to fight among themselves."

Viserys's expression softened into one of mild amusem*nt. "If they are readying to fight one another, why should we be concerned? It seems the issue might resolve itself."

Otto shook his head. "The Dornish seem better supplied than during the last conflict at Summerhall. I believe they are using the trade agreements between Prince Aemon and Lord Yronwood to bolster their resources and turn them against the Reach."

Viserys' face darkened. "The Reach has over a hundred thousand soldiers. That should be more than enough to keep Dorne at bay."

"True, Your Grace," Otto conceded. "But the death toll will increase over the coming months. If we do nothing, the conflict could escalate."

Viserys' patience began to fray. "I will not plunge the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms into war because House Manwoody is causing trouble. They are but one House!" Viserys rubbed the bridge of his nose as he took another sip of his wine. "Do you know how the realm would see me, see the Crown if we fear one small House?"

Otto nodded along, his eyes never leaving Viserys as he watched Viserys drink his wine glass. Otto thought of his response for his time, and Viserys wondered what Otto would say. "My King, Prince Aemon has done that when eradicating Houses Tarbeck and Reyne."

"They were in open rebellion, and he acted within the Westerlands and using only the power of the Westerlands. Two Houses destroyed by the kingdom they reside in," Viserys replied. "It is not the same as me using all seven of the kingdoms to bring down one House that does not even have the backing of Dorne.”

Otto remained calm, his voice measured. "I believe that if Dorne continues these random attacks, it could cause further unrest in the Reach and the Stormlands. This could lead to more significant issues within the realm."

Viserys's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Are you suggesting the Reach and the Stormlands might revolt against the Crown?"

"No, Your Grace," Otto replied swiftly. "I do not believe that."

Viserys' glare was icy. "If either territory even considers such treason, they will be reminded why both lands knelt to the dragon. The power of House Targaryen is absolute."

Otto inclined his head respectfully. "Of course, Your Grace. My only concern is for the stability of the realm. A show of strength now might prevent greater conflict later. But I fear most of all that the situation was not done by accident but by design."

King Viserys's gaze grew hard as he absorbed Otto's reminder. The solar, once a place of warmth and light, seemed to darken with the weight of the conversation. "Speak plainly, Otto," Viserys commanded, his voice a low growl.

Otto met his eyes steadily. "Your Grace, the issues at Prince's Pass may stem from the very trade agreements Prince Aemon has established with Lord Yronwood."

Viserys's face contorted with anger. "Are you accusing my nephew, Prince Aemon, of being a traitor to the Crown and inciting these quarrels?"

"I am merely pointing out that it is suspicious," Otto replied calmly. "Prince Aemon has restored peace to the realm on three separate occasions. Yet now, Dorne causes commotions at the Prince's Pass, and it is with the aid of House Yronwood, Aemon's trading partner."

Viserys slammed his fist onto the table, rattling the goblet and maps. "Aemon has been more like a son to me than a nephew. He would never betray me. He has proven himself; he has lifted the realm from debt and fought in more wars than any man living in the name of peace of my realm. I will never doubt him."

"Your Grace," Otto said, his tone respectful but insistent, "the prince has indeed proven himself strong and true. But it is extremely coincidental that House Yronwood, where Aemon has influence, is now stirring trouble in Dorne, leading to more conflict at the Prince's Pass."

Viserys's eyes blazed. "Coincidence does not make a traitor. I trust my nephew. He has stood by me through thick and thin."

"Trust is essential, Your Grace," Otto acknowledged. "However, it is prudent to consider all possibilities. The timing and alliances are too significant to ignore. Prince Aemon's dealings with Lord Yronwood might have unintended consequences, if not more."

Viserys glared at Otto. "You tread dangerous ground, my Lord Hand. Aemon has my full faith."

"I understand your position, Your Grace," Otto said, bowing his head slightly. "Yet, as your Hand, it is my duty to advise caution. We cannot afford to overlook any threats, especially those that may come from within."

Viserys took a deep breath, attempting to calm his rising temper. "You speak of caution, yet your words cast doubt on my family. What would you have me do, Otto?" Viserys then took a long sip of his wine. "Let me remind you that angering Aemon is drawing the ire not only of a prince of the realm but also of Daemon and my aunts. I can assure you that eight dragons and their dragon lords enraged is not a good prospect. If you want further proof, look to the Iron Islands. I believe only a single stub of molten rock remains of the Pyke."

Otto paused, choosing his words carefully. "I may have an idea to appease Dorne and stop any issues at the Prince's Pass. A more lasting peace can be forged through betrothals—a pact of blood."

Viserys sighed, the tension easing slightly from his shoulders. "Continue."

"House Martell has four marriageable children," Otto said. "Prince Mors Martell has two sons and two daughters, all of whom are of marrying age. We could arrange marriages with the royal family: Prince Daemon and Prince Aemon to Martell's daughters, and perhaps Princess Rhaenyra and one of the daughters of Jaehaerys to Martell's sons. This would fully bind Dorne to the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. "

Viserys leaned back, his fingers drumming on the armrest. "It is a bold plan, Otto. But is it wise to marry off four of the royal family to one House?"

Otto nodded thoughtfully. "It is indeed a significant step, Your Grace. However, the union would solidify our ties with Dorne, bringing them into the fold and securing their loyalty. You would forever be remembered as the King who Conquered Dorne itself."

Viserys frowned, deep in thought. "I also do not like the idea of giving the Dornish access to dragon-riding blood."

"That is a concern," Otto conceded. "But the benefits may outweigh the risks. Bringing Dorne into the realm through marriage would create a lasting peace and strengthen the unity of the Seven Kingdoms."

Viserys pondered the proposal, the flickering light of the solar casting shadows across his face. "It is a heavy decision. But peace with Dorne... that is a prize worth considering."

"Your Grace," Otto said, "this alliance could prevent further bloodshed and ensure stability. The Dornish are proud and strong-willed, but a bond of blood could tame their rebellious nature."

Viserys shook his head no, the weight of his decision evident in his eyes. "No, Otto. Mayhaps a betrothal for Daemon or Aemon but not my daughter or aunts, giving them the ability to mount Balerion himself should my nephew die is not a prospect I relish the thought of."

"As you command, Your Grace," Otto replied, bowing deeply.

The heavy oak door of King Viserys's solar creaked open, revealing Ser Harrold Westerling, the white cloak of the kingsguard billowing behind him. "Your Grace," he announced, "Prince Aemon of Summerhall requests an audience."

Viserys nodded. "Let him in."

The doors swung open, and Prince Aemon strode into the room, his black hair flowing and his dark eyes gleaming with a familiar intensity. Viserys watched the dark-haired boy with his equally black gambeson and wolf pelt cloak. He bowed his head respectfully to his uncle and Lord Otto Hightower. "Your Grace, Lord Hand."

Viserys rose, his face lighting up with genuine affection. He crossed the room and embraced his nephew warmly. "Aemon, it is always a pleasure. Sit, sit. Tell me, what brings you here today?"

Aemon took a seat, his expression stoic. "Must I need a reason to speak with my uncle?" Viserys could see the sliver of a smile grace his nephew's face. Viserys truly loved the soft smile of his brooding nephew. "I rather grow tired of talks of finances and coin and dealings, uncle."

Viserys chuckled, a wide smirk spreading across his face. "In our royal family, personal conversations are rare. Every Targaryen speaks of matters of the realm and politics."

Aemon remained silent for a moment before speaking. "I may have found a solution to the betrothals you charged me to find for myself, Viserra, Aerea, Saera, Maegelle, Daenerys, and Rhaella."

Viserys's eyes brightened with interest, and he clapped his hands together. While Viserys knew that Otto’s offers to marry the Martells were cunning both Aemon and Viserys both knew the importance of keeping the blood pure, the less outsider blood the better and it was a difficult thing when Rhaenyra was a forth Andal and Aemon himself was half First Men. "Wonderful news! Please share with us. Would you like some wine?"

Viserys poured wine into two goblets, handing one to Aemon, who accepted it with a nod. Otto smiled slightly, agreeing. "Yes, do tell us more."

Aemon took a sip of the wine before he began. "The betrothals I propose will keep the blood of Valyria within those already of Valyrian blood and ensure that other Houses do not gain access to dragons."

Viserys looked to Otto with a satisfied smile. Viserys could see the distate in Otto’s eyes, they were just speaking of betrothals and Aemon’s words were enough o already dissuade Viserys from the Martells as options. "That already sounds favorable. I would prefer to keep the daughters of House Targaryen from non-Valyrian houses if possible."

Aemon continued, "The matches are to a wealthy family with close ties to the Faith, which could work favorably for the Crown."

Viserys smiled broadly, glancing at Otto. Lord Otto nodded once with a smile before turning back to Prince Aemon. Viserys could see it, slightly, the forced smile on Otto’s face. "You see, Otto? I told you it was wise to trust in Aemon. He should never be doubted." Viserys then turned to Aemon. "Who are these betrothals to?"

Aemon waited for a moment, his gaze shifting between Otto and Viserys. "I propose that Viserra, Aerea, Saera, Maegelle, Daenerys, and Rhaella marry me."

The room fell into a tense silence. Viserys's smile vanished, replaced by a look of shock. Viserys could see the memories of his dream in a flash. Seeing Aemon on a great conquest with six brides, with silver hair and purple eyes. Viserys knew in his heart that this was to be the case. But he was angry now that he could see it; he was angry because the gods chose all but his daughter, and he would like so dearly for his daughter, Rhaneyra, to be a queen, but Aemon would be king of his kingdoms, of that Viserys knew, and it would be their aunts that were his queens, that was just made clear to him.

In truth, Viserys would be glad for Aemon to father many sons to ensure the blood of Old Valyria was not few in number. Viserys could see Aemon bring back Old Valyria itself through his line; he just wished his daughter was a part of that dream. Viserys was selfish in that. But while the blood of Old Valyria and his love, as Aemon's words, gladdened the uncle, they did not work alongside the will of the king. He wishes for Aemon to be happy, but he cannot allow Aemon to marry six princesses. Aemon could not have it as such.

The entire Seven Kingdoms would be up in arms. Aemon marrying once is one thing, but marrying all the princesses, daughters of Jaehaerys, and not a single lord in all the Seven Kingdoms would be happy with the thought. Many had daughters they would like to marry to Aemon, and many had sons that they could have used to bleed Valyrian blood into their children. Gods, Aemon says his intent would be enough to anger the lords; many would roar and complain. They would claim his nephew as Maegor, the Cruel with his Black Brides. Viserys would not allow this; damn the dreams he had; he would not allow his nephew open to such slanders.

But the part of him that knew of the Song of Ice and Fire saw something else. A reason to banish Aemon, allow him to be by his lonesome and start the boy’s plans to avoid Aegon’s Dream, or rather the darkness in it.

Otto quickly protested, "Your Grace, marrying all six princesses to Prince Aemon would bring no new alliances to House Targaryen."

Aemon's voice remained even. "It would ensure that no other Houses gain dragons. Dragons won House Targaryen the Iron Throne. If other Houses begin gaining dragons, it could be the reason we lose it."

Viserys' face grew serious. "I cannot allow all six of the princesses to be wed to a single marriage prospect, even if that prospect is you, Aemon."

Aemon's tone was measured. "Scattering dragons across other families would make House Velaryon more powerful. They already have two dragons; if Laena gets her dragon, they will have three. House Velaryon is an ally, true, but if six other Houses gain dragons while House Targaryen remains with only four, it shows power drifting away from the royal family."

Viserys glared at Aemon. "I doubt House Velaryon would ever rise against us."

Aemon nodded. "It is highly unlikely that they would, especially with Balerion as a counter to any and all other dragons that could ever be seen as a threat. I do not think they would, but I cannot say the same for other more foolish Houses."

Viserys' glare hardened. "I will not allow you to marry all six princesses, Aemon."

Aemon remained calm. "Marrying within the blood is a tradition that predates the fall of Valyria. Valyrians have always married their own—siblings, aunts, uncles, and cousins. The Doctrine of Exceptionalism justifies it. The faith had agreed to this with King Jaehaerys. The faith would not grow angry over this, Your Grace."

Viserys slammed his hand on the table. "Faith is not the issue in regard to marriage between blood. The doctrine does not speak of having multiple wives."

Aemon said nothing as he sat stoically. He sipped his wine evenly before looking back at Viserys. Aemon countered, "The Conqueror had two wives."

Otto interjected, "While Prince Aemon is a good warrior, he is not the Conqueror. And he speaks of having six wives, not like Aegon's two, but like Maegor's six."

Aemon's eyes turned to Otto with a cold fury, though his face remained stoic. "Are you comparing the princesses to the Black Brides and me to Maegor the Cruel?"

Otto lowered his gaze, speaking carefully. "I only advise caution, Prince Aemon."

Aemon's voice was icy. "I am being cautious. I am keeping the power of dragons within the family."

Viserys's anger flared again. "I will not plunge the entire realm into chaos over this, Aemon. We need alliances."

Aemon replied, "Alliances come and go. Dragons are what make us strong. By marrying the princesses, I keep all their dragons in Summerhall as a strong deterrent to any who oppose House Targaryen."

"Oppose you, you mean," Lord Otto said evenly.

The air in King Viserys's solar grew thick with tension. The plush velvet drapes, the golden candelabras, and the intricate tapestries that adorned the walls did little to soften the rising storm within the room. The two men, the king and his nephew, stood on opposite sides of a growing chasm, their eyes locked in a battle of wills.

Otto Hightower's voice cut through the silence. "Your Grace, Prince Aemon cannot marry all six princesses. Such an arrangement would bring no new alliances to House Targaryen."

Aemon's gaze remained fixed, his voice steady. "It would ensure that no other Houses gain dragons. Dragons are what make us strong. Keeping them within our bloodline is paramount."

Otto shook his head. "We must think beyond dragons. We must think of the realm. Marrying Prince Daemon, Prince Aemon, Princess Rhaenyra, and at least one other princess to Dorne would solidify our ties and bring lasting peace."

Aemon looked on with a brooding face, skeptical. "You wish to give the kingdom that has been quarreling with the Reach, the kingdom of your birth, access to Balerion should I pass. I did not realize you wished for a remaking of the Field of Fire."

Viserys's face twisted in frustration. "Enough!" he roared, slamming his hand on the table. The echo of the impact reverberated through the room, silencing both men. Aemon showed no emotion, no, the boy was as cold as ice as he kept his eyes on Viserys and Otto. He sighed, rubbing his temples. "Marrying within the blood is wise, Aemon, but so is marrying into Dorne. Both your suggestions have steep prices and leave no room for other options."

Aemon turned his cold, stoic eyes to Otto. "Why do we need to marry Dorne?"

Viserys and Otto exchanged glances before Otto spoke. "House Manwoody has been causing skirmishes at the Prince's Pass, and other Dornish houses have been sending men to aid them. It threatens to spill over into the Reach and the Stormlands. Marrying into Dorne could stabilize the region and prevent a larger conflict."

Viserys then looked to the banner of the three-headed dragon on the far side of the room. “House Manwoody is using the resources you traded with House Yornwood.”

Aemon's eyes narrowed. "I have nothing to do with the attacks on the Prince's Pass. If Dorne is on the brink of civil war, giving them dragons is not wise."

Otto's expression was cautious. "This situation might be the perfect opportunity to solidify our power within the family. But the timing is suspicious, and your close ties to House Yronwood cannot be ignored."

Aemon's cold stare bore into Otto, his face a mask of controlled fury. "Are you insinuating that I orchestrated everything in Dorne just to convince the king to marry all my aunts to me?"

Otto almost squirmed under Aemon's piercing gaze. "I am only advising caution, Prince Aemon."

“You already used that excuse in my presence before. Care to come up with another?” Aemon asked bluntly.

Viserys sighed again, looking between the two men. "It is not wise for Aemon to marry all his aunts, nor is it wise to give Dorne four marriages and access to dragons. Perhaps a compromise is in order. We could marry one of the princesses to Laenor Velaryon and marry Aemon to Laena Velaryon to keep the Velaryons near the Crown."

Aemon's eyes flashed with defiance. "Dorne would not do anything too rash."

Otto shook his head. "That is what was said before the invasion during the Greyjoy Rebellion."

Aemon's voice was icy. "That is what you said, Lord Hightower. I said both the Greyjoys and the Martells were threats. I defeated the Dornish, and they remember that. They will not act as long as I breathe."

"It is not unheard of for a prince to die before his time," Lord Otto pointed out.

"Is that a threat?" Aemon asked, his cold eyes waiting for Otto to move.

Viserys's patience snapped. "I will keep peace in my kingdoms!"

Aemon's voice rose, challenging, but still even as if he were belittling Viserys. "Did you think the same when you allowed the Greyjoy Rebellion to last eight months instead of acting in the first month? All you needed to do was send the dragon riders, and it would have been resolved in a moon rather than dragged out and fixed by my own hands."

Otto stepped forward warningly. "Prince Aemon, remember you are speaking to your king."

Viserys's eyes blazed. "Aemon, you will marry who I wish."

Aemon's defiance was palpable. "I will not marry Laena Velaryon. I will marry my aunts. I will not feed into Corlys' heedless ambition; it would swallow him whole, and that will extend to his children."

Viserys's anger surged. "What if your king commands it?"

Aemon's voice was steel. "I will do as I wish because I am the head of my own House and the Prince of Summerhall."

Viserys's face reddened with fury. "I dictate what is best for our House!"

Aemon's eyes were dark, unwavering. "You are in charge of the Targaryens of the Red Keep. I will do what I wish regarding the Targaryens of Summerhall. As you said before, I am the head of my House, and the Crown will not begin managing such affairs."

Viserys leaped from his chair, screaming, "I am your king! I would punish this, even if you are my blood, Aemon." Viserys looked down at Aemon, his purple eyes glaring at his nephew. Aemon did not move. His cold eyes looked at Viserys's form. He was far too relaxed in his chair, his back straight and his nose upturned. His face was unreadable, but his eyes held anger.

Aemon's voice was cold as winter. "Any man who needs to say 'I am your king' is no true king."

Viserys surged forward, his face a mask of rage. "Out! Get out of my sight!"

Aemon stood slowly, with no urgency in his movements. His movements were so slow and methodical that it was as though a panther had walked away, as though Aemon left merely for his own will rather than a command, and for a second, Viserys realized that it was just as that. He bowed his head briefly before turning on his heel and striding from the room, leaving behind a trail of silence and a king consumed by fury.

Maegelle Targaryen

The chambers in the Red Keep were resplendent, with the fineries befitting their royal occupants. Rich tapestries of crimson and sable adorned the walls, each bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. Golden candelabras cast a warm glow across the room, illuminating the silken drapes and plush furnishings. The scent of roses and burning incense mingled in the air.

Meagelle and her sisters, Viserra, Aerea, Saera, Rhaella, and Daenerys, sat in their shared apartment, the tension palpable after the morning's events. Aemon was absent, entangled in meetings with House Celtigar and House Velaryon members, leaving the sisters to discuss the ramifications of his confrontation with King Viserys. Meagelle did not know what Aemon was playing, but she knew, deeply, whether it be the gods enlightening her or if she knew Aemon too well, he was planning something more than starting his own fleet to fully control the Summer Canal and have the complete control of the Narrow sea and the Sunset sea.

Viserra fixed her hair and fell back onto the couch; Maegelle could see her sister's bosom bounce as she fell. Maegelle did not understand why her sister liked to flaunt her large teats. She had to wrap her own breasts tightly in cloth to hide their size, and Viserra wore her maroon dress low enough to see her teats, not ever letting Aemon's gift of the Valyrian steel dragon scale neckless cover all of them.

Viserra, ever prideful and condescending, broke the silence. "Aemon could have handled the meeting with the king better," she stated, her voice edged with disdain.

Saera sat on a chair near the balcony, and the white dress looked as clean and pristine as she had just bought it; her tone, cold and calculating, replied, "Aemon reinforced that the Crown has no power over what we desire. He reaffirmed that the Targaryens of Summerhall are not to be dictated by the Targaryen of Red Keep, and, like all other Houses, House Targaryen cannot enforce their will over Summerhall as it is the House who dictated their territories. We can marry who we want as the right of any House."

Daenerys, usually brimming with excitement, looked frustrated. She wore her long purple dress, which was devoid of frills. It looked straight and devoid of ornate designs, almost like armor. "Getting King Viserys angry was not the smartest thing to do."

Aerea laughed, a sharp, bitter sound, before growing serious. Maegelle looked at her sister's jerkin and noticed it had a darker coloring than the silver platinum that Maegell thought she would wear; it had become an unspoken agreement with the sisters to wear the colors of their dragons. "Would it have been better for Aemon to allow Viserys to marry us off to Dorne? I would not marry a Dornishman. Did we not burn them down at the Dragon Gate?"

Maegelle sighed, her expression weary. She straightened out her blue dress as she looked. "May the gods have mercy on him. It wasn't wise to confront Viserys like that, but Aemon had little choice."

Saera leveled a glare at Maegelle. "He told the king he was no true king." Saera then looked to her other sisters; Maegelle wondered what she was thinking deep down. "We made an investment in him, in Summerhall and Summertown, and he nearly ruins it in one conversation.”

Viserra looks to Saera, her prideful smirk never leaving her face. "I would think you are happy that our nephew defend your investment and are so willing to keep our betrothal alive?"

Saera rubbed the bridge of her nose, her dark purple eyes never leaving Viserra's lighter, richer violet. "Not at the cost of Otto Hightower seeing infighting within the two branches of House Targaryen. Aemon said it best: the only thing that could harm the House of the Dragon is itself, and he allowed Otto Hightower to see a wound within the two halves of the dragon. Not the most ideal of outcomes."

Aerea took a dagger from her side, but Maegelle could not tell where it was and began twirling it. Aerea interjected bluntly, "He chose us over the king, and I support that choice every day of our lives."

Viserra smirked as she sat up quickly, her hair moving wildly again. "I can not believe I am saying this but I have to agree with Aerea on that."

Saera shook her head. "Aemon is going to make an enemy of Viserys."

Maegelle shook her head. Maegelle knew Viserys, her nephew, loved Aemon dearly, and gods be good; she doubted he would even think of him doing something wrong. "Viserys cares too much for Aemon to ever truly remain mad at him."

Viserys and Aemma loved Aemon dearly, just as the Mother and the Father loved and protected all. But Aemon was neither; he was the Warrior born in flesh and blood, no, too many; he was the Stranger himself born in the House Targaryen, and Maegelle knew that all the Seven faces of god were one, just as House Targaryen needed Viserys love for Aemon and Aemon's strength to keep Viserys and Daemon most destructive impulses at bay. Aemon gave strength to Viserys rule, and Aemon's abilities kept Daemon from resorting to more drastic means.

Daenerys glanced around at her sisters. "What do you think will happen?"

Viserra replied confidently, "We stay for the Heir's Tourney, and as soon as it's over, we leave to get married."

Maegelle raised an eyebrow. "Do you want to get married that soon, Viserra?"

"Of course," Viserra said. "It would be far better that way. I would rather marry him today so I can bed him without him going on and on of me losing my honor, but I could wait another day or two."

Saera spoke calmly. She reached for a glass of wine on the table next to her and took a long sip. "If Viserys allows us to leave, he may hold us here to do as he wishes."

Daenerys noticed Rhaella's silence and turned to her. Rhaella said no words, as she never spoke. Even Maegelle could tell she needed to say something but was too shy to say it. "Rhaella, what do you think?"

All eyes turned to Rhaella, who sat near the fireplace as her orange dress melded with the orange hue of the flames. Rhaella's voice was soft yet firm. "I wish to marry Aemon."

Saera's eyes narrowed as she looked at her sisters. Maegelle could see something in Saera's eyes as though she had been thinking of something for quite some time. "Do you want to marry him out of love or as an escape?"

Viserra scoffed. "Of course, I love my nephew, Aemon."

Daenerys sighed. She walked over to where Saera sat and poured herself a glass of wine before sitting near the fireplace with the glass. "Loving a man is different from loving a nephew."

Aerea tossed her dagger into the air without looking before catching it. Aerea turned to Daenerys, her expression incredulous. "Do you want me to believe you don't love Aemon?"

Daenerys's voice was steady. "I love Aemon, but I am not in love with him."

Saera nodded, taking a sip of wine before setting down the glass, walking to the far side of the room for a book, taking it back to her seat, and reading through the inked words. "It matters little in marriages of nobility. You're lucky to marry someone you tolerate."

Viserra turned to Saera. "Do you love Aemon at all?"

Saera was silent for a moment; deep in thought, she stopped turning the pages to look up. "I care for him. He's the only one who's been loyal to and protected me for years. But I don't love him as a future husband. " She then returned the question. "Mayhaps one day I could,” Saera said to herself. “Do you love Aemon, Viserra?"

For the first time, Viserra's pride faltered. She looked at the fireplace and stared at each of her sisters before her eyes rested on her hands. "I don't know, but I believe I could learn to. Some political marriages start as duty and become love. And I believe Aemon would do anything to make that true for us."

Daenerys sat back, her gaze thoughtful as she asked, "Maegelle, how do you think the Faith will react to this?"

Maegelle sighed, brushing a strand of silver hair behind her ear. "The Faith won't say anything against a marriage within the family. The gods and the Faith have already agreed that Targaryens can do such things. But polygamy? That's another matter. The Faith would be angered by that. They have long memories, and Maegor was only half a century ago."

Saera's face grew serious. "Do you think the Faith would revolt? We do not need the Warrior's Sons to take up arms again."

Maegelle considered this for a long moment. "The gods have given our House and family certain leniencies, but this might test their patience."

Viserra, her expression hardened, interjected, "The question isn't whether the gods would be with it. I couldn't care less about the Andal gods."

Maegelle's face flushed with concern and anger. "Gods have mercy on you, Viserra."

Viserra laughed, pointing to her ample chest. "The gods have already blessed me enough."

Daenerys, unable to contain her frustration, grabbed a pillow and hurled it at Viserra, hitting her square in the face and sending her tumbling back onto the bed. "Maegelle, do you truly think the Faith would revolt over polygamy?"

Maegelle pondered, her expression grave. "I think the Faith is too fearful of Aemon to ever fully go against him publicly. His strength and reputation keep them in check. Long memories also mean keen memories of Balerion's flames. He did also make great favor by making the Summer Sept, but most of the favor would be used up if we marry one another and do so in the wrong way."

Saera nodded approvingly. "The faith fears Aemon too much to act too rashly. That is how things should be." The room fell into a contemplative silence; each sister was lost in her thoughts. Saera, ever practical, took another sip of wine as she turned the page of the book once more before continuing. "This betrothal and marriage are our duty. We have to think of what's best for our House, and marrying Aemon ensures our bloodline remains pure and our dragons stay within the family."

Viserra's prideful demeanor softened slightly. "I truly care for Aemon. Maybe I don't love him as a wife loves a husband yet, but I believe I could learn to. I wonder if our mother cared for our father as such?"

Daenerys put her finger to her chin. "She was set to marry another, I believe. Then, she ran off with our father to wed on Dragonstone. If that is not a marriage for love, then I know not what is."

"Our father married his sister; marrying our nephew is far more tame by those standards," Viserra pointed.

Saera then raised her brow. "We are also talking of polygamy, Viserra, a decisively different thing added to the fact we are marrying within our own blood."

Aerea then laughed. "I don't think our parents are good examples of a happy marriage. I think I remember hearing Mother left Father for several years after he made Viserys heir. She died on Dragonstone rather than the Red Keep because of an argument they had, making her wish to go away from him. The pair may have loved one another, but they spent time apart."

Daenerys looked to Aerea disbelievingly. "Are you suggesting that we would be doomed to the same fate and eventually leave each other and die alone?" Aerea shrugged her shoulders, and Daenerys flung a book to her sister's face. Aerea ducked and turned back to see where the book slammed into. Aerea laughed at Daenerys' face and turned back to gloat, only to receive a pillow on the face that was strong enough to force her back on the ground. "I am an archer; I never miss."

Maegelle nodded, her voice gentle. "I care for him deeply as a nephew. Perhaps that might be enough."

Daenerys sighed, her expression conflicted. "I don't know what to think, but I trust Aemon. He cares for us, and he's always had our best interests at heart."

Aerea, always the blunt one, grinned. "Things would get rather dull without Aemon around. I'd rather stay alongside him for the entertainment if nothing else."

Daenerys looked around at her sisters, her expression resolute. "So, we all agree?"

Saera put her book to the table once more. "We'd make an enemy of Viserys for this."

Aerea laughed once, a single bark. "Aemon seems to have already covered that in the last meeting."

The sisters exchanged looks, each one coming to terms with the reality of their situation. Saera nodded firmly. "For our House, for our future, this is the best course of action."

Viserra smiled faintly. "And who knows? Perhaps in time, love will grow."

Maegelle, ever the peacemaker, added, "We have each other, and that's more than enough."

Saera swirled her wine. "It is our duty." Saera nodded thoughtfully. "It is our duty as princesses to secure strong betrothals and make strong sons for our House; it is our duty as dragon riders to propagate the number of dragon riders to help secure our control."

Rhaella spoke once more. Her eyes never left the flames. "Father thought that having too many dragon lords is just as bad as having too few."

Saera thought of her words, and Maegelle wondered what she would say. "He did, and I agree, but I also think that Valyria had hundreds of dragon lords, and each one kept the other in check. By those accounts, we are far away from such worries, and we would need to reach higher numbers of dragon lords if we are to remake Valyria itself, just as Aemon had said we should. Aemon is the best option for us to be both content and successful. I won't settle for less. I care for him, and I think that's enough."

Daenerys mused, "For Saera, it's like Visenya and Aegon—out of obligation rather than pleasure."

Saera countered, "Visenya cared for Aegon on some level." Saera then continued reading through the book. "Aegon and Visenya were married far longer than Aegon and Rhaenys. I admittedly doubt that Aegon and Visenya did not come to truly love each other in the end when they were with each other and f*cked one another far longer than they ever did with Rhaenys."

Viserra smirked triumphantly. "Love and lust may have the same first letter and are each for little letters, but they are not the same sister. You should know, you f*cked knights and squires, and yet I don't think you ever married one of them."

Maegelle interjected softly, "Marriage should be of love."

Saera's expression softened. "Mayhaps the love of an aunt and nephew is enough."

Maegelle's voice was almost a whisper. Maegelle cared for Aemon, for that was true, but she did not care for him as a wife does a husband; she did not know if she ever would; she prayed and hoped that the gods rated her such love and to receive it in return, but she did not know. Aemon might be protective of them, for that was known far and wide in Westeros; she thought he lusted for them, on some level, but to love them as a man does his wife. "What if that love is not enough?" she finally asked out loud.

Saera paused, her gaze steady as her eyes turned back to the fireplace. "Then I have all of you. And I think that is more than enough." She smiled slightly, almost as if it was false.

Before they continued, Aemon entered the room once more. He said no words, no greetings came to his lips as he found his way to the last chair before the fires and looked at it. Ghost by his side, the large white wolf, as big as a bear, looking to his master, almost in pity. Aemon looked so tired, weakened, and drained, and for a fleeting second, she thought him too exhausted to breathe. Ghost sat down by his side, sitting by the fires. Aemon held Blackfyre in its sheath as he sat with the sword in his left hand and Ghost to his right as he twisted Blackfyre into the ground.

He said nothing but looked into the flames. Maegelle turned to her sisters and saw no one had moved since he had entered.

No one greeted him, for they knew he would speak first. He looked at the fires, his eyes scanning them for far too long as if they had the answers. "The Red Priests believe you could see your future in flames," Aemon's eyes never leaving the orange-hued flames. "Did you know this?" Aemon's voice was hollow, deep, stoic, the sound of rolling thunder in a quiet storm. Maegelle could see pain in his eyes, deep pains like the ones he had when he woke from his night terrors.

Maegelle had thought Daenerys, Aerea, or even Saera would speak first, but none spoke. Rhaella, sitting right beside him, placed her hand on Aemon's, near Blackfyre. "The gods allow to see what they wish."

Aemon's eyes looked so broken; his dark eyes seemed to glow purple as the orange flames brightened his dark gaze. "And allow us to believe lies that they are too cowardly to admit the truth of."

Maegelle said nothing for some time as she watched her nephew. His dark wolf's pelt made him look so large, like a black bear sitting for warmth. "The gods have given you much, Aemon; I would not anger them so bluntly."

"They cursed me even more," Aemon said, looking at the fires. "Fire and blood. Strong words. But a man who could win wars while using neither is far stronger," he said to himself. "War is coming, my dear aunts. Whether we like it or not."

Saera put her book down and looked at Aemon. "What war, Aemon?"

"I already said it," he muttered just above a whisper. He was brooding now; he placed his hand on Ghost's head as the fires crackled. "One of fire and blood. Seventeen years is all we have before burning blood reigns from the skies."

Maegelle inched ever closer, but it was Daenerys who spoke. "Seventeen years is quite some time, Aemon. Far away," Daenerys said, looking at the same fires as if she could find the answers Aemon did not have. His back was towards them, and the dark shadow of the throne he sat on was all they could see of him.

"The fear of future pain is far more painful than the pain of the one immediately," he said sagely. "I dream terrible dreams," he admitted. "You know it as well as I. You have rested at my side as pain and suffering clinging to my nights." He took a deep breath to steady himself. "The gods have cursed me to have memories of the future, memories as if they were yesterday, but they are far past tomorrow."

Rhaella then spoke. "Burning blood," she whispered. "Only one blood truly burns."

Saera's eyes narrowed. "Dragon's blood."

Viserra turned to Aemon, Maegelle had never seen with such fear. "Burning blood from the skies. You think dragons will fight dragons."

"A dance of dragons in the skies," Aemon said ruefully. "It will start with the heir for a day. On that, you may believe it the only truth you will hear in King's Landing."

"Why are you telling us this, Aemon?" Maegelle finally asked.

Aemon said nothing for a bit longer as he looked into the fires. He scratched Ghost's ear, and the wolf pressed his head into Aemon's palm even more to comfort Aemon than the man did the wolf. "This will be a war of succession," Aemon said. "To understand the truth of the future of what is to come, you must understand the lie of what has been. To understand this, you must understand why your father wanted a dragon, rather than a seahorse, upon the Iron Throne."

Maegelle did not understand what he was talking about, nor did her sisters. She turned to Saera, who seemed to be putting pieces together in her mind but did not come to any true conclusions. "The people chose Viserys over Laenor through Rhaenys," Saera said as if it were a fact. “The people chose the male line of Targaryen over the line of the eldest regardless of gender. We know the truth; the realm knows the truth."

"And so was Aegon's desire to be king of all of Westeros. Everyone says they know the truth of what has happened, but as I said, the gods allow us to believe the lies they are too cowardly to dissuade," Aemon said. "The histories will say one thing: that Aegon was ambitious and wanted the continent, that Viserys won by a fair vote, but I ask you, who is on Viserys' small council? Who's hall did the Grand Council of 103 AC take place? Who was close to both Viseyrs and Jaehaerys?" Maegelle knew the answer; she turned to her sisters, and all came to the same answer. Lord Strong. He ruled Harrenhal, and he was a supporter of both Jaehaeyrs and Viserys. Aemon was saying Lord Strong rigged the vote in favor of Viserys. He unsheathed Blackfyre and then looked to the black ripples of Valyrian steel. He put the tip of the fires and moved the woods around with the tip. "Aerea what have I told you of history."

Aerea took her dagger and spun it several times. "It is written by the victors. The victor chooses what is remembered and forgotten."

"That does not stop for the disfavored facts, my dear aunts. All histories could be lied upon, changed, or hidden. The victors do all this, and in ten years, little will know the truth, for other wars will claim the lives of those who know the truth; in twenty, no one would be able to disprove this false fact; in fifty years, it will be seen as truth, in a hundred years, it becomes fact so strong that it becomes the foundation for further lies, in a thousand years a myth that no one will care about to confirm or deny any longer," Aemon said as if he had been thinking of such things for far too long, and known this as the fact itself.

"What are you saying Aemon?" Viserra asked, confused.

"It is a hundred years since Aegon's Conquest," he said.

Saera's eyes narrowed, and she was the first to express their thoughts. "And there is a lie of Aegon's Conquest that has become the foundation for other lies," she concluded.

Aemon drew Blackfyre from the fires; he looked to the blade now as glowing hot as the swords from fresh forges. A bright orange hue. Aemon turned the blade and touched the tip of the sword with his free hand. Maegelle went to stop it, but gasps rang out of their mouths as Aemon made no sound of pain. He then grabbed the heated sword fully. No sizzles of burning flesh, no grunting of pain, no reddening of flesh, or smell of burning. "Our histories... they tell us that Aegon looked across the Blackwater from Dragonstone, and saw a rich land ripe for the capture. But ambition alone is not what drove him to conquest. It was a dream…"