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Chapter Text

AEMON I

A promise will be kept, and everything shall fall.

"Your Grace! Your Grace, they're calling for you."

Instinct took over before thought. His right hand shot out, fingers curling around the hilt of the dagger beneath his pillow. The cool metal offered a sense of reassurance in the darkness but as his other senses returned, he realized it wasn't necessary.

When Aemon finally opened his eyes, he was met with the now-familiar surroundings that had been his world for over a year. The deep red fabric of his tent, already ominous in the daylight, now seemed almost oppressive, its hue intensified by the flickering light of the dying fire outside. Shadows danced along the walls, casting shifting patterns that mirrored the unease gnawing at his mind.

He muttered a small curse under his breath, a habit that had grown more frequent as the days blurred together. With a weary groan, Aemon pushed himself up from the makeshift bed. The rough blankets clung to his skin, damp with the cold sweat of troubled dreams.

He had spent the night with the scouts, poring over crude maps and trying to piece together the lay of the land. It was a task that demanded qualities that Oswell believed were beneath a prince. Throughout the night, the old knight had muttered his disapproval, insisting that such work was far better suited to common soldiers than to Aemon. But Aemon didn't want to spend his time by doing nothing.

Moreover, he had grown tired of the War Council’s dismissive glances and patronizing tones. His name might have been royal, but his voice held little weight among the hardened veterans and high lords who sat around the table. So, Aemon sought other ways to spend his time, and mapping out the terrain with the scouts was just one more way to make himself useful, even if it meant spending hours in the cold night air with only the wind and rustling leaves for company.

When he finally returned to his tent, the sky was still shrouded in darkness, the moon hanging pale and distant above the treetops. It cast a silvery light through the opened entrance of his tent. He stood at bed for a moment, watching the way the moonlight spilled across the canvas, and realized that only a short time had passed since he’d first closed his eyes.

Aemon's gaze shifted to the boy standing at the entrance of his tent, his form half-lit by the faint glow of the dying fire outside. The boy's yellow tunic marked him as one of the messengers. The lad's chest rose and fell rapidly, beads of sweat glistening on his brow, he must have sprinted across the camp to deliver his message.

With a tired wave of his hand, Aemon signaled for the boy to speak. His eyes remained sharp, searching the boy’s face for any sign of the gravity behind this late-night summons.

"Lord Baratheon sent me, Your Grace," the boy gasped, barely managing to catch his breath. "The War Council is gathering. I was told to fetch you at once.”

Aemon squinted, his mind racing to piece together possible reasons for the sudden assembly, but there was no time to dwell on it. He pushed aside the fatigue and swung his legs off the bed, the cold ground biting at his bare feet. In a motion, he was on his feet.

"Go," he said curtly, waving the boy away. He didn’t need to see the messenger’s relieved nod as the lad turned and darted back into the night. His mind was already shifting to the next task. "Oswell!" Aemon called, his voice carrying through the tent.

The white-cloaked knight entered almost immediately, his presence as steady as the blade at his side. Without needing to be told, the knight began assisting Aemon in shedding his nightclothes, preparing him for the armor that awaited.

"Any idea what's going on?" Aemon asked, his voice clipped as he focused on fastening the straps of his leather underlayer. The cold, hard steel of his armor would soon replace the warmth of the bed.

Oswell shook his head as he handed Aemon the breastplate, his expression as unreadable as ever. "I don’t know. But something’s stirred the entire camp. Everyone's on high alert, and it happened all at once." He paused for a moment, adjusting the straps with practiced ease. "It could be anything—a skirmish, or just another of Lord Baratheon’s drills. But it’s not like him to gather the War Council without good reason."

Aemon nodded, his thoughts racing even as his hands moved on by theirselves, securing the armor piece by piece. The cool weight of the metal pressing against his chest was familiar, comforting in its way. Aemon tried to suppress the excitement that was bubbling up inside him, though the effort was almost futile. This could be one of Stannis’s drills; it had been quite a while since he’d done one, but when he did, he never gathered the War Council. Something real must be happening. The thought sent a jolt of anticipation through him.

Had they been caught unprepared? Was there an attack underway in the dead of night? The questions raced through his mind. But then, Aemon shook his head, dismissing the thoughts with a confidence that he hoped wasn’t misplaced. They knew exactly where Volantis's forces were massed, and the scouts had meticulously combed the area before they even considered setting up camp. It was impossible for them to have been caught in a trap. But if they had been… Aemon knew he should be worried, perhaps even afraid. But fear never came. Instead, the thrill of the unknown, the possibility of battle, made his blood hum with energy. He had been waiting for this.

Oswell, tightened the final straps on Aemon’s breastplate, ensuring the armor fit snugly against his growing frame. He flexed his fingers inside the gauntlets, testing the range of motion as he settled into confines of his armor. This armor was new, recently commissioned to replace the set his father had had made for him years ago. In the past year, Aemon had grown, anew was needed. The armor he wore now was as dark as the night sky, unblemished by the marks of battle. The plates gleamed under the flickering torchlight, unmarred by the scratches. Embroidered across the breastplate were three dragons, rendered in crimson thread, a symbol of his house and his heritage.

As the blood-red cloak draped across his shoulders swept the ground behind him, Aemon and Oswell stepped out of the tent and into the night. The camp which only hours ago had been so calm that one could hear the distant chirping of birds, was now engulfed in chaos. The camp followers—mostly women who had trailed after the army, some for work, others for companionship—were huddled together, trying to get off the muddy roads.

The soldiers, too, were caught in the storm. Some stood frozen in place, clutching their clothes, their eyes wide with confusion as they struggled to comprehend what is going on. Others had already managed to throw on their armor, their spears clutched tightly in their hands as they rushed to their posts. The air was thick with tension, and the camp, once a place of discipline, had given way to a state of utter chaos.

As they moved on, before Aemon could see what was unfolding in the middle of the camp, he heard the sounds—sharp, angry, and unmistakable. Over the din of clattering armor and hurried footsteps, the distinct shouts and curses of two men locked in a fight pierced the air. As Aemon drew closer, he saw them. An older man lay sprawled on his back in the mud, his face contorted in pain as he tried to fend off the brutal blows raining down on him. The younger man above him showed no signs of stopping. His fists crashed down with force

Aemon’s instincts took over as he rushed forward, his hand latching onto the shoulder of the man delivering the blows. With a swift move he yanked the man backward. The force of the pull sent the attacker stumbling, and before he could regain his balance, he fell back hard onto the ground, landing on his rear with a grunt of surprise. Dazed, the man looked up, for a moment, the man’s rage faltered, replaced by a mixture of fear and awe as he stared up at Aemon.

"In the name of the gods! What is going on here?" Aemon's voice cut through the air, thick with irritation. The weight of sleepless nights and the mounting chaos in the camp had stripped away any patience he might have once had.

The first to respond was the older man, still sprawled in the mud, gasping for breath. His face and hair were smeared with dirt, and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. With a pained grunt, he spat out a mouthful of blood and mud before speaking. "This bastard accused me of theft," he rasped, pointing a shaking finger at the man who had been pummeling him moments before. "He claims I stole his weapon. What would I want with your weapon, you godless man?"

The younger man, his fists still clenched with the remnants of his fury, now found his gaze locked on the dragon emblazoned on Aemon's armor. Recognition dawned slowly, followed by a subtle shift in his expression. His eyes, however, did not soften. If anything, they burned with a fierce intensity—whether it was anger, hatred, or something more complicated, Aemon couldn’t quite tell.

The prince studied the man’s appearance, noting the boiled leather armor and the sharp, rugged features that spoke of a life lived in harsh conditions. He was unmistakably a northerner. The army they were currently campaigning with was a patchwork of men from all across the realm—Dornishmen from the sun-scorched deserts, miners from Lannisport, farmers from the fertile lands of the Reach. It wasn’t unusual to see such a variety of men gathered around the same fire. But up until now, Aemon hadn’t encountered any northerners among their ranks. Their presence here was unexpected, and to Aemon, it was more surprising than the fight itself.

The northerners’ views of House Targaryen were well-known, even after all these years. The stories of the rebellion and the cold fury of the North had been etched into Aemon's mind from a young age. Seeing a northerner in their camp, this far south, raised questions that Aemon didn’t have time to answer. Why was this man here, of all places?

"I know you stole it," the northerner growled, his voice low and dangerous. The accusation snapped Aemon out of his thoughts. "They saw you leaving my tent. Where did you hide my sword, bastard? Tell me!"

"You dirty northerner!" The older man, now trying to use Aemon as a shield, looked up with pleading eyes. "I would never do such a thing. Please, my lord, punish this man for his lies!"

"Enough!" Aemon's voice cut through their bickering, sharp as a blade. "Now is not the time for chaos." He turned his gaze to the northerner, who stood tall despite his earlier stumble. "You—go to the quartermaster. Tell him that I send you. He’ll give you a new sword."

The northerner's eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched in defiance. "I don’t want a new sword. I want my stolen sword back. My brother forged it for me."

"I didn’t steal your sword!" the older man retorted, his voice rising in desperation.

"I said enough!" Aemon's patience was wearing thin. He could feel the tension radiating from the crowd that had begun to gather around them. His eyes scanned the faces in the crowd until they landed on the familiar red-cloaked soldiers of his household guard. Relief washed over him as he signaled them forward. "You," he addressed one of the guards, "take these two and get them their equipment. If they keep causing trouble, you’re free to deal with them as you see fit."

The Targaryen Household knight nodded, as he approached the two men still sitting in the mud. They continued to grumble, but Aemon couldn’t spare them another moment. There were more pressing matters at hand—he had to meet with Stannis and the rest of the War Council to uncover what had triggered this sudden disorder.

He could hear the tumult within the war tent long before stepping inside. The sounds were merging into a discordant sound that seemed to seep through the canvas walls. Among the clamor, Aemon could make out curses. He almost wanted to smirk—these supposedly noble lords had suddenly turned into foul-mouthed peasants. He was genuinely curious about what kind of news had caused this transformation. Was the situation truly that dire?

With strides, Aemon entered the tent, and the full scale of the chaos unfurled before him. The war tent, a vast structure that took hours to erect each time they made camp, was a scene of disarray. Torches flickered in their sconces, casting shifting shadows over the maps strewn across the central table and illuminating the agitated faces of the lords. Men who had once spoken with calm tones now shouted at one another, their voices rough with frustration, hands gesticulating wildly as if trying to physically force their opinions on the others. The air was thick with tension, almost suffocating. Aemon felt a prickle of unease crawl up his spine. So far, the campaign had been controlled and marked by success. If Stannis’s plans held, they were even close to ending the war. Yet now, something had shifted.

Aemon’s sharp eyes swept over the scene, taking in the familiar faces contorted with anger and concern. Black Walder Frey was locked in a heated argument with Alester Florent, their words cutting through the air like blades. Nearby, Tytos Blackwood leaned in close to whisper something to Devan Lannister, the latter’s long hair falling over his eyes as he nodded grimly. Lord Plumm, his thin, spidery fingers hovering above a distant spot on the map, was practically shouting in his attempt to convey some points to the cluster of lords around him. It hadn’t been this crowded in weeks. Clearly, Stannis had summoned every lord within reach.

As Aemon's eyes continued to scan the room, he felt a firm hand on his right shoulder. He turned swiftly, his gaze meeting a familiar and reassuring face—Aurane Waters. Among all the lords and commanders in the camp, Aurane was the one closest to Aemon in age, and that kinship had forged a bond between them. Their friendship had been cemented during the Battle of the Burning Sea when Aemon, with no other choice, had leaped onto Aurane’s ship after his own was set ablaze. Together, they had fought side by side, securing his first victory at this campaign. That night, they had shared wine in celebration, and from that moment on, Aemon had felt it would be a dishonor not to call Aurane a friend.

Now, looking into Aurane's eyes, Aemon saw the shadow of concern that hadn’t been there before. He leaned in and asked quietly, "What’s going on? Is this one of Stannis’s damned drills?"

Aurane shook his head, his expression darkening. "Unfortunately, not this time, my friend. We’re in deep shit."

Aemon frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Volantis is here," Aurane replied grimly. "That damned Ash Lord has screwed us all. Especially him." Aurane’s gaze flicked toward the far end of the long table, where Stannis Baratheon sat. While the rest of the tent buzzed with frenzied arguments and anxious whispers, Stannis remained eerily silent, his intense eyes locked on the map before him. Aemon could see the tension in his jaw, The Stubborn Stag was probably grinding his teeth again.

Aemon’s heart sank as he grasped the gravity of the situation. The situation was worse than Aemon had imagined. The excitement he had felt when summoned here in the dead of night was now rapidly fading. For too long, they had been playing a game of cat and mouse, as if in a cyvasse match. Stannis’s strategy had been sound, deliberate, but Aemon had grown impatient. He needed a victory. More than anyone in this tent, he needed it. His very future, hung on the outcome of this war and on his actions.

"What are you saying, Aurane? The Ash Lord and his army are on the Selhorys side. How could they be here while we’re chasing them?" Aemon's voice was sharp with disbelief, the words tumbling out before he could fully process them.
Aurane's expression darkened further. "That’s why I said we’re screwed. I don’t know all the details, but the scouts spotted a fleet bearing the banners of Volantis. If they make a swift landing, they’ll be here by midday."

"How many ships?" Aemon asked, though he dreaded the answer.

"Around 400," Aurane replied grimly.

Aemon felt a cold knot tighten in his throat. The numbers hung in the air like a death sentence, robbing him of speech. Suddenly, the furious arguments, the anxious faces, and the palpable fear that permeated the tent made sense. They had been caught off guard, blindsided by an enemy they thought was still on the other side of the sea. Their camp housed nearly twelve thousand soldiers, of which only half thousand were mounted. But four hundred ships—four hundred ships could carry an army twice their size, perhaps more. He quickly ran through the scenarios in his mind, each more dire than the last.

They were currently stationed at Orange Shore, a strip of flat, unforgiving terrain that stretched out for miles. Wherever they turned, they would face two days of open ground with no natural defenses. And worse, they had been caught unprepared, their troops weary from days of marching with no fortifications in place. The grim reality settled over Aemon like a suffocating shroud: they would be forced into a straight fight against an enemy twice their size—a fight that could only end in death.

Behind him, Oswell muttered in a low, urgent tone. "We need to leave, Aemon, immediately. I must protect you."

Oswell’s words ignited a flare of anger in Aemon, more potent than the dread Aurane’s news had brought. His blood boiled at the thought of retreat, but Oswell pressed on, seeing the defiance in Aemon's eyes. "Set aside your pride, boy. What good will it do if you die here for nothing? Or worse, if you’re captured by those devils? I am a knight of the Kingsguard; I’ve sworn to protect you."

"And you’ve also sworn to follow my orders, Oswell." Aemon's voice cut through the air. "We’re not dying here today." His words held such confidence that, for a moment, he believed them completely. He had lived his entire life under the shadow of his bastard birth, and though he had been legitimized, the stigma clung to him like a second skin. If he fled now, if he turned his back on this fight, everyone single noble would remember him not just as a bastard, but as a cowardly one. That thought burned in his mind like hot coals. No, he would rather face death a thousand times than bear that disgrace.

But perhaps, he thought, this disaster was an opportunity in disguise. Perhaps this was a test from the gods, a chance to prove himself not just to those around him but to the King itself. He moved toward the map, his mind racing as he replayed everything Aurane had told him, seeking a way to turn the situation in their favor. His eyes darted between the map and his thoughts, seeking that glimmer of hope.

“ENOUGH!" Stannis’s voice cut through the clamor like a sword through flesh. The tent fell into an stunned silence. The lords who had been arguing like children moments before were now silent, like scolded children. Stannis’s eyes, cold and unyielding, swept over the gathered men. "For those of you who don’t know the situation, I will explain it once, and only once. Qalar Mothip and his fleet of 400 ships are preparing to land on the shores of Orange Shore as we speak. Somehow, despite our best efforts, they’ve managed to slip behind us and quadruple their numbers."

"This could be a trick," Mathis Rowan interjected, his voice measured but firm. Rowan was one of the few men Stannis trusted on this campaign, though Aemon had never liked the man. His face always seemed to wear a sly, calculating expression that Aemon found unsettling. "How many times have we defeated the Ash Lord? He’s been running from us for months, and now, suddenly, he’s quadrupled his numbers? This is an illusion, my lords. Qalar wants us to think he has the upper hand to prevent us from joining the Triarchy army at the Volsena River. I say we hold our ground."

"Are you stupid, Rowan? You want to gamble with our lives?" Brynden Tully, the Old Fish, thundered from across the table. His voice, deep and commanding, left no room for doubt. "I have no intention of staying here and dying like some cornered rat. We need to make a diversion. While we still have time, we should send a small force toward Volsena. Qalar will take the bait and chase them, giving the rest of us a chance to escape."

"How many men are you willing to sacrifice for this scheme? It’s dishonorable!" Morton Waynwood shot back, his voice tinged with indignation.

Brynden’s eyes narrowed, his gaze cutting through Morton. He spoke slowly, deliberately. "This is war, boy. Honor alone won’t save you when your throat is being slit in the dark. If we don’t act, we’re all going to die—or worse, be taken prisoner." His words lingered in the air like a death sentence, and for a moment, the tent was eerily quiet. But then, as if ignited by his bluntness, the lords resumed their arguments, voices rising even higher.

It was Black Walder’s gruff voice that sliced through the noise next. "This is your fault, Stannis. You’ve dragged us around this wasteland for nothing. We should have laid siege to Volantis and been done with it. You’ve led us into a trap, you damned fool."

Stannis didn’t flinch. His reply was icy. "Perhaps I should have. Then, when the mercenaries attacked from all sides, I would have thrown you to them first, like the dog you are.” It was common knowledge that Stannis Baratheon didn’t like Black Walder a bit.

"How dare you! You’ve brought us here to die, and now you mock me?" Black Walder’s face reddened with fury, his hand twitching as if he were ready to draw steel.

"We won’t die, my lord—at least not here, and not today. We have very little time, and this is not the moment for petty quarrels.”

Devan Lannister seized the moment of silence to speak up. "Tully is right. We need to leave here immediately, and this diversion is the most sensible option."

"Why can’t we just return to our ships?" Arthor Celtigar, his silver hair gleaming in the torchlight, suggested confidently. "If we head down at an angle, we can escape before Volantis reaches us." But the entire table responded with a chorus of grumbling and shaking heads.

"Far too risky," Tytos Blackwood pointed out, his voice heavy with grim certainty. "We might run into them on the way. For all we know, they could have already spotted our fleet and set it ablaze. We’d be walking straight into a trap."

"I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Rowan is right. Sure, Qalar may have somehow gotten behind us, but there’s no way he suddenly amassed such an army. We know Volantis is running out of money, the Golden Company has already abandoned them. They couldn’t have hired more mercenaries. We should stay here, my lords. Stand our ground and end this damned war once and for all." Myles Mooton spoke up. Everyone respected the seasoned knight. He was an honorable man, and just as skilled with his sword. His words received many nods of agreement, but Aemon did not agree. He knew what had to be done.

He hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud until all eyes turned toward him. "Does the Prince wish to speak?" Stannis asked, his gaze unusually curious.

Aemon swallowed, feeling the weight of the moment. "Yes," he replied, his voice steadying as he spoke. "What we need to do is very simple, my lords. We march at full speed toward the shore where Qalar plans to land."

The tent erupted in laughter, but a few faces remained serious. Aemon felt a small sense of relief as he noticed those few—at least some of them must understood what he was thinking. "We have no terrain advantage, no numerical advantage, but we can still surprise them. Right now, all Qalar is thinking about is how he’s trapped us. How he’ll stand over our corpses by sunset. No, my lords. We take the fight to him. If we move quickly, we can attack while they’re still disembarking. I still remember the slopes that climb up from the shoreline. If we can secure some of those positions, we can burn their entire fleet and drown his army at sea."

The laughter died down as the lords turned their eyes from Aemon to the map. Slowly, they were starting to understand..

"This would be madness," Myles Mooton was the first to voice his opposition. "You still don’t know how bloody a real battle is. One wrong move, and Qalar will destroy us with his army that’s twice our size. Our corpses will belong to the crabs."

Mooton’s words hung in the air. He had struck at Aemon’s weakness—his inexperience and age, something the older lords had held against him from the beginning. They didn’t consider Aemon’s involvement in this campaign as true experience in war. They thought themselves the real commanders, having fought in Robert’s Rebellion and the Greyjoy Rebellion. Early in the campaign, Aemon had tried to speak up in council meetings, but he was never heard; his opinions were not valued at this table. But this time was different. This time, Aemon knew that the only true path to survival and victory lay in his plan, and they had no choice but to listen.

"I didn’t take you for a coward, Ser Myles," Aemon shot back, his voice cold. "Where’s that famous courage of yours? Or are you really that afraid of crabs?” His eyes swept over the room, the lords stared back at him in stunned silence. "My lords, you know I’ve laid out the only plan that makes sense. Landing twenty, twenty-five thousand men on a beach is chaotic work. If we send our men now and eliminate their scouts, we’ll catch them completely off guard. Before they even realize what’s happening, we’ll blot out their sun with our arrows. By the end of the day, Qalar will have fallen, and tomorrow we’ll be at the gates of Volantis. This is how we end this war, with a trap within a trap, deceiving them in their own deception."
"Does the prince know that we may encounter a prepared Volantis army when we arrive?" The question was posed calmly by Stannis Baratheon.

Aemon met his gaze without hesitation. "Does our commander know that by discussing this, we’re wasting what little time we have?" he responded with the same calm tone.

As surprising as it was for Aemon to think that Qalar had outmaneuvered them, it was just as surprising to see Stannis smile at that moment. "You heard the prince, my lords," Stannis declared, his voice with authority. "Have your men prepare accordingly. I want us marching in half an hour."

"But my lord, we’re marching to our dea—" Myles Mooton began, his voice thick with protest, but Stannis silenced him with a sharp look.

"I agree with Prince Aemon," Stannis interrupted, his tone leaving no room for further argument. "I’ve been thinking the same. I don’t want to waste any more time. If we fail, you’re free to take my head later, but for now, I’m commanding you with the authority the King has granted me. Prepare immediately."

As the lords slowly began to leave, murmuring amongst themselves, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Stannis’s unexpected support had been a welcome surprise. In truth, it shouldn’t have surprised him. Stannis was renowned as one of the realm’s finest commanders. He had held Storm’s End against Mace Tyrell’s siege, broken the Faith Uprising’s grip on King’s Landing, and served as the King’s second admiral in the battle that had decimated the Greyjoy fleet.

Two years ago, when King Rhaegar announced his intention to launch a campaign against Volantis’s aggressive expansion, the entire realm had been stunned. Aemon still vividly remembered the court’s reaction that day—deep breaths taken, the startled glances exchanged by lords and ladies. Volantis had long been a force to reckon with, but recent events had changed the city’s very nature. A few years prior, a violent coup had rocked the ancient city-state. The powerful factions of the Tigers and Elephants had been overthrown, and in their place, name of Qalar Mothip had risen, declaring himself king. Qalar was not just a King; he wanted to become more. He spoke of tearing down the systems that divided continents and peoples, proclaiming that all men should be seen as equals. Following these ideas, he waged war on the lands of Slaver’s Bay.

At first, most believed that the combined might of Meereen, Yunkai, and Astapor would halt Qalar’s ambitions. After all, Slaver’s Bay had withstood countless threats over the centuries. But Qalar defied all expectations. First, Meereen fell, its proud walls crumbling under the weight of his relentless assault. The news of Meereen’s fall sent shockwaves through the Free Cities and beyond. In the Red Keep, the King’s council had hoped that Qalar’s victory would at least bring an end to slavery in those lands, that perhaps this self-proclaimed king truly intended to reshape the world. But instead, Qalar revealed his true colors. He continued the practice of slavery, but with a worse fate—he conscripted the freed slaves into his own armies, forging a brutal force of soldiers. The war in Slaver’s Bay dragged on for years, and by its end, the region had become part of Volantis, its traditions intact, its people subjugated.

Things had changed here. No state had been as powerful on the lands of Essos since Valyria, and no one could allow this. That's why the alliance of Braavos and Triarchy knocked on King Rhaegar's door. Aemon didn’t know exactly what was discussed or agreed upon, but after all the negotiations, the outcome was clear. The House Targaryen would join the alliance against Qalar, but the Lord Paramounts would not be forced to march. It would be a voluntary campaign supported by the Crown. High wages, a share of the loot, and good equipment were promised to those who participated. The turnout from all over the realm was at the expected level, but what surprised everyone the most was that Stannis Baratheon would join the campaign and that King Rhaegar Targaryen had appointed him as the leader and commander. Following this news, many different Lords expressed their desire to join the campaign. By the end of the day, the War Council was assembled before Aemon. It was a mixed council made up of Lords who had been on the battlefield and second sons as fresh as grass.

When Aemon received news of the campaign, he had repeatedly asked the King for permission to join, and each time, the answer was no—no, no, and no. His father had spoken of the dangers of war, of how a 14-year-old boy had no place on the battlefield. Aemon had understood the concerns, but it had only deepened his desire to prove that he was more than just a bastard prince. Then, in a move that baffled Aemon to this day, King suddenly changed his mind. In front of the entire court, he had announced that Aemon would join the campaign. The words had been like a double-edged sword, cutting both ways. On one hand, Aemon had felt a surge of excitement, this was the opportunity he had been waiting for, a chance to clear the stain on his name and earn the respect of the realm. But on the other hand, there was a bitterness that he couldn’t shake. Why now, after all the refusals? Why had his father, who had deemed the battlefield too dangerous, suddenly decided to send him into the fray?

As Aemon lay in his bed that night, staring at the ceiling, the questions filled his mind, refusing to let him rest. Was this a test? A punishment? Or simply a change of heart? The uncertainty haunted him, leaving him with a sense of insignificance. He had wanted to join the war more than anything, but now that the moment had come, it was tainted by doubt. Yet, deep down, Aemon knew that this was his chance—his chance to step out of the shadows and become more than just a name whispered behind closed doors. This campaign would define him, for better or worse.

"Good job, really good job." It was Aurane's calm voice that pulled him out of his memories. Although the man’s words seemed to approve of what Aemon had done, his face didn’t reflect the same approval.

"You didn’t like the plan, I assume," Aemon replied.

Aurane grimaced, the lines of worry deepening on his face. "I didn’t like anything that was discussed. The best move would have been to listen to Oswell and flee while we still could."

"Don’t be a coward. I didn’t come here to run away.”

"And I didn’t come here to end up with my handsome head on the tip of a Volantene spearman’s pike," Aurane countered, taking a deep breath. His long silver hair glinted in the dim light of the tent. "But I’ll follow you, my Prince. The gods know you have something about you. Just don’t prove us wrong."

Aemon managed a faint smile at that. "That’s not in my plans. Don’t get yourself killed, Aurane, or I’ll miss your company."
Aurane bowed slightly, a gesture that was more a sign of camaraderie than formality. "Whatever my Prince desires. Now, I must finish the preparations."

The tent had emptied considerably. As they left, people gave Aemon various looks. Some seemed to say, 'You’re leading us to our deaths,' while others nodded slightly in approval. He knew the feeling inside him—he didn’t need everyone’s approval. By the end of the day, he would survive and finally achieve the victory he needed. Just as Aemon turned to leave with Oswell, a voice from the other side of the tent stopped him in his tracks.

"Prince Aemon, let’s talk." Stannis’s voice was inviting but still had its steel tone.

Aemon sat opposite the older man, his curiosity piqued. "Thank you for supporting me. It really was the only way."

Stannis didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he placed two glass cups in front of them, pouring wine into each. He offered one to Oswell, who declined with a shake of his head. The Bat Knight never drank while on duty.

"Even if you’re right, we’ll lose at least half of our men. Some of the council may not survive the day," Stannis said, finally breaking the silence. "So no, it wasn’t the only way."

Aemon narrowed his eyes. "Then what is the right way?"

"I don’t know," Stannis admitted, his tone devoid of emotion. "I couldn’t think of one."

"Then it’s clear there wasn’t another way. You’re Stannis Baratheon, known for your military genius. If even you couldn’t find an alternative, then this must be our only option."

Stannis shook his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "There’s always another way. That’s a lesson you need to learn. When Mace Tyrell besieged Storm’s End, in the final days of the siege, I accepted that we were going to die of hunger. I was ready to end it all, to spare my brother Renly more suffering. Mercy seemed like the only option. But then,
something happened—you know how ended."

"The Onion Knight," Aemon said, recalling the tale. "I’ve heard the stories."

"Yes. Davos Seaworth saved us when I thought all was lost. If I had accepted our lack of options sooner, I wouldn’t be here now. The choices we make, our honor, and our actions define us. But you must always remember that in line with these, there’s always another option. Today, we failed to find it, and as a result, many will die—perhaps all of us. Let that be a lesson."

Aemon leaned forward, determination burning in his eyes. "Perhaps we’ll find our option on those orange sands, my Lord. Give me the troops I’m owed, and I’ll do what needs to be done. We don’t have to lose as many men as you think."

"You speak very confidently for a fifteen-year-old green boy," Stannis replied, his voice steady but with a hint of challenge.

The words stung, igniting a spark of anger in Aemon. "I am neither green nor a boy, my Lord. I killed my first man when I was eight years old." The memory of that day surfaced in his mind, the vile images flickering like a dark flame. "I’ve trained my whole life for this moment. Now let me do my duty—it’s my right."

Stannis studied him for a long moment, his expression a mask of indifference. "Even if I wanted to, I can’t put you on the front lines. Your father’s orders."

"What orders?" Aemon asked, his voice edged with disbelief.

"The King forbade me from placing you in the heat of battle. He said your safety was the highest priority."

"Is that why you’ve nearly always assigned me to lead the reserve forces?"

Stannis nodded. "The King’s orders. To be honest, I’m still surprised he sent you here at all. War is no place for children."

"I am not a child," Aemon responded reflexively. "And I wanted to be here from the beginning."

"For what? Glory? Honor?"

"To become something more," Aemon said quietly. "To make people look at me differently."

"That won’t change—"

"I’m sorry, Lord Stannis," Aemon interrupted, his voice firm. "I know who I am. I also know what people say behind my back. But if my tactics defeat Qalar, if I’m out there on those sands, then everything will change. That’s why you must grant me command."

Before Stannis could respond, Oswell stepped in, his voice filled with concern. "No, Aemon, please. Your father, King Rhaegar, warned me repeatedly to keep you safe. Lord Stannis, you must follow the King’s orders. The Prince should be surrounded by your best men. If not, we’ll both lose our heads."

Aemon’s frustration bubbled to the surface. "The King’s orders were from a year ago. I am not that boy anymore. I am the second heir to the Iron Throne, and my words should be commands for you. I need to be where I belong—on the battlefield." His voice was as hard as steel.

Stannis remained unmoved. "Your Grace, when you lead your own war, you can stand wherever you wish. But not here, not today. We all follow the King’s orders. Normally, I would place you with the reserve forces, but there won’t be reserves today. I hope your aim as a shooter is true. You’ll be safest in the middle of the archers."

Aemon ran a hand across his forehead, silently cursing his father, Stannis, and Oswell. They were challenging his competence as the architect of this plan. He couldn’t accept that—he had to be at the front, in the thick of battle. But then, an idea settled in his mind. Why was he so intent on taking command? This was war—everyone was at risk. If something happened to a commander, all he needed to do was be there, ready to seize the opportunity. Just as Stannis had said, eventually, the right moment would present itself. And when it did, Aemon would be ready to claim it.

Chapter Text

AEMON II

I am here. Can you feel my soul witch?

The journey had been smooth, almost unnervingly so. Not a single thing had slowed their advancement, and for once, it seemed the fates were in their favor. They had broken camp at first light and marched with precision. As Aemon foresaw, Qalar's scouts were easily captured, falling into their hands before they could relay any information. After a brief interrogation, they learned the key details they needed: the positions of the remaining scouts and, more importantly, the full size of Qalar's forces. The numbers were daunting. They commanded 12,000 men, while Qalar's army was nearly twice that, boasting 25,000. It seems that Qalar had chosen to bring more horses than men, hoping to deliver a cavalry charge. It was clear the Ash Lord intended to rely on the speed and power of his mounted troops to catch their army. But this, Aemon knew, would be his downfall. Yet one question remained unanswered—how had Qalar boasted his army so quickly?

By the time their boots sank into the familiar orange sands, the sun was beginning its slow ascent, bathing the world in a warm golden glow. The light shimmered across the horizon, contrasting the heaviness in Aemon's limbs. Despite riding most of the way, he could already feel the strain of the quick march. The weight of his steel plate dragged on him, each step reminding him of the upcoming battle. But it was the men around him that truly held his attention.

He watched as his soldiers marched across the sands, their faces a mixture of fatigue and determination. They walked with their heads down, eyes fixed on the path ahead, fully aware of the horror that awaited them. Yet they pressed forward, unflinching. Hours of marching had worn them down, yet there was no sign of retreat. Aemon admired them—these men who, despite the odds, were willing to march headlong into the jaws of death. It was a strange thing, human nature. Aemon found himself reflecting on it as he rode. How could a man willingly walk toward what could be his end? There was a tragic beauty in it. It was in the quiet resilience of his soldiers, the way they moved despite the exhaustion, the way they faced the inevitable with grim acceptance.

As the distant blue of the sea came into view, Aemon couldn't help but let out a deep, unexpected laugh. It had been far too long since he'd laughed genuinely. The gods had answered his prayers, gifting him the sight of the coast just when they needed it most. Stretching out before him, the waters shimmered under the rising sun, calm and still. And beyond the shore, the fleet they had been waiting for was slowly creeping forward. They still had time before the ships touched land, and for the moment, the windless air gave them an edge. Aemon tilted his head back, the weight of his fatigue shortly lifted as he smiled up at the sky.

"You lucky bastard. We might actually survive this." came Aurane's voice beside him, his own smile breaking through.

"We will, of course. But if we move quickly." Aemon's eyes remained on the horizon, fixed on the fleet steadily approaching.

He turned his horse forward, yet his gaze lingered on the spectacle before him. It was impossible to ignore the sheer magnificence of it. Hundreds of warships, their sails full, their hulls cutting through the deep blue sea. It was as if the ocean itself had become a moving, living force. Yet there was a strange beauty to it. The sight of the ships, calm waters of the beach, and the golden light glinting off the waves made it seem like something out of a dream rather than the coming of war.

"Magnificent, isn't it?" Aurane murmured, following Aemon's gaze. There was no fear in his voice, only admiration. "If only they weren't coming to kill us."

"If only," Aemon echoed softly, a flicker of amusement still playing at the corners of his mouth. But beneath the surface, his thoughts were racing. There was no time to waste marveling at the spectacle. The enemy was moving, and every second mattered.

As Aemon approached Stannis, he found the man barking orders. Lords and captains surrounded him. Devan Lannister, Robar Royce, Brynden Tully, Myles Mooton, and a host of others stood at attention, their faces etched with the firm will. They listened to Stannis intently, his words finalizing the strategy that would soon decide the fate of thousands.

The plan was grim in its simplicity: pile Volantene bodies onto the shore, as many as they could, with relentless volleys of arrows. The archers would be the first line of defense, raining death upon the enemy as they attempted to disembark. The goal wasn't just to kill, it was to create a sight so horrifying, so demoralizing, that it would break the spirit of the advancing soldiers. And when the archers had thinned their numbers enough, the spearmen would emerge. The iron circle of shields and spears would hold fast, trapping the Volantenes in a ring of death on the blood-soaked sands. It would be a fight to the last man, a brutal dogfight.

Aemon's thoughts, however, were on the fire archers. He had long believed that fire arrows were a powerful tool, especially against ships, but Stannis had always considered them unnecessary. Their stock was painfully limited. Every arrow had to count. Aemon wanted to be among those archers. Every flaming arrow loosed from their bows would be crucial. He trusted his skills. Archery had been drilled into him since childhood, and now it was time to put that training to its highest test.

Under Brynden Tully's command, Aemon and his group ascended to the highest hill available. Though, when they reached the top, 'hill' seemed too generous a word. It was barely taller than a man, offering only a modest elevation from the ground below. Still, it provided a small advantage, a limited view of the battlefield. Camp followers, working quickly, prepared the fires alongside them. The heat rising from the fire felt like the sun itself, a distant mirror of the one shining overhead. Aemon focused on it, using warmth to calm his nerves.

He glanced at the men beside him, all 25 of them, a ragtag assembly from different regions of the realm, each here for their own reasons. There was no common uniform to unite them, only the promise of wealth and glory had drawn them to this place. But now, death really loomed over them. The men who had marched with steady hearts now watched the advancing armada with unease in their eyes. Aemon could see it plainly the creeping doubt in them. Could a coward be brave? Aemon wondered. Perhaps. For fear was a constant companion on the battlefield, yet these men stood ready. That, in itself, was a kind of courage.

Seeing Aemon's gaze upon him, Brynden Tully turned away from the battlefield and faced his men. His voice carried the weight of years spent in battle, firm but not unkind.

"I know you're scared. You think death is at your doorstep. But it's not. We've trapped them, not the other way around. You didn't march all this way to die in these wild lands. I promise you, by the end of the day, you'll return to your families. You'll make love to your wives as if it were your first night, feast with your friends on your winnings, and shit to your heart's content. But first, you'll drive these arrows into the hearts of these animals. ARE YOU WITH ME, SOLDIERS?"

For a moment, the men stood silent, exchanging glances. Then, slowly, courage began to creep back into their faces. The fear that had gripped them like a cold hand loosened. They started to nod, first a few, then all of them.

"We are with you, my lord," they murmured, their voices growing in strength.

"ARE YOU WITH ME?" Brynden's voice boomed louder this time.

"WE ARE WITH YOU, MY LORD!" The answer came in unison, stronger, filled with a newfound confidence.

"That's it." Brynden nodded, satisfied. "Now wait for my command. It's almost time. Don't forget the taste of your family and friends. Your arms will carry you through this and bring you back to them."

With their spirits restored, Brynden strode to the farthest point of the hill, surveying the scene. Aemon, drawn by the speech, followed the old man. There was a pause between them before Aemon spoke. "That was a good speech," he said, admiring the way Brynden had rallied the soldiers.

Brynden didn't turn immediately, but when he did, his face was unreadable, his tone blunt. "Most of them will die, boy. Most of them will die because of you."

Before Aemon could even react, Oswell stepped forward, his voice sharp with indignation. "Watch your tone, Tully. You're speaking to a prince."

Aemon raised a hand to halt Oswell's intervention. His voice was starting to show his anger. "I made the best plan I could."

Brynden pursed his lips, not impressed by his response. "Maybe it's the best plan for you. Maybe it works for Stannis. But not for them. Thousands will die today."

Aemon's patience was wearing thin, his temper flaring beneath the surface. He could feel the heat rising in his chest, a knot of anger tightening around his words. "If you had a better plan, you should have convinced us. This was the only way to win."

Brynden's gaze sharpened. "When I saw Stannis after you finished speaking, I knew my words wouldn't matter. He just wants this war over so he can return to his wife and his castle. But you..." Brynden paused, his face neither hostile nor approving, but heavy. "I know what you want, Prince. Your birth led to the deaths of thousands of good men. Now let'ssee how many more will die for your honor."

Aemon had to use all his strength not to hit the man in the face with his armored hand. How dare this fish speak to him so boldly, say these things so easily to his face? These accusations were false. Yes, Aemon wanted to earn his honor, but he wasn't deliberately leading thousands to their deaths, no, he wasn't. Retreating, joining forces with the Triarchy's army was impossible. Wasn't it? It was. Aemon should kill him, he should kill Brynden for saying this lie. He should drown him in the river the Tullys loved so much. He should slaughter his entire family. Tear down their cursed castle upon them. Brynden deserved it, and Aemon would do it. He would throw him into the volcano as he had done before for many times, make his family watch. AEMON WOULD KILL THE-

A firm hand gripped his shoulder, grounding him in the present. The red haze clouding his mind began to clear. He inhaled sharply, the world snapping back into focus as he turned to see Oswell beside him.

"Come on, Aemon," Oswell said quietly. "Let's return to our position."

Aemon took another deep breath, forcing his rage to scatter. His hands unclenched, though his mind still steamed with lingering anger. Aemon couldn't help but replay Brynden's words in his head. Were they true? Could this plan, the only one he believed could lead them to victory, truly cost so many lives? His jaw tightened as he pushed the thought aside.

"I will win this battle, Tully. And I will keep our men alive." Aemon's words were final. Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and strode toward the archers. He glanced down at the bow in his hand, examining it with a eye. It was of medium quality—sturdy, functional, but far from the finely crafted weapons he had grown used to. His usual bows had better balance, a smoother draw. But this one would have to do.

Aemon's gaze swept across the battlefield. The soldiers were in position, standing still and tense as they waited for the command. The women—the camp followers and support staff—had already retreated, hidden among the supplies. They huddled together, their faces pale with fear, knowing that if Aemon and his forces failed, their fate would be worse than death. Rape, being sold into slavery, a life of suffering. Another reason to fight to the death.

The other archer units were similarly poised, their backs straight and their bows ready. They stood like statues, eyes fixed on the horizon, waiting for the moment to rain arrows down upon the enemy. Behind them, the spearmen stood ready, forming an impenetrable wall. They knew their role in this battle all too well—hold the line, no matter the cost.

For a moment, an eerie silence settled over the battlefield. The world seemed to hold its breath. Not even the faintest breeze stirred Aemon's hair. Aemon reached down to the helmet tied to his waist, his fingers brushing against the open-mouthed red dragon etched into the metal. The fierce creature seemed to stare back at him, as if locking eyes with its wearer. But it wasn't judging him. The dragon wasn't judging him for the second time.

Dum… Dum… Dum…

The silence that had gripped the battlefield moments ago was shattered by the deep, rhythmic pounding of drums echoing across the water. The armada was announcing its advance, each beat like a death knell. Everyone heard it. Everyone felt it. The time had come. Hundreds of Volantene ships were now mere minutes from reaching the shore. Soon, they would be within firing range. Aemon's heart raced as he fixed his gaze on Brynden Tully's back. He hated having to wait for the old man's command, hated the anticipation that gnawed at his insides.

"Ready!"

At Brynden's shout, every archer moved in unison, bending down to pick up their arrows. They set them alight with the fires they had prepared earlier. The specially treated arrowheads caught flame in seconds.

"Draw!"

Aemon pulled his arrow back on the bowstring, muscles tensing as he adjusted his aim toward the ship he had selected. He carefully lowered his arm, adjusting slightly to the right, trying to calculate the arc and distance. He exhaled slowly, steeling himself for the release.

"LOOSE!"

The arrows flew as one, hundreds of them streaking through the sky like fiery comets. Aemon followed the path of his arrow with his eyes, his heart hammering in his chest.

He missed.

"Draw!"

He wasted no time cursing his mistake. He pulled another arrow from the quiver, drew it back, and adjusted again, lowering his arm just a fraction more to the right.

"LOOSE!"

He missed.

"Draw!"

He pulled back his bow, but this time, his arm wasn't his to control.

"LOOSE!"

This time, he didn't miss. He watched as his arrow struck the sails of the ship, flames spreading faster than he had anticipated. In seconds, the fire crawled up the mast, devouring the wood. The sail began to curl and blacken, and the mast itself teetered.

Aemon smiled. He had done it. Without glancing around, he kept firing relentlessly. Each arrow he released found its target, each flame spread like a plague upon the enemy's fleet. The ships below began to fall into disarray. Men leaptoverboard, fleeing the flames that licked at their heels. Others scrambled in vain, trying to extinguish the fires, their shouts of desperation lost in the chaos. The most glorious sight, however, was watching the burning ships crash into each other, spreading the devastation further.

Chaos reigned. The sky wasn't blotted out by the arrows, but it might as well have been. The volleys came continuously, a relentless rain of death. The Volantene fleet was in disarray, ships splintering, men screaming, as arrows rained down from all sides. Every breath brought a fresh volley, each one followed by the dull thuds and sickening groans of men dying, closer and closer now. The sounds of death were all around him.

The front ships had reached their limit, grounded at the shallowest point they could without tearing themselves apart. The ships behind them, unable to stop, struggled to maneuver, some turning awkwardly sideways, crashing into the burning wrecks ahead. The Volantenes were in utter panic. Men began lowering boats into the water, desperate to reach the shore. Some could wait no longer. They hurled themselves into the sea, splashing into the shallow waters.

The few Volantenes who managed to reach the shore had chosen the orange sands as their burial ground. The sky above them was filled with the whistling of arrows, launched from every corner of the long coastline. To Aemon, the sound was like musis, to the Volantenes, it was a curse. Moments earlier, his own unit had been resupplied by the camp followers and young squires. The brief pause had thrown off his rhythm. Now, each arrow he sent into the air seemed to fall short of its mark. Some vanished into the blue sea, others buried themselves harmlessly in the sands. But a few, just a few, found their way into flesh, claiming the souls of men who would never see another dawn.

Aemon studied the fallen from a distance, noting the type of armor they wore. None of them had the heavy steel plate of Westerosi knights. Instead, most were clad in fabric armor reinforced with chainmail at the center, or boiled leather meant to provide light protection. Their equipment was markedly inferior compared to Qalar's previous army. Perhaps they had come lightly armored to move faster, or perhaps this army had been hurriedly assembled, untrained, and unequipped. Whatever the reason, it hardly mattered. What mattered was that it gave them an advantage. The arrows pierced through the fabric easily, sending Volantenes to the Stranger.

He watched as more men fell, their cries lost in the relentless rhythm of battle. For a brief moment, Aemon wondered how much longer this could go on. The air was still thick with arrows, but as he glanced at the bodies littering the shore and the countless arrows embedded in the sand, a growing unease began to creep over him. They couldn't have unlimited arrows. Sooner or later, their stock would run dry.

His suspicions were confirmed when he saw the spearmen beginning to advance. Stannis must have given the order to move forward. The fact that the spearmen were taking their positions meant the end of the arrow barrage was near, and the battle was about to enter its next phase. The number of Volantenes reaching the shore was increasing rapidly now, and they were moving faster. The real fight was about to begin. The spearmen, standing between the two hills, advanced slowly, shields raised, prepared to meet the enemy head-on. Their mission was the hold the line and keep the battle confined to this narrow strip of shore. If they could maintain the chaos among the Volantenes, they could funnel all the enemy forces into this death trap.

Aemon's focus sharpened as he took in the scene. The sounds of war were all around him, the clash of steel, the groans of the dying—but beneath it all, he could still hear the drumbeats coming from the sea. The Volantene armada was no longer keeping a single rhythm. Instead, different melodies echoed from the different ships, signaling different orders to the scattered troops. And this was exactly what Aemon had hoped for. The different commands only added to the confusion of the Volantene soldiers, disorienting them like a flock of lost sheep. In their panic, they would do the one thing they shouldn't: follow the men in front of them, blindly rushing into the chaos of the shore.

He watched as the disorganized waves of Volantenes stumbled forward, many tripping over the bodies of their fallen soldiers. The beach had become a net of blood and sand. Men who should have waited for the proper command threw themselves into the fray, desperate to escape the hellish rain of arrows, only to find themselves trapped between the advancing spearmen and the merciless volleys.

Aemon felt a grim satisfaction as he saw the Volantenes fall deeper into the death trap. Their numbers, once an overwhelming force, were now a liability. The shore was too narrow, too confined for the sheer mass of men surging toward it. The Volantenes were bottlenecked, struggling to push through, and the spearmen were ready to meet them with cold steel.

And then drumbeats had vanished. All that remained in Aemon's ears were the dying groans, the guttural screams of men speared through the gut, the curses spat in unfamiliar tongues. The brutality of the battle unfolded before him. He had been part of campaign before, had witnessed battles from a distance. But now, he was deep in the eye of that storm, engulfed by the savagery of war. Rarely had he been forced to drive his sword into the belly of a man who had no sins of his own, but now, this was different. Blood sprayed through the air in thick, impossible waves. Every dead Volantene was replaced by two more, surging forward with a relentless desperation. Aemon's hands moved automatically, pulling arrows from his quiver, nocking, aiming, firing. There was no time to think. Just keep going… keep going.

The Volantene soldiers were everywhere, their tunics a patchwork of yellow, green, and brown. They spread across the shoreline like a living tide, their numbers multiplying with every passing second. Why aren't you retreating? Aemon's mind screamed. Can't you see death is waiting for you? But even as he thought it, he realized how absurd the question was. Humans were strange creatures. They all claimed to fear death, sang songs about its inevitability, and yet, here they were, marching willingly into its jaws. The soldiers kept coming, marching into the carnage, as though death itself was not enough to stop them. Aemon pulled back his bow and fired again.

Then again.

And again.

Then, without warning, his hand reached for another arrow, and found nothing. His quiver was empty. A sudden wave of panic surged through him. He looked to the men beside him; they still had arrows left, but not many. Far fewer than they should have.

Seeing Aemon's hopeless glance, Oswell answered his unspoken question with moody finality. "That was the last batch. The boy who brought it said so."

Aemon's gaze darted back to the shoreline. The Volantenes were still coming, more and more of them pouring onto the beach. "We need more. Look at them, Oswell. They're still coming."

"We needed more of everything," Oswell replied. "More arrows, more men. I thought their spirits would break, that they'd turn back. But I was wrong. The bastards will keep coming until there's nothing left."

Oswell's words hung heavy in the air. But he refused to let that sentiment take root. Not now. "And so will we," Aemon said.

At that moment, Brynden Tully turned to face them, his weathered face lined with fatigue but still unyielding. "Make your final shots, and then, with swords in our hands, we'll join the others. We've done all we can h—"

His words were cut short by a sharp groan. Brynden staggered, his body crumpling as he dropped to one knee. Blood poured from his leg, staining the hot sands beneath him. An arrow jutted out from his thigh, buried deep into the muscle. For a heartbeat, Aemon stood frozen, shock gripping him. But he forced it aside, his instincts taking over. In a single motion, he grabbed Brynden by the shoulders, dragging the older man out of the open and behind a low outcropping of rocks. Brynden was heavy, his armor weighing him down, but Aemon's urgency gave him strength. He couldn't let the man die—not here, not now. Brynden Tully was no ordinary soldier; he was a hero of the Ninepenny Kings War, a man respected throughout the camp. Losing him would lead to the collapse of the morale of the army. The soldiers fighting for their lives would see their most seasoned commander fall, and that would be enough to tip the balance toward despair.

As Aemon and Oswell carried Brynden away from the chaos, Aemon couldn't help but marvel at the old man's unique choice of curses. Even in his weakened state, Brynden's voice held enough venom to make the hardest soldier blush. Oswell grabbed the other shoulder, and together they dragged him a safer spot, away from the battlefield. Brynden's leg was a mess, the arrow still embedded in his muscle, but the camp women arrived swiftly, their mouths covered with cloths, hands ready for work. "He's been hit in the muscle. Do not let anything happen to h—" Aemon began, but his words were interrupted by a bloodied hand grabbing his arm.

"Listen, boy," Brynden rasped through labored breaths, his face twisted with pain but his eyes sharp. "We can't hold them much longer. Tell Stannis to press forward with the whole army. Thousands will die, but we need to give our men room to maneuver. If those bastards manage to encircle us, we're all dead." He winced. "Take command of the company, lead them. This was your plan, own it."

Aemon nodded, Brynden's words echoing in his mind. "Don't worry, I'll get us out of here alive," he said, already turning back toward the battlefield without waiting for a response. He could feel Oswell's gaze on him, heavy with both concern and duty.

"Please, let me do this," Aemon said, his voice firmer than he expected it to be.

"The King's orders, Aemon," Oswell replied, stepping forward to block his path. "I must keep you safe, no matter what."

Aemon stopped, frustration gnawing at him. "Then keep me safe by staying by my side. No Volantene is equal to your arm. I need to be there, Oswell. I'm the one who brought them here. My father led his army at the Trident, and I should be leading mine." Aemon's voice rose with emotion. He thought of his father, who had marched against Robert Baratheon at the Trident, who had fought the traitor over the river and nearly left him for dead. "My father was a prince then, just as I am now. If he had the right to lead, so do I."

"Your father was 27," Oswell said softly. "A grown man. You're still a 15-year-old boy."

Aemon's jaw clenched. "Am I, Ser Oswell? Then why did the King send me here? What business does a 14-year-old boy have in a campaign like this? I'm not a child anymore, and the King knows that." His eyes burned with conviction as he stared at the knight. "You think Rhaegar Targaryen does something just because someone begs for it?"

Oswell's face darkened. "You begged to come here, Aemon. Over and over. That's why we're here."

"Do you really belive that is the reason? I'm here because he wanted me here, Oswell. He knows what I need to do." Aemon grabbed Oswell's collar, his voice shaking with sad truth. "I have to be someone, damn it. I didn't ask for this, not like this, but I have to make it count. I have to be the one to lead, to cut down the Volantenes myself. Only then will I stop being the bastard. Only then will I be worthy of my name. The King knows that. Why else would he send me here?"

Aemon's words hung in the air. He searched Oswell's eyes for understanding. Aemon couldn't be the only one who knew the truth, right? Oswell and everyone else should have known this too.

The knight's hardened expression softened for the first time.

"I need you by my side," Aemon continued, his voice quieter now but no less determined. "I've known your shadow since I can remember. I can't move forward if I know you're not behind me. Please, Oswell Whent, are you with me?"

There was a long pause as Oswell regarded him. The knight's hesitation was palpable. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Oswell's shoulders relaxed, and he gave a slow nod. "I'm with you, my prince," Oswell said. "If the King finds out, he may take my head… but damn it, I'm with you."

"Good man. Let's go, then. I hope we haven't lost too much time." Aemon didn't bother looking back as he grabbed a passing squire by the arm. He quickly relayed Brynden's message—press forward, send the whole army into the fight. The young squire nodded and darted off toward where Stannis commanded the battle.

When Aemon turned back to the battlefield, the sight that met him churned his stomach. Blood soaked the sands, and the air reeked of death. His gaze fell on the spearmen along the shoreline, and that's when he noticed the terrible truth, the arrow that had struck Brynden hadn't come from the shore. It had come from one of the ships now dangerously close to the coast. A relentless volley of arrows rained down from these ships, cutting through the ranks of their spearmen. What was meant to be a strong, impenetrable line had been forced into a slow retreat, pushed farther back than Aemon remembered. And the Volantenes—gods, they were still coming, pouring from their ships like a relentless tide.

In the chaos, Aemon saw that Stannis's infantry reserves had now entered the fray. The spearmen, who had initially drawn a line near the hills, had been flanked by infantry, attacking the Volantenes from both sides. Men fell in waves, Volantenebodies littered the blood-soaked sands, disappearing into the growing mass of corpses. Yet, despite the carnage, the enemy kept coming. More and more, as though their numbers were infinite.

This doesn't make sense, Aemon thought, a knot tightening in his gut. They had killed so many Volantenes already. Dozens of ships had been set ablaze before they ever reached the shore, and thousands of enemy soldiers had fallen to arrows and spears. Yet the Volantenes came with more force than seemed possible. Had the scouts lied? he wondered, his mind racing. Did they have more than 24,000 soldiers?

His eyes narrowed, focusing on the real source of the problem—the ships still housing archers. They were wreaking havoc on the battlefield, their arrows raining death on the shore. Aemon watched as soldiers fell, one by one, unable to defend themselves against this assault. The Volantenes on the ground were bad enough, but these ships... They were the true threat. He clenched his fists, his mind whirling.  I have to stop those ships. But how?

His armor weighed him down, making him a perfect target if he tried to cross the water. He would be riddled with arrows long before he reached the ships. Aemon cursed under his breath, his frustration boiling over. If only he had wildfire, he could have ended this battle in a heartbeat, burning the ships before they ever posed a threat. But he had no wildfire. He had no arrows left. All he had was his 25-man unit.

Twenty-five men against an entire armada of archers. A dark, bitter laugh nearly escaped him. How could he possibly turn the tide with so little?

But then, an idea crept into his mind; dark, ruthless, but the only one that made sense. Was this the only way? Stannis had said there's always another choice, always another path to victory. But as Aemon looked around at the bloody shore, the fallen soldiers, the husbands, brothers, and second sons lying lifeless in the sand, he knew in his heart that no other option would save them now.

Could he do it? Could he become even more ruthless?

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to shut out the sight of the fallen, the unblinking eyes staring at the sky. When he opened them again, the weight of his decision settled heavily on his chest. It didn't matter. He had already made his choice. He was going to prove Brynden's words correct. What would Daenerys think if she heard this?

Aemon turned to Oswell, fully expecting the seasoned knight to push back against his dark plan. But Oswell's reaction surprised him. The man's face remained calm as Aemon laid out the details, his only response a solemn nod. "Sacrifices are necessary in war," Oswell said quietly. "If this is what it takes to win, then so be it."

He wasn't wrong. Sacrifice was a cruel reality in war; that was his father's words. But as Aemon glanced at the men, a heavy question lodged itself in his mind. Would their families and friends see it the same way? Would they understand that their loved ones were being sent to die as sacrificial goats? What would Brynden's words mean now? How many more men would have to die before Aemon gained his honor and victory?

"More," a dark voice inside him whispered.

Aemon pushed the thought aside as he crouched down to avoid a fresh volley of arrows, moving toward his unit. His heart was pounding, but his expression remained calm. The men gathered around him, waiting for instructions. He was in command now. "We need to reach the ship with the archers," Aemon began, keeping his voice steady. "If we can take them out, it will turn the tide of the battle." This part was true. The archers were wreaking havoc on their forces, and taking the ship would deal a heavy blow to the Volantenes.

But then the lies began.

He told them there was a clear corridor ahead, that once they entered the water, the archers wouldn't be able to see them.He lied about the ropes that would make boarding the ship easy and the relative safety of their mission. "We won't come to any harm," he assured them. The lies rolled off his tongue with surprising ease,

Each soldier listened intently. They accepted his words without question, unknowingly accepting their own deaths. Aemon shut off the flicker of guilt rising within him. There was no room for conscience in war. He could mourn them later, after the battle was won. If the battle was won.

He and Oswell worked quickly, helping each other remove their steel plate armor. They needed to be quick and light on their feet, especially when boarding the ships. The armor, though protective, would weigh them down and slow them to the point of failure. Beneath the plate, they wore chainmail, a lighter but still good defense. It wouldn't stop an arrow if it struck in the wrong place, but it was the best they had.

Aemon glanced around. He should have informed Stannis of what they were about to do, but time was slipping away. There were no squires nearby, and he couldn't spare a single man to send a message. Stannis will understand once we've taken the ship, Aemon thought grimly. He'll see the change in the battle and know what we've done. Standing up, Aemon surveyed the battlefield, considering his next move. The scene was pure chaos. Volantenes continued to pour onto the shore, and the brutal clash between their forces and Stannis's spearmen raged on. Blood, steel, and sand mixed beneath the relentless onslaught of arrows.

Two options lay before him. He could take his men straight through the thick of the battle, using the fighting as cover to get closer to the ships, but that meant the risk of being cut down by a sword or spear was high. Or, they could take a longer route, approaching the ships from a distance, but that meant exposing themselves to open fields where the archers could pick them off before they ever got close. Neither option was safe. Both paths promised losses. No matter what he chose, men would die.

He reached for his shield, strapping it to his arm, and drew his sword with his right hand. The familiar weight of the weapon gave him a sense of focus, of purpose. He pointed the blade toward the ships in the distance, the target clear. "We cut through the battle," Aemon said, his voice firm as he turned to his men. "Stay close, and keep your eyes on me."

The men nodded. Aemon glanced at Oswell, who gave a quick nod in return, understanding that their path was set. With a final glance at the chaos ahead, Aemon led his men forward. They moved quickly, shields raised as they descended into the heart of the battle. The screams of dying men and the clashing of steel rang in Aemon's ears, but he kept his focus on the ships in the distance. They had to reach the ships.

When Aemon reached the place his sword had pointed to, he realized a brutal truth. Being in a real battle was completelydifferent from watching one from the sidelines. Amid the shouts, the clanging of steel, and the pitiful groans of the wounded, Aemon found that his thoughts had vanished. He could no longer think, there was no time for strategy. All he could do was keep moving forward, toward the shore, toward the ships.

When the first Volantene appeared, the greeting was a long sword swinging down toward his head. Instinct took over. Aemon's left hand shot up, raising his shield just in time to block the strike. The force of the blow sent a sharp vibration through his arm, rattling the bones in his wrist. The Volantene staggered back, eyes wide with shock as Aemon's blade found its mark. The sword slid effortlessly into the man's stomach, and the Volantene's mouth moved, trying to form words. Whatever he said was swallowed by the wind, his final breath fading into nothingness.

Before Aemon could dwell on the death, another Volantene charged at him, and their swords clashed with a harsh, metallic screech. This one, too, met the same fate as the first, a quick thrust to the stomach, and the body collapsed, disappearing into the blood-soaked sands. As Aemon advanced, his movements became pure reflex. He ducked, narrowly avoiding a spear aimed at his ribs, and lifted his sword to block a second enemy's blow. The clash of steel echoed through the air. Before he could retaliate, a soldier from his own unit leaped forward, stepping between Aemon and the spearman. The soldier's sword swung toward the enemy, but before it could land, blood erupted from his neck, splattering across Aemon's armor and face. A Volantene swordsman had cut him down.

Aemon felt the wet warmth of his man's blood seep into his shoulder.

I'll mourn later , Aemon thought coldly, forcing himself to keep moving. He reacted instantly, bringing the edge of his sword down on the Volantene's face, shattering the man's nose with a sickening crunch. Blood poured from the mangled mess of the man's face, and he stumbled backward. Aemon didn't hesitate; he followed up with a savage shield bash, driving it into the man's chest, sending him sprawling. With one swift thrust, Aemon's sword pierced through the fallen man's throat, silencing his gasping cries for good. The spearman was still there, trying to recover, but Aemon moved faster. His sword plunged into the man's chest, finding the heart. The spearman's body crumpled to the sand. Without armor, stabbing a man was like slicing through butter.

Aemon's breath was ragged. He couldn't see Oswell clearly through the chaos, but he felt the man's presence. The flash of white from the Kingsguard's cloak moving like a ghost on the battlefield. A blur of movement, a flash of steel, and where Oswell passed, only blood remained. The Kingsguard cut through Volantenes with an immense skill.

Aemon's unit had formed a loose circle around him, protecting their prince as best they could. They were clearing the way forward, slowly but steadily, but the cost was steep. The Volantenes seemed endless, attacking from every angle with swords, spears, and desperation in their eyes. For every enemy that fell, another two took his place.

As they moved forward, the more exposed they became now. Aemon's men were skilled, but they were outnumbered, and the Volantenes pressed them hard, attacking with everywhere. The shield wall they had moved away from still held firm, but the gap between Aemon's unit and the main line was growing wider. Arrows continued to rain down from the ships, but the archers still didn't notice Aemon's group. 

Aemon found himself trying to be everywhere at once. Trying to keep his men alive. But it was impossible. The mess of battle swirled around him, and being attacked from all sides was wearing him down fast. He hadn't slept properly in days, and the hours of riding on horseback had drained him even further. Also, he needed to save his energy when they boarded the ship. He still didn't know if he could grab the ropes of the ship after all this fighting. But instead of falling back and letting his men do the job, Aemon couldn't stop himself from continuing to fight. He had to help his men. The Volantenes weren't skilled fighters, each clash of steel lasted only a few blows before they fell. His only real challenge was defending against two enemies at once. He kept his enemies at bay as best he could, long enough for Oswell to finish them off. The white-cloaked knight moved like a whirlwind, cutting them down easily.

But at one point, Aemon found himself facing three Volantenes at once. His heart raced. Despite all the training Arthur Dayne had put him through, Aemon had never truly fought three opponents at the same time in a real battle. He glanced around quickly, Oswell was engaged in his own fight, and the rest of his men were too far off. He was alone. Without waiting for them to make the first move, he lunged forward before they could make a move. Confidently bringinghis sword down parallel to the center one for a lethal strike. A killing blow, or so he thought. But the Volantene blocked it, the clang of steel ringing out as their swords clashed. He hadn't expected such a skilled quick block. Aemon cursed himself. Overconfidence. It was the mistake of a green boy, not a warrior. The other two attackers seized the opportunity, bringing their blades down on him from both sides. He barely had time to react, raising his shield to block the blow from the left, but the attack from the right came too fast.

He felt the axe tear through the chainmail on his arm, the cold steel biting into his flesh. Pain shot through him like fire, and a scream tore from his throat, barely audible over the din of battle. He shouldn't have taken this hit.  Staggering back, Aemon tried to put some distance between himself and his foes, gasping for air. His right arm throbbed with pain. He triedto move it, but all he felt was a sharp, excruciating stiffness. He couldn't fight like this.

Aemon's vision blurred with immense pain.  Is this it?. Is this how I die? In this cursed land, for nothing?  His mind whirled with the thought, panic rising in his chest. He had come so far, fought so hard, only to die here, surrounded by enemies. Would he die as a failure? As a bastard, like they always said? Summoning the last of his strength, Aemon raised his shield, trying to block the next and final attack.

Suddenly, he felt warmth flood his body, radiating from his core. His vision went dark, and for a brief, terrifying moment, he thought the end had come. He closed his eyes, bracing himself for the final blow.

But when he opened them again, something had changed.

Everything felt... different. The searing pain in his arm was gone, replaced by an eerie numbness. The exhaustion that had weighed down his limbs had vanished. He blinked, his heart racing as he tried to make sense of what had just happened. For a moment, he wondered if he was in the seven hells; after what had happened, he surely deserved to be there.  But as his vision cleared, he realized he was still on the battlefield. Still alive. The sounds of the battle still raged around him, but everything seemed distant, muffled, as if the world itself had shifted.

Then his eye fell on the three Volantenes who had been attacking him moments before, and his blood ran cold. They were lying on the ground, their bodies deformed and twisted in ways that defied explanation. At first, he didn't recognize them. Their limbs had been severed—one at the legs, another at the waist, the last at the shoulder. But what disturbed him most were their faces. Their eyes, or where their eyes should have been, were burned out. Black ash streaked down from the empty sockets, trailing down their cheeks and toward their mouths like rivers of soot. It was as if their very souls had been scorched from their bodies. Aemon's stomach lurched. If he had anything left in his stomach, he would have vomited.

He stumbled back, his mind reeling as he stared at the terrible sight before him. What had happened? He hadn't killed them, he couldn't have. Not like this. He had barely been able to lift his shield in the final moments. But here they were, dead in ways that made no sense. Panic clawed at the edges of his mind. 

He glanced around, half-expecting to see some ghostly figure or monstrous creature lurking in the shadows of death men. But there was nothing, only the battlefield, filled with the sounds of steel clashing and men screaming.

No one around Aemon seemed to notice the bodies lying at his feet. No one saw what had happened. Aemon hadn't seen it either, not truly. All he knew was that, just moments before, he had been staring death in the face, and now, these three Volantenes were dead instead. Their lifeless forms lay twisted in the sand, but how they had died, Aemon had no idea. He couldn't make sense of it. It was as if his mind had simply shut down, refusing to process what had happened. He dropped his shield, his movements slow and almost detached, and touched the wound on his arm with trembling fingers. When he brought his hand back, it was slick with blood. But there was no pain. He hadn't felt the open wound. His mind was swirling with questions, none of which had answers. His thoughts tumbled over themselves, and for a moment, it felt as though the world had slowed around him, leaving him trapped in his mind.

What snapped him back to reality was Oswell's voice, cutting through the fog of confusion. "Aemon! AEMON! Damn it, we're here, come on!"

Aemon blinked, the fog in his mind clearing as he turned toward the sound. They had reached the shore. The water lapped at Oswell's feet, and the wet sand clung to the knight's steel boot. The sight seemed to jolt Aemon back to the present. The questions still hung in the back of his mind, but now they were drowned out by the sudden surge of energy.

Pushing the unanswered questions aside, Aemon broke into a run. His feet pounded the blood-soaked sand as he caught up with Oswell. He didn't bother to count how many men were left around him, the numbers didn't matter anymore. The only thing that mattered was reaching the ships.

He sheathed his sword as he and Oswell dove into the sea together. The blue sea was streaked with red, the blood of fallen soldiers mingling with the waves. It was a sight that should have turned Aemon's stomach, but not right now. 

No arrows came their way. The archers, distracted by the larger battle, hadn't noticed the small group advancing toward them through the water.

As Aemon pushed through the waves, he heard the unmistakable sound of splashing behind him. For a brief moment, his heart clenched. Were more enemies coming? He dared to glance back and felt a wave of relief wash over him. A few of his surviving men had followed them into the sea, struggling to keep pace despite the exhaustion weighing them down. They weren't alone.

They reached the ship's hull without incident. Aemon's fingers found the rough rope hanging in front of him, and he tested its weight with a quick pull. It held steady. With a powerful jump, he seized the rope and began climbing. His arms and legs moved in swift rhythm, the muscles in his shoulders burning from exertion. He reached the top in seconds but didn't immediately leap onto the deck. Instead, he crouched low, waiting for Oswell and the others to join him. The sound of the sea below mixed with the distant chaos of battle, but up here, on the ship's side, it felt eerily still.

When the last man reached the top, Aemon gave the signal, and together, they leaped onto the deck. The scene before them wasn't what Aemon had anticipated. All the archers were lined up at the front of the ship, firing arrow after arrow into the battle below. They hadn't noticed Aemon and his men at all. There was no time for thought or hesitation. What was there to think about? He drew his sword with a swift, fluid motion and set his eyes on the closest Volantene archer.With a sudden burst of speed, Aemon charged, the weight of his sword feeling lighter in his hand. The Volantene, oblivious to the sound of footsteps behind him, had no chance to react. Before he could even turn his head, Aemon's sword plunged deep into his back, the sharp blade sliding between his ribs. The man collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath, but death came quickly.

Chaos erupted. The whistling of arrows in the air ceased, replaced by the foreign screams of Volantene archers who finally realized they were under attack. Panic spread among them as they scrambled to defend themselves, but it was too late. To Aemon's left, an archer tried to raise his bow toward him, but Oswell was faster. The Kingsguard's sword struck like lightning, piercing the man's neck. Blood sprayed from his mouth, his eyes wide in shock as he fell to the deck. 

Aemon wasted no time. He spotted another archer nearby, his bow drawn and ready. Too late. Aemon lunged, driving his sword into the man's kidney, but not before the archer released his arrow. A sickening thud followed, the arrow had found its mark in the neck of one of Aemon's own men. The soldier collapsed, his life extinguished in an instant. His heart was pounding in frustration.  This is too slow . He couldn't afford to lose more men, not at this rate.

Quickly, Aemon snatched the dead man's bow and arrows, abandoning his sword for the moment. He turned, scanning the deck for his next target. His eyes locked on an archer mid-draw, and without a second thought, he loosed an arrow of his own. The bowstring hummed as the arrow flew through the air. A scream pierced the deck moments later. Satisfaction washed over Aemon, but he didn't pause. He felt the wind on his neck, instinctively turning toward the movement. Without hesitation, he drew another arrow, firing in that direction. Another scream, another men down. His hands moved with an ease.

Then came the clash of steel nearby, followed by a cry of pain. Aemon didn't need to look to know Oswell was holding his own. The Kingsguard was untouchable. Finally, Aemon turned his eye toward the other ships moored nearby. His eyes locked on a Volantene archer stationed on the deck of the closest ship. For a brief moment, they stared at one another across the expanse of water, both frozen in place. Then the Volantene archer broke eye contact, panic flashing across his face. He shouted, pointing toward Aemon's position.

A knot of dread tightened in Aemon's gut as he saw a group of archers on the opposing ship turn their attention toward him, bows drawn. "OSWELL!" Aemon bellowed, his voice raw with urgency. "GET DOWN!"

There was no time to think. They couldn't remain exposed on the deck, vulnerable to the hail of arrows that would rain down from above. He tossed aside the bow he'd been holding, grabbed his sword once more, and bolted for the lower deck. His feet pounded against the wooden planks. As he reached the stairs leading below, the sound of arrows striking the deck behind him filled his ears; sharp, deadly thuds. He didn't stop to look back. With a frantic motion, Aemon threw himself down the stairs, tumbling as he went. Even with the chainmail protecting him, the impact jarred his body with each step. He landed hard on his backside at the bottom, gasping for breath, the sounds of arrows still raining down above.

For a split second, Aemon looked up, half-expecting to see more arrows or worse—Oswell, struck down. But what he saw brought a rush of relief. Oswell was there, along with the remaining men, throwing themselves down the stairs just as Aemon had. The white cloak of the Kingsguard was stained with blood, but Oswell was alive. Aemon released the breath he had been holding, leaning back against the cold wood of the ship's interior for a brief moment.

Aemon quickly scanned the survivors with his eyes, only six of them remained. His heart sank. Dozens of men had followed him, trusted him, and now they were dead. All for the sake of taking out a group of archers, and there were still more rows of them left, waiting to fire death upon his remaining forces. 

"Damn it, damn it," one of the soldiers muttered, holding his head in his hands, rocking back and forth, his voice breaking with the weight of grief. "They're all dead. Owen, Samwell, John. Every single one. It wasn't supposed to be like this." The soldier's tear-filled eyes turned toward Aemon, filled with a mix of anger and sorrow. "You said it wouldn't be like this. You said there was a gap, that they wouldn't notice us. You led us to our deaths. For the gods, they're dead, and now we will die too."

Before Aemon could respond, Oswell stepped forward, his voice sharp. "Calm down, man. This is war, you knew the risks when you signed up. You came here knowing you could die."

But Aemon barely registered Oswell's words. His mind was already spinning, working out their next move. They needed to survive, and quickly. His eyes darted toward the rowing deck, the oars extending out into the sea, still held in place by the unmoving ship.

"We didn't accept this, no," the soldier sobbed, his voice desperate. "They told us this war would be safe. They said it would be easy riches!" He began to cry openly now, his body trembling.

"What war is ever easy?" Oswell snapped, his non-patience wearing thin. "Wipe those damned tears from your face. Guests will be arriving soon, and if you want to live, you need to be ready."

"I can't... I'm too tired," the soldier moaned. "I'm going to surrender. Yes, yes, I'll surrender. That way, I won't die, and somehow, I'll make it back home."

Oswell's face twisted in disgust. "You're mad. You think the Volantenes will take you prisoner? They'll slit your throat like a pig and toss your body overboard—"

Before Oswell could finish, Aemon strode forward, his patience snapping. He grabbed the crying man by the neck, and shoved him toward the benches ahead. The soldier hit the wooden surface with a thud, startled into silence. Aemon pointed at the oars lined up in rows.

"You want to survive?" Aemon's voice was loud. "Then start rowing. Use every ounce of strength you have to row this ship backward."

The soldier blinked, his face pale, but before he could respond, another voice cut through the silence. "But how?" one of the others asked, his tone laced with doubt. "Six men can't row this ship. We need more people, or it won't move. And what about the anchor? We need to cut it free."

"The ship will move," Aemon said, his voice steady despite the fear gnawing at his gut. "Because it has to. We don't have another choice. I'll deal with the anchor." He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "We're not rowing the ship all the way back. Just enough to create some space." He took a deep breath, his next words coming out slowly. "And then... we're going to crash into the ship on our left. On fire."

"On fire?" The men stared at him, disbelief flickering in their eyes.

"Yes, on fire. We're going to set this ship ablaze and ram it into the next one. Hopefully, it'll start a wave of fire that spreads down the line of ships. Even if we fail, the chaos should be enough for Stannis Baratheon to exploit." Aemon looked around at the faces of the men, seeing a faint glimmer of hope—small, but enough to spark life in their eyes. "Did you understand what I said? I need you to row with every bit of strength you have. Especially before the men on the other ship can board this one. I'll cut the anchor line and steer the ship toward the left."

As Aemon had expected, Oswell stepped forward, a concerned look in his eyes. "Aemon, let me handle—"

But Aemon didn't let him finish. With a grin on his face, he raised a finger, waving it back and forth playfully. If Oswell followed him, they'd be short-handed, and rowing the ship would be impossible. Before Oswell could argue further, Aemon turned and bolted toward the stairs, his footsteps pounding against the wooden deck as he descended.

Aemon crouched low as he climbed the stairs, not wanting to make himself a target by standing too soon. His heart raced, but he forced himself to stay calm as he looked across to the other ship, trying to make sense of what was happening. Something wasn't right. The Volantenes weren't moving in the way he had expected—they seemed to be arguing amongst themselves. One man, standing near the bow, was shouting and gesturing wildly toward the ship Aemon and his men had taken, but the archers across from him seemed indifferent. Around them, more Volantenes stood talking,as if trying to explain something, but there was no action. No volley of arrows or anything.

Aemon smiled at his good fortune. Whatever had caused the Volantenes' confusion, it was buying him time. He rose from his crouch and sprinted toward the anchor's connection point. Drawing the dagger from his belt, Aemon began sawing through the thick rope that held the anchor in place. The fibers resisted at first, but the blade was sharp, and soon the rope began to fray. Suddenly, the noise behind him intensified, and Aemon's heart lurched. He dared a quick glance back.

The Volantenes had noticed him. The arguing had stopped, and now all eyes were on him. The hands that had beengesturing moments before were now pointing directly at him. His presence had been discovered.

"Damn," Aemon muttered under his breath, quickening his pace. His hand worked furiously, slicing through the rope as the shouts behind him grew louder. Finally, with a satisfying snap, the last of the rope gave way, and the anchor tumbled into the sea, dragging the heavy line with it. The thick coil of rope disappeared into the blue water with a splash, sinking into the depths. The ship was free.

But his work wasn't done. They still needed to set the ship ablaze.

Aemon's eyes darted around the deck, searching for anything he could use. The burning oil lamps. There were two of them, hanging on either side of the door to the captain's cabin. Proably in their panic of battle, the Volantenes hadn't extinguished the flames. Creating a perfect opportunity for Aemon to use them. He snatched both lamps, their heat searing his fingers as he held them. Without hesitation, Aemon hurled one of the lamps at the ship's sails. The oil splattered across the fabric, and in seconds, the sails were engulfed in flames, crackling as the fire spread rapidly. He could feel the heat radiating off the growing inferno, but he didn't stop. He turned and threw the second lamp toward a drier section of the deck, aiming for a spot near the railings. His aim was true. The fire caught instantly, spreading along the wooden planks and turning the ship into a blazing torch.

The flames rose higher, licking the sky. With the ship now fully ablaze, Aemon turned and ran, leaving the burning deck behind. The ship had to be steered—had to crash into the other Volantene vessel if his plan was to work. He climbed the stairs to the rudder, feeling the ship slowly start to drift backward. Oswell and the others had done it. Despite their small number, they were managing to move the ship. It wasn't fast, but it was enough. All Aemon needed was distance, enough to steer into the enemy vessel and create a chain of blood and fire.

A sharp whistling sound filled the air just as he reached the rudder. Arrows. Without thinking, Aemon dropped to the ground, flattening himself against the deck as the arrows rained down. They plunged into the wooden boards around him, some flying harmlessly into the sea. But none hit their mark. Aemon pressed himself against the rudder, trying to make himself as small as possible. He had taken good cover, but for how long? He stayed low, eyes flicking across the deck and out to sea, trying to gauge how far they had moved. They were drifting, slowly but surely. It wasn't fast enough to escape the Volantenes' arrows entirely. Aemon forced himself to breathe steadily.

For a moment, he allowed himself to glance back toward the battlefield. His stomach twisted at what he saw. The Volantenes were advancing. They had pushed beyond the point where Aemon had last seen them, and now the reserves were fully engaged. Every soldier Stannis had left was fighting to hold the line, and it was clear that they were being pushed to their limits. Stannis was throwing everything he had into the battle, but the enemy's numbers were overwhelming.

Qalar , Aemon thought suddenly, his mind snapping to the one figure who could change everything. If he could kill Qalar Mothip, the Volantene King, the entire war might end here. The Volantenes were leaderless without him. Cut off the head, and the rest would crumble. But where was Qalar? Aemon scanned the horizon. He could be on any of the hundreds of ships. He could be on the blood-soaked beach, directing his forces. There was no way of knowing, and Aemon couldn't afford to pin his hopes on finding Qalar.

The only thing he could focus on now was the plan, the fire. If the flames spread from ship to ship, it could destroy the Volantenes' advantage. If he could create a wall of fire across the sea, it would devastate their morale and nullify their archer barricade. And with that, they might actually win.

Aemon fixed his gaze on the sea, watching steady progress they had made. They had moved far enough back. Now, they needed to surge forward and it had to be fast. His breath came in slow. Standing up meant exposing himself to the rain of arrows. There was no other way to steer the ship left, but doing so would paint a target on his back. Aemon muttered a woman's name under his breath and rose to his feet. The wind whipped around him, salty and sharp, as arrows still whistled through the air. His fingers, wrapped in steel gauntlets, tightened around the rudder's sturdy wooden spokes. With a shout, he pushed with all his strength to the left.

"FORWARD! FORWARD! FORWARD!" The words ripped from his throat, commanding the ship onward.

He shouted until his voice cracked, until the ship responded beneath him, until the moment came when he felt the sudden shift. The ship lurched forward, throwing him off balance. They were moving. Faster than before. Aemon fell back into his earlier position, slamming against the rudder, clutching it as the ship picked up speed. He braced himself, curling into a crouch, shielding his face with his arms as he held his breath, waiting for the inevitable impact.

When it came, the force was like a thunderclap. The collision shook his entire body, reverberating through his bones. Even though he had tried to prepare, the sheer impact knocked him sideways. He felt the cold splash of seawater against his face, the briny taste hitting his lips. Despite all of this, a grin spread across his face. They had hit, faster than expected.

The sounds around him confirmed the success. The crashing of wood splintering into pieces, the roar of the sea forced between the two ships, the screams of men thrown into disarray— it all blended together into beautiful music. To Aemon, it was the sweetest music he had ever heard, even sweeter than the songs Aegon used to sing in court.

He fumbled for his sword, his hand finding the familiar hilt where it had fallen on the deck. Trying to stand was another matter. The ship was still moving, the flames dancing along the sails casting an ominous heat across the deck. The fire had spread quickly, the heat now so intense it felt as though he were standing at the gates of the seven hells themselves. The collision had torn the bow of the ship apart.

The broken remains of both ships were sinking, twisted wreckage scattered across the sea like the carcasses of fallen beasts. The Volantene soldiers who had been manning the enemy vessel were gone, swept into the water by the force of the collision. The sea claimed their bodies as if the battle itself had decided their fate.

And then, within moments, the burning ship crashed into the next in the line. This time, the impact wasn't as violent. The ship didn't shatter on contact but instead shoved the next vessel forward. One ship pushed another, which pushed another, and so on. The Volantenes on board, unprepared for such mess, were thrown into disarray. Archers fell from their posts like marbles spilling from a bag. Some tumbled into the sea, others rolled helplessly across the deck.

Aemon had achieved his goal. The archer barricade must been destroyed, and the flames were beginning to take control of the enemy fleet. Chaos was spreading like wildfire, just as he had planned. But even as the thrill of victory settled inside of his bones, there was a gnawing hole deep within him. It wasn't enough. Yes, he had nearly eliminated the Volantenes' archers. Yes, he had thrown their fleet into disarray. But it wasn't enough. He wanted Qalar's life. The Volantenes' leader was the key to ending this war. If he could find Qalar and take his head with his own sword, the war would end. Not only would it be the final blow against Volantis, but the victory would be Aemon's alone. Planned and executed by him. The entire court, the realm would have no choice but to acknowledge him.

The lords who whispered "Aemon the Bastard Prince" behind his back would be forced to hold their tongues. They would have to give him the respect he deserved. He would no longer be a shadow in his father's court, but a conqueror in his own right. Aemon exhaled deeply, the weight of his ambition pressing down on him like the flames that engulfed the ships. He had made up his mind. Using the chaos he had created, he would find Qalar. He could feel it. That cursed man was close by, Aemon was sure of it. Somewhere, hidden in the smoke and flames, Qalar waited. And Aemon was going to find him.

But first, Aemon had to get Oswell out of there. His mission would be nearly impossible if Oswell wasn't with him. He dashed down the stairs. When he reached the lower deck, his pulse quickened further at the sight that greeted him.

Oswell lay prone, unmoving. His head was bleeding. Aemon's breath caught in his throat as he rushed to his side. "Is he breathing? What happened?" he demanded, his voice raw with concern as he knelt beside the Kingsguard's still body.

One of the men in the group answered, "He hit his head." The soldier's words trembled with fear and. "After the first collision, he smacked his head against that wooden beam," he said, pointing to a jagged protrusion near where Oswell had fallen. "We told him to stop, told him he was hurt, but you know Oswell. He wouldn't listen." The man shook his head, clearly frustrated with the stubbornness of the Kingsguard. "After the second crash, he couldn't hold on anymore. Did we do it? Did we succeed?"

Aemon didn't answer immediately. His focus was on Oswell. He placed trembling fingers near the man's nose, holding his breath as he felt for any sign of life. When a soft, warm exhale brushed his fingertips, Aemon let out a long, shaky sigh of relief.

"He's still breathing," he muttered, but his mind was already racing. He knew how dangerous head injuries could be. He had heard too many stories from the Maesters about men who had hit their heads, only to die days later from internal bleeding. Oswell was tough, but Aemon knew that even the strongest could fall to wounds they couldn't see. "Get him out of here. Now. Take him to the infirmary, and don't stop anywhere." Aemon ordered.

"What about you? What are you going to do?" asked the youngest in the group, who was probably in his twenties and, like Aemon, was out of breath

Aemon's hand gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, as if the blade itself could anchor him. "I'll do whatever my duty calls for. Now go. Don't waste time. He needs help."

As he turned to leave, a thought stopped him halfway up the stairs. He couldn't just leave without recognizing the sacrifices of these men. They had followed him through hellfire and chaos, had trusted him when he lied about their chances of survival.

"Wait." Aemon glanced back at the faces of the remaining men. The ones who had survived by his side, who had fought for him. His throat tightened, but he forced the words out. "I'm sorry for lying to you. I'll never forget what you've done. When this is all over, find me. I'll repay you for your efforts."

The soldiers nodded, though no one spoke. Their faces were lined with exhaustion, but Aemon saw the faint flicker of hope in their eyes. Hoping that perhaps they could make it out of this alive. Without waiting for a response, Aemon turned and sprinted up the stairs, not daring to waste another second. He had to keep moving

When he reached the top deck, the fire roared around him. The ship had become a blazing inferno, and the air was thick with smoke and ash. Aemon jumped from the flames to the nearby ship, landing with a hard thud. He immediately crouched low, his eyes scanning the deck.

The Volantene soldiers hadn't even noticed him. The chaos had engulfed everything—men wandered the deck aimlessly, some shouting orders that no one was listening to, others stumbling as if drunk from the madness surrounding them. One soldier, missing an arm, clutched his bloody stump, howling in agony. The thick smoke was so dense, it was difficult to see anything clearly. Faces were obscured, and even the sounds of battle seemed distant, muffled by the smoke.

Aemon knew, though, that Qalar wasn't here. The leader of Volantis wouldn't be on a ship like this. He'd be on a larger, more luxurious vessel, somewhere commanding his forces from afar. This was just another ship of soldiers caught in the madness. Before moving to the next ship, Aemon grabbed the oil lamps hanging near the captain's cabin, just as he had before. He hurled them into the thick smoke of the enemy ship, their fragile glass shattering upon impact. Flames erupted from the oil-soaked deck, and soon the fire began to spread. Aemon crouched lower, ensuring no one had seen him. The smoke would help cover his tracks, allowing him to move through the enemy ships unnoticed.

He watched as the flames caught. Devouring the ship's deck and crawling up the masts. The fire was alive now, feeding on wood and oil.

As he prepared to jump to the next ship, Aemon saw something that reassured him further. The archers were abandoning their posts. They couldn't shoot through the thick smoke. The fire had turned the tide in Aemon's favor.  It would be easier to advance now. He steadied himself, one hand gripping the hilt of his sword, the other clenching into a fist. Qalar. The name echoed in his mind, driving him forward. The man was close. Aemon could feel it. He wouldn't leave this battle until he had Qalar's head.

Aemon waited for the perfect moment, and when it came, he leapt to the next ship. Once again, he threw one oil lamp at the sails and another at the deck, ensuring the fire spread quickly. He moved swiftly, using the smoke and chaos to his advantage. Aemon repeated the process twice until he found himself facing something different. This ship was unlike the others. It loomed before him, almost twice the size of the others, its captain's cabin an unmistakable display of luxury, even from the outside.

This had to be Qalar's ship.

Aemon crouched low, his sharp eyes scanning the deck. The soldiers on board were no ordinary Volantene troops. Even from a distance, he could see that their armor was superior. Gleaming steel plates caught the flickering light of the fires. These weren't the disorganized rabble he had encountered on the other ships. These men were different. There were about fifteen of them, their postures alert and confident. They were waiting.

Aemon frowned. He had never seen Qalar before. All he knew were whispers and descriptions. The most common saying was the man being a bald. He scanned the soldiers carefully. None of them matched that description. If Qalar was here, he must be in the captain's cabin. It didn't make sense for the leader of Volantis to be on the battlefield without his guards. He was here, Aemon was sure of it. But how to get to him?

Aemon's mind raced, weighing his options. He couldn't take down 15 fully armored men on his own, could he? The thought alone would be madness to most, but Aemon felt something different coursing through his veins. A boundless energy, a fire. His muscles felt strong, almost too strong, as if he could swing his sword forever without tiring. His aches of battle were gone. He could do this.

His blood was boiling. He was ready as the day of Vengence.

Day of Vengence?

Gripping his sword tightly, Aemon flexed his arm. He could leap onto the deck, kill them all before they even knew what was happening. He could already picture it: his blade flashing through the air, cutting them down one by one, swift and unstoppable. And then, Qalar. His bald head severed from his neck, the final prize.

All his thoughts halted at the sound of a whistle. Time seemed to slow before him. The battle cries on his right side faded, replaced by the whistling of dozens of arrows flying through the air. The guards on Qalar's ship, who had been standing confidently moments ago, were now the targets of these arrows. They didn't even realize what was happening, and neither did Aemon. He had no idea where these arrows had come from. Their own forces had long run out of arrows, but the answer to this question didn't matter now. The gods had given him an opportunity, and Aemon had to seize it.

With his sword gripped tightly in his right hand, Aemon ran and leaped into the air, his body arching for a moment before landing on the wooden deck of the enemy ship. He stumbled, but quickly regained his balance. His heart hammering in his chest as he sprinted toward his goal, the captain's cabin. Only one armored guard stood in his way, the others either crouching for cover from the relentless rain of arrows or lying in pools of their own blood, groaning in pain. The guard before him was no different. He lay on the deck, an arrow embedded in his side, his face twisted in agony. He clutched at the wound, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Aemon didn't slow. He couldn't waste time. With a ruthless move, he delivered a swift kick to the man's head, the impact snapping his neck back. Before the guard could utter a word, Aemon plunged his sword into the back of his neck, the blade sliding cleanly through. Guard let out a final groan before falling silent, life leaving his body.

Without a second glance, Aemon turned and sprinted toward the captain's cabin. The door was slightly ajar, and for a moment, he feared it might be locked, but when he pushed it, it swung open easily. Luck smiled on him one more time. He wasted no time barricading the door. Grabbing a piece of wood from the floor, he wedged it against the door handle.Making sure no one would be able to enter behind him. 

He turned his attention to the man sitting inside. The room was dimly lit, heavy curtains drawn over the windows, allowing only thin beams of sunlight to filter through. The single source of light came from a flickering lamp on the table, casting long shadows across the room. And there, seated in a chair, was a man—bald, dressed in fine robes, with parchment letters in his hands. Aemon stepped closer. This had to be Qalar. Yet the man seemed so out of place. Despite the raging battle outside, he wore no armor, no weapons strapped to his side. He appeared almost serene, save for the faint flicker of shock in his eyes as he looked up at Aemon

Aemon studied him. The man's bald head was marred with scars, his face weathered, and beneath his right eye was a teardrop tattoo. A mark that caught Aemon's attention. He looked older than Aemon had imagined, perhaps in his forties. Not as old as Ser Barristan, but older than his father. 

What unsettled Aemon most was the expression on the man's face. The man wasn't trembling with fear, nor was hereaching for a weapon. Instead, he looked at Aemon as if he were seeing a ghost. For a moment, doubt crept into Aemon's mind. Was this really Qalar? 

The bald man opened his mouth, but the words that spilled out were foreign to Aemon, an unrecognizable language that carried the harsh, guttural tones of Volantis. Seeing the confusion on Aemon's face, Qalar's expression shifted. His nextsentence came in the Common Tongue, though his thick accent slurred the words. "Who are you? Who sent you?" His sharp eyes scanned Aemon from head to toe, taking in the bloodied armor, the sword still clutched in his hand.

Aemon hesitated. He had expected a fierce combat but instead, he found himself standing before a man who seemed oddly detached from the disarray surrounding them. His mind raced. The man before him, sitting in fine robes, seemed unaware or unconcerned about the bloodshed outside. Aemon raised his sword slightly, pointing it at the man. "Are you Qalar?"

Qalar's lips twisted into a humorless smile. "Who wants to know?" he asked.

Aemon's eyes narrowed. "I'm the one holding the sword, so I'm the one asking the questions. Are you Qalar, the King of Volantis?" He repeated.

This time, Qalar didn't respond immediately. He studied Aemon for a long moment, then gave a slight nod.  

This was indeed Qalar. The man responsible for the war that had dragged thousands of soldiers to their deaths, the man who stood at the center of all the conflict. The man who could end it all.

Aemon felt the temptation to strike. One blow, one clean cut, and the war could be over. But something held him back. He had questions that needed answers—questions that had burned in his mind. And with Qalar sitting defenseless before him, now was his chance to get them.

He lowered his sword but didn't sit on chair. His eyes remained fixed on Qalar. He licked his dry lips, tasting the metallic tang of blood. "My name is Aemon Targaryen," he said slowly, enunciating each word. "And you're going to answer my questions."

Qalar's smile widened, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Ah, Prince Aemon. I've heard of you." He leaned back slightly in his chair, his posture more relaxed than it had any right to be. "But what is a Targaryen prince doing so far from home?"

Aemon's grip on his sword tightened, though he kept his voice calm. "We're here to clean up the mess you created. How many people have died because of your ambitions? Tens of thousands? Or maybe hundreds of thousands?"

Qalar raised his eyebrows. "More," he said without hesitation.

Aemon chuckled darkly. "I remember it well. Years ago, they announced your rise before the entire court. They spoke of you as a hero, a commoner who fought against the corruption in Volantis and somehow became the leader of his people." Aemon's voice hardened. "Everyone applauded your name, but I saw the fear in their eyes. A commoner who rose to power. It was a rebellion against the established order." He shook his head. "That's why you caught my interest. And then you promised something to the entire continent, didn't you? Something like equality and human rights for all."

Qalar's smile faded. His eyes seemed to drift away, as though lost in distant memories. He reached for a goblet on the table, drained it in one long gulp, and set it down with a heavy thud. "That was a long time ago," he muttered, his voice thick with something Aemon couldn't place. "Things were simpler back then."

Aemon leaned forward slightly. "You promised to become a peaceful man once. So what happened? Why turn into a warlord, tearing apart every man in your path?"

"What do you understand, boy?" Qalar suddenly leaned forward, and the smell of alcohol from his breath made Aemon grimace. The man was drunk. While the battle raged outside, he had chosen to get drunk here. "They've told me about you, but you're just a child. What do you know about reasons? I did what had to be done because there was no one else todo it."

"Who told you about me?" Aemon's curiosity was suddenly piqued by that sentence, and he ignored the rest of Qalar's words.

Qalar shrugged, his smile returning, but it was laced with bitterness. "If you live long enough, boy, you'll find out. Here's a little advice for you: nothing is ever as it seems. Trust no one, and especially not that two-eyed witch."

Aemon was more confused than ever. What was this man rambling about? "How much have you had to drink to spout such nonsense? What witch are you talking about? You've killed hundreds of thousands, and you're still killing more. Your men are dying for nothing outside. Give the order and surrender. It's over—you're finished." It was difficult to get a straight answer from a drunk man, but at least he could try to make him surrender.

"Yes, I've lost, but so has everyone else. You shouldn't have stopped me. Your father, King Rhaegar, is leading you all to doom by choosing the wrong side, but you don't realize it." This time, he locked eyes with Aemon, staring at him with his entire soul. "Tell your father not to take a stand against the North. They're not seeking war. At least if your father wants to some parts of the humanity, he shouldn't oppose them, please."

"The North? The Starks have no power against us."

Qalar buried his face in his hands. "There's so much you don't know. But it doesn't matter anymore, boy. Just tell your father what I said. He probably won't listen to me, but I thought I'd at least try."

"Are you mad, or just drunk? I can't tell," Aemon said, raising his sword again and pressing it against Qalar's neck. "Surrender and call off your army. I won't ask again."

This time, Qalar's smile was different—sad, almost. "Since you're here, I suppose we've already lost. Like I said, boy, trust no one. I hope they're right about you."

Before Aemon could ask another question, Qalar quickly drew a dagger from his belt and plunged it into his own heart with a single thrust. Qalar Mothip, King of Volantis, killer of hundreds of thousands, and false prophet, had committed suicide right in front of him. Blood poured from his mouth as his head fell onto the wooden table, staining the letters in front of him red. Aemon cursed inwardly, not knowing how many times he had cursed that day. He felt his shoulders slump. This encounter had not gone as he had imagined, and Aemon couldn't make sense of the man's actions. What kind of person, what kind of king, would say such nonsense and then kill himself?

And what did he mean by what he said about Aemon? Who would speak about Aemon to a foreign king? He felt his head throb with these unanswered questions. Today had been the strangest day of his life. He had made a highly risky plan, suffered a severe injury to his arm, and then the wound had disappeared as if nothing had happened. And now, Qalar had added more questions to his mind. He wouldn't find the answers here, and there was no reason to stay any longer. He pointed his sword at Qalar's neck and, with a single stroke, severed his head. He felt the blood splatter on his face and armor, but his mind was too preoccupied to be disgusted. He grabbed a spear he saw in the corner of the room and impaled Qalar's head on it. He had prepared the weapon that would end the war. With this, he had won.

The beach was now devoid of screams, shouts, and the sounds of clashing steel that had filled the air just hours earlier. The once-bright orange sands, which had glowed like the setting sun, were now a murky red swamp, soaked in blood. Corpses were strewn across the entire shore, awaiting the inevitable feast for the vultures and crabs that would soon descend.

Aemon forced himself to look at the faces of the dead. It was impossible to tell who had fought for which side. Their bodies were all cloaked in blood and sand, united in death. The weight of exhaustion hit him fully then, accompanied by an overwhelming sense of regret. His back ached from the weight of his armor, his arms burned from holding a sword and shield all day. But worse than the physical pain was the guilt gnawing at his heart. He had been the architect of the plan that led to this massacre. The surge of adrenaline that had carried him through the battle was gone. Now, all he had was the feeling of hollow fatigue.

Among the thousands of corpses lay the consequences of his decisions, the dead staring lifelessly at the sky. He asked himself, for the first time, whether it had been worth it.

"Every victory has its cost." A familiar voice broke the silence, drawing Aemon from his dark thoughts. It was Stannis Baratheon. The man approached with his usual steady. His face freshly washed, though his armor was still covered in the blood and grime of battle. A thick bandage wrapped around his right arm, stained with red. Noticing Aemon's gaze, Stannis gave a brief explanation. "An arrow hit me, nothing serious."

Aemon nodded absently, his eyes drifting back to the sea of bodies. He dreaded asking the next question, but it came out in a weary tone. "How many did we lose?"

Stannis paused, though the weight of the number was clear. "Around seven thousand. Lannister gave me the estimate. The Volantenes lost nearly twenty thousand." He added after a moment, "Today, we only lost soldiers—men who came here willingly. They knew the risks."

Aemon's frown deepened. "The more I think about it, the more I believe we could have escaped. We could have joined forces with the Triarchy to the north. This bloody massacre might have been avoided."

Stannis studied Aemon for a moment before responding. "Do you regret it? Now?"

Aemon closed his eyes tightly. When he opened them, the sight of a corpse with dead, glassy eyes staring into the sunset greeted him. He couldn't escape the image, no matter how hard he tried. "Yes... no. I don't know." His voice wavered as the words tumbled out. "All I know is that thousands died, and their blood is on my hands. This was my plan."

Stannis's reply was as blunt as ever. "Yes, it was. And you won. A 15-year-old boy won a major victory and killed a king. Who else can say that?"

Aemon frowned, remembering the moment in Qalar's cabin. "I didn't kill Qalar. He stabbed himself in the heart. Drunk, mad—he rambled on about something before plunging a dagger into his chest. I just... used his head."

Stannis nodded, his expression unreadable. "Carrying a severed head on a spear isn't pretty work, but it's done. Did you tell anyone about this?"

"Only, ser Oswell."

"I'll keep that between us, Aemon. I'll only tell the King."

Aemon blinked, surprised by Stannis's offer. "Why keep it a secret? I didn't kill him."

Stannis's gaze hardened. "You told me why you're here. If you let people believe you killed Qalar, everything changes. From Dorne to the Neck, they'll sing your name in taverns. This is your chance to change how people see you. Are you sure you don't want that?"

Aemon hesitated. The exhaustion weighed heavily on him, clouding his thoughts. "You're right. I didn't fully think it through. I'm just... tired. My mind isn't in the right place." He couldn't deny the appeal. But the events of the day had drained him.

"Then, as I said, it remains our secret. What did Qalar say to you?"

Aemon paused, remembering the strange words Qalar had spoken, but he shrugged it off. "Nothing important. Just drunken ramblings." He wasn't ready to share the warnings about the North or the mysterious witch. He couldn't even begin to understand it himself.

"Before I got to Qalar's ship," Aemon added, deflecting the conversation, "his guards were hit by a volley of arrows. Do you know anything about that?"

Stannis allowed himself a brief, rare smirk. "Tully."

"Tully?" Aemon repeated, confused. "The man was shot in the leg. What does he have to do with it?"

Stannis shook his head, amused. "Your men went to him after Oswell. They told him your plan. There's a reason Brynden Tully became a legend in the Ninepenny War, my prince. That bloody man is good at what he does."

Aemon's mouth dropped slightly, surprised. "I'll have to thank him. I don't know how I would've faced Qalar without him."

The two men fell into silence then, the sounds of the distant sea the only thing breaking the stillness. A cool breeze swept across the beach, brushing Aemon's face. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring it despite the horrors surrounding him. He felt dirty, stained by the day's events. He knew he would need a long time in the bath tonight.

Stannis placed a firm hand on Aemon's shoulder. "I'll make sure the King hears of your courage and wisdom. Don't let guilt consume you. Pain is natural, it means you have honor. But remember, this was war. We fought. You won. Don't let that victory be tainted."

Aemon nodded slowly, Stannis's words grounding him. Despite the darkness gnawing at his mind, there was truth in them. "What now?" Aemon asked quietly. "What's our next target?"

Stannis turned, starting to walk back toward the camp. "Now we rest. After that, we march on the gates of Volantis. Once the city falls, it will be time to go home. There's much waiting for us." He paused briefly, then added, "I'll see you in camp tomorrow, my prince."

Chapter Text

AEMON III

Where I am, what is this place? Where is my other half? What have you done this time woman?

Volantis was nothing like Aemon had imagined; it was a city that fell short of his expectations. Merchants from Essos who had visited the court had spun tales of Volantis; a grand, thriving city that was supposedly more vibrant, moremajestic than King's Landing itself. They had painted a picture of grandeur: bustling marketplaces, towering structures, and a pulse of life that never dies. But as Aemon peered through the window of the caravan, he saw the opposite of what they had told him.

The sky was overcast, with dark clouds blocking the sun. This bleakness seemed to reflect the city itself. The buildings, which once might have stood tall with pride, were now in a terrible shape. Their rooftops sagged with neglect, with tiles missing or crumbling. Below, the streets were strewn with debris. Trash and dust swept through narrow alleyways by the wind, which seemed to mourn alongside the city. But the worst sight of all was the people of the city.

From the moment the caravan had passed through the city gates, Aemon's eyes had been drawn to the motionless bodies littering the streets. In mere minutes, he had counted five corpses. Yet they might have been the lucky ones. For the living fared no better. Skinny figures scrambled about, their clothes hanging off them like loose rags. They looked like walking skeletons. Some leaned against crumbling walls, barely able to stand. Aemon's heart clenched at the sight of a young mother sitting on the cold stone, trying to nurse an infant who was likely already doomed by hunger. Her blank stare spoke of despair so deep that even tears had long abandoned her.

In that moment, Aemon hated Qalar even more. All of this; the ruin, the suffering, the broken lives was the legacy of a single madman's ambition. Qalar had butchered countless souls with his own blade, and though his body now rotted in the sea, his cruelty lived on, tightening its grip around the necks of his people. Aemon had known there would be hardships in Volantis after the embargo imposed by Essosi Kingdoms, but he had not anticipated the extent of the devastation. What lay before him was a tragedy, a crime etched into the very stones of the city and soul of the people. His fingers curled into tight fists, knuckles whitening with frustration.

His gaze drifted across the carriage to Stannis Baratheon, who sat stiffly next to him, his eyes scanning the same horrific scene. Stannis's face was as hard as the walls they had passed through. But Aemon knew this scene must have stirred something deeper in the man. Stannis, too, had known what it was to watch people starve—to see the life drained from their eyes. During the siege of Storm's End, he had endured such horrors firsthand, suffering alongside his family and bannermen. Aemon couldn't guess what was running through Stannis's mind at that moment, but he suspected Stannis, too, was cursing Qalar once more.

Noticing Aemon's gaze, Stannis spoke. "We were in a better position. At least we could maintain order within the keep. No one was attacking each other to eat their arms or legs." It was as if Stannis had read his mind and answered his unspoken question. "Have you read the reports from the Red Priests?"

Aemon shook his head, feeling the weight of his fatigue. "I haven't had the chance." He withheld the truth from Stannis, there was no need to reveal his problem right now. Since the early hours of the morning, a relentless headache had plagued him, severe enough to make him consider asking the maester for poppy milk. The throbbing had only worsened as the day wore on, and he had spent most of it lying down, eyes closed, hoping the pain would ease. It hadn't. But the time for rest was over.

It had been a week since Aemon and his forces had reached the gates of Volantis. They could have arrived much earlier if they had wanted to, but they had been wary of a potential siege. Even after evacuating the wounded, they still had around three thousand soldiers able to fight, but the will to continue had faded. As Aemon walked through the camp at night, the conversations he overheard around the fires told him everything he needed to know. The men were tired, not just in body but in spirit. They had been through hell, enduring one of the bloodiest battles in recent memory. They had seen too much death, lived through too much violence, and though they had survived to tell the tale, the horror of it had left deep mental scars. No one wanted to fight anymore. Everyone was ready to go home. And Aemon was no different.

Yet home seemed far away, a distant dream, because Stannis had insisted they push on to Volantis. He'd waited for the other coalition forces to gather, and now, nearly forty thousand soldiers camped at the foot of the city's towering walls.

The arrival had been eerie from the start. When the coalition ships had first approached Volantis's harbor, every leader had found it strange that no ships had come to greet them. Fearing a trap, they had avoided docking and instead set up military camps on land. They had arrived while the sun was high, and by the time Volantis's gates had finally opened, the moon had taken the sun's place in the sky. From behind the massive gates had emerged priests in red robes—the clergy of the Temple of the Lord of Light.

The story that followed was as harsh as it was messy. According to the Red Priests, Volantis had spiraled into madness when the news of Qalar's defeat and death reached the city. Nobles with even a shred of influence had seized the opportunity to vie for control. Smooth-tongued peasants tried to rally the smallfolk behind them, while mercenary captains and city guards fought in the streets for supremacy. It had been utter anarchy. When the dust finally settled, Qalar's remaining loyalists had been dragged to the Red Temple and thrown into its flames, sacrificed in a brutal way. And with that, the city fell into the hands of the Red Priests.

Aemon felt a deep concern at the thought. He had seen what religious fanatics could do when given power, how blind devotion could turn into a tool for destruction. The memories from his past, memories he had tried to bury, came rushing back with sharp clarity. His body instinctively recoiled from the thought. He shuddered, shaking off the chill that ran down his spine. Just then, a soft voice from nearby broke through his dark thoughts.

"I haven't read the reports either," said Devan Lannister, his tone light, as though they weren't witnessing the crimes of a madman. "Honestly, I don't care much, but after seeing this, I'm curious about what's going on."

Aemon turned to look at him. Today, Devan had decided to join them for the first time. Aemon couldn't recall ever meeting a long-haired Lannister before. Throughout the campaign, he had only seen Devan a few times. The fact that he hadn't participated in the peace talks over the past week seemed odd to Aemon. Perhaps he had come after hearing that the Iron Bank had finally arrived in the city.

Stannis, who had remained silent until now, shot Devan a displeased look. "Why are you here, Lannister?" he asked.

Devan chuckled. "Oh, but why the sour face, Lord Stannis? No matter what's happening, we're still family. Shouldn't you treat me a little more kindly?"

Where Stannis was cold and hard, Devan was his perfect opposite, lighthearted, almost irreverent. The contrast between the two was striking.

"You still haven't answered my question," Stannis pressed, his ice-blue eyes narrowing. "And I don't know how close you are to Cersei. There are far too many Lannisters for me to keep track of."

Devan smirked. "Please, my lord, I'm her closest cousin. It's strange that Cersei hasn't mentioned me to you."

Stannis didn't reply immediately. His gaze raked over Devan, from his carefully groomed hair to his finely tailored Lannister-red silk attire. He didn't say a word, but his expression made it clear what he thought of the man before him. "This is the first time I've seen you since we set camp. For a moment, I thought you'd run back to Tywin. What changed? Are you bored enough now to want to sit in on the talks?"

Devan shrugged, his air casual. "You've been talking for a week, but nothing has been signed. I wanted to see with my own ears and eyes what's holding things up." He gestured lazily toward Aemon, his smile never faltering. "Besides, you and Aemon are the only ones here representing the Iron Throne. I have just as much right to be at the table."

"Both of us are authorized to speak on behalf of the King, my lord," Aemon reminded him, his voice calm but firm. "Lord Stannis carries the King's authority, and as for me, do I need to introduce myself? I'm the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms."

Devan's smile broadened, reaching his eyes. "I suppose we haven't been properly introduced before. I'm Ser Devan Lannister."

Aemon shook the man's outstretched hand firmly. "Prince Aemon Targaryen. Had you attended the war councils more often, we might have met sooner."

"And what would I have done there, exactly?" Devan replied nonchalantly. "With Brynden Tully and Stannis Baratheon in the room, do you think my word would have mattered?"

Aemon couldn't help but smirk. "Well, mine did."

Devan let out a laugh. "Yes, and because of that, we almost all died. Did you see my wound, Prince? Right here," he said, pointing to his side. "A Volantis arrow went in deep. First night, I couldn't sleep from the pain."

"You could have thanked me more politely, my lord," Aemon said. "I spared you a sword to your neck and only gave you an arrow wound instead."

At first, Devan didn't say anything. He looked at Aemon with wide eyes, clearly surprised by the prince's sharp retort, before his familiar smile returned. The small caravan was soon filled with his laughter, a carefree sound that felt oddly out of place. But Aemon couldn't help but find the laughter genuine. Despite everything, he almost wanted to join in. It wasn't the first time he had faced reactions like this, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Over the past weeks, Aemon had grown accustomed to the varied responses his actions produced. Some lords had cursed his name, blaming him for the bloodshed, for the loss of their comrades, sons, and brothers. It wasn't just the lords, either. Word had spread around the camp about who had devised the war plan that had led to so much death, and Aemon could feel the weight of the soldiers' eyes on him. The first week had been especially difficult for him. He couldn't sleep, and on the few occasions he did manage to drift off, he relived the gruesome details of the slaughter in his dreams. And when he awoke, the place where his wound should have been did hurt him slightly.

But those days had passed. Aemon had made peace with himself in a way. Perhaps there had been another path to take, one that would have allowed them to escape, but Aemon hadn't chosen it. He had chosen to fight, to spill the blood of thousands with his own hands, but in doing so, he had secured victory and ended a war that had raged for years. It had been his choice, and if he were to be cursed for it, then so be it. It didn't matter. Regret had no place in his heart anymore. He had secured the peace.

Still, not all the reactions had been hostile. While there were those who cursed his name, others had praised him. Ser Myles Mooton, Lord Blackwood, Jonos Bracken, Arthor Celtigar—nearly all the lords of the Vale and many others had raised their cups to Aemon's health, celebrating his victory. He had earned their respect, if nothing else. That's why Daven's flippant remarks didn't bother him. He was used to such things, so much so that he barely cared.

"Becoming a conqueror at fifteen. Gods be good, and killing a king too. I wonder what songs they'll write about you when we get home," Devan remarked, his tone playfully teasing as he continued his chat.

"They'll write what he deserves," Stannis interjected, his voice cold. He shot Devan a look that was half warning, half impatience. "Cersei spoke enough about you, Daven. You're one of the smart Lannisters. I expect you to act accordingly. If things go as planned, we'll sign the papers today."

Stannis's words seemed to sober Devan, who quickly dropped the lighthearted tone. "Then tell me," he said, his face growing serious, "what's holding things up?"

"It's complicated," Aemon began, stepping into the conversation. "The Triarchy is demanding land from Volantis as recompense for the events of the war. But Pentos is against it, and so are we. We don't like their presence in the Narrow Sea as it stands, and giving them more land would only increase their power."

Devan tilted his head, considering. "The new Triarchy has only been around for a few years. It's a miracle they've survived this long as it is. I say give them the land. Sooner or later, Lys and Myr will be at each other's throats over it. It's happened before, hasn't it? They'll fight among themselves."

It was a reasonable suggestion, Aemon thought, for someone who wasn't familiar with the intricacies of the issue. But Devan was missing something important.

"This Triarchy is different," Stannis explained. "They're no longer operating as individual city-states. They're organized by provinces now. Giving them new land won't weaken them—it will only strengthen them. If they survive long enough, they'll become a real threat to Essos. Ambition runs deep with these men. Pentos could be their next target."

"That's why we're backing Pentos," Aemon continued, filling in the gaps. "But the Triarchy remains stubborn. And that's not our only problem. The real issue is Slaver's Bay. Qalar wiped out every noble family there—an outright genocide. He replaced them with his own men, and we have no idea what to do with them. We haven't received any terms of surrender, and no one wants to wait any longer. For many, this war has dragged on for years. Everyone just wants to go home."

"The general consensus," Stannis added, "is that a warlord conflict will break out in Slaver's Bay. It's been a month since Qalar died, and no surrender has come. If it hasn't happened by now, it won't. They'll fight among themselves, tearing each other apart for control. It'll bring about their downfall."

Aemon wasn't as certain. He had seen the faces of the slaves, their anger, their hunger for justice. He suspected, and even hoped, that a rebellion might rise from the ashes of Qalar's regime. But it was a hope he kept to himself.

"If that's the consensus," Devan asked, a note of confusion in his voice, "then what's the issue?"

Aemon shook his head slightly. "The Iron Bank may not agree. They're the ones leading this coalition, and they have the final say. King Rhaegar signed the agreement with them, and without their approval, we can't pull out. They might still demand a total peace, insisting the war be carried to Slaver's Bay to prevent further unrest."

Devan frowned, clearly irritated by the idea. "So why did you kill Qalar? His corpse is useless to us now. If we'd kept him alive, maybe things would have ended more cleanly."

"I killed him because there was no other choice," Aemon lied smoothly, the words falling easily from his lips. He had told this story countless times, each retelling as convincing as the first. Stannis had urged him to stick to the lie, and by now, Aemon didn't feel the least bit ashamed. It was simply a matter of necessity.

"And what about Volantis?" Devan asked, changing the subject. "Who's going to rule the city?"

Aemon shrugged, his face darkening. "That's another issue. The Red Priests claim that all the Elephants and Tigers, the city's noble factions, are dead, meaning there's no one left to rule. But we have reason to doubt that."

"Why?" Devan asked, clearly interested.

"We've captured several Volantene soldiers trying to flee the city. According to some of them, the lords are still alive. We've sent scouts into the city to find them, but there's been no success so far," Aemon sighed. "The High Priest of the Red Temple, Benerro, wants the city for himself. Giving it to him would be a mistake. We need a leader who will bend the knee to us, not a fanatic who worships fire and burning pyres."

"Let me guess," Devan said with a smirk, "the other leaders at the table are in favor of it."

Stannis nodded grimly. "Their brilliant idea is that Volantis will crumble under the weight of the Red Temple's rule and become even weaker. But that's beyond ignorant. Look at the streets, Lannister. Look at how desperate the people are. Once the priests start handing out food, providing security, the smallfolk will flock to them. They'll fill their heads with whatever lies they need."

Devan's brow furrowed, though he seemed more annoyed than concerned. "So what? Let them fill their heads with whatever they want. Volantis is already a ruined city. Even if they manage to pull themselves together, they won't be a threat to us anymore. We've spent long enough here. Give them the city, and let's go home."

"We can't make peace for the sake of peace, ser Devan. If we don't handle this properly, it will only come back to haunt us," Aemon's voice rose, louder than he intended. "The people here deserve that much. And besides, the Iron Bank might not look kindly on putting the Red Temple in charge." His gaze drifted once more to the broken streets of Volantis, where misery clung to every corner. These people, beaten down by war, hunger, and cruelty—deserved more than the empty promises of zealots. They needed real hope, real peace. But as much as Aemon longed to offer them that, he knew better than most how little power he held over fate. If the Iron Bank backed the Red Priests, there was little he could do to oppose it. His words, for all their fire, might ultimately be as hollow as the streets of Volantis.

The rest of the journey passed in silence, Daven no longer offering his careless commentary. Instead, he entertained himself by flipping a gold coin between his fingers. Aemon, lost in thought, barely noticed. When they finally arrived at their destination, Oswell opened the door, his armored hand making short work of the latch. The Kingsguard had recovered quickly from the wounds of war, and Aemon often marveled at how unaffected the man seemed by everything they had been through. As if nothing had changed. But Aemon knew differently. After learning of Aemon's actions during the war, Oswell had spent days chastising him, as though he were still a child in need of lessons. Aemon, for his part, had grown used to the scolding. His punishment, it seemed, was to forever have Oswell at his side, like a shadow he couldn't shake. The knight rarely left him now, as though he had become something more than human, a creature of the night, ever watchful and ever near, never needing rest. The man's dedication was becoming suffocating.

As Aemon stepped out of the caravan, the thick, oppressive humidity of Volantis greeted him like a damp cloak, sticking to his skin almost instantly. His armor felt heavier than usual, the heat sinking into the metal, and Aemon knew that walking through the city in such gear would be a different type of battle. He was just about to make his way up the stairs that led to the palace when he heard the light patter of footsteps and felt a small weight cling to his legs.

Startled, Aemon glanced down to find a little girl, no older than six or seven, clutching his legs with all the strength she could muster. She was sobbing, her tiny body shaking with the force of her tears. Across from him, Oswell had already drawn his sword, the blade gleaming as he prepared to strike. But Aemon, for once, saw something in Oswell's face he had never seen before. The knight's expression was almost comical. He had no idea how to deal with a child clinging to his prince.

Aemon quickly placed a hand on the girl's shoulders and gently pried her from his legs. He knelt before her, bringing their faces level. He had braced himself for a familiar sight, the sunken cheeks and hollow eyes of a child starving in the streets. But what he saw instead surprised him. The girl's cheeks were round, full, her face not yet marked by the ravages of hunger. Could she be the daughter of some noble family, perhaps? But it was her eyes that struck him most: one green and the other blue, their mismatched colors made even more striking by the redness from her tears.

Slowly, Aemon removed his gauntlet and wiped the tears from her face with his bare hand, his voice soft as he spoke in the broken Valyrian dialect of Volantis. "Are you alright? What happened?"

The girl continued to cry, her small body trembling for a while longer before she could speak. Finally, through choking sobs, she managed to say, "My mother... she's dead. We're so hungry. Me and my brothers."

Aemon felt a pang of helplessness in his chest. What could he possibly do? He turned toward Oswell, searching for an answer, but even the stoic knight seemed unsure of how to proceed. It was then that Aemon noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. Devan Lannister, of all people, was quietly watching the scene. To Aemon's surprise, Devan reached into his belt and pulled out a small pouch.

"Here," Devan said, offering it without hesitation.

Aemon nodded in thanks, accepting the pouch. He turned back to the girl, gently taking her dirt-streaked hands in his. Her hands were a contrast to her clean, bright face. They were filthy, her nails broken and jagged, expressing of the hardships she had already endured. He pressed the pouch of gold into her hands.

"This will help you and your brothers for a while," he said softly. "I promise, things will get better from now on."

The little girl's tear-streaked face brightened as she stared down at the pouch, then up at Aemon, her wide smile returning hope to her expression. "Thank you, my lord," she whispered, her voice filled with gratitude.

But just as quickly as she had smiled, she pulled her hands back, clutching the pouch tightly to her chest. In that moment, Aemon felt a sharp sting in his hand. A small groan escaped him as the pain hit, and he instinctively glanced down to see what had happened. The girl was already running back the way she had come, disappearing into the maze of broken streets. Aemon looked at his hand and saw a thin cut running across his palm. It was a minor wound, but deep enough to draw blood, which was now trickling slowly from the cut. Her long, broken nails must have scratched him as she pulled away in her haste.

Aemon sighed, shaking his head. He couldn't blame her. Who knew what horrors that little girl had seen? What cruelty she had endured? At least the gold would help her and her siblings survive a little longer. That was all he could offer them for now.

He glanced back toward the palace, knowing he had no time to dwell on the wound or the girl's fate. There were largerissues at hand, and whatever peace they could wrest from this broken city was still fragile. After nodding to those around him, Aemon turned back toward the stairs. He had lost count of how many times he had climbed these steps in the past week, yet the palace before him still managed to captivate him every time. Even as the rest of Volantis crumbled, this palace stood firm, resisting the decay that gnawed at the city. Still, calling it a "palace" felt like a stretch. It was too small, too modest. The structure was rectangular, with towers rising from each corner like sentinels watching over the city. At its heart was an open courtyard, bathed in sunlight, where all the negotiations had taken place over the last few days.

As they entered, their own soldiers greeted them. Stannis, ever cautious, had made sure the palace was secured by his men, ensuring that no surprises awaited them inside. Aemon, however, had other matters on his mind. He approached the captain of his small company, intent on asking the one question that had been plaguing him all day.

"Has the Iron Bank finally arrived?"

The captain gave a brief nod. "Yes, Your Grace. They arrived this morning. They've taken the rooms with the balconies and requested I deliver a message to you."

Aemon stopped mid-stride, his brow arching in curiosity. He wasn't the only one interested in the arrival of the Iron Bank, it seemed. Daven had also been unusually quiet, no doubt thinking along similar lines. "What's the message?" Aemon asked.

"They wish to speak with you before the meeting," the captain replied, glancing at Stannis. "Only the Prince, my lord. Apologies."

"Why would you apologize?" Stannis said, his voice as flat as ever. "Go on, Prince. Let's see what the bankers have to say to you."

Aemon raised his hands slightly, palms up. He couldn't fathom why the Iron Bank wanted to speak with him directly. He and Stannis had been leading the negotiations on behalf of the Iron Throne, but it was widely understood that Stannis had the final word. What could they possibly want from him that they wouldn't say to Stannis? Still, there was no use speculating. He nodded and turned to climb the stairs to the upper levels of the palace, Oswell shadowing him as silently as ever.

The rooms with the balconies were the most opulent in the palace, offering a sweeping view of the city below. Under different circumstances, Aemon might have enjoyed staying there, perhaps during peacetime, when the city thrived andthe air wasn't so thick with despair. But now, standing on those wide stone terraces and looking down at the wreckage of Volantis, he could feel nothing but pity for the city and its people. Yet it wasn't a surprise that the Iron Bank had chosen such rooms. He had always heard that their representatives were cold, calculating men and soulless, some said.Today, Aemon would finally see if those rumors were true.

When he reached the rooms, the guards at the door greeted him. Their armor immediately struck Aemon as odd. It was black, and it bore a sheen that reminded him of the obsidian found on Dragonstone. Though similar in color, the texture and design were wholly unique, giving the armor a strange, almost otherworldly quality. Aemon couldn't help but find it peculiar.

"Halt. Who are you, and what is your business here?" one of the guards asked, speaking in the Common Tongue but with a tone that implied he had no idea whom he was addressing. Odd, Aemon thought. Surely, the three dragons emblazoned on his armor should have been a clear indication of his identity.

"I'm the Father, and he's the Stranger," Oswell quipped coldly, his mocking tone lost on the armored guard. The man simply raised an eyebrow, clearly baffled by Oswell's remark. "Who do you think we are, man? Go tell your masters that the Prince has arrived," Oswell added, this time more direct.

The guard, this time, gave a quick nod and disappeared into the room behind him. Moments later, the large doors swung open, inviting Aemon inside. The room had undergone significant changes since Aemon had last seen it. New, finely crafted furniture adorned the space, and every surface seemed to be laden with food, fruit, and wine. Yet what caught Aemon's attention more than the lavish furnishings was the number of servants bustling about, their movements hurried as they catered to the whims of the room's occupants. In one corner, a man who was, without a doubt, the fattest person Aemon had ever laid eyes on, lounged in a large chair. His eyes immediately found Aemon, and a broad, almost unsettling grin spread across his face.

"Our hero!" the enormous man bellowed, raising a silver goblet into the air. "Noho, look! Our hero has finally arrived."

The man he called Noho sat at the center of the room, unbothered by the frenzy of activity around him. He was engrossed in the parchments spread out before him, but at the mention of Aemon's arrival, he glanced up and smiled, standing to greet him.

"Prince Aemon," Noho said warmly, gesturing to a chair across from him. "Welcome. Please, sit. What can we offer you? Some wine, perhaps?"

Aemon took the offered seat, his expression guarded but polite. "Wine would be perfect. Cold, if you can manage it."

"Ah, yes! The Prince is right. This city's heat is unbearable," the enormous man chimed in, as three servants furiously fanned him with large leaves. Sweat beaded on his brow, and he dabbed at his forehead with a silk handkerchief.

"Indeed, Bessaro Reyaan, you are absolutely right. The heat here is intense, which is why the less time we spend in this city, the better it will be for us." So that was the fat man's name—Bessaro Reyaan. He seemed like someone important, but Aemon had never heard of him before.

"You could have arrived earlier, my lord. It's been a month since Qalar's death, and peace talks have been ongoing for a week now," Aemon's voice was calm and confident. Being summoned here meant this was likely an importantconversation, and he needed to act as expected of him.

Instead of responding right away, Bessaro Reyaan's heavy frame strained against the chair as servants lifted him, shifting him to sit diagonally across from Aemon. The room was filled with the sound of creaking wood and Bessaro's labored breathing.

Once settled, he brushed off invisible dust from his clothes. "Ah, much better. We couldn't have spoken properly with me in that corner, could we?" he chuckled. "As for your question, Prince Aemon, some things cannot be rushed. We had very important business to tend to before coming here. With your father, no less."

"With my father?" Aemon barely managed to mask his surprise but couldn't keep the words from escaping his lips.

"Yes, your father, King Rhaegar," Bessaro confirmed, his wide grin not faltering. "It was a long conversation, very fruitful. May the gods grant him many more years. Your father is a very wise man—one who deeply values his family.And it is he who has decided to pull you from this... pit. It's time for you to go home, Prince Aemon."

"What do you mean?" Aemon asked, his mind racing. "Has the King accepted a peace agreement?"

Bessaro nodded his heavy head. "Indeed, Prince. A peace agreement that serves both the Iron Throne and the Iron Bank well."

Aemon leaned forward slightly, his eyes sharp. "May I learn the terms, then?"

At this, Noho quietly reached into the drawer of the table and drew out a carefully sealed parchment. He slid it across the table toward Aemon, who accepted it with deliberate care. His eyes scanned the dry ink. The first detail that leaped out was that the Iron Throne's existing debts had been wiped clean, only to be replaced by a new loan. This puzzled Aemon. As far as he knew, the royal treasury was not struggling, certainly not enough to warrant such a substantial loan. Yet he held his tongue. If there was more to this arrangement, it wasn't a question to ask these men.

As he read on, something else caught his attention, discussions of war spoils, particularly Qalar's fleet. "You're taking the ships?" Aemon's surprise was evident. The fleet of 276 warships was one of the most valuable prizes they had seized. Rebuilding such a fleet would cost a fortune and take years. If his father had agreed to part with them, Aemon could only imagine the return had to be equally important.

Bessaro smiled indulgently, as though explaining to a child. "Yes, Prince. Unfortunately, we require those ships to restore trade throughout Essos. The war has crippled many of our routes, and every ship is needed to bring commerce back to its former glory. But fear not, you have been compensated."

Aemon's brow furrowed. "What sort of compensation?"

"Well," Bessaro leaned back, his chair creaking under his weight, "some aspects of the agreement remain confidential, strictly between the Iron Bank and King Rhaegar. However, we did want to offer you something more. Take a look at the final item on the document. Consider it a personal gift."

Aemon's eyes narrowed slightly, suspicion creeping into his mind. He complied, his gaze falling to the final item on the parchment. His heart skipped a beat when he saw the name Summerhall written in large, bold letters. His grip on the parchment tightened as he read on—Summerhall, the site of his family's great tragedy, was to be rebuilt. But it wasn't just a palace. The agreement stated that the Iron Bank would fund the construction of an entire city over the ruins of Summerhall, and it was to be his.

Bessaro's voice broke the silence. "There it is, Prince. Our gift to you. This won't be just another palace. You'll have a city of your own, built on the ashes of the old Summerhall. A city where the borders of the Reach, Stormlands, and Dorne meet. Very important, of course, but also a place you can truly call your own."

Aemon's voice barely managed to escape his throat, the words stumbling out. "What do you mean, a city of my own?"

Noho chimed in. "Congratulations, Prince Aemon. By royal decree, you are now the Prince of Summerhall."

At these words, Aemon had to lean back into the hard chair, exhaling deeply. As a child, he had visited the ruins of Summerhall with his family a few times, camping under the open sky where the ruined palace let in the moonlight andthe sounds of nature filled his ears. He had always felt a strange connection to that place. Summerhall wasn't just a pile of broken memories, but the only place where Aemon had ever felt true peace. Now, the thought of taking that place and turning it into his home brought a smile to his face that he couldn't suppress. His mind already began racing with ideas of how he would rebuild it, from towering castles reaching toward the sky to an open courtyard bathed in sunlight.

But the fact that Summerhall wouldn't just be a palace but an entire city changed everything. How many cities were there in Westeros? Five or six, at most. A new city, especially in such a strategic location where the borders of the Reach, the Stormlands, and Dorne converged, meant not only immense power but also wealth beyond imagination.Aemon couldn't help but find it strange. It was completely unlike his father to put Aemon in charge of such power. He chuckled inwardly, amused at the thought. Who could truly understand Rhaegar Targaryen? His father had always been a mystery, even to those closest to him.

Aemon's eyes fell back to the parchment, scanning the clause again and again as if rereading it might somehow make it seem less surreal. But the words didn't change, and the reality of what had been offered began to settle uncomfortably within him. Doubt gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. Bessaro Reyaan had called Summerhall a gift, but when had the Iron Bank ever given anything freely? Aemon had heard enough stories and warnings to know better. The Iron Bank didn't give gifts, they gave loans, and they always collected. With interest.

"Forgive me if this seems disrespectful, my lords," Aemon began cautiously, meeting the eyes of both bankers. "But I've never heard of the Iron Bank giving gifts, especially not on this scale. May I ask what it is you expect in return?"

Bessaro Reyaan's smile widened, but there was a shift in his demeanor. His expression became more calculating, as if he had been waiting for this exact question. "Ah, Prince Aemon, you're wise beyond your years," he said with a soft chuckle. "And you're right to be suspicious. At fifteen, you achieved your first victory. An impossible battle that we know was of your own design. No, please, don't interrupt." He raised a hand, pausing Aemon's protest before it could begin. "You defeated a man who terrorized all of Essos, and you killed him with your own hand. In doing so, you sacrificed thousands of your own men to secure that victory. That tells us two things: when time is running out, you know what needs to be done, and you have the stomach to make hard decisions."

Bessaro paused, licking his lips as if savoring the weight of his next words. "The Iron Throne has always been one of our most valuable clients, and it's in our interest to ensure that wise men steer its course. Your father—may the gods bless him with a long life—will one day leave the throne to your brother. When that day comes, we want you at the table, Prince. You have proven that you can make difficult choices. We need men like you to ensure that business continues as usual. So, yes, Summerhall may be a gift to you, but for us? It's an investment." His eyes glinted with the unmistakable gleam of a man who was certain of his play. "Isn't that right, Noho?"

"Indeed, my Prince," Noho said, his voice as smooth as oil. "By ending this war, you've earned our trust. Your mission here is complete. Leave the rest to us."

Aemon sat there, absorbing their words. This was an Iron Bank game through and through. Had they pressured his father to give him Summerhall? He didn't particularly want to know the answer. He glanced at the fat man in front of him. Bessaro Reyaan didn't look like he could even swing a sword, let alone take five steps, yet he and his kind held immense power over kings and lords. If the Iron Bank wanted to back him, why would Aemon stop them? A year and a half ago, he had no allies in the court. His only supporters in the court games were his siblings. Now, everything had changed. Who could speak against the man who killed Qalar? Who could question the legitimacy of the Prince of Summerhall now? Who would dare question him now?"

And if they did? Let them try.

"In that case, I'll gladly accept your investment, my lord," Aemon said, his voice calm but resolute. "But as for the other matters… have you been briefed on the negotiations over the past week?"

"Of course, we're well informed," Bessaro Reyaan replied, his massive form shifting slightly in his chair. "But as I mentioned earlier, these matters are no longer your concern, Prince. We've had discussions with King Rhaegar, and the terms of peace will be based on our agreement with him."

"What terms, exactly?" Aemon's tone sharpened. "I hope you're not planning to allow the Red Temple to seize control of the city or to give the Triarchy any land."

Bessaro Reyaan's smile didn't falter. "Leave the Triarchy to us. They will no longer trouble you or Westeros in the Narrow Sea. However," he paused, his eyes lowering briefly, "we will allow the Red Temple to take Volantis. It is the only way forward."

Aemon's fingers tightened around the arms of his chair. "You must not allow that! Look at the streets, my Lord. The people are desperate. You'll be creating a city of fanatics, not peace."

"We understand that this is a sensitive subject for you, Prince Aemon," Noho interjected, his voice soft and almost patronizing. "We know what happened to you during the Faith siege, and we empathize with your concerns. But High Priest Benerro will not cause trouble unless we give him reason to."

"Be careful, my lords," Aemon said, his voice low and filled with barely restrained anger. "Many in the council thought the same thing years ago, and look how wrong they were." How wrong they had been, indeed—so wrong that Aemon and his sister, Rhaenys, had nearly paid the price with their lives.

"We'll take your warnings into consideration," Bessaro said with his practiced smile, one that Aemon knew all too well was false. "But we've taken enough of your time. You may join the final meeting if you wish, my Prince. There, you can witness firsthand how the Iron Bank ensures peace."

Hours later, Aemon leaned against the balcony of the palace, the cool night air offering a brief respite from the stifling heat of Volantis. His head throbbed, the headache that had plagued him all day now pounding in his temples. He lifted the half-filled cup of wine to his lips, downing it in one swift motion, the cold liquid easing his throat but doing little for his nerves. The final council meeting had descended into chaos the moment he had announced Westeros's support of the Iron Bank's plan. Even Oswell had nearly drawn his sword, furious at what had unfolded. Aemon felt a twisted relief that this was his last day in the city. He couldn't stomach any more arguments, not now.

As he gazed out over the flickering lights of Volantis, pity gnawed at him. The people below, trapped in their misery, were about to fall under the influence of the Red Temple. He wished he could protect them, save them from the fanatical priests who would soon control the city. But he no longer had the strength to fight nor patience. All he could do was place his trust in the Iron Bank's plan and hope that it wouldn't collapse as disastrously as his instincts warned it might.

"You've been dealing with these bankers every day? Gods, they do love to talk," came a cheerful voice from behind.

Aemon didn't even need to turn around to know who it was. "You seem to enjoy talking as well, Ser Daven," he replied, his voice weary.

"A lot of people say that, you know?" Devan Lannister laughed lightly, stepping up to lean against the balcony beside Aemon. "I disagree, of course. If you want a real talker, you should meet Tyrion. He's the one in the family who never shuts up."

Aemon rubbed his temples, feeling the weight of exhaustion and pain in head pressing down on him. "Why are you here, Lannister? I don't have the energy for this."

"To talk, of course. What else?" Devan's grin didn't falter. "What's wrong with getting to know your Prince?"

Aemon turned his head, his gaze narrowing at Devan. "What do you want to know?"

"Do you regret?" Devan asked, his tone suddenly shifting to something more serious.

"Regretting for what?" Aemon replied, though he already had an inkling of where this was going.

"For your plan, for all the soldiers who died, for the women who will never see their husbands again, and for the children who will grow up without fathers." Devan's words, though soft, cut deeply.

Devan Lannister was an odd man, and under normal circumstances, Aemon might have humored him, engaged in a deeper conversation. But right now, his headache was pounding in time with his pulse, and he couldn't bear to engage with the Lannister's questions. All he wanted was to return to his ship, sail away from this cursed city, and rid himself of the constant pain in his skull.

"Leave, Daven," Aemon muttered, closing his eyes in frustration. "And be thankful that you're still alive."

"Yes, alive and scarred," Devan replied with a humorless chuckle, touching the still-healing wound on his side. "So, you do not regret."

Aemon didn't answer, his eyes shutting tightly as he rested his head in his hands, hoping that his silence would prompt Devan to leave.

But Devan stayed, as insistent as ever. He let out a long sigh. "I'm still curious about one thing."

"What?" Aemon asked, irritation heavy in his voice.

"Why you never ask about your mother."

Aemon's eyes snapped open, his irritation boiling into anger. He turned slowly to face Devan, fury rising like a wave in his chest. For a brief moment, he envisioned grabbing Devan by the throat and hurling him over the edge of the balcony for daring to bring up the woman who had abandoned him.

"I was raised by Ashara Dayne. I call only her mother," Aemon said coldly, his voice tight with restraint.

He turned away, ready to leave, but Devan's hand shot out, gripping Aemon's shoulder. "But you must wonder," Devan pressed. "What was she like? What kind of mother was she to your siblings? Why did she never write to you?"

That was the last straw.

Aemon's fist swung before he could think, the metal of his gauntlet slamming into Devan's face with a sickening crunch. The force of the blow sent Devan sprawling to the ground, his hands immediately flying to his nose, now streaming with blood. Aemon didn't stop there. Fueled by his anger, he planted his boot squarely on Devan's chest, pressing down hard. He was no longer the forgotten prince. He was the Prince of Summerhall, the vanquisher who had ended a war. Devan Lannister was nothing but an irritating gnat who dared to mention the name of the woman he despised.

"Listen to me, you fool," Aemon growled, his voice low and dangerous. "I'm not a child you can toy with. I saved your necks. ME. The only reason I'm not breaking that smug face of yours again is because I choose not to." He pressed his boot harder, eliciting a groan of pain from Devan. "Next time, mind your words, or I won't be so merciful. Do you hear me, you worthless bastard? I have one mother, and her name is not Lyanna Lannister."

With that, Aemon removed his boot from Devan's chest, the man gasping for breath as he clutched his bloodied face. Aemon felt the pull of his anger, the temptation to strike again, but he forced himself to walk away. Devan wasn't worth it.

As he made his way back to the council chamber, Aemon took deep breaths, trying to calm the storm within him. He pulled out a cloth from his belt and wiped the Lannister's blood from his hand, his brother Aegon's words echoing faintly in his mind. Now, he understood why Aegon held such contempt for the Lannisters.

By the time Aemon sat back down in his chair, the headache that had tormented him all day had finally vanished.

Chapter Text

LYANNA I

She smiled as the cold wind rushed against her face, carrying with it a sense of freedom she had almost forgotten. The bracing air stung her cheeks, almost like a lover's tender touch after a long time. Her horse neighed at the sky, the sound echoing with her own laughter. Oh, how she had missed this. The thrill of the ride, the unbridled speed, the wildness of it all. The rain-soaked earth beneath them splashed with each powerful stride, splattering mud on her boots and cloak, but even the clinging muck couldn't slow Lyanna or her steed as they raced into the forest's thick greenery.

The world blurred around them, a wash of vivid greens and browns, flecked with flashes of sunlight breaking through above. But even the strongest horses had their limits. The stallion's breaths became heavier, and her powerful strides began to falter ever so slightly. Lyanna could feel it beneath her. It was a subtle thing, but to her, it was as clear as spoken words. Horses had always made sense to her, their needs, their language; sometimes, they were simpler to understand than people.

She eased her posture and gently pulled the reins. The stallion slowed obediently. The pace dropped to a trot and then to a complete stop. She patted his neck affectionately, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath her gloved fingers, and whispered a soft word of praise. As they stood there, the sound of his galloping hooves receded into the past, and the forest came alive around her. Birds called out from every direction, their songs layering over each other. The trees whispered secrets to the wind, and the scent of damp earth and leaves wrapped itself around her like an old friend.

She closed her eyes, allowing herself to be embraced by the peace of it all. This was her world, untouched by the realities of life. Here, she could simply be Lyanna, a woman without titles or burdens, just part of the forest itself.

But soon, another sound broke through her moment of solitude, the rhythmic beat of hooves approaching from behind. She knew that sound, knew it as well as her own heartbeat. A smile tugged at her lips, and she opened her eyes, her heart already warming with anticipation. This was a melody she welcomed.

"Sometimes I forget you can fly like the wind," a voice called out, cheerful and teasing, just as familiar as the hooves had been. Lyanna turned to look, her smile widening at the sight.

Despite the years that had passed, she still found herself fascinated by the sight of him. Her husband rode up with effortless grace, his golden hair flowing freely beneath the morning sun, reflecting the light like spun gold. His eyes, a deep green that seemed to smolder with an inner fire, locked onto hers. Time could change so much, yet when it came to him, her admiration seemed as timeless as the very earth beneath them. He was blessed, not just by the gods but by a rare spirit that kept his youth alive, no matter what they faced. To her, he was and always would be the most handsome man in the Seven Kingdoms, and there was no argument in the world that could convince her otherwise.

"My father always said I should have been born a horse," Lyanna teased, her voice carrying easily on the crisp breeze.

Jaime chuckled, guiding his horse closer until their mounts were almost shoulder to shoulder. "Well, your father wasn't far off..." He leaned in, his gloved fingers brushing against her cheek, leaving a cold tingle against her skin. The chill of his touch melted away as he kissed her softly, his lips warm and reassuring. "I missed this," he murmured.

Lyanna giggled, leaning back slightly to meet his gaze. "Oh, really?" she replied.

Jaime smiled, a genuine curve that brought warmth to his features. He leaned back in his saddle, his eyes drifting away from her face to scan their surroundings—the endless stretch of towering trees and the gentle swaying of leaves overhead. She watched him, knowing exactly what was on his mind, and when he spoke, her suspicions were confirmed.

"You were right," he admitted, his voice carrying a touch of awe at the beauty of the forest. "Coming here was a good idea. For the love of the gods, I can finally feel the weight lifting from my legs." He sighed deeply.

"As always, I told you," Lyanna said. "Your father truly had you chained to the Rock. How long has it been since you last left?"

"Far too long," Jaime agreed, his smile fading just a little as the weight of his absence resurfaced. He glanced at her, his eyes softening. "Now, I don't even want to go back. What do you say? Should we take the kids and run off for a while? Travel the realm—maybe visit Arbor? Paxter Redwyne once told me he keeps his best wines in his personal cellar."

Lyanna raised an eyebrow. "I barely got you out of the Rock, and now you want to run away? And Arbor? For the love of the gods, Jaime, are you already plotting an arranged marriage for Jason? Is this one of your father's ideas?"

Jaime grimaced. "No, of course not. Look, Lya, you were right. I trapped myself in that place. It became a prison, and I didn't even realize it." He shifted in his saddle, turning fully towards her, sincerity evident in his eyes. He took her hand in his, his fingers closing around hers gently but firmly. "You were right," he repeated, a little softer this time. "I didn't need to do that. Let's take the children and go explore for a while. Maybe we can split paths with Tyrion, get some time for ourselves, and show them the world."

Lyanna's gaze softened, and she gave him a long, measured look. "Tyrion is heading to King's Landing," she reminded him.

"Of course, we won't go there," Jaime quickly replied, his smile returning. "But we can leave together for a while, take different roads. I'd love to go to Arbor before autumn comes, and it would be good for the children. Maybe even Oldtown? Myrcella has been dying to visit the Citadel."

A small laugh escaped Lyanna's lips. "I'm afraid if we take our daughter there, we might lose her forever. Did you see the scene she created in her room the other day? She nearly set the tower on fire with those little gadgets she's been tinkering with." She shook her head, though her smile was fond. Myrcella might have been the calmest of their children, but her curiosity knew no bounds, and that often brought about chaos.

Jaime let out an exaggerated sigh, rolling his eyes dramatically. "Did you know," he began, "not a single one of our family members has ever become a Maester? Not even one. I don't quite understand why she's so fascinated by all that. Honestly, I blame Tyrion." He waved his hand as though dismissing the idea.

"Who's blaming me now?" came a voice, sharp with wit, from behind them.

Lyanna turned, spotting Tyrion approaching, a small escort of Lannister guards flanking him. He had that familiar sly grin plastered across his face, a glimmer of humor that never seemed to leave his eyes.

Jaime looked over his shoulder and returned the smile. "I'm blaming you," he said, his tone one of mock seriousness. "For corrupting my daughter."

"Me?" Tyrion said, raising an eyebrow as he drew his horse closer. "All I did was get her to make a few new toys. And what a curious mind she has," he added.

"Aye," Lyanna said, shaking her head slightly. "Now she wants to blow us all up with those toys. Perhaps next time youcould get her a doll like any normal child, instead of a collection of miniature trebuchets."

Tyrion squinted at the surrounding scenery as he waved a dismissive hand. "She'll be fine," he declared. "She's a smart girl, takes after her uncle. A little mischief never hurt anyone, after all." He turned his gaze to Lyanna, a knowing look in his eyes. "But really, you should be paying more attention to her twin."

Lyanna frowned, curious. "What do you mean?"

"What did they say up North?" Tyrion mused. "Wolf-blooded, was it? Well, that boy has it. He has that fire, that wildness."

"Wolfsblood," Lyanna corrected, her voice tinged with an edge she couldn't quite mask. The word always seemed to dig deep into her thoughts, unsettling memories she tried so hard to bury. She tried to push them aside, focusing instead on the present. "But it's far too early to label him. He's not even fourteen yet."

Tyrion pursed his lips thoughtfully, a glint of curiosity in his eyes. "Well, perhaps so," he conceded, "but time has a way of rushing up on you, especially with children. I won't be here for their birthday, I'm afraid. So, I suppose I'd better give them their gifts before I leave today. At least that way, they'll have something to remember their uncle by."

Lyanna nodded, a smile flickering on her lips at Tyrion's earnest concern for her children. Before the silence could settle too long, Jaime spoke with a familiar tone. "Actually," he began, "we were thinking of joining you on the road."

Tyrion turned to Lyanna, his brows arching in surprise. "To King's Landing?" he asked, almost incredulously.

Lyanna shook her head. "No, of course not," she replied. "But a little vacation would do us all good. We could leave at the same time as you, take different paths. It would be good for the children to see a bit more of the world."

Tyrion eyed them both skeptically, his sharp gaze flickering from Jaime to Lyanna. "Have you talked to father about this?" he asked, his voice dropping just slightly, as if afraid Tywin might hear even in the midst of the woods.

Jaime rolled his eyes, his voice immediately taking on a defensive edge. "What is there to talk about?" he retorted. "Is he going to lock me in my room like a child? Again?"

Tyrion nodded knowingly, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. "Exactly," he said, a hint of dark humor in his voice. "Like he's been doing for the past few years."

"Tyrion!" Lyanna scolded, her eyebrow raised.

Tyrion turned to her, his hands raised in a gesture of mock surrender, a grin spreading across his face. "Alright, alright, you can come with me." he relented. "Though I must say, I'm starting to feel the cold out here. And if it's at all possible, I'd rather head back to the city and bury my head between a nice pair of breasts to warm up."

"Tyrion!" Lyanna warned again, but this time, she couldn't suppress the laughter that bubbled up in her chest. There was something about her brother-in-law's unashamed wit that always managed to lift her spirits, even when it was utterly inappropriate.

Jaime, too, was chuckling, and he stepped forward, giving Tyrion a hearty clap on the back. The sound echoed through the woods. "I won't miss you for a while, little brother," Jaime said with a smirk. "But you're right, it's time we got going."

He turned to Lyanna, his gaze softening. She nodded, the smile still playing at her lips, and took one last deep breath of the cold forest air. It filled her lungs with something almost like courage, a reminder of freedom and the untamed beauty that always seemed just beyond reach.

There was no reason to feel sad—the forest wasn't going anywhere. It would be here, waiting for her whenever sheneeded it. With that thought, she turned her gaze back to Jaime, who was holding out his hand toward her. Taking his offered hand, she pulled herself upright in her saddle and loosened her horse's reins. With a gentle squeeze, she nudged her mount forward, matching Jaime's pace as they moved out of the clearing and back onto the winding path.

Lyanna found herself watching the lions roll lazily in their cage, two figures of raw power and natural beauty, confined yet somehow content. One male, with a lush golden mane, lay sprawled on the straw-covered ground, his massive paws stretched out in front of him. Beside him, the female nuzzled close, licking his exposed back, her tongue rasping softly over his fur. Even behind the iron bars, there was a calmness about them, as if they had accepted their world as it was—small, contained, but their own.

Jason stood just outside the cage, a large piece of bloody meat in his hands, his face was calm as he teased it through the iron bars. The lion on the ground responded instantly, lifting his head and snatching the meat swiftly, his powerful jaws closing over it.

"They're growing so fast. Just last month, they were the size of dogs. Look at them now," Jason said, his voice excitedly.

Lyanna smiled softly, her eyes on her son rather than the lions. She reached out, her fingers running through his sleek black hair, the strands soft under her touch. "Just like you," she said, her voice carrying a tenderness she could never quite hide when it came to her children.

Jason jerked away at once, his face scrunching into a frown as he turned to look at her. "Mother! Don't treat me like a child in front of people," he protested.

Lyanna couldn't help but laugh lightly, mimicking his frown as she looked down at him. "And how old are you again, my dear?" she asked, a teasing lilt to her voice.

"I'm grown now, Mother. We just celebrated my fourteenth name day," Jason said, narrowing his bright green eyes at her. The defiance there was all too familiar. "Father was in the Kingsguard at sixteen. I'm nearly that age."

Lyanna's smile faltered for a moment, her heart tightening at his words. "So, what is it then?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Do you want to join the Kingsguard too?"

Jason shook his head, his eyes drifting back to the lions, watching the male tear into the meat. "No, of course not," he muttered. "I just... I want to prove that I've grown. I want to accomplish something like Father did. I want to be remembered for something more." He turned away from the cage then, his gaze sweeping across the courtyard. His expression grew more serious. "If I stay here, that won't happen. There are no tournaments, no troubles. No glory. I'm not even allowed to go on patrol with the guards. Neither you nor Grandfather lets me do anything."

Lyanna sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly as she looked at him. She had heard this before—the restlessness, the frustration. Jason had always been a storm waiting to happen. She understood the fire in him; it was part of what made him her son. But she also knew the dangers that lay beyond these walls, dangers that he, in his youthful naiveté, could not yet fully comprehend.

"Alright, spit it out then," she said, her eyes searching his face. "What are you planning now?"

Jason hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face before it hardened again. "Let me go with Uncle Tyrion," he said, his voice firmer. "I want to see different places. I want to see King's Landing. I'm tired of being treated like a child."

Lyanna felt a cold weight settle in her chest at his words. She didn't need time to consider her answer. "No," she said immediately, the firmness in her voice leaving no room for argument.

Before Jason could argue, a commanding voice cut through the air, silencing both mother and son. They turned, and Lyanna's gaze immediately fell upon Tywin Lannister. "And what will you do in King's Landing?" he asked. The Lord of the Westerlands approached them at an unhurried pace, flanked by two guards. Today, Tywin had chosen to wear a black coat adorned with the red lion sigil, a bold defiance of the warm weather that suited the Lord of the Rock.

Jason straightened at once, his back snapping upright as he lifted his chin slightly. Still, he faced his grandfather. "I don't want to sit around doing nothing," Jason said, his voice stronger than it had been moments ago. "I want to show what I've learned. I want everyone to hear my name. And... I want to be a knight. I want to be knighted before Daemon Blackfyre ever was. But if I stay here in Casterly Rock, that won't happen."

Tywin's lips twitched into a smirk, his eyes narrowing just slightly as he studied his grandson. "So, you want to earn glory, like your father?" he asked.

Jason nodded firmly. Tywin regarded him for a moment longer, then slowly reached out, placing a hand on Jason's shoulder. "It's good to have ambition," Tywin said. "It shows you have a heart. But remember, you are a Lannister of Casterly Rock above all else. You are not a mere soldier, nor a knight seeking glory. You are expected to act accordingly."

Jason's expression faltered, a hint of confusion clouding his bright green eyes. "What do you mean, Grandfather?" he asked.

Tywin held his gaze. "Your father, if I hadn't saved him, would have spent his entire life wearing a white cloak," he said. "Don't misunderstand me—being a Kingsguard is a great honor. But such honors are beneath us," he continued, his hands spreading outward as if to encompass the entirety of their world. "You, your father, and I, we do not seek glory. That is a pursuit for those beneath us. What defines us is not our search for glory but how we perform when we are tested. The measure of a Lannister is not in chasing greatness, but in rising when greatness is thrust upon us. Do you understand?"

Jason blinked, his youthful certainty dimming under the intensity of Tywin's words. Slowly, he nodded. "You mean… like the Rains of Castamere."

Tywin's lips curved slightly. "Exactly," he said, his voice a quiet, almost dangerous murmur. "A beautiful song, but an even greater victory. Did I seek it out? No. My enemies, who fancied themselves clever, brought it to me. And I answered them, not out of some romantic desire for glory, but because it was necessary. Did I seek out the War of the Ninepenny Kings? No, again, our enemies forced our hand. And as the Lord of my people, I did my duty. A Lannister does not take unnecessary risks, nor do we play at heroics for the sake of song and story. Do you understand me now, boy?"

Jason swallowed, his shoulders sagging slightly. "Yes, Grandfather."

Lyanna could feel the weight of his disappointment. It pained her to see her son like that, but she understood Tywin's intentions. The world outside these walls was no place for youthful fantasies, and Tywin, in his own way, was ensuring Jason understood that.

"Good," Tywin said, nodding once. He glanced at the distant tower where the Maesters resided. "Now, isn't it time for your lesson? The Maesters are waiting for you." He raised an eyebrow, and to Lyanna's surprise, Jason didn't protest. The young boy hesitated only briefly before bowing his head, his mouth set in a tight line, and turned to walk away.

When they were alone, Tywin turned to Lyanna, his eyes as sharp as ever. "Walk with me, Lyanna," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument.

For a while, they walked in silence toward the exit of the open courtyard. Though the sun hung high in the sky, casting its golden rays across the stone, the day seemed quieter than usual. The usual chatter of servants, the clang of distant armor, and even the songs of birds seemed muted, as if the entire world was holding its breath. The stillness left Lyanna alone with her thoughts, her footsteps echoing softly beside Tywin's. She had a complicated affection for the Old Lion. Despite his efforts to mask it from others, there was a gentler side to him—buried deep and well-hidden, but it was there, a side that Lyanna had glimpsed on occasion. It was something that made her understand his motivations even if she did not always agree with them. Yet, there were still times when his presence brought a chill to her bones, a reminder of just how formidable and ruthless he could be when the situation demanded of him.

This long silence between them began to tug at her. She couldn't help but wonder what Tywin intended to say, what burden he had decided to share with her in this moment away from prying eyes.

Finally, it was Tywin who broke the silence. "I see a lot of Jaime in Jason," he said.

Lyanna smiled slightly at the comment, nodding. "Jaime says the same thing," she replied. "Especially when Jason starts talking back to us."

Tywin let out a slight huff, a sound that could almost be mistaken for amusement. "That part he gets from Cersei," he said dryly, though there was no real malice in the statement. "But from his swordsmanship to the look in his eyes, everything else is Jaime. The boy has fire, and fire can be dangerous when left unchecked."

"Genna says he's even better with the sword than Jaime was at that age," Lyanna added, pride evident in her voice.

Tywin glanced at her, giving a curt nod. "I agree with my sister," he replied, his face impassive, his eyes fixed straight ahead. There was no hint of emotion, no praise, just a cold acknowledgment of fact.

They continued in silence for a few moments longer before Lyanna's curiosity got the better of her. She turned her head slightly, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully as she spoke. "My lord, surely it isn't just my son you wish to discuss."

"Not here," Tywin replied, his tone brooking no argument. Lyanna kept her mouth shut and simply followed as their path veered toward the gardens of Casterly Rock.

The gardens were a beautiful contrast to the cold, imposing stone of the castle. The greenery seemed to flourish here, an oasis cultivated with careful precision. Fruit trees—apples, pears, even cherries—hung heavily with ripe fruit, their branches bowing under the weight. The air smelled sweet, a mixture of blossoms and ripe fruit, mingling with the salty tang of the sea breeze that blew in from the nearby cliffs. The rest of the garden was a carefully manicured hedge maze.

Lyanna led the way with well-practiced steps toward the far end of the garden where the land opened up, offering a panoramic view of the ocean. When they reached the large gazebo, she noticed a table had already been set, prepared in advance as if Tywin had known she would accompany him. There was a selection of delicacies—various cheeses, cured meats, figs, and freshly baked bread. The deep blue sea stretched out endlessly beyond them, the sunlight glistening off the waves like scattered diamonds.

Tywin settled into one of the chairs without a word, and Lyanna followed suit, watching as he took the first sip of his wine, his eyes focused on the horizon. She took her own goblet, the chilled Arbor Gold sliding smoothly down her throat, but she sensed that the real reason for their discussion was finally coming to light.

It was Tywin who spoke first, his voice cutting through the rhythmic crashing of the waves below. "I heard you were planning on going to Arbor," he said, his eyes turning to her, sharp and inquisitive.

Lyanna nodded, her gaze lingering on the shimmering waters. "We thought it would be good to take a break," she said. "The children could see different places, make friends. Lord Redwyne's children are almost the same age as the twins. It seemed like the perfect opportunity for all of us."

Tywin listened, his expression giving away nothing as she spoke. When she finished, he gave a slight nod, though his lips pressed into a thin line. "Had you asked me at another time, I would have said go. But things have changed," he spoke.

Lyanna set down her goblet, her brow furrowing as she looked at him. "What do you mean?" she asked. She could feel the shift in the air between them.

Tywin turned to her fully, his eyes meeting hers. "What do you know of what's happening in Essos?" he asked, his voice dropping slightly.

Lyanna blinked, taken aback by the question. "A trader who visited court recently told me the war was over," she answered. "Apparently, the King of Volantis died. He mentioned something like that." She paused, her gaze narrowing in confusion. "But what does that have to do with Arbor?" She still couldn't quite understand how something happening so far away could impact their plans for a simple vacation.

Tywin continued to hold her gaze. There was a long pause before he spoke again. "He didn't mention how the King died, I presume."

When Lyanna shook her head, Tywin reached into his coat, his long fingers moving with a deliberate slowness that drew her eyes. When he pulled them back out, he was holding a folded letter, the parchment worn and creased, as though it had been handled many times before. He placed it on the table in front of Lyanna, the writing facing away from her.

"Motherhood is a special thing, a different instinct altogether," Tywin began. "Years ago, during the Blackfyre Rebellion, Aerys and I led a patrol along the fringes of the fighting. It was a harsh time. On one such patrol, we followed the scent of smoke—wood burning, flesh too." His eyes seemed to grow distant, as if recalling the memory from the depths of a carefully guarded past. "When we arrived, we found an inn, half of it already turned to cinders by the fires. Aerys, always thorough, insisted we investigate the remains, so he threw himself into the still-warm embers, reckless as he often was, and I had no choice but to follow him. I will never forget what I saw that day. In the wreckage, among the smoldering remains, we found a very young woman, her body still crouched, as if she had been trying to protect something. She had died like that. But from her lap came a sound, a hoarse cry, barely a whisper of a child's voice. The baby had screamed itself nearly silent, but somehow, through all of that, through all the fire and death, that child survived. That young mother sacrificed herself so her baby could live. She gave everything, faced death willingly,for the sake of her child. That is why motherhood has always seemed... special to me. It's something beyond reason, beyond logic. It is pure instinct."

Lyanna's chest tightened painfully, her breath caught in her throat as she looked at the letter lying on the table. She understood what Tywin was doing. "Why are you telling me this?" she asked, her voice coming out quieter than she hadintended. She was an intelligent woman, at least, she liked to think she was. And she could already guess where this conversation was headed, though she desperately wanted to deny it.

"Do you love your children the same way, my lady?" Tywin asked.

Lyanna swallowed, trying to push back the tears that threatened to rise. She forced herself to sit straighter, to meet Tywin's unflinching gaze. "I love them all enough to die for them," she said quickly. "Myrcella, Jason, Rickard—every one of them."

Tywin's expression remained as cold as stone. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. "And what about your first?" he asked. "Your bastard?"

Lyanna felt her breath hitch. She tried to hold back the tears welling up, tried to keep her voice steady, but her composure cracked, and she looked down, her eyes blurring as she stared at the folded letter. "What does he have to do with any of this?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

"Because he has finally achieved what Rhaegar wanted." Tywin spoke the words calmly. "The real game begins now, Lyanna." He leaned back. "Everything we have done up until now will either aid us or lead to our demise. Our choices will either secure our legacy or see us fall. I need to know everything, Lyanna. I need to know about Rhaegar Targaryen."

"I haven't seen him in fifteen years. I never truly knew him." Damn the day she had met him. She didn't think anyone could truly know that man—those mysterious eyes of his. Only Rhaegar Targaryen understood his own thoughts and actions. After the months she spent at the Tower, this was the only conclusion she could reach.

"I never asked you why you ran away with him," Tywin said. He leaned forward as if he could strip away the barriers she had built in her mind through sheer will alone. "But now, I must ask. What did he promise you? What words did he use? What kind of a man was he?"

"None of that matters!" she cried, her voice breaking as she spoke. The image of Rhaegar, with his silver hair and eyes that seemed to see beyond the present, flashed before her eyes. She remembered the gentleness in his touch, the conviction in his words.

Tywin didn't flinch at her outburst. "It matters, Lyanna, because the King will undo all we have built so far," he said. "You know the treasury records—you sit on my council. How do you think our wealth has increased so much in recent years? Our tax reliefs, our freedom in trade, our control over our lands, do you think any of that is guaranteed? No. We could lose all of it because Rhaegar won that war far quicker than it should have ended. And he will cash in his gains. For that, we have your bastard to thank. So tell me," Tywin continued. "If anyone knows Rhaegar in this realm, it is you. You knew his mind, his dreams. We must prepare before we act. If we misstep now, everything we have worked for will crumble."

It felt impossible for Lyanna to digest these words, and the emotions that accompanied them were overwhelming. She had buried these memories deep in the darkest corners of her mind; of the silver-haired prince, of the crying baby she had left behind. All were buried because they were too painful, too dangerous to face. Now Tywin's words dragged them back, forcing her to confront the very things she had tried to forget. Aemon, she thought. That was her first child's name. She had not chosen it for him. At first, she had wanted to call him Jon, a simple name, a name that spoke to her of the North and of family. She remembered when they had placed the baby in her arms, so small, his tiny face screwed up in that way all newborns seemed to do.

She closed her eyes tightly, as if trying to block out the image. She did not want to think of him anymore. Instead, she forced herself to think of Rhaegar, to focus on him.

"You wouldn't understand the promises he made to me," she said. She opened her eyes, meeting Tywin's strict gaze, her own filled with both pain and defiance. "And they don't matter anyway. They were all lies, all poison," she continued. "I don't think anyone could truly understand Rhaegar. He was still the most calculating, most intelligent man I knew, but he was also foolish enough to believe in fairy tales." she said.

"What kind of fairy tales?"

"He believed in a prophecy," she said, her voice trembling, but she made herself continue. "He wanted a third child. He told me he wanted a daughter—a girl who would complete the circle. He believed she would be the key to saving the realm. He believed she was part of his destiny."

"But you did not give birth to a daughter," Tywin spoke.

"Which is why he was a fool. I lost everything because of his foolishness..." Lyanna knew there was someone else to blame as well, but she couldn't. If she blamed herself, she wouldn't be able to bear it. If she blamed herself for her brother's and father's deaths, she would slit her own wrists. If she blamed herself for Ned abandoning her, she would throw herself into the cold sea from the Rock. So it wasn't her fault. It was Rhaegar's fault; it was that baby's fault.

"Does he care?" he asked, his eyes narrowing as he leaned slightly closer, "About his family? The throne? The smallfolk? Or is it all a mask?"

Lyanna closed her eyes for a moment, trying to gather herself. She took a deep breath, then opened her eyes, meeting Tywin's gaze once more. "He… he loved to talk about his family," she said, and for a moment, she saw Rhaegar as he had been in those rare moments of quiet, moments when he had lowered his guard. "I think he genuinely loved them, even Elia, despite everything that happened between us. He once told me he played music for the smallfolk, secretly. He would sneak away from the Red Keep, play his harp, and watch them gather to listen."

She looked down at her hands, her fingers twisting together as she struggled to put her thoughts into words. "As for the throne, I don't know," she admitted. "I don't think he cared for it in the way others did. To him, everything was a duty—something he had to bear, a weight on his shoulders. Even bringing me to that tower felt like a duty, something he believed he had to do, something he thought was part of his fate. Whether he loved it or hated it, I don't know. But he embraced it with his whole heart." She paused, her gaze growing distant. "No one could have stopped him from fulfilling that duty… no one. And, well, it seems no one did in the end. How many thousands of people died for all this?" she whispered, her voice cracking, the pain of the truth almost too much to bear.

Tywin was quiet for a while. His expression was hard to read.

"Have you got your answer, my lord?" Lyanna asked, her spirit drained by the memories she had dredged up. She had laid herself bare before him, given him the truth that she had hidden for so long. "May I leave now?"

"Sit down, not yet," Tywin commanded. Lyanna hesitated, then slowly lowered herself back into her seat. Tywin, as if nothing of significance had just been discussed, picked up a fig from the table, biting into it deliberately before washing it down with a sip of his wine. "We may have to embark on a dangerous path for our house," Tywin began. "The choices we make in the coming days will determine the fate of all of us—mine, yours, Jason's, and his children's." He paused, watching her, making sure she understood the gravity of his words. "Do you understand? Good. Depending on the decisions we make, we may find ourselves branded as traitors to the crown. To Rhaegar. To Aemon Targaryen. Do you understand what that means?"

The name hung between them, heavier than any other word he had spoken. Aemon Targaryen. The full name of the child she had borne and abandoned. A name that had haunted her dreams, a name she had tried to forget, but could not. In that moment, a thousand thoughts raced through Lyanna's mind, memories and questions she had buried resurfacing with brutal clarity. What was he like now, she wondered? What had he grown into? Was he kind, or hardened by life? What was his first word? Who had comforted him when he cried in the middle of the night? Who had taught him to walk, to talk, to laugh? Had he ever kissed someone? Could he ride a horse, the way she had loved to ride? What color were his eyes?

Did Ashara Dayne tell him everything—did she tell Aemon the truth about his mother? And if he knew, did he know also that she had hated him?

Lyanna forced herself to swallow, her tears drying on her cheeks, her heart heavy with the weight of all those unanswered questions. She had made her choice fifteen years ago, and she knew she had to live with the consequences now. There was no turning back, no room for regret or weakness. Her loyalty was no longer to the past, no longer to old dreams or broken promises.

"When no one would help me, you did," she said quietly, her voice steady, her gaze meeting Tywin's. "My loyalty is to my children—Jason, Myrcella, and Rickard. I will protect them, no matter the cost."

Tywin allowed a small, satisfied smirk to cross his lips, a flicker of approval that vanished as quickly as it had come. He gave a curt nod. "Good. Speak of this conversation to no one—not even Jaime. For now, this remains between us, until the time comes when it must be shared."

He rose from his leather chair, his tall frame casting a long shadow over her as he stood. "Soon enough, we will inevitably find ourselves in King's Landing," he continued. "I expect that either a tournament or a Council will be convened—perhaps both. And when that happens, we must present ourselves as a unified family. That is why I cannot permit you to go to Arbor now. And I do not want to see you so tearful again. You must be strong, my daughter. Strong. King's Landing will test you more than any of us, and if you show weakness, they will exploit it."

Lyanna drew in a breath, steeling herself. "Yes, my lord." She had to be ready for her children's sake, for her family's future.

"Good." Tywin gestured to the parchment still lying on the table in front of her. "I ordered Daven to write this letter. It contains information about Aemon Targaryen. Read it, learn it, and prepare yourself. Soon enough, you will come face to face with him. He will not let you espace from your past."

When she finally returned to her empty room, Lyanna felt the emptiness close in on her, a quiet suffocating in its stillness. She paced around the chamber, her footsteps echoing off the stone walls. Her tears had long since dried, but her mind was still fixated on the crumpled letter clenched in her hand. She hadn't yet found the courage to open it, nor could she imagine how she would. Every time she glanced at the folded parchment, an icy fear twisted in her chest. If she read that letter, it would feel as if she were truly confronting her son, the child she had left behind.

She couldn't help but wonder what those words would say—would they condemn her, judge her for her choices? Would the ink on that paper scream of her failures, accuse her of abandoning the one person who had needed her most? Would they speak of a young man shaped by the absence of a mother, hardened by a life without her love?

She sank down into a chair, her hands trembling as she pressed her face into them, her shoulders slumping under the weight of her thoughts. She had abandoned her son. She had never loved him; she hadn't even allowed herself to try. She had hated him. When she looked at his tiny, sleeping face all those years ago, all she could think about was everything she had lost—the deaths of her father and brother, the love she had known, the home that had cast her out. She had blamed him for all of it. How could she love a baby that had brought her nothing but pain, that had cost her everything?

But as she sat there, the memories clawing at her, the truth began to take shape, bitter and undeniable. The reason for everything she had lost wasn't that baby. It had never been him. The real reason—the real sinner—was herself.

She took a deep breath, her eyes stinging as she forced herself to confront the truth. It wasn't Aemon's fault. It was hers. No one else was to blame but her. Lyanna had thought Rhaegar's plans would keep her away from Robert and other southern lords. She had thought she could live quietly in the North with her baby, surrounded by her family. She had imagined herself in the warmth of Winterfell, with her brothers and father, raising her child with the love she had always known.

But it had been a fantasy—a naive, foolish fantasy. She had run away willingly, her baby hadn't kidnapped her, hadn'tasked to be born into the chaos that followed. Her firstborn son had not sinned; she had. It was her decision to follow Rhaegar that had set everything into motion. Her choices had brought her here, and it was she who had lost everything in the process.

Lyanna leaned back in the chair, her eyes red and raw from the tears she had shed. But there were no tears left now. Only an emptiness, a hollow ache that gnawed at her. She had gone beyond forgiveness—there was nothing left thatcould undo what she had done. It was too late for apologies, too late for remorse. She had left her son, handed him to Ashara Dayne and walked away, never once looking back.

She remembered the letter that had come years ago, a letter that she knew—somehow, deep in her heart—had been from Aemon. She had burned it without reading a single word, casting it into the flames because she couldn't bear to know what it might say. She had left her firstborn alone, and now, after all these years, Tywin was forcing her to choose between her children—forcing her to confront the very choices she had tried to bury.

She closed her eyes, her breaths coming slowly, her heart pounding as she tried to gather her resolve. She had made her choices fifteen years ago, and now she had to walk the path she had chosen, no matter how painful, no matter howimpossible it seemed. She could no longer ask for her son's forgiveness, nor could she ask for his understanding. She could not make amends or try to make things right. All she could do now was move forward. She had to be strong for Jason, for Myrcella, for Rickard.

Lyanna opened her eyes, her gaze falling on the crumpled letter in her hand. For a long moment, she stared at it, her fingers tightening around the parchment. She imagined Aemon's face, imagined what he must look like now, the boy who had grown into a man without her. She imagined his eyes, whether they looked like Rhaegar's or hers. She imagined his anger, his hatred—would he blame her as she deserved?

With a deep breath, she stood and walked to the fireplace. The flames crackled softly, the warmth of the fire brushing against her skin. She looked down at the letter, feeling the weight of it in her palm, the burden it represented. It was a bridge to the past she had left behind, a past that had no place in her life anymore. She had to be strong, unyielding, for the children she could protect—the ones still with her.

She crumpled the letter in her hand, her fingers trembling as she squeezed it into a tight ball. Without hesitation, she tossed it into the fire, her eyes watching as the flames licked at the parchment, devouring it, the paper curling and blackening, the words disappearing into ash and smoke. The flames roared, and the letter vanished, leaving nothing behind, its ashes scattering as if it had never existed.

Lyanna stood there for a long moment, staring into the fire, the warmth pressing against her cheeks, her heart aching with a pain she could no longer afford to acknowledge. The words about her son were gone, turned to smoke and ash, leaving the room without ever touching her mind. She could not change the past, but she could still protect her family,still ensure that the choices she made now would not lead them to ruin.

With renewed determination, she crossed the room, her steps echoing in the quiet emptiness, each one carrying her further from the ghosts of her past. She would face whatever came, and she would face it without hesitation. There was no room left for anything else.

Chapter Text

RHAENYS I

"I can't believe that you are here."

Rhaenys blinked against the soft glow of the late afternoon sun, her eyes half-lidded in drowsiness. She must have dozed off, even though she only intended to sunbathe for a bit. Still dizzy, she scanned her surroundings, squinting as if her mind needed a moment to catch up with her body. The sun was slowly lowering itself towards the horizon, casting golden shadows across the terrace. Realizing how much time she had lost, a wave of annoyance crept in. She stretched her arms forward, the muscles in her back and shoulders groaning in protest. With a reluctant groan of her own, she pushed herself upright from the sun lounger.

Her tired gaze fell on Arianne, who stood nearby, hands on her hips, eyes narrowed with impatience.

"Why didn't you wake me up sooner?" Rhaenys asked, her voice rough with the dryness of sleep. She suddenly became acutely aware of her parched throat and smacked her lips in discomfort. Water—that's what she needed. She started reaching out, searching blindly for her drink.

Arianne sighed in mock exasperation. "Because you just disappeared on us. Even Dany didn't know where you'd gone. I barely managed to find you. You silly thing." She reached over to the table beside her and handed Rhaenys a silver bottle, still inexplicably cold.

Rhaenys took it gratefully, her fingers curling around the cool metal. She tipped her head back, gulping down the water, feeling each swallow soothe the dryness in her throat. When she'd had enough, she emptied the rest over her head, shivering at the sudden chill. The cold water ran down her neck and back, and after hours of baking under the sun, it felt heavenly.

"Anyway," Arianne went on, her face halfway between a scold and a tease, "what are you doing here, really? Shouldn't you be packing? I thought you'd have a mountain of things to sort out."

Rhaenys made a dismissive wave with her hand. "I left all that to the servants," she said, her lips curving into a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I wanted to feel the sun one last time before I go. But I suppose I overdid it."

Arianne's brow furrowed slightly as she murmured, "You should have a maester look at your skin. You know, before you try to lie down on a bed and realize how badly you've burned yourself. Besides," she added, her voice softening, "what's with all this nostalgia? You'll be back. It's not like this is the last time you'll ever see Dorne."

Rhaenys looked away, her gaze lingering on the sun, now dipping closer to the horizon, painting the sky in soft pinks and oranges. She shrugged, a small, almost imperceptible lift of her shoulders. "I don't know, Ari. I don't think I'll be back for a long time. Maybe not for years."

Arianne didn't respond immediately. Instead, she moved closer, settling herself beside Rhaenys on the sun lounger. Without a word, she leaned in, her lips brushing gently against Rhaenys' sun-kissed shoulder. The tender kiss made the sunburned skin tingle, a sweet mixture of pleasure and pain. Slowly, Arianne lifted her head, her breath tickling Rhaenys' ear.

"Do you think your future Lord husband can stop you?" she teasingly whispered. "Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, the finest Spearwoman of the Seven Kingdoms—tamed by a husband?" With each sentence, her lips wandered upward. From the shoulder to the neck, from the neck to the chin, and finally, they hovered over her lips. Rhaenys felt her breath hitch as Arianne's mouth met hers. Her hands moved on their own, cupping Arianne's cheeks, pulling her in closer. For that moment, she let herself sink into Arianne's warmth, her taste, and the world outside fading away.

But before the moment could consume her completely, Rhaenys broke the kiss. Her forehead still rested lightly against Arianne's. She kept her fingers on Arianne's face, her thumbs brushing softly across her skin. "You could have tried harder to keep me here," Rhaenys said with a soft murmur. There was an ache in those words.

Arianne smiled, her eyes half-lidded. "It would have been pointless. I knew our vacation was over the moment you read that letter. I knew that look in your eyes—you were already half gone." She paused, her smile growing a little sadder. "Still, it would've been nice if you stayed just a bit longer. What harm could two more weeks have done?"

Rhaenys shook her head gently. "I need to be there, Ari. He will need me."

Arianne's lips parted in a soft, almost frustrated sound. "He's not a child anymore, Rhae. I don't know any child who's killed a King. He can handle his own problems now. Besides, isn't that what Daenerys is there for?"

Rhaenys rolled her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips as she gave Arianne a playful tap on the head. "He's my brother, idiot. You don't know him like I do. He will need me. And..." She sighed, her smile fading as her lips twisted into a reluctant frown. "And Daenerys might make things worse. Thanks to your foolish brother."

Arianne sighed deeply in response, sprawling across the sun lounger, her body shifting diagonally across the cushions. The setting sun painted her face in a warm glow, making her beauty almost ethereal. Rhaenys had to fight the urge to lean in and steal another kiss from those tempting, full lips.

"I warned him so many times," Arianne muttered, her eyes focused on the sky. "But he wouldn't listen to me. And, let's be honest, Daenerys didn't exactly push him away, did she?"

Rhaenys let out a low chuckle, her fingers idly tracing patterns on Arianne's arm. "My aunt is acting foolish, that's all. She still hasn't forgiven Aemon for leaving him."

Arianne's laughter, rich and light, filled the air between them. "Oh, little Princess," she said, shaking her head. "She's such a strange girl, really. Sometimes I look at her, especially into those violet eyes, and I see someone so bright, so clever. And then, just when I start to think she's beyond her age, she does something incredibly foolish."

Rhaenys smiled knowingly. "Love does that to people. It can make even the brightest among us act like fools."

Arianne arched an eyebrow, her gaze turning sly. "Why didn't love make you foolish, I wonder? It'd be wonderful if you were foolish enough to stay here longer."

Rhaenys didn't answer immediately. Instead, she let her fingers wander down Arianne's arm, gliding over her skin, memorizing every curve, every line, as if she could somehow carry these moments with her when she left. "Why don't you come with us, then?" she whispered.

At that question, Arianne's expression faltered. She lowered her gaze. "You know the reason, Rhae," she spoke with a fragile tone. "My father needs me. You know how his health is; it's not getting better. And it's just me, Quentyn, and Trystane here. As his heir, I need to be by his side."

"I know, my love, but don't worry. My uncle is still strong. He still beats us all mercilessly at cyvasse," Rhaenys said with a soft laugh. Rhaenys loved her uncles dearly. They were all quite different in character, but each of them had played a significant part in her life that had shaped her into who she was today. Oberyn had been the one to truly teach her how to fight. He had placed the spear in her hands, telling her that she would never be helpless as long as she had it. He had taught her to wield the spear, to swing it with precision, to thrust it with purpose.

And then there was Doran—calm, steady Doran. The uncle who was always there with open arms when the noise of King's Landing grew too loud, when the pressures of the capital became suffocating. Whenever she needed an escape, he welcomed her to Dorne, providing her a sanctuary away from the chaos. He would host feasts in her honor, as if her presence was something to be celebrated, showering her with gifts and laughter. But more than that, he gave her a place where she could simply be herself.

And then there was Lewyn. The thought of him brought a heaviness to her heart, a pain that never truly faded. Lewyn had given his life for her and Aemon. She could still see the flashes of steel, hear the desperate clash of swords as he fought against the Faith militants who had come for them. He had thrown himself in harm's way without hesitation. She remembered the moment he fell, the way he had looked at her. Lewyn had given her the gift of her life, and she carried that weight every day. That was why she loved all three of her uncles—they had all played an important role in her life.

Arianne's voice brought her back from her thoughts. "I know he's still strong, but I read something about gout recently. It said the patient can suddenly worsen out of nowhere. That's why, honestly, I don't want to leave him alone," her voice tinged with worry.

Rhaenys reached out, wrapping her arm around Arianne's waist, gently pulling her close. "My uncle is still well, and he will continue to be," she whispered. "He's stronger than you think, my sun. He had endured so much already, and he is still strong." She brushed a strand of Arianne's dark curly hair behind her ear, her fingers lingering on her cheek. "Now don't frown that pretty face of yours. I don't want my last memories here to be of that frown."

 Slowly, the frown faded, replaced by a smile that made Rhaenys' heart feel lighter, as if the sun had just broken through the clouds. "That's better," Rhaenys whispered, her thumb brushing over Arianne's lower lip.

Arianne's smile widened, the worry in her eyes replaced by a spark of mischief. She murmured first, her voice soft, almost teasing, before speaking aloud. "If you want a good memory, leave your window open tonight."

Rhaenys couldn't help but smile. She leaned in, her lips finding Arianne's, pressing against them softly. She pulled back just enough to whisper against Arianne's lips. "It's always open."

When they returned to the Tower of the Sun, Rhaenys was greeted by an unfamiliar sight. Servants scurried in every direction, their tension visible on their faces. A few carried trays laden with wine goblets, others hustled with armfuls of linens, while some rushed to hang banners adorned with the sigil of House Martell. Rhaenys had a fairly good idea of what this was all about, but she still glanced at the man beside her to confirm.

"A feast, I presume?" she asked, her voice even but curious.

Areo Hotah, with his white hair and formidable presence, gave a nod. "Our Prince wanted to hold one last feast for you and Princess Daenerys. A small gathering—no foreign guests. Just you and the Martells."

Rhaenys returned the nod and continued walking. The Tower of the Sun, and Sunspear as a whole, was modest compared to the grandiose castles and sprawling palaces she had seen throughout Westeros. But what it lacked in size, it more than made up for in character and history. There was a raw beauty here, a defiant charm that spoke of a land that had never bowed easily to anyone.

As Rhaenys moved along the stone corridor, she felt the immediate relief of its cool embrace, a welcome change from the relentless heat outside. The thick stone walls held onto the shade, providing a small sanctuary against the unyielding Dornish sun. She slowed her pace slightly, letting her fingers graze the cool, ancient stone. Her eyes drifted to the mosaics that adorned the walls—masterpieces of red, gold, and deep navy blue that seemed to dance in the dim light. They told stories she knew well: the victories of House Martell, the brave resistance of Dorne against Rhaenys's House. Dragons and sand snakes intertwined in an endless battle.

It was strange, she thought, how she felt no resentment towards these depictions. They should have stung, as they showed victories against her family's banners. But there was no anger. Perhaps it was the Martell blood that made her feel like that. 

As she walked down the corridor, beams of light streaming through narrow windows set into the walls created shimmering patterns on the floor. Rhaenys continued, watching the sun's rays play on the mosaic floor, almost like a snake dancing its way forward. A few steps ahead, she glanced at a wide arched window covered with golden cloth; outside, the blue of the Narrow Sea merged with the golden desert. In the distance, the towers of Brindenburg stood out, regal and vigilant.

Her room was at the end of the corridor, beyond a high-ceilinged passageway. She slowly opened the wooden door and stepped inside. The room was spacious and elegant, but also simple. The large bed had finely decorated bronze frames, and it was draped in soft coverings in shades of red and gold. The rays of the setting sun illuminated the branches of a small olive tree in front of the window, the leaves performing a shadowed dance. There were only a few personal touches in the room—books neatly arranged on a shelf, stories and histories she had been meaning to finish, and a simple clay bottle of Dornish wine resting on a small wooden table. The earthenware, dark and polished, seemed to glow in the soft evening light, adding a warmth to the room that made it feel less like a place she was leaving and more like a place she had lived in and loved.

Without wasting much time, she began to get dressed with the help of her servant. The dress she chose had once been a gift from her uncle Oberyn. It shimmered in shades of orange under the setting sun, reminiscent of Dorne's blood oranges. It was as bold as its color, with a neckline that left little to the imagination. She could easily see the muscles of her bare back in the mirror. Wearing such a dress would have been difficult in King's Landing, but here, it was the exact opposite. 

Here, she could dress as she wished, speak as she wished, live as she wished.

But her home was still King's Landing.

Dorne might have been where she found freedom, but her roots were entwined with the swords of the Iron Throne. Still, there were things she adored about Dorne, things she knew she would miss terribly. One of those things was the food. Each dish was a different experience, with every bite revealing a new layer of taste. Sometimes, the sharp heat of peppers would set her tongue aflame, bringing tears to her eyes, and other times, the coolness of herbs would soothe her palate like a gentle breeze after a scorching day. She found herself entertaining with the idea of stealing away one of the palace chefs when she returned home. 

The feast that evening had been vibrant, filled with laughter and the easy warmth of family. Doran Martell, despite his illness, seemed more animated than ever, his eyes twinkling as he told jokes and stories, his deep voice rising above the clatter of dishes and clinking of goblets. His cheerfulness was infectious, even bringing a smile to the usually stoic Areo Hotah. He stood silently behind his prince, lips quirking upward in rare amusement.

Across from her, Tyene sat with her golden hair framing her fair face. Tyene had always been easy to talk to. Her gentle presence was as comforting as a quiet afternoon in the Water Gardens. More than once, Rhaenys had rested her head in Tyene's lap, lulled into a peaceful sleep by her cousin's soft humming. Tyene's songs had a way of making the world feel distant and safe. Rhaenys knew she would miss her dearly.

The warmth at the table was noticeable, extending to every corner of the room and to every person seated. Even Obara had found herself laughing. She had brandished a chicken leg at Trystane, threatening to throw it across the table at his teasing remark. But before she could follow through, Daenerys had already flung an empty corn cob in Obara's direction, hitting her in the head. The whole table erupted in laughter, and Obara, instead of taking her usual course of payback, threw her head back and laughed along.

Everything felt perfect. The food, the laughter, the sense of belonging that hung in the air. And yet, there was something that spoiled it, something that kept her from fully enjoying the scene before her: Quentyn's hand, resting on Daenerys' thigh.

Rhaenys noticed Quentyn's growing interest in Daenerys the moment she and her aunt arrived. She would have had to be blind not to see it—the way his gaze would linger on her, the way he would position himself close to her whenever he had the chance, the sudden improvements to his wardrobe that were clearly meant to impress. She noticed how his fingers would rest a little too long on Daenerys' arm when they spoke, how his eyes softened every time she laughed. 

It was all so glaringly obvious, and yet Daenerys had denied it when Rhaenys had brought it up. She had laughed it off, brushing aside Rhaenys' concerns with a wave of her hand. According to her, Quentyn didn't even like her—not in that way, at least. And even if he did, what was it to Rhaenys? Daenerys could handle herself. She didn't need her older sister meddling in her affairs. 

But that was exactly what worried Rhaenys. Because she did feel responsible. She had always felt responsible for her younger siblings. From the moment they were born, she had watched over them, each of them holding a part of her heart in a way no one else ever could. Aemon, Aegon, and Daenerys—she loved them fiercely. She had held Daenerys' hand when she had nightmares, shielded Aemon from his worst fears, listened patiently to Aegon's hopes and Viserys' frustrations. And she had watched Daenerys and Aemon's relationship unfold, had seen the spark between them grow into something real.

Rhaenys knew how deeply Daenerys cared for Aemon. She saw how it had hurt Daenerys when Aemon left for the war despite her protests. Daenerys had pleaded with him, spoken of her dreams that showed only darkness and fire, begged him not to leave her behind. But Aemon had made his choice, and Daenerys, too proud to cry in front of others, had locked herself away in her room, refusing to see him off. And now, with Aemon still away, there was Quentyn, quietly sliding into the empty space he had left behind. Rhaenys knew that Dany was still hurting, still angry at Aemon for abandoning her, even if she tried to hide it. 

That was why she didn't like seeing Quentyn's hand on Dany's thigh, and she didn't like seeing the slightly pleased look in Doran's eyes when he glanced at that hand. And she definitely wouldn't like how Aemon would react once he found out about it. 

Rhaenys took a long sip from her goblet, the rich Dornish Red warming her chest as she swallowed. No, this would not do. Soon, they would leave Sunspear. Leave Dorne, and Quentyn would remain here, where he belonged. And Daenerys would be far away from his lingering glances and misplaced affections. It was better this way—cleaner, simpler. 

The conversation at the table flowed as freely as the wine, with each cup that was drained promptly refilled by attentive hands. The topics shifted seamlessly. Funny stories that made them laugh until their sides hurt, embarrassing memories that made their cheeks flush, their eyes alight with nostalgia. They spoke of their expectations for the future, shared gossip about the people in the castle, delved briefly into the murky waters of politics. 

Rhaenys felt her face ache from laughing so much, the kind of laughter that made her feel both exhausted and alive. She could also feel the effects of the wine setting in, a pleasant haze wrapping around her senses, making her head spin slightly every time she moved too quickly. The night was slowly but inevitably coming to an end. One by one, the guests began to take their leave. Tyene had been the first, her warm smile lingering as she kissed Rhaenys' cheek and whispered something that made her giggle even as she tried to act serious. Then Trystane had followed with Arianne, slipping away quietly.

As everyone started to leave, Rhaenys was about to ask for permission to do the same, but her uncle's gaze stopped her. She widened her eyes and sat back down, curiosity already settling in her mind. Daenerys had left the table with Quentyn. Quentyn must have found some courage from the wine, as he placed his hand on Daenerys' back. Rhaenys rolled her eyes and looked at where Ser Barristan was standing. When the old knight noticed her, Rhaenys raised her finger and eyebrows, indicating Dany. He seemed to understand her request, as he positioned himself behind Daenerys and led her in a different direction. Rhaenys sighed deeply, her frustration easing as she leaned back into her leather chair and relaxed again. Her gaze returned to her uncle, curiously waiting for him to speak. Perhaps he wanted to give her a farewell speech.

"It was a beautiful night," Doran Martell began, his voice unaffected by the pitcher of wine he had drunk. He looked around the nearly empty table. "It was wonderful to have the family together again, even if it was only for a short time."

Rhaenys smiled faintly, her fingers tracing the edge of her empty cup. "It would have been even better if the others were here," she murmured. "My mother, Oberyn, Nym, Elia, Obella…" The names rolled off her tongue like a list of what was missing.

Doran's expression softened, and a gentle smile touched his lips. "In time, my dear. In time, we will all be together. You're already going to be with some of them now," he said. "I hope you had a good time here. Seeing you happy again, seeing you smile and laugh—it was very good for me. You brought life to this place, Rhaenys, for everyone, especially for Arianne. You've done more for us than you know. Thank you."

Rhaenys reached across the table, her hand gently closing over her uncle's, her fingers curling around his worn ones. "It's me who should be thanking you, uncle. You took us in, gave us a place to rest, and treated us with such care. The peace I've found here... it means more than I can say. The warm winds, the sand beneath my feet, the children laughing in the Water Gardens, the food, the blood oranges—everything here has been like a gift." She paused, her voice growing softer, more wistful. "I'm going to miss it all so much."

Doran sighed, and for a moment, the weariness in his eyes showed. "Maybe you don't have to leave so soon, then," he spoke as if it hurt to let the words out. "You haven't even been here for six months yet, and now you're leaving." 

"You know I have to go. I've had enough of a vacation, and my brother is returning home. I should be by his side. I might already be late; by the time I arrive, he might already be there," Rhaenys said.

Doran regarded her quietly, his gaze steady, almost studying her. "You're very attached to your brother, Rhaenys," he said. "I suppose I don't need to remind you that he's not a child anymore. How long has it been since he went to war? A year and a half?" He paused, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "People can change in much less time than that. War changes people, and so does time. Your brother has gone through both."

Doran leaned back in his chair, rubbing his legs absentmindedly, the gout making them ache more with every passing day. He sighed before continuing. "Oberyn wrote to me recently. Do you know what they call Aemon in King's Landing now? Aegon himself started it, you know."

Rhaenys tilted her head, her curiosity piqued, though her brow furrowed in concern. She shook her head. "No, I haven't heard anything."

"When he read the reports, Aegon laughed out loud in front of the council," Doran said, his lips curving slightly, though it was hard to tell if it was in admiration or concern. "He proclaimed the name of Fireblessed to your brother. Then that same evening, he went down to the city, bought rounds of ale for the entire tavern, and raised his cup to Fireblessed. He made a spectacle of it."

Rhaenys' eyes widened, her mouth falling slightly open. "Fireblessed?" she whispered, almost to herself.

Doran bit his lip, his eyes darkening, as if he had been there himself, watching it all unfold. "Did you read the battle reports?" he asked, his voice dropping a little.

Rhaenys shook her head, squinting slightly. "No one gave me anything like that," she said, a hint of frustration in her tone. "You were the only one who even told me that the war was over. You said Aemon killed Qalar and that the war had ended. That's all."

Doran nodded slowly, his expression growing more contemplative, and perhaps even regretful. "That's my mistake then, and I apologize. I should have told you more when I learned more," he said, his eyes meeting hers earnestly. "Your brother, according to what they say, didn't just kill the King. He also devised the strategies that turned the tide. You have to understand, Rhaenys, Stannis and Aemon achieved something that was nearly impossible. They won an unwinnable war. And perhaps... perhaps it was a war they shouldn't have won. The price was too high. They sacrificed thousands of men—thousands."

Rhaenys frowned, her lips pressing into a thin line. She waved her hand dismissively, a sharp, almost guttural sound escaping her throat. "What else were they supposed to do, uncle?" she said, her voice rising slightly. "Let them die? This is war—soldiers die. That is what happens. They know the risks. They chose this life."

Doran sighed deeply. "Everything has its place, Rhaenys," he said quietly. "Look, our being above these people—being their Lords and Princes—does not mean we have the right to send them to their deaths on a whim. Our people are not pawns on a cyvasse board, to be moved about without thought. We are bound to them by a duty. A duty that goes beyond power or privilege. Our duty is to protect them, to maintain their welfare, to avoid war whenever possible. And if war must happen, to ensure it ends in the most humane way we can manage. That is the promise we make as their rulers. The agreement we have with those who look to us for our rule. To go beyond that, to use our people, our soldiers, our farmers, our common folk—like pawns in a game, is to violate that agreement. It's tyranny, Rhaenys. Despotism."

Rhaenys stared at him, her jaw tightening, "Are you saying that Aemon is a tyrant?" she asked, her voice low, her eyes narrowing defensively.

Doran shook his head, but his eyes did not waver. "I'm saying that he has made choices that have led him down a dangerous path. War changes people. It strips away the parts of us that are kind, that are gentle. It demands that we become hard, unfeeling, relentless. And your brother... your brother embraced that darkness. He was willing to sacrifice whatever it took to win, no matter the cost. If you read the reports, you'd understand what I mean. He could have pulled back, could have regrouped, could have fought another day, another way. But he chose not to. He chose the path that cost the most lives, that brought the most destruction. He did what should never have been done."

"Uncle, the only thing I'd blame Aemon for is not ending this war sooner and coming back to us," Rhaenys said, her voice rising with each word, her cheeks flushed, partly from the wine but mostly from the emotion that bubbled within her. She took a breath, her eyes darkening as she stared across the table. Encouraged by the wine, or perhaps simply past the point of holding back, she continued, her tone sharp. "Did you make me sit here just to insult my brother? I've never understood, nor will I ever understand, your concern for him, your criticism. But you must understand me. He's my brother, he's my everything. And I won't allow you to demean him with such ridiculous thoughts. A despot? HA!"

Her voice echoed slightly in the near-empty room. She pushed her chair back, rising to her feet, ready to leave, to retreat before the conversation could twist into something uglier. She was tired, tired of defending Aemon when all she wanted was for him to come back home to her, safe and whole. 

She was halfway turned, ready to leave, when she felt a hand on her arm. She paused, glancing down at her uncle's hand, and then looked up at his face. The look in Doran's eyes was pleading. "Please, Rhaenys, sit down," he spoke with a soft voice. "Let's talk."

She hesitated, then slowly returned to her seat, settling back down. Though her shoulders were tense, her fingers still curled into fists on the table. "I want to end the night on a good note, Uncle," she said. "I don't want to hear anything more about my brother. Not tonight."

Doran was silent for a moment, the words lingering between them. His eyes roamed her face. He looked at her as if searching for something. Finally, he spoke. "We're only concerned for your safety. If he—"

"Uncle!" Rhaenys cut him off, her eyes flashing. "What did I say?"

Doran closed his mouth, his lips pressing together, and for a moment, he looked at her with an expression that seemed almost lost. He took a breath, then spoke again, becoming more formal, more authoritative. It was not just her uncle speaking now, but the Prince of Dorne. "Do you really trust him, Rhaenys?" he asked.

Rhaenys didn't hesitate. "With all my heart," she said, her eyes meeting his, unwavering. There was no question in her mind—no hesitation. Aemon was her brother, and whatever he had done, whatever had happened during the war, he was still the same person who had laughed with her, who had comforted her when she was afraid, who had stood by her side through everything. She trusted him more than she trusted herself. "As I just asked," she continued, "why did you make me sit here? If it's about Aemon, I won't answer further. I won't hear more."

Doran sighed deeply, leaning back, his gaze dropping to the table for a moment. He rubbed his hand across his face, as if trying to gather his thoughts, then looked up at her again. "No, it's not about him," he said, pausing, his eyes flickering as if reconsidering his own words. "Though, in a way, you could say it is. Don't look at me like that; just listen to what I will say. Your father, has finally gotten what he wanted. I don't know what sort of deal he made with the Iron Bank, but by ending the war early, he was able to quickly reap the benefits of that deal. He's no longer the same King he was sixteen years ago. He's in a stronger, more stable position now. And now, he's going to start correcting his past mistakes."

Rhaenys bowed her head, her expression darkening. "Are you talking about the Covenant of the Iron Throne?" she asked quietly, her voice laced with skepticism. She raised her head, meeting his gaze, her eyes fierce. "Even if my father wanted to, he couldn't abolish it. It's not that simple."

The Covenant was perhaps the greatest blow her family had ever suffered, a mark of humiliation etched deeply into their history. For the first time in Targaryen history, a King had been forced to limit his powers, to cede political and judicial authority. Rhaenys had read the Covenant hundreds of times. The original parchment, signed under duress, still rested in the library of King's Landing, a reminder of how their family's influence had been stripped away. She had read it over and over, every clause seared into her mind, a painful reminder of how her family had once bowed to the will of others. 

"I have yet to see anything that can stop Rhaegar Targaryen," Doran said. "I don't know what he's hiding up his sleeve, but you can be sure he will eventually lay his cards on the table and try. You can be sure of that."

Rhaenys frowned, her eyes narrowing slightly. "How are you so sure?" she asked. If there was one thing she knew about her father, it was that Rhaegar Targaryen was an enigma. Rhaenys knew, deep in her heart, that her father loved them. She knew he was inherently a good man. A man who wanted what was best for his family, for the realm. But he was also a man of secrets, his thoughts often hidden behind a veil that even she, his own daughter, couldn't penetrate. She had long ago stopped trying to unravel the mystery that was Rhaegar Targaryen. If even his own daughter couldn't truly know him, who could possibly predict his next move?

Doran studied her for a moment, his gaze heavy with understanding. "It doesn't matter whether you or I understand him," he said quietly. "Soon enough, you'll see that I'm right. What matters now is that your father needs us. If he wants to change or abolish the Covenant, the first thing he has to do is weaken the influence of the Bronze Council, of which we are a part."

Rhaenys raised her eyebrows, a question forming on her lips. "Why would you deliberately withdraw Dorne's influence?" she asked, her confusion evident. 

Doran leaned back in his chair, his eyes falling to his swollen hands. He touched them gently. "We can limit Rhaegar up to a point," he began. "He will eventually get what he wants. Just look at the last sixteen years, and you'll understand why I think so." He paused, his gaze lifting to meet hers again, a bitter smile settling on his lips. "But we can dictate how he wins. We can influence the terms, the conditions under which he succeeds, and make sure that the cost isn't too high—for us, for the people. Besides, Aegon is my nephew. I must leave him a good kingdom."

Rhaenys' gaze shifted, her eyes moving to the table in front of her. Even in her slightly drunken state, she began to understand her uncle's intentions, the subtle manipulations that had led to this moment. This trip to Dorne, the letter she had received months ago with the words "bring Daenerys as well" carefully written—it had all been part of his plan. Quentyn's interest in Daenerys, the way Doran had encouraged it, was no accident either. It was a calculated effort. Rhaenys felt a twist of unease in her chest, her teeth sinking into her lower lip as her thoughts raced.

She turned her face back to her uncle, her eyes searching his. He was watching her closely, and she noticed, for the first time, the small sealed letter he held between his swollen fingers. The wax seal caught the light, glinting softly. Before she could ask what it was, Doran Martell spoke "A document too important to send by raven," he said, his eyes fixed on hers. "For the King's eyes only, Rhaenys. Please. I hope that he makes a wise decision for both our Houses."

Rhaenys stared at the letter for a moment. She reached out, her fingers brushing against his before she took the letter from him, feeling the cool wax beneath her touch. The silence stretched between them.

Doran's eyes softened as he looked at her, and this time, there was no masking his emotions. His eyes held a sadness, a kind of vulnerability she had rarely seen from him. "I've always worked for all of our happiness and health, Rhaenys," he said. "You must understand this. Everything I have done, I've done for our family. And again, I hope your father will understand as well."

Chapter Text

CATELYN

As she hurried through the courtyard, Catelyn felt the cool summer snow melting on her cheeks. The soft flakes vanishing as quickly as they landed. Under different circumstances, she might have paused to savor the peacefulness of the moment. But right now her mind was cluttered, and instead of calm, all she could feel was frustration bubbling just below the surface. Arya's latest mischief was at the forefront of her thoughts, pulling her away from any sense of peace.

She moved the muddy path with care, dodging the puddles forming from the melting snow. With each step, she tried to control her emotions. She inhaled deeply, willing the cool air to soothe the irritation she felt. By the time her anger started to subside, she found herself standing at the edge of the godswood, the familiar sight calming her nerves just a little.

The godswood was a place she had come to know well, though its strangeness never fully left her. Tall, ancient trees surrounded her, their dark trunks and twisted branches creating an eerie, almost otherworldly ambiance. Catelyn had grown accustomed to this odd stillness, this sense that the woods were watching, waiting. Yet, no matter how much time she spent here, she could never truly make peace with the weirwood tree. Its pale bark stood out like a ghost among the darker trees, and its carved face, with eyes that seemed to weep blood, never ceased to unsettle her. She couldn't reconcile its existence with her own beliefs, and that tension lingered in the back of her mind every time she set foot in the godswood.

But it wasn't the weirwood that made her heart lurch this time, it was Arya. The girl lay sprawled by the hot spring, steam curling into the cold air around her like ghostly tendrils. Arya's clothes were soaked. Catelyn's heart skipped a beat when she saw the thin trickle of blood running down her daughter's forehead. All thoughts of the mud vanished as Catelyn rushed forward, her boots squelching in the wet ground.

Before Catelyn could reach her, Arya had already opened her eyes. She lifted her head slightly from where she lay and looked toward her mother, a broad grin spreading across her face. By the time Catelyn reached her, Arya had sat up, crossing her legs with her wet body. For a moment, Catelyn was at a loss. Her heart raced with the leftover panic from seeing Arya hurt, but she didn't know whether to pull her into a tight embrace or scold her for her recklessness.

"You should've seen it, Mother! It was so much fun. Of course, Sansa got scared. She said she couldn't climb to the top of the tree and ran off," Arya recounted. The bleeding wound on her head seemed completely forgotten in her excitement.

Catelyn leaned in carefully, placing her hands gently on Arya's head to examine the cut. Thankfully, the wound wasn't too deep, and it seemed the bleeding had already slowed. It wouldn't scar, she thought with some relief, though when her fingers brushed the tender spot, Arya yelped and pulled away. Catelyn sighed deeply as she settled down on the damp snow. Her body is heavy with the stress she has been holding on to.

Just minutes earlier, Sansa had come to her in the courtyard, drenched and shivering, breathlessly telling her that Arya had climbed to the top of the tallest tree in the godswood. Catelyn was used to Arya's wild antics by now, though they always seemed to take her by surprise nonetheless. One day, Arya was covering herself in flour to scare the servants; the next, she was drenching the guards with buckets of soapy water. But scaling a tree and leaping into a hot spring onl,y to hit her head on the way down, was an entirely new level of reckless. The wound on Arya's forehead was proof enough that she had gone too far this time.

"Oh, Arya," Catelyn said with a worry. "What have you done this time? How did you manage this?" She gently probed Arya's forehead again, trying to assess the extent of the damage.

Arya squirmed away, shaking off her mother's hand. "We were just playing, Mother. We wanted to jump into the water from up high, that's all."

Catelyn raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. "And how did you get this wound, my girl?"

This time, Arya looked down, her gaze fixed on the snowy ground beneath her feet. "Well... I might have jumped too far and hit my head on the rocks. But I'm fine, really! It doesn't even hurt," she insisted, her fingers instinctively reaching for the cut. The moment her fingertips brushed the dried blood, she winced and let out another sharp cry.

"Arya!" Catelyn's voice sharpened, firm now with both worry and authority. "Don't touch it. We're going to Maester Luwin right away. And you can't stay in these wet clothes for another moment. Do you want to catch your death of cold?"

Before Arya could protest or offer another excuse, Catelyn took her firmly by the arm and marched her toward the castle. She couldn't handle another protest. Arya, still wincing slightly from her self-inflicted touch, followed obediently. It didn't take long for them to reach Luwin's chambers. Maester cleaned the wound and reassured Catelyn that it wouldn't leave a scar. With that weight lifted from her mind, Catelyn felt a rush of relief. She didn't think she could handle any more stress today. Once she made sure that Arya had taken a hot bath and was safely tucked into bed, Catelyn slipped back into the courtyard, breathing in the cold, crisp air.

The summer snow that had begun falling earlier had ceased, giving way to a dry, sharp wind that nipped at Catelyn's skin. It was the kind of cold that crept into her bones, but she didn't linger in it. The sept was her destination, and she was eager to find warmth and solace there. This sept was small, nothing like the grand halls of worship she had grown up with in Riverrun. It was a modest, wooden structure, barely large enough for a handful of people. But it was hers. Ned had it built for her, defying objections and complaints from those who said the old gods had no place for the faith of the Seven in the North. But Ned never wavered, and Catelyn cherished this private space. The fire inside the sept kept the space warm, though Catelyn didn't need it; her husband's love warmed her in this place.

Catelyn took a taper and lit the candles beneath the statue of the Father, her hands moving with the rhythm of an old hymn she barely remembered but could still hum softly. She knelt on the cushion and began her prayers. She wasn't sure how long she stayed there, her thoughts flowing from one prayer to the next.

She prayed for Ned first, for a year free of the burdens that always seemed to weigh so heavily on him. The gods knew how much he needed a bountiful harvest this year to keep the people well-fed and the castle secure. She prayed for Robb and Sansa too, that they would find good, loving spouses. Her children were now of an age where marriage was on the horizon, and Catelyn wanted nothing more than to see them with people who would make them happy. She even slipped in a prayer that Ned might listen to her when it came time to choose those betrothed.

Her hands remained clasped as her thoughts drifted to Bran and Arya, her wild pair. She prayed for their safety, but also that they might calm down. Arya's pranks had become nearly constant, and Bran's climbing seemed to get bolder with each passing day. Just the other morning, she'd heard from the guards that he had been seen scaling the highest tower again. Catelyn couldn't bear the thought of them getting hurt. And finally, she prayed for Rickon's health. He was still so young, and though strong, he had been under the weather lately. She prayed for his strength to return.

By the time she rose from her prayers, the sun was setting, casting the sky in soft pinks and purples. Time had slipped away from her, and there was little chance to enjoy the beauty of the twilight. She needed to head to the kitchens and make sure the evening meal preparations were on track. Her mind shifted toward her duties, and she left the sept with brisk steps. But as she emerged back into the courtyard, her attention was drawn to movement near the corner. There, a tall, broad-shouldered figure walked. His cloak pulled tightly around him, the hood obscuring his face. Catelyn’s instincts immediately sharpened. Catelyn had been the Lady of Winterfell for years. She had memorized the face and appearance of everyone allowed into the courtyard. She was certain of it. What she wasn't certain about was who this man was.

A dozen thoughts flooded Catelyn's mind all at once. If this tall man was within Winterfell's walls, the guards must have let him in—there was no other plausible explanation. The inner walls of Winterfell were as secure as any fortress in the Seven Kingdoms. No stranger could just wander in, let alone unnoticed. The thick, high walls were impenetrable, especially at this hour. So who was this man? Catelyn's mind raced with possibilities, and her unease deepened.

She made up her mind quickly: she would confront him. Whoever he was, he had no business skulking around Winterfell like this. Her eyes searched for the nearest guards. Mickel was stationed near the gates, and she was about to call out to him when she noticed the man suddenly change direction. He was heading toward the crypts.

Catelyn's heart skipped a beat, her surprise evident on her face. No one was allowed into the crypts except for Starks. So why was this man heading there? A part of her screamed that she should call for the guards, but her curiosity pulled her in another direction. Her instincts told her that something was deeply amiss, yet a darker, whispering voice suggested she might already know who this man was. And why he was here. If she followed him into the crypts, she might find her husband there.

Her decision was made. Without another thought, Catelyn followed, moving carefully to avoid drawing attention to herself. She kept her steps quiet, trailing him as he slipped inside. The man glanced around cautiously before descending the narrow stairs into the crypt, his face still hidden beneath his cloak.

Catelyn sighed and stepped into the crypt. As soon as she crossed the threshold, a familiar chill washed over her. She always felt it here. The sense that the dead resented her presence, that she didn't belong among the ancient kings and Stark ancestors resting beneath Winterfell. But she pressed on, shaking off the unease, and carefully descended the poorly lit stairs. The torches along the walls flickered weakly, casting long, dancing shadows, barely illuminating her path. The stone figures of long-dead kings lined the walls, their cold eyes watching as she passed. She ignored them, though they seemed to call out to her, reminding her she was a stranger. The deeper she went, the more her heartbeat quickened, until she heard something that stopped her in her tracks—laughter.

Ned's laughter. She would recognize it anywhere, no matter the place. And it was unmistakable now, echoing softly through the stone corridors. Her heart clenched as her suspicions solidified into certainty. This wasn't a stranger she was following. The voices came from just ahead, behind the corner of the corridor. If she stayed hidden, pressed against the cold stone wall, they wouldn't see her. She could listen in, unnoticed. The thought was tempting, especially as the sound of conversation became clearer. But a wave of hesitation washed over her. Should she really be doing this?

This was Ned's private business, something he had chosen to discuss in secret. If he hadn't brought it to her attention, did she have the right to eavesdrop? A part of her recoiled at the idea of betraying his trust. Ned never kept secrets from her, not truly. He shared his burdens, his worries. If this was important, surely he would tell her in time, wouldn't he? Maybe she should turn back, leave him to his private conversation. It was the proper thing to do.

Just as she was about to take a quiet step away and trust her husband, a voice froze her in place.

"For the gods' sake, Ned. You've aged. Being a lord hasn't done you any favors. Look at the weight you've gained."

That voice, there was no mistaking it. Robert Baratheon. She could recognize that booming, familiar tone anywhere, even if centuries passed. How could she not? The man who had fought for everything and lost everything. He wasn't supposed to be here. Catelyn wasn't supposed to be hearing this. It would change everything if she stayed, but she couldn't tear herself away. She was rooted to the cold stone beneath her feet.

"When you try ruling, you'll understand. And you, Robert, haven't changed at all. Not a single gray hair," came Ned's voice, laced with warmth and a lightness Catelyn hadn't heard in him for far too long. That familiarity echoed in his every word. It made her heart ache.

"Well, no need to lie. Essos has treated me well." Robert's reply was followed by a pause.

Catelyn's breath caught in her throat as she leaned ever so slightly closer. Every instinct told her to leave, but something deeper told her to stay.

"Are you sure you weren't followed? I made up excuses for the guards, but you never know what could happen here,"Ned spoke.

"I'm sure, don't worry. Is it really that bad?" Robert's tone had shifted as well, growing serious.

"Last year, we caught a spy and his words. The letter he wrote was about how much food we had left. We never found out who he was sending it to." Ned's words sliced through Catelyn like a blade. A spy? She hadn't heard anything about this. The fact that Ned had kept it from her, gnawed at her heart.

"It must be Rhaegar's spy. Who else would it be? That cursed man." The venom and hatred in Robert's voice were palpable; even if Catelyn hadn't known the meaning of bitterness, she could have learned from his tone alone.

"Keep your voice down, not here!" Ned's sigh was heavy with frustration. "You know why I've brought you here. We’re being watched—have been for years. Damn it, I don't even feel safe in my own keep."

"I know, Ned, I know. That's why I'm here. I'm here to finish what we started." Catelyn could feel her heart pounding in her chest, filled with a mix of fear and anticipation.

There was a brief silence, broken only by the echo of footsteps on the stone floor. Then Ned spoke again, his voice quieter. "I wouldn't believe it when I first read your letter, you know? I couldn't believe it was really you. I haven't heard from you in all these years. There were some rumors. One day you were a mercenary, another day a Magister, another day trading, and yet another time riding with a Dothraki khalasar. And now, you send your hammer to my door and offer me treason."

"Treason?" Robert's laugh echoed in the crypt. "Treason, Ned? Do you feel loyalty to the people who took everything from us? Where's your hatred, eh? Where's your anger? They ruined our lives. They killed your father and brother. They took Benjen from you. Even in your own home, they don't let you rest. And Lyanna... that devil took her. He took her and used her. Then gave her away like trash to the Lannisters. How can you stay so calm, man?"

Catelyn's stomach twisted. Lyanna. She had always known that name hovered over Ned's past like a shadow, but to hear it now, in this crypt, from Robert's mouth, it felt like opening a wound that had never fully healed.

"WHAT CHOICE DO I HAVE!" This time, it was Ned who shouted. "We lost the bloody war. Rhaegar defeated us. He nearly killed you. That duel was the last time I saw you, do you know that? They said you were too injured and had taken you to the maesters. Then we heard you disappeared in the dead of night. What happened, Robert? How did you abandon us?"

"If it was up to me, I wouldn't leave any single of you. I would proudly die, with my choice. But that choice was taken out of my hand, Ned. I don't remember that night. The wounds were too deep, and they fed me puppy milk all the time.But yes, I was taken. Do you want to know by whom? The Spider. The damn Spider."

"Varys?" Ned's surprise was palpable, his voice tight with disbelief. Catelyn didn't recognize the name. Even if she had heard it before, she couldn't recall.

"Yes, him. The irony always made me laugh. The Mad King was always afraid of traitors, but the man whispering in his ear the most was the biggest traitor of all." Robert's voice dripped with bitterness.

"I heard rumors about Varys. He vanished during the Sack and was never seen again. Why did he save you?" Ned's asked.

"Because the Spider loves spinning his webs, and he needed me for one of them. Stay calm and listen to me, Ned. It doesn't matter where I've been or what I've done these past years. What matters is where I am now and what we can do. We can end this war. We can take our revenge and finally destroy that cursed house once and for all."

Ned's response came after a moment of silence. "We tried, Robert. We tried, and we failed. Can't you see how much it's destroyed me? I come here nearly every day, look at my father's and Brandon's graves, and beg for forgiveness. They haunt my dreams, Robert. They remind me that I failed them. So don't come here with your wild plans. Don't burden me with more grief. We couldn't defeat him. The only victory I've tasted in the last sixteen years is Jon constantly holding him in check. That's it." Every word Ned said felt like a dagger to Catelyn's heart. She had always known how much this weighed on him, but hearing him voice it this way pained her deeply.

"Ned, for the love of the gods, listen to me." Robert's voice softened, almost pleading. "This time, it's different. This time, everything's different. If I didn't believe that, I wouldn't be here. If I didn't believe that, I wouldn't have come to face you. I feel shame for leaving you, for abandoning you. But I'm here to make it right. I'm here to finally take the vengeance and the victory we always deserved."

"And how will we achieve this victory, Robert?" Ned spoke.

"With dragons," Robert said, his voice steady.

Ned let out a rough, humorless laugh. "I'm barely keeping myself from punching you in the face right now. Dragons? You have gone mad."

Robert's patience seemed to fray, but he kept his voice controlled. "The years have turned you into a cautious fool, Ned. Listen to me, and don't interrupt. Some of the stories you've heard are true. In Essos, I've done many things. Rode with the horse lords, killed, pillaged, traveled from Pentos to Braavos. Served to Magisters, I even fought against faceless men. But two years ago, Varys found me again. He told me everything. The Blackfyres, Ned. They're not all dead. One boy lives. His name is Aegon, around sixteen years old. He's been hidden, and only a handful of people know of his existence. A few in the Golden Company, Varys, me, and some others."

Ned's silence urged Robert to continue, the tension between them palpable.

"Varys asked me to join the Golden Company. And I did. What else could I do? Fighting is the only thing I'm truly good at. Two months ago, they sent me to Norvos, alone. There, I met this Blackfyre boy—Aegon. And, more importantly, I saw the dragons, Ned. With my own eyes. I pinched myself a dozen times, thinking it must be some dream or trick, but it wasn't. Three dragons; one black, one green, and one pale. They're still small, not much bigger than a street dog the last time I saw them. But do you understand what that means? When the time comes, this boy will cross the Narrow Sea, and he'll have three dragons with him. Not even the gods will be able to help Rhaegar then.

"You saw them, with your own eyes?" Ned's voice was heavy with the same disbelief and doubt that swirled within Catelyn. The very idea seemed beyond reason, yet Robert spoke with such conviction, it was hard not to wonder.

"I did, Ned. I touched them, fed them with my own hands," Robert replied firmly. "These creatures will be our salvation. Let Rhaegar believe in his strength, let him hold his throne. But once those dragons are grown, he won't stand a chance. Every lord who wants to keep their keep untouched will turn against him. We'll have our revenge. But, Ned, it's more than just revenge for me."

"What do you mean?" Ned's tone shifted.

"They didn't just show me the dragons for nothing. They want me to ride one of them. My grandmother was a Targaryen, after all. Think about it, Ned—me, riding a dragon. I wouldn't answer to anyone. Not even that Blackfyre boy. Targaryens and Blackfyres are all the same. Rotten bloodlines fighting over the same broken crown. But we won't need them once we're together. When the time comes, I'll strike the final blow, and I'll be the only dragon lord left. The war we started sixteen years ago, we can finish it. I can be king. And you, Ned, you'll have everything you've ever wanted. Revenge for your father and brother. Peace for your family. You could finally rule these cold lands as their king if you want."

Catelyn could feel her own breath catch at those words. King ? She hadn't thought beyond Winterfell's walls. Ned had never craved power. But here Robert was, dangling it before him, offering more than revenge. He was offering a kingdom.

Ned exhaled slowly, a heavy sigh that echoed through the crypt. "Robert... I don't know. You've said too much. By the gods, this is overwhelming. What can I say?"

"You don't have to say anything now," Robert said, his voice softening slightly. "But I'll need your answer soon. I can't stay long. It's too dangerous for both of us. I told Varys I'd come back with your 'yes.' There's still time before we strike. The dragons are still growing, and they're looking for allies. There are many in the realm who hate Rhaegar as much as we do. Look, Ned, this is a war we can win. Not even that devil Rhaegar can fight dragons. Also, Blackfyres know how much the North has suffered under heavy taxes. As a gift they've promised to send you chests of gold soon."

Ned shook his head slowly. "You think they won't realize we're playing them? They have no reason to trust us. They could see through this, through us."

"Leave that to me. We have plenty of time. But this is the right thing to do, Ned. We won't have to bow to these dragons once it's over. What does it matter if they're black or red? It's all the same to me. Like the old days, together we can overcome anything. Just give me your 'yes,' tell them you'll join Blackfyre. I'll take care of the rest."

Catelyn stood in the shadows, far enough to remain unnoticed but close enough to catch every word. She could hear Ned's murmured replies, his heavy, measured breaths. There was a weariness in him that hadn't been there before. "I wish it were that simple, Robert," Ned replied, his voice low and troubled. "The Targaryens... one of them is my blood. It's a cruel irony, isn't it? How twisted it all is. One of them carries Stark blood. An innocent child, blameless of his mother's sins."

"His mother's sins?" Robert snapped, his voice edged with fury. "Don't tell me you're blaming Lyanna for this, Ned. She was taken, stolen from us. She was raped, over and over, until she bore that bastard. Don't you dare lay this at her feet."

Ned's tone grew colder, harder, as if he had been forced to say these words too many times. "Look there, Robert. My father's and Brandon's graves. They lie cold and silent because of Lyanna. Because of her choices. She wasn't taken. She ran away willingly, Robert. She chose to slip into Rhaegar's bed without a word, and we've all been cursed by her sins."

"Impossible," Robert spat, his voice thick with emotion. "Lyanna would never do that. You know her. She wouldn't. She couldn't."

"But she did," Ned said quietly, the truth like a knife between them. "She did, Robert, and we all paid the price. Our families, our lives... everything is gone because of her."

There was a tense silence between the two men, broken only by the sound of Robert's ragged breathing. "Damn you, Ned. I'm offering you justice. If it not for yourself, then think your father and brother. Do you really want their deaths to mean nothing? Do you want their memories buried under a dragon's shadow forever? I’m going into town. I’ll be there until dawn. Say yes, and we can finally fix everything, once and for all. Not just for ourselves, but for the old times’ sake. For the people we used to be, the ones who fought side by side, who trusted each other". With that, Robert turned on his heel, his heavy steps fading into the distance. 

The moment Robert’s words reached Catelyn’s ears, she turned and quickly headed for the exit, her steps hurried. She couldn’t risk being seen. Her mind raced with questions, fears. Would this be the end of their fragile peace? Would their children be forced into battle, marching to war beside their fathers, fighting battles born of old grudges? Revenge, betrayal, bloodlines, and justice. Could there be any turning back from this? Or had they all been set on a path from which there was no return? Would she live her life never knowing the peace she so desperately longed for?

Oh Ned, don't say yes.

Chapter Text

AEMON IV

I must be whole once again, or everything will be doomed.

"Drink this. It’ll help," Oswell said.

Without a second thought, Aemon took the glass offered to him and downed it in one motion. The familiar warmth of spiced wine burned its way down his throat, leaving a tingling numbness in its wake. By the time he finished the last gulp, his tongue buzzed from the blend of herbs, and soon, his entire mouth began to feel heavy and numb.

For a moment, he fought the urge to spit, feeling the numbness spreading through his limbs. "What did you give me?" he managed, his voice unsteady.

Oswell replied as if it were nothing. "You wanted your headache gone. I took care of it," he said with a throaty chuckle, the tone almost mocking. "It’s a special remedy—a Kingsguard secret. The Old Bull taught it to us years ago. You take a certain plant—one I won’t name—and steep it in boiling wine. Voilà, all pain, soreness, and fatigue vanish."

"Fatigue?" Aemon mumbled, feeling his strength draining. "I can barely stand as it is."

"Ah, yes. I might’ve mentioned that part," Oswell said, shrugging. "We’ll have to keep you up for the next half-hour. After that, you’ll feel as good as new."

The next half-hour stretched out endlessly for Aemon, each minute heavier than the last. He felt trapped between sleep and wakefulness, teetering on the edge of dreams that felt more like nightmares. His eyes would droop shut, only for Oswell to pinch his nose, jolting him back to a hazy awareness. The ship’s steady, rhythmic swaying blurred the boundaries between reality and hallucination, conjuring strange, haunting visions before his eyes. At times, he saw Dany’s radiant face, warm and familiar, like a ghost reaching out. Then, the scene would shift, and he’d find himself staring into the hollow, accusing eyes of soldiers who’d fallen beside him in battle. At other moments, his father’s lifeless gaze pierced through the fog. Each vision twisted his gut with a growing nausea, as if his own mind sought to betray him, dragging him into darker memories with each rocking wave.

After a deep breath, Aemon felt his eyes, mind, and senses sharpen. He swiped the sweat from his brow, relief flooding through him. Oswell had been right, whatever strange concoction he’d given him had worked. The headache that had gnawed at him for days had vanished completely, and the exhaustion that had weighed him down had dissolved. Smiling, Aemon leaned back against the bed, stretching his arms wide with satisfaction.

"I should’ve asked you for this sooner. What’s in this stuff?"

Oswell laughed. "Didn’t I say you’d feel better? So…how are you feeling?"

"Good as new," Aemon grinned. "I’ll need that recipe."

Oswell gave a half-hearted shrug. "Perhaps. We’ll see."

"Perhaps? Aren’t you sworn to serve me?" Aemon teased.

"And I do." Oswell nodded toward the window. "We’ll discuss the recipe later. But for now, the time has come, lad."

Aemon followed Oswell’s gaze out the window. Through breaks in the clouds, he saw the familiar blue stretch of sea, and there, reaching up from the coast like a crimson beacon, were the marble towers of home. The sight felt like a greeting, a distant welcome. He was close, so close to home now. After days of endless sailing, leaving behind the dark, blood-soaked streets of Volantis, he was finally on the cusp of return. The guilt he carried was overshadowed by the excitement, joy, and anxiety of returning.

Not long after, Aemon nudged Oswell out of the cabin and began preparing for his arrival. The first challenge was what to wear. The standard formal jacket was the expected choice, suitable for protocol and decorum. He scanned his open wardrobe, eyes settling on a black jacket embroidered with a purple dragon. Its dark fabric glistened in the light, regal and imposing, but somehow… wrong. It had been too long since he’d worn such attire. During the campaign, he’d moved from one place to the next, clad always in armor. These fine jackets were not his true garments; his real clothing was armor, a second skin forged in fire and steel.

Stepping onto the deck, Aemon drew in a deep breath of the sea air, tinged with salt. Ahead, King’s Landing stretched across the horizon, its towers and walls rising proudly against the morning sky, bathed in the soft glow of approaching sunlight. The sight filled him with a strange, familiar ache, as if he could almost reach out and feel the rough stone under his fingers. The city was close now, so close that he could imagine the clamor of the bustling harbor, the cries of merchants, and the distant echo of bells from the Great Sept. Perhaps he’d missed this place more than he was willing to admit, a part of him still tethered to these walls. He stood there a moment longer, lost in the swirl of memories and anticipation, before a voice broke the spell. Startled, he turned to find Aurane beside him, a familiar, knowing grin on his face.

"Would you believe me if I said I could smell the stench from here?" Aurane muttered, wrinkling his nose as he glanced toward the approaching city.

"Don’t talk nonsense. The smell isn’t as bad as it used to be," Aemon replied, defending his home.

"Oh, really, my prince? You lot didn’t exactly spend much time beyond the castle walls, did you? Spend a day in Flea Bottom, and then you’ll see the real face of this city." Aurane spread his hands wide in emphasis, his voice edged with a wry smile.

"And you? Did you spend all your time in Flea Bottom, then?" Aemon asked mockingly.

"A bastard like me doesn’t have the luxury of avoiding the dirt," Aurane replied. "I had to be willing to get my hands dirty if I ever wanted to rise. Flea Bottom has answers if you know where to look. I found what I needed, made sure my father noticed me, and now I’m returning as a war hero. So yes, Aemon, I spent as much time there as I had to."

Aemon looked thoughtful, eyes drifting back toward the city. "I remember well—years ago, the Small Council proposed a plan to restore the city. Soup kitchens were to be established for regular meals, all the sewers would be cleaned, and shelters would be built so no one would sleep in the streets. There was much more in the works," he murmured.

"So why didn’t it happen? Flea Bottom was still a cesspit the last time I checked," Aurane asked.

"Because the damned other council wouldn’t approve it," Aemon replied, venom creeping into his tone. "The Bronze Council. They refused the budget, called it unnecessary and too costly. So don’t direct your anger at us, Aurane. We’re not the ones who left you to fend for yourself."

Aurane fell silent, leaning his arms on the railing as he stared out over the sea. After a while, he spoke quietly, almost thoughtfully, "Do you think it’ll change now?"

Aemon joined him in silence, his gaze fixed on the massive fleet surrounding them, the ships heavy with spoils of war and the weight of victory. "If it doesn’t change now, I don’t know when it will. I’ve won a cursed victory, and from here on, it’s in my father’s hands.”

As the ship eased into its final position, each creak of the wood and splash of the waves seemed to echo in Aemon’s chest. He scanned the shore, the bustling figures growing clearer, yet his mind remained fogged with questions. Who would stand there waiting for him? Would his father, Rhaegar Targaryen, break tradition and welcome his son with open arms for all to see? Aemon doubted it. The Rhaegar Targaryen he knew wasn’t one for public displays of affection. But what about Daenerys? Had she returned from Dorne for his arrival? These unanswered questions weighed on him, a tangle of hope and doubt, as he returned to the deck to catch a final glimpse of the harbor.

Ahead of his own ship, Stannis’s vessel had already docked, and a crowd had gathered near the center of the quay. From this distance, Aemon couldn’t make out the faces in the throng, but their attire revealed them as nobles, many dressed in rich, formal garments. Yet, even as he searched the crowd, he didn’t catch sight of anyone with the distinctive silver hair of his family.

He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the salty sea air, hoping it might clear his mind and steady his pulse. He had won an impossible battle, led this campaign, and yet here he was, bracing himself over a few tense conversations and the expectations of those who waited for him.

As the ship glided closer to the quay, Aemon’s fingers drifted to his armor, running along the well-worn straps. He tightened a few of them, grounding himself in the familiar texture of the steel, feeling its weight as an anchor. There was a comfort in the ritual. Taking one last look at the assembled crowd, he steeled himself for the moment he would step off the ship and into the uncertain embrace of home.

“What about the crown?” he asked, turning toward the familiar voice. It was Oswell, standing with a steady gaze.

“Keep it with you. I’ll present it in the throne room,” Aemon murmured, almost absently, his thoughts drifting to the moments ahead.

“Blasted boy, I swear you didn’t look this tense even in battle. Relax, will you? Or did that wine of mine do too good a job?” Oswell’s tone was light, though a note of genuine concern flickered in his eyes.

“I’m fine,” Aemon replied, though his voice rose sharply. He tilted his head, searching for words he hadn’t intended to speak aloud. “It’s just… It’s been a long time, Oswell. I’ve been gone for a year and a half. I don’t know what’s changed or what’s stayed the same.”

A brief silence fell between them until Oswell placed a hand on his steel-clad shoulder. “But you have changed, lad. Not everything in life unfolds as we plan, and not all that was left behind stays the same. All we can do is keep moving forward. Now, come on. It’s time. I’ll be right behind you, just gather yourself.”

Steeling himself, Aemon took a deep breath and stepped off the ship onto the quay. The sight awaiting him was far more formidable than anything Stannis had faced. The crowd stretched from the middle of the quay to the edges of the harbor, a teeming, rippling sea of faces that spilled even onto the road climbing up toward the city. Smallfolk craned their necks, peering toward him with wide eyes, a mass of curiosity and awe, as if every single one of them was watching his every move, every breath.

But his gaze cut through the crowd, seeking familiar faces, and finally landed on one that brought a rush of warmth to his heart. There, standing in a gown of deep purple, was a woman whose presence he’d longed for more than he realized. A smile broke across his face, and he didn’t know if he was the one who closed the distance or if Ashara had already moved forward, but somehow, he found himself wrapped in his mother’s embrace. Even through the steel of his armor, he could feel her strength.

First, Aemon felt the warmth of Ashara’s breath against his neck, then the softness of her lips as she pressed a kiss to his cheek. When she pulled back, her lilac eyes, shimmering with tears, met his gaze. In those brief, stolen moments, Aemon found himself studying the face of the woman who had raised him as her own. What he saw struck him to the core. The faint wrinkles beneath her eyes, the fine lines that deepened by her smile—all markers of the time he had missed, time that had etched itself into her face. Gently, his armored fingers cradled her cheeks as he leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

“My beautiful son,” Ashara murmured, her voice filled with an almost aching sorrow. “You’ve grown so much. You’re taller than me now.” Her delicate fingers moved through his hair, tugging lightly on a strand. “And your hair! It’s grown out. You haven’t trimmed it at all, have you?”

Aemon struggled to keep the tears at bay as they pricked the corners of his eyes. “I didn’t let anyone else touch it. Only you.”

Ashara’s lips curved into a soft smile through her tears. “You silly boy. Look, it’s nearly to your shoulders now. We’ll have to trim it soon.” She paused, her eyes drifting over him as if she couldn’t quite believe he was here. Finally, she met his gaze again. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Aemon answered, though he felt the uncertainty even as he spoke. “Really… I’m fine. And I’m home.”

“Of course, he’s fine, Ashara. He’s finally back in his loving brother’s arms,” came a voice from nearby, cutting through Aemon’s lingering doubts and worries. He turned and found himself facing the open arms of his brother, Aegon, and without hesitation, Aemon stepped into the embrace, holding his brother tightly.

“Damn it, Egg. I missed you.” Somehow, Aegon looked even more striking than the last time Aemon had seen him. His features seemed sharper, more defined, and his short, silver-gold hair gleamed under the sunlight. And then Aemon noticed something else. “What’s up with the beard?”

Aegon’s fingers brushed over the neatly trimmed stubble on his chin. “Don’t like it? I thought I’d start a trend at court. You should see, everyone’s following my lead now. Greyjoy’s taken it way too far, though. Looks like a drunk sailor with his scruffy excuse for a beard. Guess not everyone can pull it off like I do.” He gave Aemon an exaggerated once-over, shaking his head. “But look at you, Aem. By the gods. What happened to my little brother?” He jabbed playfully at Aemon’s stomach. “Cold eyes, tall stance, a regal face… This isn’t the Aemon I know.”

“If you’d written more, you’d know, my dear brother,” Aemon replied, grinning. Seeing Aegon in person reminded him how much he missed his brother. Letters could only hold so much; Aegon was his confidant, the person who knew his secrets and troubles, and nothing could replace their easy, familiar banter.

“Could’ve done without knowing about the hair, though.” Aegon laughed and pulled Aemon into another tight hug. “Welcome home, little brother. We’ve missed you. Tonight, there’ll be a feast in honor of you. Don’t worry, they’ll serve all your favorite dishes. Figured you’d be craving them by now.”

“Aegon!” Ashara’s voice was stern. “Let some things be a surprise.”

“Oh, come on, Ashara. When else should we feast if not today? Aem must have guessed as much. Right, Aemon?”

But Aemon’s gaze drifted to the crowd surrounding them, searching for another face, another glint of silver hair. Instead, he found himself facing rows of curious nobles, their intense, scrutinizing stares fixed on him like a new attraction. He wasn’t even certain why they were there. The Golden Cloaks, forming a barricade against the common folk behind them, were of far more use than the nobles.

“Daenerys and Rhaenys are at the Red Keep,” Aegon explained, noticing Aemon’s distraction. “You arrived sooner than anyone expected. I had to gather this welcome party in a rush. They’re both back at the castle, trying to make sure everything is ready. Today’s going to be a busy one.”

Aemon nodded thoughtfully. If Daenerys had been the only one absent, he might have doubted Aegon’s assurances, but if even Rhaenys hadn’t come to meet him, he had to trust his brother’s word. His gaze drifted back to the nobles gathered at a respectful distance, eyes locked on him with a curiosity and anticipation. “Why are they here? I hardly recognize any of them.”

“When news of your victory spread, nobles and adventurers flocked to the city from all over,” Ashara explained. “They’re hoping for a grand tournament, or a another Council. But they’ll be disappointed".

“You didn’t answer my question,” Aemon replied, narrowing his gaze.

Aegon clapped a hand on Aemon’s steel-plated shoulder. “Why do you think, you fool? They want to see another kingslayer. They’ll queue up to shake your hand, give you grand congratulations, ask for favors—on and on.” A grin split his face. “Congratulations, little brother. You’re officially a war hero.”

Aemon pressed his lips together, a touch of bitterness flickering beneath the surface. Wasn’t this what he wanted, after all? To dispel the disdain in others’ eyes, to make them see him with respect instead of derision? So why did their eager, admiring stares feel so hollow?

Ashara squeezed his hand gently, pulling him from his thoughts. “Come now, dear. Let’s make our way to the carriage. We can talk more in peace there.”

He nodded, and they started down the quay, each step bringing them closer to the crowd. The closer they came, the louder the silence felt, an odd, charged hush that seemed to amplify every cautious, reverent glance cast his way. Even the common folk, crammed behind the Golden Cloaks, watched in hushed awe, each of their stares adding to the weight he felt pressing down on him. Muttering under his breath, Aemon tried to block them out.

At the end of the path, a familiar face caught his attention, and his mood lifted slightly.

“Ser Richard! The beard suits you,” Aemon called with amusement, noticing that Aegon’s beard trend had indeed taken root if even Kingsguard members were adopting it.

“Prince Aemon, welcome back to the city. We all prayed for your safe return,” Ser Richard Lonmouth replied, bowing his head in respect.

“I’m praying for a swift journey through it,” Aegon muttered, casting a pointed glance toward Richard. “It’s packed ahead. Tell the Golden Cloaks to clear a path.”

“Did you bring any gold with you?” Ashara asked, her gaze shifting to Aegon.

Aegon shook his head. “Brought some, but not nearly enough for this crowd. They’d be at each other’s throats over it. I didn’t expect this many people to show up. Best not to hand any out at all.”

Ashara sighed, her expression softening with a touch of resignation. “You’re right, but they’ll still expect something.” She turned to Ser Richard. “Promise them hot food and wine tonight on behalf of Prince Aemon.”

Ser Richard nodded respectfully. “Of course, my lady. And you should head to the carriage now. The crowd’s pressing in, and I have an old friend to catch up with myself.”

Once inside the spacious carriage, Aegon leaped in beside Aemon, his grin wide and uncontainable. He tapped his fingers lightly on Aemon’s armored chest. “What’s with the armor?”

Aemon shrugged. “I just came back from war, didn’t I? Thought it’d make more sense to show up like this.”

Aegon laughed, giving him an approving nod. “You show-off. But you’ve earned it, my dear brother.” For a moment, Aegon’s grin faded, replaced by a look of genuine concern. “We read the reports, Aem. How the battle started, whose strategies were followed, how it ended. Are you alright? That kind of weight isn’t easy to carry, especially not for you.”

Aemon felt the unspoken weight of Aegon’s question and Ashara’s silent gaze as she watched him carefully. But words failed him. He didn’t have a simple answer to give. The faces of those who had fallen under his command still haunted his dreams, bloodied and furious, their silent curses lingering in his mind. Yet he had done what was necessary. If he were to relive that day, he knew he’d give the council the same plan, sacrificing his men once more if it meant securing the victory he needed. But the price had left its mark, and what unsettled him most was the feeling that he’d left part of himself—perhaps the better part—behind on those battlefields.

“We did what we had to do,” Aemon replied, his voice measured, as he looked past the carriage’s curtains to the crowd beyond. “I won my victory, Aegon. Isn’t that what I set out for?”

“Do you regret it?” Ashara’s voice slipped out in a quiet rush, and she quickly looked away, as though she hadn’t intended to ask something so pointed, so soon.

“No, Mother. I do not regret it, and I’m fine,” Aemon replied. “I’m here, seeing all of you again, and the first thing you do is press me with questions. Come on now.” He softened his words with a playful smile, hoping to steer the conversation away from his burdens.

Aegon, sensing his intent, jumped in, following Aemon’s lead. “We’re the same as always, dear brother. If you’re wondering about us, I’m just as you left me. Nothing’s changed much. Westeros is still… well, Westeros.” Then a spark lit up in his eyes, a mischievous glint that promised something interesting. “Oh, actually, something did happen.”

Aemon’s curiosity stirred. “What happened?”

“Our father got drunk.”

“Fuck off!”

“I swear it.”

“No way I believe that.”

“Ask Ashara if you want.”

“Mother?”

“It’s true.”

“How in the world did that happen?” Aemon asked, almost to himself, still trying to picture it.

Aegon tilted his head back, puffing out his cheeks as he tried to recall the details. “About two months ago, I think. Just a typical evening. I was walking through the keep with some Hightower brat, and then, out of nowhere, there he was! Stumbling through the hall with Arthur right beside him, looking about as helpless as I’ve ever seen him. Poor man didn’t know what to do with himself.” Aegon chuckled at the memory. “I still laugh when I picture it. Anyway, I sent the kid on his way and hurried over to Father. The moment I got close, I caught the smell of wine on him. And not just a whiff; he reeked of it. You should’ve seen how much he drank. Arthur and I barely managed to get him to his chambers. I’d never seen him like that before. At first, he didn’t even recognize me. We had to splash cold water on his face to bring him around a bit, but he was still pretty far gone. Babbling nonsense.”

“What kind of nonsense?” Aemon asked, intrigued.

Aegon chuckled, shaking his head. “Curious, are you? Honestly, I couldn’t make sense of most of it. He kept muttering something about a stone, then mentioned a dragon, and then… snow.” He snorted, amused. “Might as well turn me into a stag if I understood a single word of it.”

Aemon raised an eyebrow. “He didn’t say anything about prophecies, did he?”

Aegon pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Not at all. I’ve never heard him mention prophecy even once. Why did you ask?”

Aemon waved his hand dismissively, brushing away the memories of Summerhall and the scattered thoughts of prophecies. Lies and half-truths about his birth, whispers of why his true mother had abandoned him from his father. These were secrets he’d buried deep, even from Rhaenys. Yet for some reason, the question had slipped out of him. “Never mind, just rambling. So, what happened next?”

Aegon shrugged. “Nothing. The next day, we were both at the council meeting, and he didn’t say a word about it. I’m pretty sure he was just pretending not to remember. As always.”

“Oh, come now, Aegon,” Ashara cut in.

“Not you too, Ashara. We all know he is not the greatest father. Nor husband. No offense, Aem,” Aegon added, then glancing back to Ashara. “Mother is your best friend after all.”

Before Ashara could respond, Aemon spoke up. “Not now, Egg. We can talk about all this another time, but not now.” He felt the tension settling thickly around them. Aegon had turned to look out the window, watching the crowds pressing around the carriage, while Ashara’s gaze dropped to her hands, her fingers tracing absent patterns against her own skin. Barely minutes had passed since they’d reunited, and already the troubles of the past were surfacing, ghosts that refused to stay buried. He leaned his head back against the carriage’s wooden wall, feeling the weight of the questions still left unanswered.

“Is there anything I should be prepared for? What’s the situation at the court?” he asked, shifting the conversation away from family wounds.

“Like I said, everything was pretty much the same. Just as you left it,” Aegon replied. “But since the news of your victory reached the city, the Bronze Council has been growing bolder. We were negotiating a trade deal with Braavos recently—one that would have benefited both sides. But you should’ve seen Royce. His face turned beet red when we laid out the terms. He started spouting absurd arguments, practically frothing at the mouth, but we managed to push it through. They’re scared, Aemon. Truly terrified, and that’s why they’re lashing out like rabid dogs. The Iron Bank deal is no longer a secret; I suspect Father leaked it intentionally. So be ready—they may try to make a scene today.”

Aemon pressed his lips together as he absorbed Aegon’s words. The Bronze Council—a cursed place, a thorn in the side of the Iron Throne, yet a legacy of the Targaryens’ own sins. Aemon had heard the stories from every side, from the victors and the vanquished alike. All the stories shared one thing in common—things hadn’t gone as Rhaegar Targaryen had planned. After his father defeated Robert Baratheon, and the Mad King fell at the hand of the Kingslayer, a council had convened just outside the city walls. It was called the Council of Tomorrow at first, hopeful in its vision, but a week later, it earned the darker title of the Twilight Council, for the shadow it cast over House Targaryen. That council led to the creation of the Bronze Council, a body of representatives from each of the Seven Kingdoms, designed to curb the King’s authority and preserve the realm’s stability. Aegon was right—they had every reason to feel threatened. Aemon’s victory must had strengthened his father’s hand. Rhaegar Targaryen was many things, but a poor politician he was not. They had to trust their father in this matter. 

“The family is… well, much the same,” Aegon continued, easing into a lighter tone. “Rhaenys and Daenerys returned from Dorne just two days ago. The moment they heard you were coming back, they practically rushed here. Rhaenys, especially, is beyond excited to see you.”

Aemon nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. It would be wonderful to see his sister again; perhaps she could help him untangle some of the knots that had tightened within him over the course of the campaign. “And Daenerys?”

Beside him, Aegon took a deep breath, his gaze briefly flicking toward Ashara, who watched Aemon with a steady look. “Oh, she’s excited, too.”

“Excited, sure… to strangle Aemon,” Aegon added with a smirk.

“AEGON!” Ashara’s voice held a note of reprimand, though her eyes sparkled with amusement.

But Aemon was already laughing. Deeply, joyfully.

“What?” Aegon shrugged innocently. “Just having a bit of fun. Don’t worry, Aem, you’ll patch things up. You know Dany. Just don’t show up empty-handed. Hopefully, you brought a gift for her. If that doesn’t work… well, I don’t know a single lady in the Seven Kingdoms who could resist the Fireblessed.”

“Fireblessed?” Aemon’s eyebrow arched, his curiosity piqued as he brushed past the rest of Aegon’s teasing.

“Congratulations, Aemon,” Ashara said with a smile. “It appears Aegon’s given you a new title.”

“Don’t you like it?” Aegon grinned, visibly pleased with himself. “The name just hit me in the council room. Think about it—an entire fleet ablaze, a wall of fire, all by your hand. If you aren’t blessed by the flames, then who is? It must be a magnificent sight, truly.”

Their conversation lightened the rest of the journey, each memory shared a welcome distraction from the anticipation weighing on Aemon’s shoulders. Before long, they passed through the grand gates of the Red Keep. The familiar red marble of the castle glowed under the sunlight, casting a warm welcome. As Aemon leapt down from the carriage, his boots striking the familiar stone, a rare sense of comfort settled over him. No matter what, no matter how dangerous the Red Keep was his home.

He took in his surroundings, nodding to a few familiar faces among the servants, soldiers, and workers who had paused to glance his way before hurrying on with their duties. Closing his eyes for a brief moment, he drew in a deep breath, savoring the familiar scents—the faint smell of burning embers, wood, the salty sea air, freshly cut grass—all of it blending into the distinct aroma he had missed.

With his mother and brother at his side, and his silent, white-cloaked guard following close behind, Aemon climbed the steps toward the Great Hall. As the massive doors swung open, a gust of wind met him, sweeping his cloak into the air and tousling his hair, as if welcoming him home. Aemon straightened and acknowledged it with a faint nod.

Inside, a serious crowd filled the hall, stretching toward the Throne Room. Aemon hadn’t seen the hall this packed in years. Keeping his posture steady and his gaze level, he scanned the faces around him, but most were strangers. The years had changed the court, and faces familiar in his memory were absent now, replaced by newer nobles with watchful eyes.

Aegon leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper. “The important ones are in the Throne Room. Rhaenys calls these here the leftovers.”

Aemon smirked as his mother rejoined him, and the two brothers shared a quiet laugh. Ashara gave them a knowing look. “They’re ready for you. They’ll open the doors any moment now.”

A firm hand clapped him on the back, and Aemon turned, finding Aegon smiling. “Welcome home, brother.” With that, Aegon stepped back, blending seamlessly into the crowd, leaving Aemon to face what lay ahead.

A quick glance over his shoulder brought Oswell to his side. Without a word, the knight placed a simple steel circlet into Aemon’s hand—Qalar’s crown, cold and unadorned, the most significant trophy of his victory.

As he took his first step forward, the grand doors to the Throne Room swung open, and Aemon advanced, his head held high, his eyes unwavering. Even as he descended the steps into the room, the weight of countless gazes on him, he kept his focus fixed on the throne, on his father, on the King’s piercing gaze. The herald’s announcement, the murmured gossip, the whispers of curiosity from the gathered nobles, none of it mattered. Do you see, Father? I’ve returned.

As he neared the throne, Rhaegar Targaryen’s face came into sharp focus. He was exactly as Aemon had left him, the years seemingly untouched. The same expression, cool and unreadable, that he had worn when he sent Aemon off to war now greeted him in his return. Perhaps Rhaenys and Daenerys flanked the steps, but Aemon had eyes only for his father, for the figure who embodied his duty.

At last, standing tall and resolute, he dropped to one knee, placing Qalar’s crown at his feet.

“By your command, I crossed the Narrow Sea,” Aemon declared, his voice sharp, carrying through the hall. “I pursued the tyrant who drenched Essos in blood. I lured him into his own trap. I burned his fleet with my own hand. I severed his head with my own sword. And now, I bring you his crown and the peace you desired. Am I welcome?”

Rhaegar Targaryen rose with regal grace from his throne, descending the sword-carved steps with a deliberate, almost ceremonial slowness. To Aemon, each step felt drawn out, yet he held his father’s gaze unwaveringly. As the King reached him, Rhaegar placed one hand on Aemon’s shoulder, the other on his arm, and gently pulled him to his feet. And then, before the entire court, Rhaegar embraced him. The hall erupted into applause, echoing from the high ceilings.

“Let it be known!” Rhaegar proclaimed, his eyes never leaving Aemon. “My son, Prince Aemon Targaryen, has returned safely to his home. As this is what matters most to me. Welcome home, my son. Welcome.” With those words, he kissed Aemon’s forehead, and the applause swelled, a powerful roar of admiration.

From the steps, the red-haired Jon Connington, the King’s Hand, stepped forward. “Thanks to Prince Aemon’s skill and efforts, Essos and the Narrow Sea know peace. The Seven Kingdoms owe him their gratitude.”

“We can do more than gratitude,” Rhaegar said, his voice firm with intent. “Ser Arthur."

Ser Arthur emerged from his place, drawing his milk-white sword as he approached. As he neared, the finest swordsman in the realm gave Aemon a playful wink, and Aemon respectfully inclined his head. Rhaegar took Dawn, the legendary blade, into his own hand. Under the sunlight streaming through the windows, the sword’s gleaming blade dazzled, catching Aemon’s awe-struck gaze.

“Kneel, my son.” The King, who had just raised him moments before, now bade him to kneel once more. Aemon complied without hesitation. Dawn’s cool edge kissed first his left shoulder, then his right.

“Now rise one last time,” Rhaegar announced, “as Prince of Summerhall.”

Chapter Text

AEMON V

I smell blood in the air, is it mine to me or my enemies?

“Then we found Black Walder sprawled on the ground, his face drenched with a bucket of piss. Aemon’s tale set off a storm of laughter among his companions, his own voice joining the chorus. War had shown him its share of horrors, but it had also left behind a handful of stories worth sharing over wine.

Still chuckling, Cletus Yronwood, one of Aemon’s closest friends, leaned in. “And you left him like that, did you?”

Aemon shook his head with a rueful grin. “Not quite. The boys had a better idea. They dragged him to the cowshed. When we saw him the next morning, the poor sod reeked of dung and piss.”

The circle erupted into a fresh wave of laughter, several of them doubling over in their feet. Michel Hayford nearly choked on his wine, his pale cheeks flushed from drink. Raynald, his thick mustache twitching with every guffaw, slapped the table so hard the goblets rattled. Even Loras Tyrell, ever the picture of courtly grace, couldn’t suppress a chuckle. Beside Aemon, Rhaenys laughed softly, her arm still linked with his, her violet eyes shining in the firelight.

The festival was technically over—the king had retired to his chambers, and many nobles had followed suit—yet a lively crowd remained, congregated at the long tables under the glow of countless candles and the sprawling canopy of stars overhead. Aemon had spent much of the evening drifting from one group to another, greeting old acquaintances and fielding endless requests for stories of the battlefield. He obliged them easily, his tales laced with enough humor to lighten the dark edges of war.

It was strange, watching the fruition of what he’d sacrificed so much to achieve. Once-dismissive glances and derisive smirks had been replaced by nods of respect and, occasionally, admiration. They lined up to shake his hand, eager for a chance to meet him again. For the first time in his life, he hadn’t heard the word bastard even once—not all day. Wasn’t that what he had always wanted? To silence that word forever? To see respect, even admiration, in the eyes of those who had once mocked him? Yet as the night stretched on, an unnameable weight pressed at the edges of his thoughts. Why didn’t this triumph feel... complete?

“Prince of Summerhall or Lord of Summerhall? What do we call you now, Your Grace?” The sudden voice cut through his thoughts. It was Petyr Baelish, the last man his father had brought onto the Small Council. Aemon didn’t know where Baelish had slithered in from, but if ever there were a more slippery weasel, Aemon had yet to meet him.

“Lord Baelish,” Aemon greeted with a thin smile, one that didn’t bother to reach his eyes. “Still alive, I see. Is it just me, or has your hair grown whiter?” 

Baelish raised his goblet, his grin never faltering. “Alive and thriving, Your Grace. Though I admit, the court does keep me busy. The stress might have added a few lines to my face, but that’s the price of love, isn’t it?”

Aemon’s brow arched. “Love, is it? Forgive me, but I didn’t realize you’d taken to poetry.” 

“Oh, no poetry,” Baelish replied smoothly. “It’s just that the court loves me so. Your father enjoys my gold, the Bronze enjoy my... company, and the realm at large seems quite fond of my presence.” 

“Of course we love you, Baelish.” Aemon’s tone was light but razor-edged. “Your services are-“ Before he could finish, the music shifted. The soft, lilting melodies that had been weaving through the air gave way to something livelier. A sudden burst of strings and drums sent a ripple of excitement through the crowd.

“My lords, your conversation has been delightful, but if you’ll excuse us,” Rhaenys said, her voice carrying the courtesy. She took Aemon’s arm and led him to the center of the room, the crowd parting for them as they passed. Heads bowed in deference—nobles, knights, and courtiers alike—and Aemon instinctively inclined his own.

As they reached the center, the open space began to fill with other couples, all eager to take to the dance floor. Rhaenys moved with a natural confidence, positioning herself at the head of the group. Aemon knew better than to challenge her in matters of dance; he let her take the lead. He bent his knees slightly, leaned forward with practiced ease, and extended his hand toward her. They waited, listening for the right melody, and when it came—a lively tune with a familiar rhythm—they moved as one.

They had danced to this song countless times before, their steps in perfect harmony. Quick movements of feet and swinging legs carried them around the floor, spinning past one another, only to come together again in seamless synchronicity. As the melody slowed, Aemon placed his hands gently on Rhaenys’s waist, drawing her closer into a quieter rhythm. 

“I even missed dancing,” Aemon said, a silly grin spreading across his face.

Rhaenys mirrored his smile, a teasing light in her eyes. “Welcome back to civilization, my foolish brother.”

In that moment, Aemon truly saw her. Their time apart had only enhanced her beauty, the years refining rather than aging her. Her dark curls cascaded down her back in soft waves, perfectly complementing her sun-kissed Dornish complexion. The flickering glow of the chandeliers overhead danced in her violet eyes, making them shimmer like molten flower. For a fleeting moment, he forgot the crowd, the noise, the weight of duty; all he saw was his sister, radiant and alive.

As they moved effortlessly across the floor, their conversation turned playful. 

“The brunette over there seems interested in me,” Aemon teased, gesturing subtly toward a young woman lingering at the edge of the room. “Won’t you pass her along?”

Rhaenys laughed, a bright, melodic sound that turned heads. “Let them have you on the first day? Look at you! Have you changed so much since you’ve been away?”

Aemon twirled her with a flick of his wrist, the motion drawing an appreciative ripple from the onlookers. “I’m joking, dear sister. Life hasn’t turned me into that man yet.”

“Let’s hope it never does,” she said, her laughter fading into a more serious tone. A flicker of concern passed over her features as she lowered her voice. “Are you still angry?”

Aemon’s grin faltered, and he pursed his lips. “Angry doesn’t begin to cover it. She’ll have nowhere left to run. I’ve come back after years, after a bloody war, and she uses illness as an excuse not to even grant me the courtesy of looking me in the face.”

“So you are angry,” Rhaenys said softly.

“Fucking delighted, obviously,” Aemon retorted with a sharp edge, the wine loosening his tongue.

Rhaenys gave him a playful but pointed look. “Watch your language, dear brother. I already have Aegon to deal with; I can’t handle you, too.”

Aemon smirked, but the tension between them lingered. He dipped Rhaenys low, nearly to the floor, drawing an audible gasp of delight from the crowd before pulling her back upright. The music ended with a flourish, and the room erupted into applause. Aemon clapped along too.

As the applause faded and the music shifted to a slower tune, the siblings made their way to an empty table at the edge of the room. The late hour had eroded much of the courtly decorum; nobles lounged in their chairs, the once-stiff lines of etiquette softened by wine and fatigue. Following their example, Rhaenys reclined in her chair, stretching her legs onto Aemon’s lap with a satisfied sigh.

“Comfortable?” Aemon asked dryly, raising a brow as she wiggled her toes, the hem of her gown sliding slightly higher.

“Exceedingly,” Rhaenys replied with a smirk. She rested her head against the back of her chair, her hair spilling over the sides like liquid shadow. “And you? Still feeling civilized, or do you miss the mud and blood of the battlefield?”

Aemon leaned back, the corner of his mouth twitching into a faint smile. “The mud and blood were simpler, in their way. But no, I don’t miss them. Not tonight. But I think I’ll go to her chambers tonight,” Aemon said, finally voicing the thought that had been circling in his mind all evening. His hand, almost without thought, began to massage Rhaenys’s feet as they rested comfortably in his lap.

Rhaenys opened one eye lazily, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “She’s probably asleep by now. She’s been retiring early lately. Besides, you’re drunk. Not the best idea.”

Aemon puffed his cheeks like a restless child denied a toy. “But I’m not asleep.”

Rhaenys let out a soft laugh, her hand finding his shoulder and squeezing gently. “Aemon, calm down. You’ll talk to her eventually. This... thing between you won’t last forever. Just give it time. You haven’t seen Dany in so long, and... people change, unfortunately. You’ll both find your footing again. But not tonight.”

He sighed, leaning back in his chair, his gaze wandering over the hall. The crowd had thinned considerably as the hour grew later, the hum of conversation softening into the occasional murmur. Servants bustled quietly in the background, clearing away platters and empty goblets.

Aemon’s thoughts drifted to the day’s events. The ceremony and festival had begun shortly after midday, stretching late into the night with little reprieve. Gifts had been distributed to the lords who had fought alongside them—gold, lands, and titles, all carefully chosen to reward loyalty and silence dissent. Outside the castle walls, he’d heard, the soldiers were feasting, drinking themselves into oblivion after years of hardship. They deserved it. After all they had endured, who could deny them that?

But for Aemon, the day had been fraught with unease. The thing Aegon had warned him about—the reaction from the Bronze Council—hadn’t come. Yohn Royce and his dogs had watched the entire ceremony with an unsettling stillness, their expressions inscrutable as Aemon was proclaimed Prince of Summerhall. No outbursts, no whispered protests. Nothing. And that silence worried him far more than any overt opposition ever could. Royce’s quiet acceptance loomed in Aemon’s mind like a shadowed corner in a well-lit room, a space where danger might lurk unseen. Any reaction would have been easier to confront, anger, disdain, even derision. But this? This silence felt like a trap waiting to spring. He clenched his jaw, his mind turning over the possibilities. Despite the years he had spent at war, he hadn’t forgotten the treacherous web of Westerosi politics. He couldn’t afford to.

Rhaenys’s voice pulled him back to the moment. “You’re thinking too much again,” she said softly, her eyes still closed as though she could read his thoughts even in her half-drowsy state.

Aemon didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on the flickering candlelight, the dwindling crowd, the fading music. He thought of the war—nearly two years of blood and chaos, where his purpose had been as sharp and clear as the edge of a blade. Fight. Win. Survive. Afterward, his goal had been equally simple: return home. And now he was home. Back in King’s Landing. Back in the these cursed halls. Yet the clarity he’d known on the battlefield felt distant now, replaced by a strange, hollow uncertainty.

What awaited him next? The reconstruction of Summerhall? That would take years, and while overseeing the process was his duty, the thought of spending months watching stones being laid didn’t exactly fill him with excitement. A bitter taste rose in his mouth as the weight of it all pressed down on him. For the first time in years, he felt unmoored. He had always purpose in his head, and now... what was he supposed to do next?

And then, a smile tugged at the corner of his lips, slow and sardonic. How absurd his feelings were, he realized. His next step was already clear. Hadn’t he been sent to war for this very reason? Hadn’t he left Volantis in chaos because of it? A new game was beginning, one that would be as ruthless and dangerous as any battle he had fought. And this time, his house would emerge victorious.

“What are you thinking about?” Rhaenys’s voice was soft but insistent, pulling Aemon from his spiraling thoughts.

“Yohn Royce,” he replied distantly, his gaze fixed on a candle’s flickering flame as if it might illuminate the answer to his worries.

Rhaenys let out an audible sigh, her fingers drumming lightly against the armrest of her chair. “Can you relax for just one moment? Today was your day. The whole court was watching you, celebrating you, bowing to you. Can’t we worry about our troubles tomorrow?”

Aemon turned to her, his eyes still clouded with thought. “Has Father mentioned his plans? Will he finally make a move?”

She leaned her head back, exhaling sharply through her nose, and gave him a weary look. “He hasn’t told us anything, not yet. I mean I have just arrived in the city. Aegon might know more. But do you honestly think Rhaegar Targaryen doesn’t have a plan? Of course he does. He’ll tell us when he’s ready—probably with a marriage proposal wrapped up in it.”

Her raised eyebrow at the last remark carried a weight Aemon knew well. Marriage. It was the unspoken shadow that loomed over every conversation about their father’s ambitions. Aemon moved his chair closer to Rhaenys, his hand gently guiding her head to rest on his shoulder. It wasn’t the most comfortable position for him, but it didn’t matter. He felt her relax against him, the tension in her shoulders easing just slightly.

“I’d never let you get into something you don’t want,” he said quietly, his voice firm and resolute. “You know that, don’t you?”

Rhaenys smiled faintly, though her tone was tinged with resignation. “We can’t stop him, Aemon. Let’s not pretend otherwise. Honestly, I should’ve been married long ago. I’m grateful to Father for delaying it this long. But eventually, he’ll have me wed to someone, and we won’t be able to stop it. At least... maybe I’ll get to choose. That’s all I can hope for.”

For a moment, Aemon had no response. She was right, of course. When Rhaegar Targaryen decided on something, it was as immovable as a mountain—unless that mountain happened to be Yohn Royce. 

“We don’t need marriages to bring down the Bronze,” Aemon said after a pause, his tone sharpening. “We’ll find another way.”

Rhaenys lifted her head and gave him a playful look, her lips curving into a smirk. “Oh, sure. We’ll run off to Braavos and become orange merchants?”

Aemon chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Did I mention the Iron Bank loves me? They’d set us up with a fleet or two. We’d be the most successful orange merchants in the Free Cities.”

She laughed, throwing her head back, and threaded her arms through his. “The Iron Bank, huh? What else have you been up to, Aemon? Somehow, I feel like there’s more you’re not telling me.”

Her teasing question brought him back to the unanswered mysteries that had haunted him since the war. His fingers moved instinctively to his arm, tracing the spot where the wound should have been. There was no scar—nothing to suggest he had ever been injured. But Aemon remembered. He remembered the searing pain, the blood, the moment he thought death had claimed him. 

He’d survived, somehow. And not just survived, his body was whole, untouched. The wound had vanished as though it had never existed. It was a truth he hadn’t dared to share with anyone. Speaking of it to the maesters might raise whispers about his sanity, and he didn’t need rumors about madness tainting his name. But Aemon knew he wasn’t mad. He had lived it, felt it. And yet, he couldn’t explain it.

If there was anyone he could trust with the truth, it was Rhaenys. She had always been his confidante, his anchor in the storm of their lives. But this wasn’t the time. Not here, in the aftermath of the festival. That conversation would come when they were alone, far from prying ears.

“Hmmm, let’s see,” he said, forcing himself back into the moment. “I killed a king, drank soup made from boots, learned the fine art of digging latrines, and, oh yes, I punched a Lannister.

Rhaenys turned to him, her violet eyes wide with mock disbelief. “What? Which Lannister?”

“Sweet Daven Lannister, of course,” Aemon replied, raising his goblet with a satisfied smirk. “The one with a tongue as long as his golden hair.”

Rhaenys clapped a hand over her mouth, her laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. “You’re joking! Tell me how it happened.”

Aemon downed the rest of his wine in a single gulp, steeling himself to tell a story that involved the woman who had given birth to him. It was never an easy subject. “We were in Volantis, handling negotiations. For some reason, Daven decided to join me and Stannis that day. He was running his mouth all day. But then... I don’t know, Rhae. It was like he was trying to provoke me on purpose. He started asking questions about Lyanna Lannister. At first, I told him to piss off, but he wouldn’t stop. So, I put my fist in his mouth.” Aemon allowed himself a small smile at the memory. “You should’ve seen his face, Rhae—you would’ve laughed yourself sick. He looked like a fish gasping for air. I haven’t seen him since, though. Maybe I broke his nose.”

Rhaenys’s expression grew serious, her gaze turning distant. “Tywin Lannister,” she murmured.

Aemon frowned. “What?"

“It had to be Tywin pulling his strings. That’s why Daven pushed you.”

Aemon tilted his head, still puzzled. “Tywin? What does he have to do with me?”

Rhaenys sighed, shaking her head as though she couldn’t believe his obliviousness. “Sometimes I don’t understand you. One moment, you’re the sharpest man in the room, and the next, you’re blind to the obvious. The moment you won the war, everything changed for you. Tywin’s not a man to let something like that pass unnoticed. He’s been trying to figure out who you are, what you’re capable of."

Aemon snorted, his dismissal immediate. “He can shove whatever answer he got up his arse. That cursed family doesn’t leave anyone alone, no matter where you are. Did you see the Imp today? He was drunkenly doing acrobatics on the table. For a moment, I thought Father had hired a new court jester.”

Before Rhaenys could respond, a booming voice interrupted them from behind. “What are you two whispering about without me?”

Aemon turned to see Aegon striding toward them, his clothes soaked through. “You’ve finally made it,” Aemon said with mock exasperation. “And why in the Seven Hells are you soaking wet?"

Aegon glanced down at himself, as though only now noticing his damp state. “Oh, right. It started raining outside. Came out of nowhere.”

Rhaenys had already pulled a chair over for him. “Sit down, you fool. What were you doing out there? You’ve been missing for ages.”

Aegon didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he grabbed a goblet and a pitcher of wine, pouring drinks for everyone with the precision of a seasoned drunkard. “Dearest sister,” he began grandly, “out there are countless war stories for those willing to listen. So, screw this place. How many times can we dance pointlessly? The real fun is downstairs. I came to fetch you.”

Rhaenys raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Really?”

Aegon nodded, taking a long sip of his wine. “Laughter, roast chickens, whores, tales—it’s all there. What more could we want?”

Aemon kicked him lightly under the table. “Don’t let Margaery hear you say that.”

“Oh, please,” Aegon scoffed. “It’s not like we’re doing anything. Sometimes a man just wants to see a pair of breasts. Tell me I’m wrong, dear brother.” He leaned back with a grin, unbothered. “And besides, the wedding is soon. Let me enjoy my last days of freedom.”

Aemon’s eyes lit up at the mention of the wedding. He slapped Aegon’s shoulder, nearly spilling his wine. “Finally, brother! When is it happening?”

Aegon gave him a sideways glance, his smirk growing. “Imagine being this excited to marry someone you’ve been betrothed to since birth.”

“Don’t deflect, Aegon,” Rhaenys interjected, clearly as curious as Aemon. “When’s the date?"

“All I know is that it’s happening this year,” Aegon admitted with a shrug. “Father wants it done before the year ends. Beyond that? Your guess is as good as mine.”

Aemon fired off questions with growing enthusiasm. “Where will it be? Has the planning started? Why hasn’t anyone told me anything?”

“For the love of the gods, Aemon!” Aegon threw up his hands. “You’re more excited than I am. It’s just a wedding. My wedding. No big deal.”

“No big deal?” Rhaenys cut in, narrowing her eyes. “Margaery Tyrell is to be your queen. This isn’t some tavern girl you’re sneaking off with.”

Aegon shrugged, unfazed. “Yeah, yeah. It’s happening, and I’ll be there. But tonight isn’t about her—it’s about the three of us. So, are you coming or not?”

Rhaenys hesitated, glancing at Aemon as if to gauge his reaction. But Aemon’s decision was already made. After months spent in the company of soldiers, he had grown to enjoy the lively camaraderie they offered. The thought of sharing a few drinks, swapping stories, and laughing until his sides hurt was too tempting to pass up.

He nodded firmly, a grin spreading across his face. “We’re coming.”

Rhaenys rolled her eyes, though a small smile tugged at her lips. “You’re both impossible.”

“Downstairs awaits!” Aegon declared, standing and raising his goblet like a conquering hero. “To laughter, roast chickens, whores, and tales!”

The three of them left together, the laughter of siblings echoing faintly down the corridor, leaving behind the polished halls of the feast for the joy of the world below.

Aegon was right—the real party was outside. Long tables crisscrossed the muddy courtyard, laden with what remained of the feast: roasted meats, half-empty kegs of ale, and baskets of bread torn apart by eager hands. Makeshift awnings sagged under the relentless rain, dripping water in uneven streams, but no one seemed to care. Soldiers ate whatever food they could scavenge, drank ale by the tankard, and danced wildly in the mud, their boots splashing like children in a storm. Laughter and shouts rang through the night, carried by the hum of drunken revelry.

Aemon quickly lost track of his siblings in the chaos, finding himself swept up by strangers at one of the long tables. The camaraderie came easily, as it always did with soldiers. He joined an arm-wrestling contest, his palms slick with grease and mud, and traded insults with every opponent he defeated. “Is that all you’ve got?” he bellowed at one particularly large man, slamming the soldier’s hand into the table with a resounding thud. The crowd cheered, their faces bright with rain and firelight, and Aemon felt alive in a way he hadn’t in months.

Occasionally, he wandered back to the table where Rhaenys and Aegon sat, the three of them falling easily into familiar rhythms. They shared bawdy jokes and war stories, their laughter cutting through the rain. One moment they were debating tax policies—Aegon arguing for leniency, Rhaenys for pragmatism—and the next, they were discussing about the best shitting places in inns in the Crownlands.

As the night wore on, Aemon spotted other familiar faces among the crowd. One of them was Marq Piper, currently standing on his hands with a drinking horn wedged firmly between his teeth. Aemon, curious as ever, staggered over to see what the commotion was about. The laughter grew louder with every step he took, and by the time he reached the scene, he was already grinning.

It was chaos. Soldiers crowded around Piper, cheering and jeering as he attempted to drink ale from a contraption they called the “Wine Bong”—a Myrish invention, apparently. This time, the game was far messier, using ale instead of wine. Piper’s face was bright red as he tried to chug from the funnel while upside-down, his arms trembling with the effort. Finally, he gave in, spilling the ale everywhere and collapsing in the mud to a chorus of cheers and laughter.

“OUT OF THE WAY!” Aemon bellowed, his voice cutting through the noise. “The prince’s turn!”

The crowd erupted with excitement, parting to let him through. “Prince Aemon!” someone shouted. “Show them how it’s done!” 

Aemon stepped forward, his boots squelching in the mud, and took Piper’s place without a moment’s hesitation. The absurdity of what he was about to do didn’t hit him through the haze of ale and adrenaline. He leaned forward, letting a pair of soldiers grab his legs and hoist him upside-down. The cold rain mixed with mud and laughter, creating a heady, chaotic blur around him.

Someone placed the funnel in his mouth, and the ale began to pour. He drank with deep, forceful gulps, each one threatening to make him vomit, but the crowd’s chants kept him going.

“PRINCE!”

“AEMON!”

“PRINCE!”

“AEMON!”

The chants grew louder with every second, and for a moment, it felt as though the entire courtyard was caught up in his madness. The ale burned as it rushed down his throat, and his head throbbed with the pressure, but he pressed on, determined to see it through. Finally, the taste of ale became too much, and his body rebelled. Aemon pulled himself upright with a sudden burst of energy, planting his feet firmly in the mud just in time to avoid losing his stomach.

He staggered, his chest heaving, and took a moment to steady himself. Then, drawing a deep breath, he threw his head back and let out a thunderous roar. It was raw and primal, a sound that seemed to shake the very air around him. The rain continued to fall, and as if on cue, a streak of lightning split the sky behind him, illuminating his silhouette.

The courtyard erupted into wild applause, the crowd’s laughter and cheers rising to a deafening crescendo. Someone clapped him on the back, nearly knocking him off his feet, and he found himself grinning like a fool, soaked to the bone but utterly exhilarated.

He raised his arms triumphantly, mud dripping from his hands, and shouted back, “For the realm! And for the ale!”

Eventually—how much later, Aemon couldn’t tell—he stumbled upon Rhaenys again. His sense of time had completely dissolved into the chaos of the night. He’d spent hours—minutes? days?—drifting from one face to another, kissing cheeks, clasping hands, and delivering nonsensical regards to families he barely remembered. It all felt right in the moment, though he doubted he’d recall any of it by morning.

When he spotted Rhaenys, she was seated at a small table under one of the sagging awnings, deep in conversation with a strikingly beautiful, dark-skinned woman. Something about the woman seemed familiar, though Aemon couldn’t quite place where he’d seen her before.

The woman noticed him first, her gaze warm and inviting. “Ah, my prince,” she said, her voice rich and melodic, like the wine that still clung to his breath. “Please, join us.”

Aemon grinned and made an unsteady attempt to bow before collapsing into the chair beside Rhaenys. “Have we... met before? Hmm, you look so familiar,” he slurred, blinking slowly as he tried to focus.

“Not officially, my prince,” the woman replied, her smile as poised as the rest of her demeanor.

“This is Chataya,” Rhaenys interjected smoothly, her tone laced with fond exasperation. “I put her in charge of tonight’s festivities for the soldiers.”

Chataya extended her hand, and Aemon took it eagerly, pressing a kiss to her knuckles and lingering a beat too long. He only realized his mistake when Rhaenys’s hand clamped firmly on his shoulder, tugging him back into his seat.

“Forgive my brother,” Rhaenys said, her voice light but with an undertone of iron. “He’s... caught up in the revelry.”

Chataya chuckled softly, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “No offense taken, princess. The hero of the war can kiss my hand as much as he likes.” Her gaze flicked to Aemon, and he felt a shiver run through him despite the warmth of the wine.

“Kissing?” Aemon murmured, grinning mischievously. “Hmm, I was actually think—”

A sharp pinch on his leg from Rhaenys silenced him mid-sentence. He barely stifled a yelp, the pain cutting through his drunken haze just enough to remind him of his manners—or lack thereof.

“Once again, forgive him, Chataya,” Rhaenys said, smoothing a hand through Aemon’s damp hair as though calming a wayward child. “He’s drunk. But thank you for tonight—it’s been truly wonderful. The soldiers are happy, and so are we. The royal family may call on your services again in the future.”

Chataya inclined her head graciously, though her smile lingered. “It would be my honor, princess.”

Aemon’s eyelids began to grow heavy, the conversation around him fading into a comforting hum. He wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t falling asleep until a light slap on his face jolted him awake. His eyes flew open, and he found himself staring into the familiar visage of Aegon, sitting across the table with his head flatting on the table. Behind him loomed the imposing figure of Ser Barristan Selmy.

“Ser Barristan!” Aemon exclaimed, his face lighting up as though greeting an old friend he hadn’t seen in years. “By the gods, you’re still alive!”

The knight gave a faint smile, bowing slightly. “The gods are kind, Your Grace. I intend to serve you for many more years. But my next service will be ensuring you make it to your chambers safely.”

Aemon turned to Rhaenys, who sat watching him with a mix of amusement and exhaustion. “But I want to stay a little longer...” he muttered, his words slurring.

Rhaenys sighed deeply, waving Ser Barristan back with a silent command. The knight obeyed without question, stepping away to wait at a respectful distance. But Aemon wasn’t done yet. Summoning the last reserves of his strength, he reached across the table to shake Aegon awake. His brother stirred groggily, his face still planted firmly against the wet wood of the table. Aegon’s eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused, as though trying to remember where he was.

“Listen,” Aemon began, slinging an arm around each of his siblings and pulling them close. His voice was thick with drunken sincerity. “Listen carefully. No matter what, okay? No matter what happens, I’ll love you... both of you. Got that? I mean it. The world could crumble, the sky could fall, and I’d still be here. Does it sound stupid? Maybe. But it’s true.”

Aegon, still half-asleep, managed to wave a lazy thumbs-up in his direction. “And... purp,” he slurred nonsensically. “Yeah, same, brother. I love you, too. Fuck, I think I’m gonna puke... Yeah, love you. Fuck Father, right? But us... we’ll see it through. We’ll fix everything. Yeah... love you.” His declaration ended with a sloppy kiss planted squarely on Aemon’s cheek before he collapsed back onto the table, snoring softly.

Rhaenys leaned in and kissed Aemon gently on the forehead. Her voice was soft but carried a teasing lilt. "And I’ll always love you too, little brother. Now, do you want me to carry you to your room?" She couldn’t suppress her laughter as she spoke.

Aemon shrugged off her teasing, untangling himself from their embrace with exaggerated dignity. "Sod off. I’m still a prince, alright? And I can walk to my chambers on my own. Watch and see."

"You won’t even make it one step," she retorted, crossing her arms with an arched brow.

"Watch and see," Aemon repeated with determination.

He attempted to rise with as much grace as he could muster, confident he would prove her wrong. Unfortunately, the world had other plans. His legs buckled, and he found himself on his knees, promptly vomiting everything he’d consumed onto the muddy ground.

From her seat, Rhaenys’s laughter rang out, carrying a mix of amusement and exasperation. "I told you so."

Aemon didn’t dignify her with a response. He simply flopped onto his back in the dirt, staring up at the rain-speckled sky. Despite the mud seeping into his clothes and the chill of the wet ground, he felt an odd sense of comfort. Here, the spinning world seemed distant, and he could rest. 

Or so he thought.

Rhaenys, ever the stubborn one, began prodding his legs with the toe of her boot. "If you keep lying there, you’ll catch your death, fool."

Groaning and muttering curses under his breath, Aemon managed to pull himself upright, though he swayed like a ship in a storm. Vomiting had cleared some of the nausea, granting him a faint semblance of clarity. He looked at Rhaenys through bleary eyes. "Where’s Oswell? Isn’t he supposed to be watching me?"

"He’s resting, Your Grace," came a calm voice. The bearded face of Ser Richard loomed into view, dimly illuminated by the flickering torchlight. "I’ll accompany you instead."

"Fine, start by taking my arm," Aemon muttered, stumbling toward the Kingsguard knight. "But if you carry me, I’ll have your head displayed on the Dragon Gate."

"Understood, Your Grace," Ser Richard replied evenly, a trace of amusement in his otherwise stoic tone.

As the knight steadied him with an arm around his back, Aemon began to grumble, his words half-coherent. "And shave that beard, for gods’ sake. What’s with this sudden trend of beards, huh? Can’t any of you see how ridiculous it looks? It itches. Makes you look filthy. A clean face—that’s the way. Even Daenerys prefers me clean-shaven." He mumbled the last part, unsure if it had stayed in his head or escaped aloud.

"Need a hand, good ser?" a feminine voice called out from a distance, melodic but faint through the haze of rain and drunkenness. 

Aemon squinted, trying to focus, but the dark world blurred around him. Was that Rhaenys again? No, it couldn’t be. Or could it? His thoughts spun like the ground beneath him.

"No need, Princess Rhaenys," Ser Richard replied with the calm authority of a man used to such situations. "I have plenty of practice. We’ll reach the prince’s chambers unnoticed."

Aemon’s attention drifted, no longer tracking the conversation. His mind wandered to oysters with spicy sauce. Or was it a sweet orange cake he wanted? Yes, an orange cake without frosting. Either would be perfect right now.

The rest of the walk blurred into a series of swaying steps and muttered curses, punctuated by Aemon’s occasional heaves as he fought to keep his stomach in check. The cold, smooth feel of marble tiles beneath his boots felt familiar, grounding him as they entered the castle proper. He kept his eyes shut to block out the spinning world, trusting Ser Richard to guide him.

"Just one more turn," he murmured to himself, his voice barely audible. "Then the stairs, and—"

He tripped, his toe catching on an uneven tile. Ser Richard caught him with practiced ease, the knight’s arm steadying him before he could fall. The rest of the walk was a blur of swaying steps, muttered curses, and the occasional heave as Aemon tried to keep his stomach in check. Marble tiles felt familiar beneath his boots, but he kept his eyes shut to avoid the spinning world. He knew they were close to his chambers. Just one more turn, then the stairs, and—

"Does the prince require anything?" A voice, soft and unfamiliar, slipped through the quiet like silk, bringing Aemon and Ser Richard to an abrupt halt. The words seemed to hang in the air, reverberating faintly in the dim corridor. Aemon blinked, his wine-fogged mind struggling to place the speaker. 

"Who—who said that?" he slurred, his hand fumbling instinctively for the dagger at his belt. The corridor was cloaked in shadows, the faint light of a torch flickering far behind them. He could see no one.

"Return to your chambers, my lady," Ser Richard said, his voice carrying the clipped authority of the Kingsguard. "This doesn’t concern you."

"It seems to me," the voice replied, calm yet laced with a quiet insistence, "that the prince does need my help, Ser Richard. Please, allow me to assist him."

Aemon’s stomach churned, though he wasn’t sure if it was the ale or something more. The words sounded kind, but there was something about them that unsettled him, as though they carried a weight beyond their simplicity. His legs felt weak, and he leaned more heavily against Ser Richard, who shifted uneasily beside him.

"My lady," Ser Richard said sharply, his free hand moving to the hilt of his sword, "I don’t know who you are. For your safety, step back."

Aemon’s sluggish instincts stirred as the tension in Ser Richard’s stance became palpable. He released the knight’s arm, straightening just enough to ready himself, his fingers brushing the hilt of his dagger. But his head was spinning, and the air felt thick, as though the corridor itself were pressing against him.

The silence stretched, heavy and foreboding. Then, with slow, deliberate steps, the figure emerged from the shadows. Moonlight filtered through a narrow window, illuminating her as she stepped into its pale glow. Aemon’s breath caught. She was stunning in a way that defied reason. High cheekbones framed a face that seemed carved from marble, her sharp jawline softened by flawless, alabaster skin. Her hair, a shimmering cascade of pale gold streaked with silver, fell in waves that seemed to catch the light like a halo. Her eyes were piercing and unrelenting, a shade that shifted between frost-blue and silver as the light danced across them. She could have been twenty or forty—it was impossible to tell. Her beauty was timeless, otherworldly, and it carried with it an undeniable sense of danger.

"Step back," Ser Richard commanded, his tone edged with steel. His grip tightened on his sword, though he hesitated to draw it. "This is your final warning."

The woman’s expression remained calm, unbothered by the knight’s threat. She raised a hand with an unsettling grace and placed her fingers lightly against Ser Richard’s forehead. Aemon’s eyes widened, his sluggish mind struggling to comprehend the ease with which she closed the distance.

"Good ser," she said softly, her voice carrying an almost hypnotic cadence, "you will go to Prince Aemon’s door and stand guard. Because the prince is already in his chambers."

Ser Richard froze, his posture going slack. His sword hand fell to his side, and the tension in his body melted away. His face became unnervingly blank, his eyes dull and unfocused, as though his very will had been drained from him.

"I will go to the prince’s door and stand guard," he repeated in a flat, emotionless tone. "For the prince is in his chambers."

Aemon’s blood ran cold as he watched Ser Richard turn and walk away, his boots echoing hollowly down the corridor until he vanished into the darkness. 

The woman turned her attention to Aemon, her cold, piercing gaze locking onto his. He staggered, his instincts screaming at him to run, to fight, to do anything—but his legs refused to move. His hand clutched the hilt of his dagger, but he didn’t draw it. There was something about her presence that paralyzed him, holding him in place as though the air itself had become heavy.

"Who... who are you?" Aemon managed to croak, his voice barely more than a whisper.

The woman stepped closer, her movements impossibly fluid, as though she glided rather than walked. She smiled faintly, though it lacked any warmth. "I am no threat to you, Prince Aemon. Quite the opposite."

He tried to back away, but his feet wouldn’t obey. His head spun, and he leaned heavily against the wall for support. "What... what do you want?”

"Finally, we’re alone, Your Grace," the woman said, her voice laced with eerie calm. She gestured toward a chair and a table that Aemon swore hadn’t been there before, tucked neatly against the wall. The faint light of the moon illuminated them, casting long, unnatural shadows. "I’ve waited hours for this moment. Please, sit."

Aemon’s instincts screamed at him that this was all wrong. Her presence, her voice, even the way the air seemed to ripple faintly around her—it all felt off, as though she were a crack in the fabric of reality. Summoning every ounce of strength he could muster, he ignored her request and drew his dagger in one swift motion, lunging for her chest.

Before he could make contact, her hand shot out, gripping his arm with an unnatural strength that sent a jolt through him. Her fingers felt like iron, unyielding and cold. With a flick of her wrist, she shoved him backward, sending him sprawling into the chair. The force of the impact knocked the wind from his lungs, and his stomach churned violently. He twisted to the side, retching onto the stone floor.

The woman sighed, the sound exasperated, almost disappointed. "This conversation needs to happen with a clear mind," she said, reaching into the folds of her cloak and producing a slender vial filled with a dark, swirling liquid. She held it out to him. "Drink this."

Aemon wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, glaring at her through narrowed eyes. The dagger still lay within reach on the floor, but he didn’t dare move for it yet. "Who the fuck are you?" he spat, his voice hoarse with anger and the remnants of bile. "Is this some kind of joke? One of Viserys’s idiotic games?"

Her expression remained serene, unbothered by his outburst. "Clear your mind," she repeated firmly, stepping closer. Before he could react, her hand shot out again, this time gripping his jaw like a vice. Her fingers dug into his skin, and despite his struggles, he couldn’t break free. 

"Let go of me!" he snarled, his voice muffled by her iron grip.

Ignoring his protests, she forced his mouth open and poured the liquid from the vial down his throat. The taste was bitter, like burned herbs and ash, and he tried to spit it out, but her other hand clamped his mouth shut. He had no choice but to swallow as the liquid burned its way down his throat like liquid fire. 

She released him then, and he fell forward, coughing violently, his vision swimming. For a moment, he thought he might vomit again, but the sensation passed. Slowly, the spinning world began to steady, and clarity returned to his mind. The haze of drunkenness, the nausea, the dull throb in his head—all of it vanished as though wiped away.

"Feeling better?" the woman asked, her voice almost amused.

Aemon pushed himself to his feet abruptly, rage coursing through his veins. The dagger was forgotten now—he didn’t need it. Every muscle in his body was coiled with fury, his instincts demanding retribution. "Give me one reason not to kill you right now," he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

The woman’s lips curled into a sharp, knowing smile. "Now that’s better," she said, her tone almost mocking. "Fireblessed—finally living up to your name."

But Aemon’s patience had run out. With one hand, he grabbed the woman by the throat and slammed her against the wall. He thrust her head hard against the wall as his hand tightened around her neck. “I won’t ask you again. Who are you, and what did you do to Richard?”

But the woman couldn’t answer. Her face had started to turn red, her hands flailing in the air, slapping against Aemon’s grip. Rolling his eyes in frustration, Aemon yanked her away from the wall and threw her to the ground. She hit the floor with a thud, clutching her throat as she gasped and coughed deeply. Taking advantage of the moment, Aemon studied her again. He was certain he had never seen her before. 

Her face resembled that of a noble, yet he couldn’t place the golden curls and gray eyes with any particular house. The green dress embroidered with black symbols gave him no further clues either. Perhaps she wasn’t a noble at all. As for what she had done to Richard... could this woman be a witch? Normally, Aemon would never believe in such things, but after everything he had witnessed in the war, he was forced to question everything he had ever seen or believed in. 

The woman rubbed her throat, the faint marks of Aemon’s grip still visible on her pale skin. She took a slow, deliberate breath before speaking, her voice shaky but tinged with sarcasm. "If I were anyone else, I’d be dead right now. Quite the temper, Your Grace.”

With a single motion of his foot, he flicked the dagger shimmering on the ground into the air and caught it. Who knew what other tricks this woman might be hiding beneath her dress? He needed to stay alert. And yet… seeing her lying on the floor, clutching her throat, stirred a pang of guilt in Aemon. No matter what, he didn’t like striking women. Perhaps he had gripped her throat too tightly. He wanted to take a step forward but stopped himself at the last moment. If this woman truly was a witch, he couldn’t afford to get any closer.

Aemon frowned, his grip on the dagger tightening. The blade spun lazily in his hand, catching the flickering light as his mind raced. "Then what are you? Who are you?" he demanded, his voice cold and steady.

The woman leaned back against the wall, her posture relaxed despite the tension in the room. Her gray eyes fixed on Aemon, glimmering with a strange intensity. A faint, almost playful smile tugged at her lips. "Are you going to attack me again?" she asked, her tone teetering on the edge of mockery.

"If you don’t answer my question, yes," Aemon said flatly, his patience thinning. The thought of calling the guards or dragging her to the Black Cells flickered in his mind, but another force was at work within him—curiosity, sharp and insistent, holding him back.

The woman raised her hands in a placating gesture and inclined her head. "Very well. My name is Malora Hightower. Eldest daughter of Leyton Hightower. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?" Her lips quirked into a sardonic smile. "The Mad Maid, they call me. That’s me."

"Hightower? A bloody Hightower?" Aemon’s surprise broke through his composure. He leaned forward in his chair, his dagger momentarily forgotten. "Why would a Hightower try to kill me in the middle of the night? Especially when Garth Hightower is the only one on the Bronze Council who actually likes me?"

Malora’s eyebrows shot up, genuine confusion spreading across her face. "Kill you? For the love of the lost gods, where did you get that idea?"

Aemon’s jaw clenched as he waved his dagger at her, the blade cutting through the air like an exclamation point. "You sent Richard away. Then you forced me to drink something vile. What else am I supposed to think?"

Malora sighed, her hands dropping to her sides as she regarded him with something approaching exasperation. "I sent Richard away because I needed to speak with you alone," she said, her tone patient but firm. "As for what you drank, it wasn’t poison. It was a mixture of three simple herbs. It clears the effects of alcohol and other impairing substances. Nothing more." She began ticking points off on her fingers. "And as for your Targaryen paranoia—well, I suppose I should have expected it. You lot do have a knack for violence."

Aemon’s eyes narrowed, his knuckles whitening around the hilt of his dagger. "Fine," he snapped. "Then talk. What do you want from me?"

Malora held his gaze, her expression unreadable as she slowly brushed a strand of silvery-gold hair away from her face. "First," she said smoothly, "I’d like a bit of civility. Surely a prince can manage that? Sit down, and let’s talk like civilized people."

Aemon gritted his teeth, weighing his options. Everything about this woman put him on edge—the way she moved, the way her voice seemed to curl around his thoughts, the way she smiled as though she already knew the outcome of their encounter. But she had a point. If she wanted him dead, she’d had plenty of opportunities to strike. 

"Fine," he said reluctantly, lowering himself into the nearest chair. He kept his eyes locked on her, his body coiled like a spring, ready to strike at the first sign of danger. His fingers still gripped the dagger tightly, the blade resting against his thigh. "Talk," he said, his voice a low growl. "And make it good."

Malora seated herself gracefully in the chair across from him, smoothing out the folds of her dress as though she were settling in for a genteel afternoon tea. Her movements carried the poise and elegance of a noblewoman, but Aemon remained on edge, his wariness unshaken. There was something deeply unsettling about her beauty. It was too flawless, too precise, as though someone had crafted it to disarm and enthrall. It didn’t feel real, as though it didn’t belong in this world.

He narrowed his eyes, his mind racing. Leyton Hightower was known to have many children, but he had never heard of Malora. It was impossible not to know the names of his political allies and potential adversaries. Yet here she was, claiming to be the so-called Mad Maid.

"Isn’t this better?" Malora said, her voice light but laced with sarcasm. A faint, mocking smile played on her lips as she folded her hands in her lap. "A glass of wine and a plate of cheese would’ve made this perfect, but time is short. Thank you for this small courtesy."

Aemon scowled and pointed his finger at her. "Enough with the niceties. Get to the point—what do you want?"

Malora’s smile faded. She took a deep breath, her gray eyes sharpening with a chilling intensity. Her gaze seemed to pierce through him, stripping away every barrier he tried to erect. "Where were you injured?" she asked abruptly.

"What?" The sheer audacity of her question caught him off guard, leaving him staring at her in disbelief. 

"In the battle where you killed Qalar," she said evenly, as though recounting a simple fact. "You lost control. Something happened, didn’t it? From what I can tell, you were injured—fatally, perhaps—and you gave up control because of it. That’s why I’m asking. Where were you injured? Was it fatal? Did it heal instantly, or is there a scar?"

Her words sent a shock through him. He could feel his pulse quicken, his grip on the dagger tightening. How could she know any of this? He had never spoken of that moment to anyone. Not his commanders, not his siblings, not even the maesters. The memory of that battle was a secret he kept buried, a part of himself he didn’t dare examine too closely. And yet, she spoke of it as though she had been there.

"Don’t bother denying it," Malora continued coldly. "For your sake, for all of our sakes, tell the truth."

Aemon slammed the dagger onto the table, the blade embedding itself in the wood with a loud thud. "How do you know all of this?" he demanded, his voice rising. His heart pounded in his chest as anger and fear warred within him.

"You’re focusing on the wrong thing, Your Grace," she said, unflinching. "Just answer my question."

Aemon clenched his jaw, his gaze darting away from hers. He didn’t want to answer, didn’t want to admit to himself—let alone to her—what had happened. But the intensity of her stare and the weight of her words pressed against him like a vise. If she knew this much already, there was no use in pretending otherwise.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and strained. "My arm. A battle axe cut deep into it. I couldn’t lift it afterward."

"But then you could," she pressed, leaning forward slightly.

"Yes," Aemon said reluctantly. His voice faltered, but he forced himself to continue. "After I woke up. After I saw the bodies of the men who attacked me. My arm was fine, as though the wound had never been there."

Malora’s expression didn’t change. If she was surprised, she didn’t show it. Instead, she nodded slowly, as though confirming something to herself. "Tell me about the bodies. How did they die?"

Aemon stiffened, the memories flashing through his mind unbidden. He didn’t need to picture the scene—it haunted him every night. "It was as if their souls had burned away," he said, his voice tightening with every word. "Their eyes were gone, burned out completely. A blackish liquid oozed from where their eyes should have been. Their bodies were torn apart, most of them by my blade."

After hearing the response, Malora leaned her head back against the chair and exhaled deeply, as though a heavy weight had lifted from her shoulders. When she straightened again, a faint smile curled her lips. “I imagine the headaches have already begun?” she asked, her voice laced with an unsettling mix of amusement and certainty.

Aemon’s confusion gave way to frustration. “How do you know about that? What do you want from me?” 

“What do I want?” Malora repeated, shrugging with feigned indifference. “To be alive when all this is over. You seem honest enough, and it’s clear you know very little. That’s good—it means that damned witch hasn’t reached you yet. But the spells in your room? Only she could have placed them. Her arrival is imminent.”

Aemon clenched his fists, his temper fraying. “What in the bloody hell are you talking about?”

“For everyone’s sake, I need to take you to Oldtown,” she said, her voice softening. “It’s the only place you’ll be safe. There, we can tell you everything—what you truly are, what’s at stake.”

Aemon shook his head, resolute. “I’m not going anywhere. If you’ve got answers, you can give them to me here.”

Malora shook her head with equal determination. “Not with that thing inside you. We have to keep it from hearing, and I can’t do that alone. Listen to me, Aemon. My father and I—we are among the few who truly understand the danger facing this realm. King Rhaegar might grasp some of it, but his vision is narrow, confined to the surface. If you come with me, we can set things right.”

“What nonsense are you spouting now?” Aemon snapped. “There’s nothing inside me, and I know the realm is in danger. If you want to help, support us in dismantling the Bronze Council and restoring order.”

Malora sighed, a faint look of pity crossing her face. “Ah, the bliss of ignorance. I envy you, truly. But don’t pretend you don’t sense it. You know something is wrong. If you want the truth, you must come to Oldtown. Meet my father. He’s the only one who can explain everything. The cult, the witch, the Reds—they’re all pieces of this. If you stay here, they’ll corrupt you, twist you into something unrecognizable.”

Aemon ran a hand through his hair, his mind reeling with frustration. “What did you do to Richard?”

Malora’s patience thinned. “Do you really think Richard matters right now?” she snapped. Then, with a hint of exasperation, she added, “Fine. If you must know, I can influence the weak-minded. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

Aemon’s glare hardened. “If you’d told me that a few months ago, I’d have had you thrown into the black cells. But now…” He hesitated, his voice quieter. “Now, I don’t know. I’ve seen things I can’t explain. But even so, I can’t leave. I’ve just returned home. My duty, my family, my honor—they bind me here. I can’t abandon them.”

“No one expects you to leave tonight,” Malora said. “We’ve already made an offer to King Rhaegar. Speak with your father. Let him know there’s no coercion. Come to Oldtown when you’re ready.”

“You overestimate the King’s willingness to listen,” Aemon said bitterly. “My words won’t change anything.”

Malora’s eyes narrowed. “If you tell him the truth about the war, he’ll have no choice but to listen. Our word alone isn’t enough, but he will listen to his son.”

Aemon laughed bitterly. “You don’t know him as well as you think.”

“Then make him listen. Find a way,” Malora urged. Her tone was sharp now, her urgency palpable. “Don’t you see? You have to come. For all our sakes.”

“Why not just tell me everything now? What’s stopping you? What’s this thing inside me?” Aemon demanded.

“You cannot know yourself right know, not here. It would destroy us all,” Malora said softly. “We have to keep you in the dark until you’re somewhere safe. I’m sorry, Aemon. I know it sounds absurd, but this is the reality we’re dealing with. We must keep you at Black Stone."

Aemon buried his face in his hands, his thoughts a chaotic storm. “So you can’t tell me anything? Everything has to stay a secret?”

Malora’s gaze softened, and for the first time, she seemed genuinely regretful. “I can only give you warnings. This world isn’t what you think it is. There are forces at play beyond our control, and we’re all just pieces on their board. Whether you like it or not, you’re part of this now. You must let us help you, and you must trust no one. Those who know what you are will seek to use you.”

“People like you?” Aemon asked with a bitter smirk.

Malora nodded solemnly. “Yes, people like me. But my father and I—we act only for the realm’s good. It’s a cursed responsibility, but it’s one we’ve taken upon ourselves.”

Aemon sighed deeply, the weight of her words pressing down on him. “I feel like a blind frog in the dark,” he muttered. “I need time to think. I can’t just say yes.”

“You need to convince your father soon,” Malora insisted. “I don’t want to leave you at risk, but I can’t stay. My father needs me, and you need him.” Rising gracefully, she added, “I’ll expect your answer by tomorrow night. After that, the choice is yours. I can’t force you to come to Oldtown, but for the good of the realm, you must.”

With those final words, Malora Hightower disappeared into the shadows, leaving Aemon alone in the corridor, his mind a chaotic tangle of questions and doubts. He sank back into his chair, replaying her every word in his mind. Could the Hightowers be trusted? Garth had always been honorable, but he hardly knew Leyton or Malora.

And what of the powers she spoke of? Powers beyond human comprehension? Before the war, Aemon had believed in the Seven, had prayed to them in times of need. But now, he was faced with the possibility of other, darker forces at work. Was he truly at the center of something mystical? Something beyond his understanding?

The thought was maddening. He had no idea what tomorrow would bring, but one thing was clear: he would have to knock on his father’s door and face whatever truths awaited him.