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Chapter Text

It was in 105 ac that Lord Corlys Velaryon 'The sea snake' Was assassinated by the triarchy, it was only a month later that prince Daemon descended upon the Stepstones with his dragon, Caraxes 'the blood wyrm', A hard war followed sponsored by prince Daemon and princess Rhaenys, Who was regent of her son, Laenor Velaryon. For three years hard battle were fought on the sandy islands of the Stepstones. Until in 108 AC when prince Daemon killed Craghas Drahar, the prince-admiral of the Triarchy, A year long after the princes death did Daemon hold the Stepstones from continous attacks.

Until a letter came from Princess Rhaenys, her sons lordship was being challenged, and her regency was under threat from Vaemond Velaryon, her late husbands nephew. In exchange for his support, Rhaenys would Marry him. As the prince had been freed from the Lady Rhea Royce, who had died in a unfortunate hiking incident, no love was lost between husband and wife as it was reported that the prince celebrated long and hard, and so it was in early 109 AC that princess Rhaenys and Daemon married in a private cerimony on Driftmark.

Late that same year, Prince Aemon was born, who received said status as a gift from his uncle, the king. It was in 122 AC that the boy claimed the most volitile of the dragons, the Cannibal. Two years later he was banished from the Seven kingdoms, with the death as his punishment should he return, The boy left, and the man returned four years later in 128 AC when Viserys 'the peaceful' died in his sleep.

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A buzz filled his ears as he reached out his hand to Joren; Aemon pulled his friend up from the bloodied dirt. "One left, my friend," Aemon told Joren with a smile. "Aye, one left. You take his left, I take his right," Joren said as he picked up the first sword the man could find. "We better not lose Joren; I bet a lot of Golden Dragons on us." Joren looked at him with a raised eyebrow as their opponent, 'Urako the Bloody,' roared at the crowd. "You bet money on us? My, my, A bit arrogant, aren't you?'' Aemon snorted and twirled his sword in his hand. ''I think I can afford it; 'tis one of the benefits of being a Targaryen.''

Joren giggled, "Of course, my prince, that is why you are banished?" Aemon snorted and pointed his sword at Urako, who had turned his attention to them. The crowd began cheering, "DRAGON! DRAGON! DRAGON!" They yelled in Valyrian to him, that was his name in the ring, Aemon the dragon. The Meereen fighting pits knew his worth, but his own family didn't, yet hearing his name being called soothed whatever salted wound remained.

He liked it. Joren smiled and began his attack at Urako. Aemon roared and attacked the man from the left, trying to stab the man in his calves. Aemon’s blade sank into flesh—but Urako only grinned, dragging his massive frame forward, blood running down his calf like it was nothing. Joren's sword was thrown away as dread rose in him. The man threw Joren after his sword and picked Aemon up by his throat. He moved his hand and grabbed his Valyrian steel dagger, driving it deep into Urako's head. The man twitched in shock and fell on the ground, letting Aemon fall on his knees as he hurried over to Joren, who was laughing in denial. ''Almost thought he had you. Guess I was wrong.''

Aemon laughed, yet his laugh got interrupted by a need to gasp for air; it sounded more like a cough, yet he continued laughing anyway as they stood up. The crowd yelled as they raised their hands in victory. He put his dagger in his scabbard and began walking side by side towards the entrance to the arena. Four of his men stood there with icy cold expressions. The other four Meereenese men opened the gates for him as both Joren and he walked through. "My prince."  Red Rat greeted him with his title, and The Unsullied’s gaze was unblinking, as cold as his spear tip.

Gods, these were soldiers, Aemon thought—not men, but steel given flesh. As he looked at the heavily built man, Red Rat had gotten the name from his former master. Yet he had decided to keep the name even after being bought by him; he'd bought two dozen of them, all of them to guard his friends and himself in whatever place he visited during his travels.

Red Rat spoke up just as Aemon wanted to continue walking towards his mansion. "Princess Rhaenys Targaryen arrived on her dragon an hour ago and has requested an audience." Aemon stopped in his tracks and opened his mouth to reply to the man in Valyrian as they all spoke. "Tell the princess that I shall visit her in a short while. Ask if she needs anything and have a maid attend to her; additionally, if we know where her dragon is, bring it three fattened sheep.'' The Unsullied nodded and began executing his orders, with the other Unsullied following shortly behind. "Did I hear that correctly, or did Red Rat say 'princess' and 'Rhaenys' in the same sentence?"

Aemon nodded, and Joren began humming, "So, your mother finally decided to visit you in your banishment? I guess it was time. I wonder what she wants, except for maybe a talk to her dear so-'' Aemon growled and spoke up, "Shut up! Go home, fuck some whore of yours or something, let me do my thing and you do yours!'' Joren grinned in joy at getting a rise out of him and nodded with an extravagant bow. "Of course, Your Majesty!" Joren spoke in a mocking tone as Aemon grunted.

He watched Joren go, the laughter still in the younger man’s walk, and felt his chest tighten. He smoothed his hair back and made for the mansion he’d bought with prize coins and hard-won rewards. It was not grand—not by Westerosi standards—but it was his. He’d argued over tiles and bled for its stones; he’d helped the masons set the foundation and had chosen the curtains himself. It was cozy. It was home.

Two Unsullied stood at his gates, two more inside the courtyard; the rest kept the house’s perimeter. Meereen treated him as a special guest, but he refused the masters’ gifts. He accepted one offer, though: in return for protection from threats not of the Seven Kingdoms, his dragon could roost in the largest pit. Shrykos' shadow over the city was the cost of his sovereignty here.

A warm bath was waiting in his chambers. He shed bloody clothes, slid his blades onto the nearest table, and sank into the steaming water. For a moment he let himself drift back to the night he was banished. “Aemon Targaryen is hereby banished from the Seven Kingdoms, with death to follow should he return.” King Viserys’ voice had been a scream, more madness than law. Aemon had cried and begged. The king had not budged.

He rose, scrubbed the salt and blood off his skin, and dressed in comfortable clothes. He left the weapons where they lay and crossed into his solar, where a dark chestnut desk waited. Red Rat remained, always, should illness strike. He ordered the Unsullied to fetch the princess. A knock. His heart picked up pace, hammering at his ribs.

“Let her in,” he said, swallowing and squaring his shoulders. Rhaenys entered like a queen born of grace, the light catching her dark hair. “My son,” she said, her eyes full of something like sorrow. He felt the old hurt flare—a familiar burn. He gestured to a chair and watched her sit.

“You have decorated this house well,” she said, scanning the room. “Practical, yet beautiful. The windows let light in.” He inclined his head. “I take it you are here for more than a social visit?”

She looked away for a moment, then back, the pain vanishing from her face as if she had practiced the expression. “King Viserys passed a week ago.” The words hit like a fist. He pinched himself, hoping it was a lie. She went on, voice steady. “Otto Hightower has crowned his grandson king, and Rhaenyra has been crowned queen by your brother.” He felt the word "brother" drag through him like sand. He kept it to himself.

“She asked me to bring you back—to kneel, to lend your strength to her cause. Your father has already sworn. He rides to war.” Aemon laughed—a sharp, bitter sound. “The whore of Dragonstone expects me to bend my knee after I was banished for defending her sons? Ha! Tell your queen I have my own kingdom here.”

Rhaenys’ eyes flickered with hurt and a hint of suspicion. “And what does his grace do in this kingdom of his? Fight in pits and risk his life for coin? Come with me, Aemon. The queen will welcome you if you bend the knee.” He leaned forward. “No, Mother. I have nothing to fight for in Westeros. Why should I?” Her face crumpled a fraction; his heart, traitorously, tightened.

“Do you not love your mother?” she asked softly. “Your father? I am sorry, Aemon. I am sorry we could not persuade the king.”

He fixed his lilac eyes on her dark ones and let the hurt show. “I do love you and Father,” he said slowly. “But what would I sacrifice my life and my coin for? Who’s to say she will not banish me again when she is done with me, simply because my claim is stronger than her bastard’s?” She gazed upon him as he looked out the window, seeing the sun fall in the west. "I will not let her, Aemon. I promise you.'' His heart bled as he desperately tried to keep some control over it. "Did you not promise the same when I was banished? No, Mother, I have nothing there except for you and Father and everything here.''

She looked on the verge of tears. "Please, Aemon, for me and your siblings." He sighed and stood. Slowly he walked around the desk and knelt down so that he looked up to her like when he was young. "Stay the night, Mother; it will be too dark to fly. You will be cared for; I hope Irri was a good maid.'' Irri was a girl of fifteen whomhe had pulled off the streets to work under him as his maid.

His mother cupped his face; Aemon swore to the seven that he resisted the urge to lean into his mother's warm touch. "Alright, my child, and yes, she was wonderful." He smiled. Standing and helping her up, Irri waited outside and guided her to her chambers. Darkness had long set when he finally entered his own chambers; a small debt collection issue had arisen with the profits of the bets. Yet as he lay in his nightshift, twisting and growling himself to sleep, his mind kept falling to when he was banished. "Father! He attacked my children!" Rhaenyra had yelled out, yet Aemon hadn't; he'd tried to separate the bastards and One-eye.

He still did not know why Aemond had attacked the bastards; perhaps it was the bullying? Perhaps jealousy? He didn't know and did not want to know; what he did know was that Aemond One-Eye fell on the ground with Lucerys Velaryon's knife in his eye and that Aemon was blamed. Because why not him? He was not that high in the line of succession, but a threat to Rhaenyra's claim nonetheless. Aemond had just pointed at him, while Rhaenyra's bastards had told the king that he'd punched them.

Why should he help? They had cast him away like dirt; even his father had said nothing except stare daggers into the king's back. Laenor hated him for not being blood of the late Corlys Velaryon, his mother's first husband. Laena was civil at best and outright violent at worst. His mother and father were the only two things he had. If he helped them, he would be dragged into a war he didn't want to be in, yet what choice did he have? Wait? Until he got a raven, his mother and father were dead?

Aemon growled, throwing his sheet off the bed and dressing. "Fuck it," he thought; it was almost morn anyway. He ordered a table of fresh foods to be prepared and set up in his garden facing the west. It was only when he saw that the table was complete that he entered his mother's room; she lay sleeping in her bed as he slowly rocked her shoulder. "Mother... Mother...!" He whisper-yelled until her eyes opened. "Aemon...?" seemingly confused, "Come, Mother, it is morn; we must break our fast." She swallowed and nodded, sliding out of bed.

He left the room as she began brushing her hair; entering his garden, the Essos heat instantly hit him. He poured himself some wine and began eating some grapes. After half an hour his mother entered the garden in a beautiful black and red riding dress. "Good morrow, mother. I hope my rooms were adequate?'' She nodded with a slight smile and took her place at the seat opposite of his. He had spent the night debating whether he would fight or not, if he even had a choice. ''Mother... I will come with you, but I have no desire to be played like a weapon or simply just another general in the whore's little war.''

Her head snapped up from the bread she was cutting as her eyes began to tear up. "Wh-Why...?" He sighed, rubbing his face. "I have nothing either way; I can try to make sure you and Father survive this war or stay here and pray to the gods I do not receive a raven that you are dead." He picked up a piece of white bread and broke it in two, spreading some butter on it. "Thank... Thank you, my child... but what about all of this?" She said, gesturing at the mansion, He'd thought about that too. "Do we not have valuable people in need of refuge, the queen's children? Laena's?'' His mother blinked and then slowly nodded.

"Indeed... that is smart of you." He smiled slyly and took a bite of his bread. "I shall be leaving in a few hours." He announced as she looked at him with surprise painted all over her face. He continued, "I assume you shall leave at the same time?" She nodded, and Aemon smiled. "Where did you hide Meleys? I haven't heard reports of her in the neighborhood?'' She smiled sadly. "Corlys held one of the larger estates in the city, a garden large enough to suit Meleys, though I wonder where you have stored yours? He is almost as large as Vermithor; I cannot imagine that he would be easy to hide.'' He laughed, putting a drape in his mouth. "I have a deal with the great masters; I defend this city sometimes, and in return Shrykos can stay in the largest fighting pit, the one next door." Thinking of his dragon, the Cannibal. Made him smile; it was his one steadfast rock in his life.

Rhaenys raised her eyebrow at him and smiled. "Shrykos?" He shrugged. "Had to give him a new name; the Cannibal sounds so antagonistic, and it's fitting. Shrykos is the god of new beginnings, and for me. Banishment was a new beginning.'' She nodded with a smile. ''Good name. And that is a smart agreement you have with the masters.'' He grinned.

Chapter Text

He entered the arena, gazing upon the resting figure of his dragon. "Wake up!" Green eyes opened and stared at him as he smiled at Shrykos. "Come, we must go to Westeros." The dragon looked at him curiously before nodding, smoke coming out of his nose. The dragon, as black as night, leaned down so he could walk up his wing into the saddle. It was made for Vermithor yet had been fitted upon Shrykos when Aemon claimed the dragon. He tightened his coat and began strapping himself in the saddle, putting his sword in the special scabbard he had ordered from the blacksmith so he would not be cutting himself constantly.

He gazed up for a second as he saw Meleys flying above, her loud cries alerting Shrykos to her presence. "Calm! She is of no threat to us; Meleys is my mother's dragon.'' He felt Shrykos tensing beneath him as he fell back onto his cannibalistic instinct. "Let us fly, old friend!" Shrykos grumbled and spread his wings, running forward to gain momentum as he finally flapped his powerful wings, ascending to the sky.

Slowly the city became smaller and smaller as he directed Shrykos to follow Meleys; he gazed back at the fighting pit. What had been his life for the past four years, Jeron would understand why he left once Irra gave him the letters he left.

They flew over land, sea, and forest; as they approached the height of the day, they stopped in Pentos as the dragons were exhausted. An incident had almost happened. Due to the smaller landing place, Meleys moved too close to Shrykos, who almost bit off Meleys' neck if it weren't for him still sitting on his back and calming the dragon. He had no doubt Shrykos could do it even if Meleys fought back; he didn't earn the name Cannibal for nothing, and it showed in the various scars that harbored Shrykos' body.

It was then he realized how much risk they were taking. He told his mother as such when they were having their supper, courtesy of the prince of Pentos, "Shrykos will not have eaten, Mother. If he attacks Meleys tonight, I cannot stop him; instinct cannot be dimmed by training."

Her eyebrows rose before she realized he was right. "Gods, then let us hope the prince will be generous enough to gift us some cows?" He nodded. He had long sat in his room when his mother entered the room. "The prince was more than generous to gift us some livestock when I explained to him the amounts of devastation it would cause if Shrykos and Meleys fought in his city... the idiot thought he could fool an old woman like me." He snorted and frowned upon hearing her say she was old. "Mother, you are not old. You are only four and fifty; the old king lived till he was nine and sixty.'' She laughed as she brushed her hair. "I am old, Aemon, and so are you. I wish you could've stayed five forever, no. You are now a full-grown man of nine and ten, but you are still my little boy.''

Aemon breathed in a sharp gasp, cursing his heart for leaping with joy. No! That was over! He would help his mother and father and then fuck off right back to Meereen. He sighed and lay down in his bed; closing his eyes, he dreamed of when he first rode Shrykos and of that father letting him wield Dark Sister for a few seconds.

Yet he awoke to his mother clutching his face, "...Ake! Wake up, dear!'' He blinked as he saw his mother smile at him. It had been a long time since anyone woke him up personally, and it surprised him. "What is it?" Rhaenys let out the small huff and stood up.

“I want to arrive at Dragonstone today, Aemon.” She rubbed her eyes; he nodded. “Of course. How did the dragons sleep?” he asked. Rhaenys was already by the door. She turned slowly, one eyebrow lifted. “No fights,” she said, then added with a small, surprised smile, “though I found Shrykos almost lying against Meleys…” Perhaps he has left some of his cannibalistic instinct for his riders.”

She grinned as she passed through the open doorway. Aemon cursed in High Valyrian and began dressing. He wondered, as he moved through the Prince’s mansion, how Joren, Irri, and the Unsullied fared. In the dining room he saw Rhaenys tuck a loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese into her bag. “Oh, Mother… that’s theft. The prince might not like that,” he called, mock offense heavy in his voice.

“Perhaps I shall steal some gold coins too?” she replied, already turning. She snorted—not ladylike at all—and fixed him with a look of iron. “Unlike my dear son, I do not fight for coin. I take it, and I promise not to burn the person I take it from.” He found himself staring at the table as she passed until her hand rested briefly on his shoulder. “I will leave in a few minutes, once I have given the prince our thanks.”

Aemon nodded and returned to their chamber. His hand lingered on the cool, smooth steel of his Valyrian dagger before he slid it into its sheath. Then he buckled on his sword, gripping the scabbard tightly as he made his way toward the prince’s hall.

The prince of Pentos was a man of vast influence; his trade reached even across the Narrow Sea. Should he refuse Westeros, half the great houses would feel it. And here he sat sprawled upon his throne—not as a lord, but as a lecher—surrounded by six whores. One was perched across his lap, her breast in his mouth, when Aemon approached.

He stood there a moment, disgust plain on his face, until the prince finally noticed him. “Your Grace,” Aemon said coolly, “I am grateful for your hospitality, but my mother and I must make haste for Dragonstone.” The prince shifted lazily, his hand sliding from a whore’s hip. “Then it must be so. I was honored to host you both, Prince Aemon. I wish you luck in the war.”

War? The word jarred in Aemon’s mind. But of course, ravens would be sent from the whore on Dragonstone and from Aegon in King’s Landing; soon the whole realm would know. The prince’s next words pierced deeper. “And my condolences. It is not easy, knowing war has begun. I am sure Prince Lucerys was a fine boy.” Aemon froze, though inside he wanted to laugh with savage joy. Lucerys Velaryon, dead. At last. He schooled his face to neutrality and inclined his head.

“Indeed, Your Grace. You honor his memory.” The prince nodded, already losing interest, burying his face once more in a whore’s bosom. Aemon turned on his heel, his grip tight upon his sword. He ignored whatever bows he got from traders and lords alike and walked straight to Shrykos. The dragon sensed him close and bowed down. Seeing his pace, he climbed on and put his sword in the saddle-scabb. "Let us fly, my friend; my mother is already gone to Dragonstone!" It was indeed at that moment that they ascended with a powerful blast of Shrykos' wings that he saw Meleys gliding lazily in the distance. "There, boy! Follow her!'' Shrykos roared in joy, his cannibalistic instinct making him a great hunter.

In a short time Shrykos had caught up with Meleys and was snapping at her tail with joy, "No!" He yelled out in anger. His dragon eyed him before snorting with a snap. Flying a few feet away from Meleys.

It was a few hours later, after they had flown across the Narrow Sea, that he watched as Meleys landed in the Dragonmont, Shrykos roared in glee and glided down, gripping the stone, and he saw his mother dismount Meleys. Dragonkeepers surrounded the walkway and began talking to Meleys.

Yet they were interrupted by Shrykos, who caught their attention. The Keepers' eyes opened wide and their mouths hung in a silent 'o' as Shrykos snapped at Meleys to move forward. "Take your mount again—we're flying—" His father.

Aemon's mouth ran dry as he looked left and saw the man standing still, his hand blocking Rhaenys from walking forward. Yet the man's attention was to him as Aemon patted Shrykos, dismounting and ordering the beast to go to his old cavern, much to the annoyance of the formerly cannibalistic dragon. Aemon grabbed the sword from his saddle scabbard and walked towards his parents.

"Father," he said calmly with a clipped tone, trying desperately to hide his growing nervousness. "Aemon… you've grown into a man." Aemon let out a sly smile, hoping it would distract his father and mother from his feelings. "It tends to happen, although I must say that I was surprised to find my mother waiting for me in the city. I had thought that perhaps my father would also come and visit," he said, pointing his finger at his father.

Daemon studied him before his eyes landed on his dagger. "Valyrian steel," his father told him, pointing at the dagger as he saw his mother's surprised look. He had thought she had noticed it already, yet it seemed she hadn't. "I wonder how you got into possession of it." Aemon smiled, grabbing it and twisting it in his hand. ''The fighting pits of Meereen bring a multitude of men to the city; some are willing to bet much on certain fighters.''

His father laughed and nodded. "Come then, we must greet the new queen." Aemon gestured for his father to lead him as he saw royal guards hesitantly bow to them; he opened his mouth with a question hanging on his tongue, "Did the queen ask me back? and is my banishment even over?'' Aemon asked suspiciously, and Daemon smiled. Rhaenys spoke up instead of her husband, "Your brother, Laenor, was—" He interrupted her furiously. "He is not my brother!" he spat out with venom coating his words. She looked at him with sad eyes before nodding. "He convinced the queen to bring you home; you fly the largest dragon next to Vhagar, who does have a rider."

He sighed as he was led through the courtyard into the castle. "Is her bastard dead? The prince of Pentos offered his condolences.'' He asked just as they stood in front of the doors leading to the painted table. His father nodded with a short nod of his head and opened the doors; Aemon gazed inside as he saw the painted table. It was surrounded by the queen, her bastards, and Laenor.

Laena stood next to her brother with her own husband, Clement Celtigar, and their children. He recognized a few other lords standing there squabbling and moving around pawns.

His mother walked forward as everyone's attention turned to them. His father took his side beside Rhaenys and bowed to the queen. Rhaenyra shifted from behind the table and walked in front of him. "Your Grace," Aemon muttered loudly enough for most to hear, "Prince Aemon… I am surprised you agreed to come." He gritted his teeth as he went to his knees, knowing there was no way around it.

"It would be the highest honor to serve my queen; I also extend my condolences for your son." He kept his eyes low and began to speak. "I, Aemon of House Targaryen, swear fealty and pledge myself to Queen Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, true heir to the Iron Throne." He rose when he saw the whore's hand rise.

"Thank you, Prince Aemon. I welcome you into my ranks and greet you as cousin, i know you shall be of great importance in defeating the usurper and his kinslayer brother, for i will have a son for a son." He nodded respectfully and watched as the whore sauntered back to her place; he saw that a multitude of ladies and lords were staring at him, even the queen's bastards. He noticed the red rims around their eyes, probably from crying over their dead brother, he thought with hate stewing in his belly.

Laena was staring at him as Laenor was whispering in the queen's ears. He easily greeted Laena, who was looking at him judgementally, "Sweet sister," he muttered. He noticed a young woman standing beside her and Clement with an even younger boy beside her. "Brother, may I present my children to you once more? "It has, after all, been four years." He nodded and put his hand on his sword hilt. The youngest child came forward, the boy with silvery gold hair he had just seen; he had blue eyes and short hair, only reaching his ears, where as Aemon wore his hair loose, flowing about his shoulders. He, however, also had a wispy mustache growing.

"Brother, this is Jaemon, my youngest. And heir to Claw Isle, Jaemon, this is Aemon, your uncle.'' Aemon smiled warmly at the boy, who looked down shyly. "A great pleasure to meet you, Jaemon. I am not sure if you remember me from before my banishment?" He asked freely. He had met Laena's children; Jaemon had been ten at the time of Aemon's banishment, and Rhaella, Laena's daughter, had been two and ten. He had not met them much, only once or twice; Laena liked to keep her children away from him, and Laenor didn't even want him near his bastards.

"I do, my prince." Jaemon said shyly as Aemon smiled. Laena then harshly pulled her daughter forward. "Aemon, this is Rhaella. I am sure you remember her?'' He nodded and studied her features for a second. Rhaella was a strikingly beautiful woman, with curly silver-gold hair, dark indigo eyes, and a slender but womanly figure; she had pale and unblemished skin and small breasts. "Of course, it's a pleasure, Lady Rhaella. You have only grown more beautiful with age.'' Laena seemed to hold in a snarl as she laid a hand on Rhaella's shoulder. "Thank you, my prince. I hope your travels were smooth and safe?'' He nodded with a smile. "Indeed it was, my lady."

Laena then turned around as if disgusted, pulling the smiling girl with her.

He sighed, walking around the table to his mother and father, who were deep in conversation. "Listen to me, Daemon, when you married me, you promised we would be equal. Fulfill your promise!" Aemon sighed and stood behind them as his father spoke, "You are my equal, and I do fulfill my promise…" His mother snorted, "Then let me choose with you." Aemon thought back to when he was younger, five or six, and his mother and father would have regular arguments.

Each time it reminded him of the circumstances of his parents' marriage: in 105 AC his mother's first husband and father to Laena and Laenor was assassinated by the triarchy. After Daemon went to war for four years, he finally defeated the triarchy. It was then his mother and father married.

Aemon doubted they loved each other before marriage and almost knew certainly that his mother at first only saw it as a way to keep power as Laenor's regent. Only after Laenor was of age did his mother and father fall in love. To that point he was happy his father and mother had found love in each other.

Chapter Text

Aemon sauntered into the small council chambers and bowed to the queen before sitting down in a chair; it was not long after that his mother entered, sitting next to him. Celtigar, Gerardys, Darklyn, Laena, and Laenor all walked in after and sat at their respective places. "My lords, let this council convene," the queen announced, her voice hoarse from supposedly crying.

Maester Gerardys spoke up, "News from Rook's Rest: Cole marches on with a host of men." The whore queen, as he had come to call her in private and in his mind, nodded slowly. "And is there news of Prince Daemon?" His mother shook her head with conviction and looked on as they were thinking.

His father had flown to Harrenhall to establish a hold in the heart of the Riverlands a mere week after Aemon had returned to Westeros. Although clearly focused on defeating the greens and uniting the lords against Aegon, Aemon had the stinking suspicion that he'd have more work disentangling that land than a Lyseni orgy. Laenor spoke from his seat next to the whore queen, "Then I suppose it would be prudent to send a dragon to rescue Lord Staunton?" I myself am happy to fly to him on Seasmoke and beat back Cole's host.''

Rhaenyra looked in thought for a second as Lord Celtigar answered the man, "His grace speaks the truth; it would be wise to send a dragon, seeing as until more houses pledge their support to the queen, it is the only point of landing an army in the capital."

Aemon nodded at the man's words, agreeing with them as Darklyn spoke, "Not much about dragon warfare is known to me, but should we not send out our dragons? Prince Jacaerys has brought the Freys into the fold, giving us a route for the northmen to pass into the Riverlands. Prince Jacaerys is on his way back to Dragonstone, and what of the Tyrells? They have not yet chosen a side; they are lords paramount of the Reach, yet the Hightowers march to King's Landing. Perhaps we should send a rider to remind them of their oaths to their queen.'' His mother nodded.

"I agree. Our first priority is establishing which houses will still declare for us if pushed. If persuaded, perhaps the Tyrells can be brought to our side.'' Rhaenyra spoke suddenly as Aemon rubbed his face, "Prince Aemon, your stay in Essos has left you with contacts, am I right?" He already hated her line of questioning but answered.

"Indeed, your grace," he said with barely restrained fury. "Is it possible for us to hire sellswords?" He pondered the question for a second. "Sellswords fight for the most coins; the Unsullied, however, do not."

A look of questioning entered everyone's face as he spoke of the Unsullied. "Unsullied?" Laena asked, and Aemon smiled in joy, "An army of slaves taken from birth and trained to be iron killers. I myself own around two dozen, but before Princess Rhaenys arrived, I was considering buying more."

They looked appalled at the idea of it and had furious frowns on their faces; even his mother looked at him with a look of horror. "Slaves?" He nodded and played with the marble orb each small councilor got when they became one. "They are stone cold and will do whatever you ask of them, even march into death if ordered."

 He saw the discomfort on everyone's face and smiled in glee, "Very impressive. If her grace would like me to buy more, she need only say, and I would ask my contacts in Astapor to get me some. I believe, upon recalling my conversation with the great master, that they sell some eight thousand a year.'' Silence reigned for a minute before he saw them all take a harsh swallow.

"Perhaps we shall come back to this later, but what Darklyn says is true. We have dragons, your grace; use them." Laena said finally, capturing the attention of everyone except Aemon, who smiled happily at having annoyed everyone. "Then it has come to that," by the gods, Aemon fought to hold in the scoff as she tried her innocent little queen play.

"Who is currently lord of the Reach?" She asked Maester Gerardys, "Lord Lyonel, your grace, although his mother, Lady Alysanne Tyrell, rules in his stead." The whore queen nodded and fixed her look on him with a smile.

Oh, how Aemon wished to punch it off her bitch face. "I am sure Prince Aemon will have no quarrel in reminding Lady Alysanne of who her son owes loyalty to."

"God, she's an idiot," Aemon thought. King's Landing lay right in the path to High Garden unless he made a cut across the Stormlands, and although there most likely wouldn't be a dragon, the element of surprise would be lost and the usurper would know he was to have a fight in the Reach. It seemed none had realized that as they listened to their oh-so-glorious queen.

"Your Grace, if I may? We may lose the advantage of surprise if we act, and may I remind this council that the usurper's brother, Daeron, remains in the Reach with a dragon.'' Gerardys spoke, "Tessarion?" He asked incredulously, and Aemon nodded. "A small beast, no match for any adult dragon." Laenor spoke as Gerardys finished, ''A dragon nonetheless.''

The queen spoke, breaking the silence, "My lord husband, the king consort speaks true; a dragon remains a dragon. But I am confident Prince Aemon could face it on his own, the Cannibal. It did, after all, not get his name for nothing.'' Aemon ground his teeth together as he got the order to fly straight into enemy territory.

But he knew that it was the queen's way of saying that she did not want his help and wanted him to take care of her problems by facing off against a green, hopefully taking out him and one of the greens. It was also a way of getting rid of a better heir. Aemon knew it, however much he disliked it. His grandfather on his mother's side was Prince Aemon 'the pale prince,' known for his oh-so-pale look and almost white hair, and then on his father's side, he had Prince Baelon 'the brave.' Both of his grandfathers were sons of the old king, Jaehaerys the Conciliator.

His claim was even purer than Aegon's and, some argued, Rhaenyra's. Not that he intended to put his forward, but he was a threat to hers; some lords would suggest he was the better heir. "Then it is decided," Rhaenyra spoke, "Prince Aemon will fly to the Reach and bring the Tyrells into the fold; if possible, he will raise an army and march to Oldtown to confront the greens... this council is adjourned."

Aemon swallowed his spittle and nodded, bowing just enough for it to be respectful. Finally the whore queen exited the room and left them to silence; the scraping of his wooden chair on the ground broke that silence and propelled the council into action. Aemon grimaced and made his way to his chambers, where he packed his necessities and put them in his saddlebags: a few pieces of bread and a flask of watered wine.

He tightly strapped his dagger's scabbard to his belt and put the sharp Valyrian steel dagger in it. He looked around in the room for a second, hoping to remember anything he would need before leaving, and concluded he indeed had everything. He was lucky the small council had convened early in the morn; otherwise, he would not have been able to fly to High Garden without it being night when he arrived.

Nonetheless, he wasn't going to rush either. He did not want Shrykos to collapse from exhaustion before he arrived.

The trip to the dragon mount made him stew in his thoughts as he finally entered the mount. Keepers were running around everywhere as they gave him strange looks. "Shrykos?" He asked one of the senior dragonkeepers on Dragonstone; the man looked confused for a second before nodding. Aemon understood why; everyone knew Shrykos as the Cannibal still. Not his new name, yet he had told the keepers, who were apparently still learning to use the name.

He raised his eyebrow as the keeper cleared his throat. "Shrykos came into battle with Sheepstealer, who attempted to stop Shrykos from reclaiming his old territory." It was to be anticipated, Aemon thought. As a smirk grew on his face, he said, "I suppose Sheepstealer lost?" The man nodded and led him to the cavern where Shrykos resided. "He is ready for flight, my prince." Aemon smirked and whistled hard. "You may go, Keeper." He told the man who stood behind him, He slowly heard the man walk away as Shrykos called out to him with a screech.

"Come, my friend, we must fight in the whore's war." Aemon yelled at the green eyes, which stared at him from the darkness. Shrykos always blended in perfectly with the darkness, and that made him a perfect hunter in the dark. Another screech affirmed that his dragon had heard him, and Aemon smiled, walking towards the main mounting walkway.

Dragonmont had been made by the Valyrians, who first came to the island with their five dragons, one of them being Balerion the Black Dread. Yet to make mounting and dismounting easier in the volcano, the Valyrians made walkways that served as a sort of bridge where dragons and their riders could walk until a steep decline came, where the dragons stood. It also merged their two worlds together, as the platform for the men led directly to the castle, while the mounting bridge led into the caverns and caves for the dragons.

It wasn't long after he left Shrykos' cavern that the said dragon emerged from the darkness and lowered his back for Aemon, who quickly sat down in the saddle and put the saddlebags into their place. "Let us fly, old friend." The dragon huffed and flapped his wings forward, ascending through the hole high in the wall that led to the world outside of the volcano they called the Dragonmont.

As the brightness of the full sun hit his vision, Shrykos dived down the volcano side and glided over the sea surface. Aemon grinned gleefully, looking as he tugged at the reins, steering Shrykos to the southwest, where the Reach and thus High Garden lay. He heard a lighter roar come from above him as he gazed up, Seasmoke.

Rhaenyra's husband, and so-called father of her husbands, rode the beast that flew above him. Aemon grinned and tugged on the reins to raise Shrykos high until they were right under the prince. Finally, as Seasmoke flew a little too low, Shrykos snapped, almost biting a leg of the smaller beast. Aemon laughed with a bit of glee as Shrykos moved down again before Seasmoke could retaliate.

He had to admit that the queen had a strong chance of winning this war, yet with men like Laenor on your side, you're bound to lose. Aemon knew the truth; everyone pretended to be blind too. Laenor had no interest in women, yet he had three sons with the queen. Said children held no resemblance to their lawful father but instead bore the look of Ser Harwin Strong, ex-commander of the city watch.

He grabbed the flask of wine in his saddlebag and took a sip as he chuckled, remembering Laenor's loud yelp from Seasmoke's back.

And thus it was only a few hours later that Shrykos' claws touched down onto the grass outside of High Garden just a few hours before the sun fully set, and he was thankful for it, as flying across the Stormlands was needed to find the Reach, and every second he spent in the Stormlands got more dangerous for him, as he could be spotted and attacked by Aemond or another.

So he let out a sigh of relief once he'd dismounted and touched down onto the grass with his feet. Looking around, he noticed four riders approaching. Aemon walked onto the dirt road that led to High Garden and waited as they approached. One of them held a Tyrell flag in their hands, while the others rode forward until they stood directly in front of him. ''Your grace,'' the largest of the men said with curiosity, ''I am here to remind Lady Tyrell of her duties to Queen Rhaenyra.'' Aemon bit out.

The man nodded and signaled for the others to turn around and go back as Aemon walked after the men.

''Is it true? "I-I-Is King Viserys dead?" The youngest asked in a trembling tone, and Aemon raised his eyebrow in question and began answering the boy. "Indeed, and war is not far gone. Aegon the usurper has already made his first victim; Prince Lucerys died above the Shipbreaker Bay on a diplomatic mission to Storm's End.'' The boy let out a shuddering breath and nodded shakily.

Finally they stood before the gates as the men ordered them open; a loud screeching began as slowly the iron gates rose, and they walked in and were greeted by the steward.

"Mi'lord, this is Prince Aemon; he is here to speak to Lady Tyrell." The steward's eyes fell wide open, and he nodded to Aemon and led him into the keep. It was warm and cozy inside; the yellowish stone reminded him of his mansion in Meereen.

The thought of Meereen brought him back to Joren, Irri, and his Unsullied; he smiled bitterly as he wondered how they were doing as the steward led him into the keep's great hall. "My lady, Prince Aemon of House Targaryen." It was then he entered the hall and saw Lady Tyrell sitting on the throne, which was placed upon the dais, with her babe, Lord Tyrell, his mind told him.

"Prince Aemon," she said in a quiet tone, "I am surprised to see you here." He could've laughed at the idiotic statement, "Oh, you knew, my lady. War is at our door, and House Tyrell will not stand on the sidelines; the Hightowers rose up in open rebellion. Now, is it House Tyrell who is the overlord or House Hightower?" He bit out as she stared at him.

Finally, after a second passed, she looked at him with a small smirk. "I suppose I shall be burnt should I refuse?" she asked him with an idiotic smirk.

Aemon had no desire to play nice, for all he needed was for her to call her banners and assemble her forces. "Lyonel? isn't it?'' He asked, pointing at her babe. Her eyes widened slightly before she nodded slowly.

He hummed quietly, "I shall steal your son from your teat and sell him into slavery. He will be abused, hurt, maybe even killed; that will all happen if you refuse. But you can stop this if you simply bend the knee to Queen Rhaenyra and call your banners.'' Her mouth fell open in shock as he glared at her.

"You have no honor!" she hissed out, her words coated in venom. He rumbled with laughter. "Please. Honor? I have no honor indeed; that makes it all the easier for me to do what I just told you would happen if you refused," he replied mockingly. "Do you not remember the thing I did to receive my banishment? I suppose the realm would've known?! Even in Essos I could hear the rumors. Aemond Kinslayer still wears a reminder!''

"Bend the knee, Lady Tyrell, and let us not make Lord Tyrell a slave and his mother and inheritance," he said, gesturing around the room. "A pile of ash." She stared at him with the fury of the gods and slowly nodded. "Fine!" she bit out as he opened his mouth to reply with a bored tone. "Very wise lady, Tyrell, now. I must visit your maester; if you would, please direct me to him.''

"Steward!" She called out to the doors as the man entered again, "Would you please bring Prince Aemon to the maester?" The man nodded and gestured for Aemon to follow as Aemon smiled at the man, who looked at him with a confused frown. Silence reigned upon the way to the maester's chamber until finally the man opened a door. A man in grey robes, whom he quickly identified to be the maester, sat in a chair hunched over like he was doing something secret as Aemon walked in. "Maester, I require a letter to be sent to Dragonstone." The maester slowly turned to him and pointed an old, disgusting finger at Aemon, who scrunched up his face in disgust.

"Prince Aemon… is it?" Aemon nodded and waited for the man to continue. "Ah... then we are at war? I knew it would come to this. I knew since rumors of Prince Lucerys' demise met our gates, for the Dance of Dragons has now truly begun, and ravens are flying. Pacts are made, betrothals to be executed… Yes... I knew it would come to this… I knew when your grandfa—" Aemon sighed and rubbed his face in annoyance. "Just get me a damn paper and send the goddamned letter, you old fool!" Aemon bellowed over the almost quiet chamber, if not for the maester's heavy breathing.

Slowly the man stood and grabbed a letter, putting it down as Aemon picked up a quill and wrote what he needed too. He kept the letter short, just detailing that Tyrell would bend the knee, that he would take control over her forces, train them to his standard, and then start his march to Oldtown. He sealed the letter with candle wax and put the Targaryen sigil on it. ''Send it to the Dragonstone maester, the fastest raven you have.''

The grey old man opened his mouth with a rasp and began talking, "I shall, my prince." Aemon nodded with a smirk and walked out of the room, finding the steward walking up to him. "Your Grace, Lady Tyrell asked me to lead you to your chambers?" He froze and looked at the man. "Bring me to the room then." He bit out at last as the steward nodded and led him into a modest room; a coldness fell over him as he stepped inside. ''I apologize for the cold room, but we were not prepared for visitors at this hour.''

He chuckled and turned to the door where the steward stood. "I shall now take my leave; please ensure a healthy meal to be prepared on the morrow... something light." He added at last as the steward bowed and left the room.

Aemon was quick to act as he picked up the first metal object he could find and put it in the lock, ensuring it could not be opened from the outside as he finally breathed a sigh of relief and lay down in the bed; sleep caught him not long after.