Aemon Targaryen (102 A.C. third moon)
Deepwood Mott
As Aemon rode into the courtyard with Harrold by his side. He saw Garred Glover standing there. Hmm, his son has his looks. He remembered the lad when he came with Lord Karstark. To his nameday, and he wondered then if father and son were alike.
As he dismounted and walked toward the Glover family. He stopped as Garred Glover began to speak.
"My Prince, it is an honor to host you and your dragon in my humble domain. May the old gods be with you. To the dragonwolf, the prince of the North," Garred Glover shouted, pulled his sword, and then went to one knee.
"Thank you, my lord. We accept bread and salt," He proclaimed. After a short while, the salt and bread were produced, and Aemon, his antorach, all took part in it.
"My prince, may I show you to your chambers?" A girl, perhaps two years his senior, asked. As a step forward, the proud clover sigil was displayed on her chest.
"Of course. May I have your name, my lady?" He questioned the girl. "Of course, my prince. I am Giliane Glover, the eldest daughter of Lord Glover. If it pleases you, my prince."
"Well met, my lady. I'll follow where you lead," he said with a smile, making the girl blush. "If that's your will, please follow." The girl added with a slight bow.
Deepwood Motte was a proper wooden keep made possible by the Wolfswood. Aemon thought as they walked through the halls of Deepwood Motte.
"This is it, Your Grace. I hope the room pleases you," she said with a smile when she opened the door. "It's lovely, my lady. Thank you. Deepwood Motte smells wonderfully like the pine of the Wolfswood," Aemon replied, giving her a warm smile.
"It does, my prince, although I only notice it when I return. Now, I don't anymore. It's a pity; it's a nice smell indeed," she replied with a grin, her eyes twinkling. Giliane Glover had stunning brown eyes, large and expressive, that seemed to sparkle with warmth. Her curly brown hair cascaded down her shoulders in soft, natural waves, framing her face with an effortless grace. Anyone would happily call her their wife, but he already had one lady, one with silver curls and amethyst eyes. He thought as he stared into her eyes.
"True, the North generally smells much better than the South does. Oh, and don't get me started on King's Landing itself," he said, breaking the silence, and shook his head as he thought back to Kingslanding and its smells.
"Well, it's good to hear the North is well-liked by the Prince of the North and our humbled Glovers as well," she said, smiling. "Well, I'll leave you to settle in, my prince. The feast will start in three hours," she said, bowed, and left the chambers.
"Ser Harrold, please join me," he said, and the old knight entered. "My prince, you asked for me," Harrold said, bowing his head.
"How do you find the North, Ser? We have been here together for a few moons now," he asked.
"Hmm, the air is cold and fresh, and it reminds me of my old home, the Crag. The Northern ale is good, but I prefer a good Summer Sea wine. Most lords are more honorable and less slippery than those in the South. This is one of the many reasons I chose to become a Kingsguard. I never wanted to deal with that as a lord. I'm sure my father wanted his second son to marry for land and title, but I only wanted to be a knight. When I heard of the chance to become a Kingsguard, I took it with all readiness. It was the greatest honor of my life; the second was serving you. You have made your father and family proud with how you have conducted yourself," Harold said genuinely.
"Thank you for saying so, Ser. Having you here has been a great comfort. You are like family. With my father gone, you have been like a father to me. So, thank you for all your lessons and support," he said, opening the man's eyes well.
"Aemon, thank you. It's been an honor to train you and to be seen as family. I will always do my duty to you and your family until I draw my final breath, whether in sleep or defense of you, Aemon," Harrold said, his voice edged with emotion.
The great hall of Deepwood Motte
As he escorted Lady Gilliane Glover into the Great Hall of Deepwood Motte, he was reminded again of how much his life had truly changed.
In Winterfell, on his nameday, he had been reminded that it had never truly happened when he was still the bastard son of Eddard Stark. He had never been the guest of honor. The lords of the realm had not traveled north to see him, nor brought him gifts. No, those were only meant for his trueborn siblings.
Now, as he walked into the hall beside Giliane Glover, he was keenly aware of the ghosts of his past family. He still remembered clearly the opening feast when Robbert asked his uncle to be Hand; he had sat with the squires, not at the high table.
"My prince?" Giliane asked, confused.
He blinked, realizing she had spoken.
"Forgive me, my lady," he said gently. "I was lost in thought."
"As you say, My Prince. I was just asking what you thought of the hall." Diana asked. "Hmm, it's wonderful, truly different than Dragonstone or Kingslanding. Yet it feels natural, part of nature." He noted.
"Mmm, indeed it does," Giliane replied with a small smile as they reached the high table. Aemon took his seat to Lord Glover's left, with Diana beside him. On the lord's right sat Ela Glover, heavily pregnant and solemn. She had not come to greet him. Still, she met his gaze and offered a faint nod, which he returned.
Once all were seated, Lord Gared rose, his voice strong and warm.
"Friends, family, and our honored prince, welcome! May this be a merry evening. Let us toast to friendship and bonds everlasting!"
"To friendship, and the North!" he cried, and the hall echoed the words in a hearty cheer.
Aemon stood after him. "Thank you, Lord Glover, for your hospitality and the feast you've prepared in my honor. May House Targaryen and House Glover be bound in friendship for all our days."
He raised his cup, and the hall lifted theirs with him, Lord Gared beaming in approval.
As the evening wore on and the food and drink flowed freely, Aemon found himself in conversation with Lord Gared.
"I hope, my prince," said the older man, "that we can build a true partnership. After all, we'll soon be neighbors."
"I hope for nothing less, my lord," Aemon replied. "I intend to petition the King for a new road, stretching from Winterfell to Seadragon Point. Trade routes in the west have languished too long. A port means little if there's no way to distribute goods inland. House Glover's hold over the Wolfswood gives you timber and furs, both prized in the south and even across the sea in Essos and Dorne. It could be a boon to your people."
Lord Gared's eyes widened. "Hmm, it would, and the road is a remarkable idea, my prince. Ever since the burning of the Deepyard by your ancestor, Brandon the Burner, trade in the western North has struggled. The Ryswells and Dustins maintain small ports, but they're made for riverboats and shallow seas. My father always hoped that increased trade could be restored in the west, with the building of a true port in Seadragon Point, in line with that vision."
"But will the crown truly invest in a road?" Gloved waited for a moment before he added, lowering his voice. "I know half the funds to rebuild the port at Seadragon Point are coming from the crown. But a road…?"
"True," Aemon nodded. "But I have my grandfather's and brother's trust. If it is not granted from the royal purse, then perhaps the North must find the means ourselves. It will benefit us all."
"Indeed, it would. It would connect us all, even into the future," Lord Gared agreed. He studied Aemon thoughtfully. "If I may say so, you've surprised me, my prince. I've heard you worked in the forge in Winterfell, and yet, you speak with the mind for rulership, even at so young an age."
Aemon inclined his head. "I've always believed in striving to better oneself and the realm. I may be a lord now, or soon enough, but I was born a prince. When I first understood what it meant to rule Seadragon Point, and where it lay, I was only six, I think." He mused. "But even then, I knew I wanted to become the best version of myself… and make the land reflect that as well. I never looked back." He added.
Lord Garred smiled, his eyes creasing at the corners. "Well said, my prince. It has truly worked out for you. I only hope my own boy might grow to be half as wise when his time comes."
"Harl shows promise," Aemon said with a small nod. "He was dutiful, if a bit eager, when I met him during my nameday feast at Winterfell. But eagerness is no bad thing when tempered with good guidance. He will do well as Lord of Deepwood Motte."
The old lord gave a satisfied grin. "You honor me with your words, Prince Aemon. And my son, too. He'll be pleased to hear your praise."
As the feast wore on and the music played, Aemon rose from the high table and stepped down into the hall. The air was thick with laughter and the scent of roast meat and ale. He danced first with a daughter of House Forrester, her cheeks flushed and her smile shy. She moved with grace, and Aemon offered her gentle conversation as they turned.
Afterward, he shared a dance with Lady Gilliane. She had been eager, perhaps more than most, to dance with him, and as the eldest child of his host, it was more than expected. Gilliane was a fine dancer, bold in her movements and confident in a way that made many turn their heads. The lady light thought him, in ways not part of the dance.
If he weren't ten and wasn't betrothed to Laena, he might have had hope for more. But he kept it respectful, and only saw a future friend in Gilliane.
But as the night deepened and the torches flickered low, Aemon felt the weariness set into his bones. He made his rounds, offering parting words to Lord Garred and Gilliane Glover, nodding respectfully to Ela, who sat quietly with one hand resting protectively on her swollen belly.
At last, he climbed the stairs to the guest chambers, Harrold following close behind. When he reached his room and closed the heavy wooden door behind him, he let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
Quickly, he changed into his sleeping clothes and slipped beneath the furs. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting soft light on the stone walls. Wrapped in warmth, with the scent of pine still clinging to his cloak, Aemon let his thoughts drift.
Sleep came quickly.
Skies Above Seadragon Point (102 A.C. Fourth Moon)
The cold western wind off the sea, thick with the scent of salt and storm, blew through Aemon's nose as he soared above the waters of Seadragon Point. Balerion's wings beat the sky in a steady rhythm.
Below them, the shaping of a city began to emerge. Three harbors carved into the coastline framed the settlement's promise. The one that hosted most warships was nestled beneath the shadow of the rising mount, as Aemon looked better at least a fleet of twenty warships, the banners of the three-headed dragon fluttering in the wind. The sight stirred something fierce and proud in Aemon's chest. Beyond the warships, the most fortified part was the main harbor, surrounded by a granite wall. Trading vessels clustered in the calmer waters, while merchant ships from Reach and the Westerlands brought food and other supplies. Their presence marked the first signs of increased commerce, a vital thread of connection that would help sustain the North through the long winters to come.
Behind the main harbor, the town clung to the shore like a rough-hewn shell. A palisade surrounded its homes and workshops, and outside that wooden barrier, stacks of quarried stone waited in tidy rows. Masons and builders moved among them, laying the groundwork for what would one day be a true stronghold. Here, he would raise a keep of stone and fire, and with it, walls worthy of a Targaryen fortress.
The foundations had already been set into the rocky hill above the keep's harbor. He had requested to wait for the building of the keep, which he would one day name Dragonholt. The rising momentum of Targaryen power above Seadragon Point, like the red keep and the dragonpit did in Kingslanding.
As Aemon caze shifted. A small wooden hall had been hastily built in the town's center, enough to house him for now. It was no true keep, more a smallholdfast, but it was his.
Here, far from the politics of the capital, far from the whispers of the maesters and the expectations of the court, he was free to build as he saw fit. Free to explore. Free to experiment.
Stone by stone, he intended to recreate the old ways. Valyrian masonry, smooth, seamless, fire-fused, had not been seen since the Doom. But with Balerion, and the right materials, perhaps it could live again. Let the maesters scoff. Let them whisper of madness and fire. He would not let their cautious minds stifle what Valyria once knew.
Still, he would have to test the loyalty of the maester sent to Seadragon Point, and his own uncle Vaegon, who had also traveled to keep him guided after his grandfather had requested it. He didn't know Vaegon; he had seen the man briefly during his time in Kingslanding, and the history books spoke only of his bookish nature and that he had no appetite for women.
Trust came slowly, especially when too many of his kin had suffered under silent hands and subtle cures. His mother had spoken to him of Rhaegar's suspicions, how his previous father believed something was amiss. Too many Targaryens had perished in childbirth or from strange ailments. His grandmother, Rhaella, had endured miscarriage after miscarriage. Even the good Queen Alysanne, beloved by all, lost many babes.
And then there was Summerhall. The disaster had claimed so many of his blood, a fiery end to a dream that was meant to restore their house to its ancient glory. The return of dragons was something Westeros had never wanted. Power rested within the dragons, and House Targaryen alone had held that power for generations. Even during the reign of Viserys, that grip had begun to slip. Now, with Arya, Laenor, and Rhaenys all riding dragons, the balance was shifting once more. Not everyone welcomed that change.
Aemon's thoughts darkened as he considered the maesters again, particularly the one assigned to Sea Dragonholt. He trusted few of them. And after Baelon's death, his suspicions only grew deeper. His father…
The thought of him, of the man who had raised him and died so suddenly, brought a rush of boiling anger. Balerion felt it through their bond and roared, his great black wings rippling with the sound.
"We will make them pay," Balerion said through their bond, a pulse of rage and purpose behind the message.
Aemon exhaled slowly, centering himself as he brought Balerion into a slow, circling descent above the town. Below, the light of the setting sun danced off sails in the harbor and rooftops clustered beneath the palisade. The wind whipped around him, but he felt steady.
He glanced toward the open land outside the palisade, eyeing the space. "There's not room enough for both of you in there," he said aloud in High Valyrian, directing his voice to Balerion.
The great black dragon let out a low rumble in reply, and with a graceful sweep of wings, he descended toward the open field beyond the walls. As Baleron landed with a thunderous impact, sending snow and wind rippling through the outer edge of the settlement.
The people of Seadragon Point had gathered to watch. Many of them had never seen a dragon before, let alone two. Some did, as many had arrived from Kingslanding, leaving the slums of Flea Bottom for a better life. They all stood frozen in awe and fear, staring up at the beast of legend.
A lone voice broke the silence. "All hail Prince Aemon, Lord of Sea Dragon Point!" a man called out as he stepped forward and dropped to one knee. As Aemon glanced at them, he noticed the man's surgoat, and his looks were large with ig arms, and blond hair, and hazel-green eyes.
Waldrick Manderly, his castellan. That his grandfathers and father had decided to name. He wondered if the man could be trusted, yet so far, he would give the man the benefit of the doubt. Seadragon Point looks prosperous and is making progress so far. Aemon thought.
The gathered crowd followed, kneeling in reverence and wonder.
Aemon dismounted and approached them, his golden-silver hair caught in the breeze, his black and red cloak swirling around his shoulders.
"Rise," he said, his voice steady and strong. "Thank you all for joining me. My people of the western shore of Westeros, I am glad these past years have been fruitful. You have built, endured, and made this place your home. In an hour's time, my retinue from Winterfell will arrive. Soon, the rest of Westeros will hear of this place, not just a settlement, but a stronghold. A city.
Together, we will make Sea Dragon Point a bastion of strength for the North and for House Targaryen."
The crowd erupted into cheers, voices lifted in celebration and hope.
And Aemon stood before them, the wind at his back, then Balerion roared, and breathed flame high into the air.
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