Aemon Targaryen (102 A.C. Fifth Moon)
Seadragon Point – Maester's Chambers
Fuck, he thought, as Vaegon began again about the lords of the Reach and the importance of the region.
His uncle was sworn member of the Citadel, and someone Aemon could work with, but the man treated him like a child. Sadly, he was. In the eyes of the world, he was still ten namedays old. Yet he could see the cracks in his uncle's composure whenever he answered Aemon's questions.
"Tell me," Vaegon asked, tapping the page of the book with a stick named the tales and of the Reach, "which house drove the Manderlys from the Reach?"
"House Peake," Aemon replied.
Vaegon nodded. "Indeed. And why were the Manderlys made to flee?"
Aemon scratched the back of his head. The answer hovered just out of reach. "Mmm… something to do with a succession war for the Gardener throne?"
"Close enough," said Vaegon. "It's what began the long-standing rivalry between House Peake and House Manderly. House Gardener, at the time, had no sons, only two daughters to inherited the Gardener Thrones. Both the Peakes and the Manderlys married one of the daughters, and each claimed that their wife, or more probably more precisely, their were the rightful heirs. It's unclear whether the dispute centered on the daughters themselves or their offspring, but what is known is that the Manderlys won the conflict."
Aemon leaned forward. "Which daughter was older?"
Vaegon gave a dry smile. "Both Peake and Manderly claimed their wife was the elder. The truth, if it was ever written down, has been lost to time."
Aemon frowned. "So no one knows?"
"No," Vaegon said. "But the feud endured. The real reason the Manderlys were exiled was their rising power around 2,000 years ago. The exact moment isn't clear. Still, the Peakes found the right moment and the right excuse to drive them out. Whether by open war or quiet knives, the records are vague. But there was conflict. That much we can be certain of. We eventually ended with them arriving at your ancestors' lands."
Vaegon gave him a hard look. "Still, I suppose I should be grateful you remember the feud at all. You remembered they were exiled, and that's a start. Keeping the Manderlys close will matter especially once your lands start drawing trade away from theirs."
He folded his hands, fixing Aemon with another look. "I've spoken to your castellan over these past three moons. Loyal. Steady. He'll do well. Now sigils and house words. Tell me the heraldry of Houses Peake, Manderly, and Gardener."
Aemon groaned at the question. But knowing his castellan was loyal and doing well was welcome news. "Hmm… House Gardener, a green hand on white. Their words are 'Strong grow our roots.'"
"Good. Now the Peakes," Vaegon prompted.
"Three black castles on orange. The words… 'We do not…'" Aemon began, hesitating.
"'We do not fade' are their words. Which we can see in their actions, if we look over their history," Vaegon added.
On that you have no doubt, Aemon thought, glancing at their sigil. The Peakes only still held Starpike in their time and the other castles that were taken after they joined the Blackfyres too many times.
"Well, what of the Manderlys?" Vaegon said, drawing him back.
"A white merman with green hair and tail, holding a black trident, on a blue-green field. Their words: 'The Flow Remembers,'" Aemon replied proudly.
"Good work. Remember, it will help with the pride of lords. If you know something about them, it will please them. They're prideful, even the smallest houses have their pride," Vaegon said.
On that, Aemon had no doubt. He remembered even Edd's smaller lords in the Vale had their pride and stories.
"Well, as are we, Uncle. We have proud ancestry of the line of Aegon the Conqueror, last of the dragonlords. Although now the Velaryons too, with Laenor, are the first house besides ours to have a dragon since the Doom."
Vaegon gave him a look. "Indeed. And once in line to inherit the throne had my father not passed over Rhaenys for my older brother. Yet my brother did well to betroth you to Laena Velaryon. It healed the bond and tied us by blood."
Aemon studied his uncle. His grandfather had spoken of the succession with Vaegon… did he know the King's plans?
"Uncle… did Grandfather talk about me? I know he wanted you here to help and guide me. Yet he told me something too. He wanted me to succeed him, but the realm would not accept it. I wouldn't have done it anyway. I won't usurp my brothers, even if my relationship with Daemon is… frosty."
Vaegon waited a moment before answering. "He did. And he did want you as his heir. I told him his options. Told him he could do as he wished he is the King. And neither the Conqueror nor he ever set a clear succession law. As it stands, the King's word is law and he decides the succession. I advised him. And I know he put in a clause: whoever inherits must marry a future child of yours."
Vaegon paused. "Although currently, Viserys only has a daughter. Still, if the King is wise, he will wait before trying again. It is well known that repeated births weaken a woman. I know; my mother did. She grew weaker after each one. Whether from the grief of losing a child or the strain of bearing them."
"I told my brother that in a letter. Aemma needs rest. And currently, he has two, three, even if you count Rhaenyra. I know it's the law of the land that a daughter inherits before a brother, like it was with the Manderlys and the Peakes," Aemon replied.
"Correct. Sadly, each time a woman tries to ascend, there's conflict. Reasons are found some say a man is the better ruler, others find different pretexts. Many, bastard or trueborn, try to claim power. I never wished for it. That is why I never claimed a dragon. With a dragon comes power, even if you don't want it. I'm content with my books, my scrolls… and occasionally educating a family member," Vaegon said with a sigh, but offered a small smile.
"Thank you, Uncle. I'm grateful you're here," Aemon said with a grin.
"Well, pay attention. We'll be doing sums next," Vaegon replied with a mocking grin.
Aemon let out a groan and looked at his uncle pleadingly. Vaegon only shook his head. Aemon sighed and let his head hang.
Courtyard
Aemon's breath came fast as he circled again, wooden sword slick in his small hands. His curls clung to his brow, damp with sweat, but he didn't dare wipe them. Ser Harrold stood across from him, calm as a statue in mail, sword in hand, eyes sharp beneath a brow creased with focus and affection.
The courtyard at Seadragon Point rang with the rhythmic clack of training blades. Salt hung thick in the air from the sea beyond the cliffs, and gulls shrieked overhead like cackling specters. The stone beneath Aemon's bare feet was warm from the morning sun, already stained with scuff marks from countless sessions like this.
Aemon panted and darted forward, switching from left to right, trying to slip beneath Ser Harrold's reach. He probed for an opening—there, a flicker of one, just between elbow and shoulder on Harrold's right side. A gap. Small, but there.
He slashed.
Too slow. Too short.
Harrold twisted easily, parried, and tapped Aemon's shoulder with the flat of his blade.
"Well done, my prince. Were you taller, you might've gotten a hit in." He grinned through his beard, but not unkindly.
Aemon stepped back, frustrated. He glanced down at his arms, muscled yet still not having lenght as had been.
"If I were the height, and had the reflexes, I had before..." he muttered, trailing off.
Ser Harrold tilted his head. "Before?"
Aemon blinked, then shook his head. "I had a dream where I was a great swordsman."
Harrold raised a brow, gave a small smile, but let it pass.
"You'll grow," he said, with the certainty of a knight who had seen squires become legends. "I've trained lordlings, hedge knight sons, your brothers too, but none like you. You've more raw talent than any I've ever seen. You just need time. Time to grow taller. Time to sharpen those reflexes. Strength in your arms and upper body won't be a problem. Neither will endurance, not with all that work you do in the forge, it is already showing. What the forge doesn't build in muscle strenght, dragonriding will."
Aemon looked at him, curious. "Dragonriding?"
"Your father told me once it strengthens the legs and core," Harrold replied.
"My legs used to ache after every ride," Aemon admitted. "Back too. Sometimes even my belly."
Harrold chuckled, resting the sword tip on the stone. "Aye. Balerion's no palfrey, especially with the turns and rolls I see you dragonriders make."
Aemon laughed. "Indeed, we do. And what you just said, my father told me the same when I was younger."
"I've no doubt he did. That man had a mind like a blade, always sharp in warfare, and a steady presence. He would have been a good king had he been given the chance." Harrold wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. "He would have," Aemon replied with a sad smile. They called Rhaenys the queen that never was, but his father and uncle were the kings that never were.
Harrold gave him a small smile. "He said you took to dragonriding faster than Daemon or Viserys ever did."
Aemon blinked. "He said that?"
"He did. He was very proud of you. As he would be now and of the man you're becoming," Harrold said with a smile.
"Come," he added, stepping back into stance. "Again. And this time, when you see the opening, don't just slash. Use your whole body. Step in. Risk it."
Aemon nodded and raised his sword. He took a breath.
And then he and Harrold began their dance again.
Two Moons Later
His hand shook a little as he looked toward Balerion and the mount, the rubble that would become the foundation of Seadragon Holt. If everything went to plan, soon enough the stone he would see before would look like and be as sturdy as what he had seen on Dragonstone. Bring back the art lost since the Doom.
Aemon looked toward Harrold and his other guards.
"It's time for you all to step back. What happens now, I do not know," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. They'd had those discussions the night before. Even his uncle had spoken of what he was about to do as a foolish fantasy. That such things had been lost since the Doom.
The castle maester, Dussard, a Northerner in his early thirties, originally from the lands of the Karstarks, had said much the same, though he'd been more willing to believe, given his heritage.
Harrold and the rest of the guards nodded and stepped back, though their faces showed the conflict, torn between obeying his command and wanting to remain at his side.
Aemon breathed deep, then looked toward his truest companion.
"Give the command, my friend." Balerion's voice echoed through their bond:
"Soves." At the command, Balerion rose into the sky. His wings clapped thunderously, and Aemon had to steady himself not to fall as the wind rushed past.
He pulled a small vial from his pocket, his own blood, something needed for what he was about to do. Dipping his finger into the blood, he painted two Valyrian glyphs onto his arms: Earth and Blood.
He looked then toward the Balerion, ready to begin, his wings flapping high, ready to burn. "Dracarys"
At that moment, Balerion's black flames began to strike the mount before him. Stone and rubble began to glow.
And Aemon sang.
By earth and blood, I sing this song.
Let stone be shaped, and the bound be strong.
Let form arise where none had been.
Let it harden. Let it endure.
By the gift of blood, let the bond be sealed.
Blood remembers what fire makes glow.
Blood is the price, the vow, the chain,
To bind the soul in stone and flame.
What was, what is, and what shall be,
Bone to earth, and fire to me.
Let none forget. Let all who've known,
Feel my bond in this blood and stone.
By the fire that's fed and price well paid,
Let this gift in truth be weighed.
By earth and blood, I sing this song.
Let stone be shaped, and the bound be strong.
Let form arise where none had been.
Let it harden. Let it endure.
By fire, earth, and blood.
As he sang the song, he saw the shape he had sketched before in his mind. He tried to will it into form. Balerion had told him that it was important. That willing the shape into being was part of the act. One's will determine whether they can perform the song or not. If you could not hold your will, your mind would break, like shattered glass.
But Balerion had said: Your will is strong. Strong enough for the song.
As he continued to sing, his vision began to blur, but he willed himself onward, fighting through the dizziness that threatened to drive him to his knees. He held fast, forcing each word out despite the weight pressing down on him. Then, at last, the final verse left his lips. He drew a deep breath and all went black.
Maester's Chambers
Aemon awoke with a gasp. Pain exploded in his skull, a headache unlike anything he had ever known. It pulsed through his head like fire beneath the skin. He screamed, his voice raw.
"By the gods, what is this?" he groaned.
"My prince, you must lie still," a voice urged beside him. "Please, drink. It's milk of the poppy. It will soften the pain."
A cup was pressed toward him, but Aemon pushed it away with a shaking hand.
"I will not drink that," he said through gritted teeth.
He drew a breath and forced himself upright. The worst of the pain had passed, though his head still throbbed dully. He blinked, and the blur of the room resolved into familiar faces, his uncle Vaegon, Ser Harrold, and Maester Dussard. All of them looked drawn, worried.
"What happened?" he croaked, rubbing his temples. "I remember... falling. I felt dizzy."
Harrold stepped forward. "My prince." He rarely called him that so formally. That alone told Aemon something was wrong or perhaps, very right.
"You collapsed," Harrold continued. "Whatever you were doing... it overtook you. But it worked." His voice caught slightly. "God's help us, it worked. You did it."
Aemon's lips were dry. "Water," he rasped. "Please."
Maester Dussard handed him a cup. As Aemon drank deeply, the maester watched him with quiet awe.
"How long was I out?" Aemon asked, lowering the cup with a sigh.
"Two days," Vaegon said, shaking his head. "Since the moment you fell."
"Two days," Aemon repeated, frowning. "Still... it worked. The singing worked." A faint smile touched his lips. He looked toward the others. "It truly worked."
"It did," Maester Dussard confirmed. "When the smoke and heat cleared, and we made sure you were okay, we checked. The foundation of Seadragon Holt was complete. I've never seen anything like it, not in all my years. I've studied Valyrian structures, seen drawings, old etchings... and this, this is like them. Almost as if the stone remembers. Four hours that's all it took. But during that time, we feared you were dead."
"Four hours?" Aemon murmured. "I didn't feel the time pass. I wasn't even aware. I just... followed the song."
He paused, then looked up at the men gathered around him. "I'm sorry for worrying you. But I had to do this. It's my heritage." He turned to Vaegon. "Our heritage."
Vaegon nodded, a quiet smile playing on his lips.
"Help me up," Aemon said. "I want to see it. I want to see what the stone singing has truly done."
Maester Dussard stepped forward and helped him stand. Aemon dressed quickly, letting the maester steady him as needed. Though still weak, his steps were sure as he walked down the stone stairs and passed through the gates of his small holdfast.
Aemon stared almost immediately at the mount above the town. It looked like Dragonstone, the same blackness. It truly worked. And at that moment, Balerion flew overhead. "You damn big lizard," he shouted toward the dragon.
"Good day to you, too," Balerion said mockingly through the bond.
As he rubbed his eyes, he noticed something odd bandages on both his arms.
"What is this?" he muttered.
"My prince, something happened to you. It caused burns," the maester said gently.
Aemon frowned at the man. Since he was young, he had never burned, not once.
He unwrapped the cloth. To his surprise, the two runes remained. On his left arm, the Earth rune was still red, though no longer like a fresh burn. On his right, the Blood rune marked his skin. "Well, that's a surprise," he said. "I hadn't expected this."
"It is remarkable," Maester Dussard noted, eyes shining with awe. "When we found you, the marks were like high-degree burns, yet now, only scars remain. Still, what you've done is truly something."
"Well, they're Valyrian glyphs, I suppose. And I'm Valyrian. If I needed these to stone sing, then it was a necessary sacrifice," he said. And as he looked again at the glyphs, they looked kind of cool. Better than a scar, in his opinion. He thought with a small smile on his lips.
As he walked through the town, he noticed the people staring at him with wide eyes. He couldn't blame them. What he had done was truly remarkable, and it could only be called magic. And to be honest with himself, it was magic. A form of blood magic.
The moat below was filled with water, yet beyond it stood smooth black stone. On one side, the walls were made of the ordinary stacked stone the town's builders had used. On the other side, black fused stone.
They crossed the bridge and stepped onto the black, fused stone, onto the foundation of the future gatehouse. What surprised him most was that the lower levels had already been formed. His hand ran across the stone. He blinked, still half dazed that it had actually worked.
"I told you it would," Balerion noted cockly through the bond.
Aemon glanced at the great dragon, resting on top of the mount. "Well, you could have told me it would leave marks and make me pass out," he grumbled inwardly, eyes squinting.
"I didn't know everything," Balerion replied with a hint of sarcasm. "I was a young dragon when I left Old Valyria. Besides, I thought you'd be fine. What's one more scar? It's not like you haven't had those before. More than four on your chest, I believe alone."
"
"Well, they looked kind of cool," he muttered, rubbing his arm. "Next time, maybe we do this step by step instead of all at once. I don't want to pass out again." He added as he looked toward the mount.
"My prince?" Maester Dussard's voice pulled him back.
"Sorry, I was just lost in thought," Aemon replied, looking up toward the causeway that led to the upper part of the Seadragon holt.
The stone there was the same as the rest. He wondered what the keep would look like when it was finished, something similar to Dragonstone, perhaps, though without all the dragon-styled buildings. It would have a more Northern look. That was necessary, a choice shaped by the harsh winter conditions Seadragon Point would face.
On top of the mount, the foundations of the main keep and the other buildings were the same black fused stone, gleaming dark and solid in the morning light. Aemon smiled and walked toward Balerion.
"Well, still, thank you, my friend. Without you, none of this would've been possible," he said, rubbing the dragon's great snout.
"You gave me life," Balerion rumbled through the bond, his voice low and warm. "I wouldn't be here without you."
A sound like a purring cat, deep and thunderous, rose from the dragon's chest, shaking the ground beneath Aemon's feet. He laughed softly, resting his hand against Balerion's scaled hide.
The wind carried the salt of the sea and the scent of burned stone. He stood there still, looking out over the sea, his hand resting on Balerion.
"Here it begins," he whispered to his friend. "A true chance to start changing things."
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