Author's Note
The chapters of Family Honor: The Story of a Great King will be released regularly according to the following schedule:• Monday: publication of a new chapter• Friday: a second chapter of the week (when possible)• Sunday: exceptional release in case of delays or a busy week
Thank you all for your support, your feedback, and your patience.Enjoy your reading, and may the fire of the dragons guide your path.
Winter had not yet reached Westeros, but for Aemon, the months following his birth felt like a cold and silent season — an inner winter, the winter of an adult mind trapped inside a body too small, too weak, too slow.
He was six months old now.Half a year spent discovering a world he had never hoped to see, a world where colors, scents, sounds, and warmth were sharper than anything he had known in his previous existence.
And yet, a shadow lingered.Something was missing.
That morning, Aemon stared at the ceiling of his chamber, lying in his cradle carved with the three-headed dragon. The sunlight reflected softly against it, but something in the warmth filling the room awakened an echo inside him… a nameless memory.
He tried to sit up.His tiny arms trembled, his fingers spread clumsily… and he fell back onto the sheets.
Frustration.
In his mind — still that of a fifteen-year-old boy — a wave of irritation rose.
Why is this so hard? I know how to do this… but my body won't follow.
He tried again.Again.And again.
Until a nurse entered, amused.
"Look at this little fighter… You'll break your back before you even learn to walk!"
Aemon blinked. He wanted to respond, protest, explain.But the only sound that escaped his mouth was a muffled whimper.
And she smiled, unaware.
There was only one place where he still felt free: his mind.And even there… something waited for him.
The nurses couldn't believe their eyes.
Aemon was different.
He held his head up far earlier than other infants.He crawled with surprising steadiness.And his violet eyes — unusually clear, almost adult — followed every movement, every gesture, every change of expression with the intensity of someone studying ancient texts.
"That look… it gives me chills," Myrielle whispered. "It's like he understands everything."
Septa Ellyn replied curtly:
"An infant understands nothing. He is only a child."
Yet even she could not deny the truth:Aemon observed the world. He did not simply exist within it.
Once, Myrielle dropped a copper spoon.The sound cracked against the floor — and Aemon instantly turned his head, his eyes locking onto the object with a precision no baby his age should possess.
The nurse nearly dropped the tray in her hands.
"By the Seven… How… ?"
Aemon simply looked at her calmly.
I have to be more careful…
He knew he had to blend in, appear normal.But it was hard to imitate what he had never been: a newborn.
Rhaegar, meanwhile, was as normal a baby as could be.
He cried.A lot.Enough to worry the nurses he might tire out his own lungs.
And every time Rhaegar cried, Aemon felt a strange, instinctive pain prick through his chest.Almost animal.
One day, unable to endure it any longer, Aemon crawled — slowly, awkwardly, but with determination — to the small cradle where his brother writhed.
He raised his chubby hand…and placed it on Rhaegar's forearm.
The baby calmed instantly.
Myrielle, witnessing the scene, froze in disbelief.
"Gods be good… He soothed him. He truly soothed him!"
Aemon, however, felt something else entirely:
I'm not alone anymore.
A quiet morning came, and as the sounds of the Red Keep awakened around him, Aemon felt a familiar warmth in his chest.
An inner light — soft, distant.Like a glowing ember beneath ash.
Instinctively, he reached toward it with his mind.Not to use it — he didn't know it could be used — but simply because it was there.
A presence that had followed him since his rebirth.
So he tried to touch it.
And that warmth… withdrew.Softly.Almost maternally.
Not a wall.Not a harsh barrier.Not pain.
Just… a gentle hand over his inner fire, whispering:
Not yet.
He tried again.The warmth retreated even more gently.
Aemon blinked.
Something — or someone — held this light inside him.
Not to suppress it violently.But to protect him.
A figure formed in his mind:a nervous man, unstable, but deeply attentive.
Aerys.His father.
Aemon did not understand what this light was.He did not understand the magic of this world.He knew nothing of the concept of aura.
But he understood this:
Aerys had done it for him.To keep others from noticing what burned inside him.
A soft gratitude filled him.
Thank you, Father… You want me to appear normal. And I want that too.
Aerys Targaryen often watched his eldest son when he thought no one could see him.
He watched him crawl with methodical precision.Watched him stare at objects with unsettling focus.Watched him observe people as if evaluating each of their actions.
One evening, entering the twins' chamber, he froze.
Aemon, propped against a pile of pillows, was staring at two servants discussing a political issue — as if their words meant something to him.
A shiver ran down Aerys' spine.
"You understand too much… Far too much."
The seal vibrated faintly — proof that the inner fire sometimes tried to awaken.
Aerys instinctively tightened his own Golden Aura.He didn't want his son to burn too soon.
The day came when the twins were presented before the Small Council.
Aemon, held in the Grand Maester's arms, observed the lords with unsettling calm.
"The prince has a… piercing gaze," Lord Merryweather remarked uneasily.
"Yes," Tywin Lannister conceded. "He observes. That is a good trait… in a future king."
Praise mixed with caution.
"And young Rhaegar?"
"Brighter, more expressive! A joyful child," Lord Chelsted declared with a smile.
Aemon did not react.He simply recorded faces, voices, posture.
Some men are dangerous.Others are weak.Others still… must be watched.
Tywin held his gaze a moment too long.Aemon did not look away.
The Lion frowned, just slightly.
One night, as the Red Keep slept, Rhaella cradled Aemon in her arms.
She hummed an ancient melody, a song from the old dragon-kings.
Then she spoke softly, as if the silence demanded her words.
"My poor child… You were born into a cruel world. I will do what I can to protect you. You, and your brother."
Aemon placed his tiny hand on hers.
One day… it will be my turn to protect you. I swear it.
He fell asleep against her, soothed.
A stormy night came, thunder rumbling over the Blackwater Bay, and Aemon was seized by a violent emotion.
Rhaegar had fallen from his cushion and begun to scream.
Panicked, Aemon tried to push himself up.A raw, overwhelming fear surged through him.
And then —something answered.
A pulse.A faint red glow beneath his skin.A tiny spark, like a heart of fire trying to beat.
The seal trembled.Then, like a blanket gently laid over a flame…
The light faded.
Aemon collapsed, exhausted, breathless — but alive.
Far away, in an unseen realm, Alysanne Targaryen smiled softly.
"His fire stirs… but it still sleeps."
That night, Aemon stayed awake for a long time.
The seal felt more real than before, though still gentle, still comforting.
He thought of the old woman —her words, the light she had given him,the sacrifice she had made so he could live.
I'm not strong yet.Nowhere near.But I will become the dragon you hoped for.
He closed his eyes.
I will grow.I will be ready.I will protect those I love.
And in the silence of the Red Keep, a newborn made his first true vow.
A prince's vow.An heir's vow.A dragon's vow.
One day, his wings would spread wide.But for now…
they remained bound.