Daemon Targaryen (103 A.C., Sixth Moon)
King's Landing – The Dragonpit
Daemon waited outside the Dragonpit with his kin, watching for Viserys, Aemma, and Rhaenyra to arrive. Today, his eldest brother would be crowned in the eyes of the realm, though in truth, Viserys had already been acting as King for some time.
Daemon allowed himself a quiet satisfaction as he watched the people waiting for their new King. The great plot had worked, he was now the heir. His brother would soon have to annul that wretched marriage, something the old King would never have permitted. If his plans played out as he intended, he would sire a son on his niece, giving birth to a true Valyrian heir. He would have to wait until the girl was of age, of course, but he was almost certain Viserys would agree, they were the blood of Old Valyria, after all. Once confirmed as heir, perhaps he would even take another wife, as the Conqueror had done.
His gaze shifted to his cousin, Daenerys Celtigar, eldest daughter of Gael and Bartimos Celtigar. She was still only five namedays, far too young, but in time she might prove a useful match. The girl favored her mother's looks, though she bore the unfortunate, dull light blue eyes of the Celtigars. A sign of their many marriages with the peoples of Westeros. If the gods were kind, Lady Laena Velaryon might also become an option, but for now, she was wasted on his younger half-brother. Daemon's lip curled at the thought. That boy rode Balerion, and his halfbreed sisters rode dragons too. The blood of his father was pure once, but had been tainted, all because of the whore who had crept into his father's bed. Everywhere he looked, there were those seeking to dilute or destroy the might of House Targaryen.
His eyes landed on Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, a position his father should have held. Ser Otto, nine-and-thirty, had risen to the position through being a lickspittle and the charms of his comely daughter. He wondered what the girl had whispered to old King when she tended him.
The Hightowers had always been persistent in their climb toward the throne. They had once aligned with Maegor the Cruel, even after he had set Lady Selyse Hightower aside for a second wife. Daemon suspected, had even tried to use the Faith to bring down the Targaryens as the center of both the Faith of the Seven and knowledge in the realm both where in Old Town, they would always strive to keep their fingers near the seat of power.
When the Hand's daughter began to seek his company, Daemon had been more than willing to entertain her advances. At four-and-ten namedays, she was young but comely. Without a true wife, the thought of bedding her, and perhaps siring a bastard, was tempting. If played well, it might even serve to put a leash on Otto himself. The thought brought a smirk to Daemon's lips.
His musings were broken by the roars of Goynogar and Syrax. Viserys and his good-sister had arrived for their coronation. The brown, dragon spect with green, circled twice around the keep, with Syrax following the dragon gracefully. The dragons landed in the center of the pit, and Daemon watched as Viserys dismounted and helped Aemma down.
Then his eyes fell on his young niece, dismounting from her yellow-golden mount. At nine namedays, she was already growing into a pretty girl, he thought as she petted her dragon.
All around them, the people knelt as Viserys and his queen stepped forward.
"Rise," Viserys commanded, his voice unusually stern. Daemon smirked at his brother's serious tone, finding it ill-fitted to the occasion.
"Brother," Viserys said, embracing him briefly before moving on toward the podium. The Targaryen family followed in his wake, a path cleared by the household guard. Along the way, shouts rang out from the crowd:
"Long live the King!"
"Bless his reign!"
"Bless House Targaryen!"
The family mounted the podium, the ceremony about to begin, when a roar shook the very foundations of the Dragonpit. The sound was answered by two more, and Daemon turned toward the entrance. Goynogar and Syrax gave submissive replies. The two dragons departed from the entrance.
Balerion.
There was only one meaning in that. His halfbreed brother had come. Soon enough, the massive black shape of the Conqueror's dragon blocked the entrance, the ground trembling as the beast landed. Wind and the smell of dragon filled the great dome. Balerion was as colossal as Daemon remembered, too large for the main gate, but the side passage had been built to accommodate him, Rogar and Maegor had designed the pit for the pride of House Targaryen itself.
Even as Daemon might have admired the dragon's power, his mood soured. The knowledge that Balerion obeyed Aemon made his blood boil. Whatever satisfaction he'd felt earlier was gone, replaced by a simmering fury, now that the halfbreed was here.
Flashback – four days earlier
Arya Stark/Targaryen (103 A.C. Sixth Moon)
Winterfell - a week after Aemon hatched Jaefyre
Arya walked along the battlements of Winterfell, her gaze drifting over the familiar stone walls. Some parts of the castle looked different from when she had last seen it, yet it felt more like home now than it had when she first returned. This time, she had a sister, someone she could truly relate to.
She loved Sansa, but Sansa had changed so much, and before that, their interests clashed. She had grown cold and, in the end, even broke sacred oaths. Arya could still see the look in her sister's eyes, the pride she felt when the Northern lords wanted to choose her over Jon.
Visenya was more than just kin; she was a true companion. Someone Arya could speak to without weighing her words, someone who shared her love of the skies, swords, and archery, even if she could yet draw a bow to her own irritation, yet who also helped her with more ladylike things. She would always love her other siblings, but apart from Aemon, none had ever felt so close to her.
And then there was Lyanna, now her mother. In some ways, Lyanna was like an older, tempered version of Visenya, then again, a mother-like daughter, and a glimpse of what her sister might become in later years. Visenya still carried a spark of mischief and untamed joy; Lyanna carried wisdom and steadiness, yet within her still lived the she-wolf of the North. With Lyanna, Arya had found something she had never known from her own mother: an acceptance of who she was, even of the things she loved that Catelyn had never understood.
The realization was strange, and at times it felt almost like betrayal. Catelyn had raised her, and yet… Lyanna felt like the mother she had been meant to have. The longer they spent together, the deeper that thought took root in her heart, no matter how she tried to pull it free.
In these past years, she had also reclaimed something she thought was gone forever, her childhood. She had lost it the day her father's head was struck from his shoulders.
Yet soon, the days of spending time with her sister would be over. She knew it was likely Visenya would stay in the South once they went there. Why return North only to be sent South again five moons later? Still, she would endure. She knew Lyanna planned to join Aemon after they returned to Winterfell, after they helped Laenor settle in. Laenor would become a ward at Benjen's side until the day came for him to join Aemon, a year later.
A sudden roar split the air, deep and thunderous. Arya's head snapped up just in time to see a dark shape burst through the cloud, a great black dragon whose shadow swept almost the entirety of Winterfell at that height.
Aemon, she thought, smiling.
Balerion descended with slow, deliberate wingbeats, landing in the eastern field outside the walls. From her perch atop the battlements, Arya leaned forward to watch as Aemon swung down from the saddle. Something small shifted on his shoulder, then it hopped down onto the grass the moment Aemon's boots touched earth. Behind him, two knights dismounted: Ser Harrold in his white cloak, and Ser Jeffery Trueleaf with the leaf-and-acorn sigil on his cloak. The pair began unfastening straps and unloading Balerion's harness, while the Black Dread himself stood motionless, tail curled loosely along the ground.
Balerion always unnerved her, yet there was something in the way he watched the men, calm, calculating, that made her think he was wiser than most of them. Then again, Aemon could talk to the damn dragon.
"The prince has returned," Edric said beside her, still staring at the dragon in awe.
"Indeed," Arya replied, her voice bright with excitement. "Come, let's meet my brother."
Edric grinned and dipped his head. "Lead on, Princess."
As they descended the steps, Arya saw others moving toward the nearest gatehouse. Her uncle Benjen was already waiting there.
"Uncle!" she called, running to him. He smiled, ruffling her hair.
"There you are, Arya. We were looking for you! We wanted to go flying one last time before we leave," Visenya exclaimed, appearing with Rickon at her side.
"Sorry, I was walking the battlements," Arya answered.
"Then it's for the best," Visenya said with a grin. "Aemon's back. We can fly together now."
Arya's smile widened at the thought. She was the second-youngest dragonrider in history—only Aemon had flown earlier, at four years old. To her, flying was freedom, wildness, and joy, and she could not imagine giving it up for anything.
"Of course we'll go flying," she said.
"Come, let us greet our prince," Benjen said, formal now. The gathered company followed him through the Hunter's Gate and into the eastern fields, freshly harvested, the first grass with sporting up, with the dark edge of the Wolfswood beyond. Both Grey Ghost and Vhagar had claimed caves there, emerging only when called.
Aemon stood waiting. He looked taller than when she had last seen him, but what made Arya pause was his hair. Or rather, the lack of it. His head was almost bare, save for a thin line of silver-blond hair.
"My Prince, welcome to Winterfell," Benjen said. "Your eagle reached us yesterday. But tell me, did you shave your hair?"
"Thank you, thank you, Lord Uncle. No fire did that," Aemon replied evenly. From behind him, a small dragon scrambled up his shoulder.
The crowd murmured. The hatchling was blood-red, with silver striping along its neck and tail.
"One of Vhagar's eggs," Aemon explained. "It had turned to stone. I hatched it with fire and blood. My hair was burned away in the process." He grinned, stroking the hatchling's chin until it chirped contentedly.
Benjen's eyes lingered on the dragon. "It seems your House words still mean something, like ours," he said with a faint smile. "As for your eagle, what you asked is prepared. Your sisters and mother are able to depart for King's Landing on the morrow. But I have a request: take my eldest with you. He can swear his oath to the crown in my stead, and it is time my heir saw the South. With one guard, of course."
"I'd be glad to bring my favorite cousin," Aemon said with a smirk toward Rickon, who was grinning. "Balerion can carry them easily. I plan to fly to Moat Cailin first, rest there, then on to Harrenhal, and finally King's Landing. I could fly faster, but I doubt Grey Ghost could keep pace."
"Thank you, Nephew. Now," Benjen began, but Aemon had already moved forward.
Without a word, he embraced Visenya first, holding her tightly, his cheek brushing the crown of her head. She clung to him, her purple eyes bright, as though she'd been holding in her excitement until this very moment. Then he turned to Arya.
She felt his arms wrap around her and was suddenly aware of the warmth in them—the same warmth she remembered from her earliest days with him at Winterfell, before dragons and crowns had changed their lives. For a moment, she pressed her face against his shoulder, breathing in the faint scent of leather and the scent of dragons.
"I've missed you, little wolf," he murmured so only she could hear. "I missed you, too." She said.
When he pulled away, it was Rickon's turn. Aemon clasped his cousin by the shoulders, smiling. "You've grown," he said, before drawing him into a firm embrace. Rickon returned it with the same wolfish grin he always wore before mischief.
Only then did Aemon turn back with a grin. Benjen just shook his head. "Now, Uncle, I'm ready to come inside and tell you the tale of this hatching," he said, his voice light with pride.
Benjen clapped him on the back. "Then let's hear it. I'll see your baggage brought into the keep."
Rhaenyra Targaryen (103 A.C., Sixth Moon)
Dragonpit – Coronation
Rhaenyra stared in surprise as Aemon strode into the great hall. He had grown taller; it would not be long before he stood eye to eye with her father. But what caught her attention first was his hair. The familiar silver-gold still shone at the top, even if it was just a tine line of stubble. Sadly, those bright curling locks she adored were gone.
What truly startled her, and the crowd, was the small dragon perched on his shoulder: a blood-red creature streaked with silver.
Behind him came his sworn shield, Ser Harrold, followed by Visenya and Arya, each holding one of Lyanna's hands. A boy she did not recognize came next, along with Ser Clement Crabb and two more guards unfamiliar to her.
The household troops parted, clearing a path for Aemon and his company. He walked toward the podium, and when he reached her father, he knelt. The rest of his party followed suit.
"Your Grace," Aemon said, his voice deeper than she remembered. Yet, seeing him up close, she still recognized the boy she had known.
"Rise, and thank you all for coming, if a bit dramatically," her father replied, drawing chuckles from those nearby, including her.
"Sorry," Aemon said with a small nod, "but traveling here, even on dragonback, on such short notice is difficult."
They all moved to join the rest of the Targaryen family. Aemon, however, came straight to her and Laena, embracing them both. When he held her, Rhaenyra's heart swelled, and she realized just how much she had missed him, the scent of him, the warmth of his presence.
A hush fell over the hall as the High Septon stepped forward, his white-and-gold robes glinting under the incoming sunlight. "We gather here today to crown a new King, to begin a new day for the realm. Prince Viserys, please step forward."
Her father obeyed.
"Please kneel, my son," the High Septon said. Viserys knelt, and the Septon recited the sacred words of the Faith, anointing him with holy oils.
"May the Warrior grant him courage. May the Smith lend strength to his sword and shield. May the Father defend him in his need. May the Crone lift her shining lamp to light his path to wisdom. May the Mother hold him in her heart and protect him from all ill. May the Maiden guide him to virtue."
Rhaenyra's heart swelled with pride.
When the High Septon stepped back, her father glanced toward her and her mother. She met his eyes with a bright smile and a nod.
Daemon then stepped forward, lifting the crown of the old King—a golden circlet adorned with the sigils of all the great houses of the Seven Kingdoms, even House Martell, though Dorne was not truly under their rule.
Daemon placed the crown upon Viserys's head and turned to the crowd.
"All hail His Grace Viserys Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Rhoynar, the Andals, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!"
The hall erupted in cheers. Rhaenyra clapped loudly, adding her voice to the chorus.
"Long live the King!" Aemon called proudly.
Viserys turned to face the crowd, drawing Blackfyre and lifting it high, prompting another wave of cheers.
"As your King, I will strive to serve you well. Long live the Seven Kingdoms!" he proclaimed. Then he turned toward the family.
"My dear wife, please step forward."
Another crown bearer emerged, holding a silver crown inlaid with red and blue gemstones, a falcon and a dragon entwined at its crest. It was a work of wonder, and Rhaenyra wondered if her father had commissioned it before her grandfather had passed.
Her mother obeyed, her eyes alight with happiness and surprise. Viserys took the crown and bade her kneel.
"I, King Viserys, First of His Name, crown you Queen consort Aemma of the Seven Kingdoms," he declared.
The crowd cheered again as her mother rose. Rhaenyra could not help herself, she stepped forward and embraced them both.
At that, Aemon's voice rang out, loud and clear:
"Long may he reign! Bless Queen Aemma and Princess Rhaenyra!"
Alicent Hightower (103 A.C., Sixth Moon)
King's Landing – Great Hall, Celebratory Feast
It had been quite the day—a king was crowned, and Aemon had returned.
When she saw Balerion descend upon the Dragonpit earlier, she had gaped as had many others. The sight of the Black Dread was overwhelming enough, but then there was Aemon himself. At first glance, he still looked much the same, yet his once-long, silver-golden curls were gone. In their place was a short, extremely-cropped hairline, as though he had shaved his head entirely. She couldn't help but wonder what had happened to those wonderful locks.
Now, she sat at one of the lower tables with her siblings, while her parents occupied seats of honor on the dais with the royal family, behind the Iron Throne. Attendants from across the realm filled the hall, lords and ladies in their finest attire. Even a Dornish party had made the journey, perhaps to pay respect to the new King… or perhaps to quietly measure the standing of his court.
The feast was lavish, dish after dish paraded forth by sweating servants. Roasted game birds, platters of venison, fragrant bowls of spiced fruit, all of it filling the air with rich aromas. They were already on the fifth course of ten, and Alicent was beginning to feel full.
Then the King rose from his seat, and instinctively the entire hall followed suit.
"My lords, my ladies, and my beloved family," Viserys began, his voice carrying to every corner of the great chamber. "I thank you all for being here today, and hope you have enjoyed the feast so far. For more than fifty years, my grandfather reigned as King. Today, I take up that mantle, entrusted to me by many of you. But I will not choose sides. I am King, Lord, and Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, and I will protect and serve all the people of the realm."
Applause rippled through the hall. Alicent clapped politely, watching as Viserys turned to his queen, took her hand, and led her to the center of the floor.
The King and Queen danced with grace, though Alicent noticed it was Aemma guiding the steps. When they finished, other couples began to join, the music swelling in pace and brightness.
She leaned toward her brother. "Brother, come dance with me."
Martyn smiled, rose, and took her hand. As they moved across the floor, Alicent's eyes were drawn to another couple, Aemon and his betrothed. Martyn caught her glance and leaned closer.
"He's betrothed, dear sister, but perhaps you might ask him for a dance anyway," he murmured.
She smiled faintly at that, dancing two more songs with Martyn before finally making her way toward Aemon. He was no longer with his betrothed but dancing instead with a lively girl of about six, Princess Arya.
"I do this for Mother and you," the girl muttered to him, making Alicent hide a smile. Arya spotted her then. "It seems you have a more willing partner, brother," she said with an impish grin.
Aemon turned, and Alicent was taken aback to find that he now stood a little taller than her, despite him being only eleven. She remembered that Prince Baelon had been a tall man, and clearly Aemon had inherited that trait above all his brothers.
"Lady Alicent," he greeted her, the formality in his tone not quite matching the twinkle in his eye. His voice was different too, harsher now, with a northern edge she did not remember.
"My prince," she said, "may I have this dance, if the princess does not mind?"
"Please," Arya answered at once, smirking. "He dragged me from my seat." And with that, the girl skipped away.
"Forgive Arya," Aemon said, chuckling. "It's been a long day for her, and she'll want to leave soon. Though I doubt Mother will take her to bed just yet."
"I remember her being wild even as a toddler," Alicent replied with a smile.
"Well," Aemon said, a small smile tugging at his lips, "may I have this dance, my lady?"
"You may," She said, smiling. Alicent placed her hand in his, his grip firm but not overly so, polished, practiced, the way a young prince ought to carry himself. The music shifted into a slower, lilting melody, the kind meant as much for conversation as for steps.
They moved together into the flow of the other couples, weaving between swaying silks and embroidered doublets. As they turned, she noticed that Aemon's posture was perfectly straight, his movements measured and precise.
"You dance better than I remember, my prince," she said lightly.
"I had good teachers in the North," he replied. "My aunt made us practice at least once a week. After that, I kept it up in Seadragon Point. And… I had a need to make a respectable impression when I arrived. Not be the savage prince from the North."
Her lips curved faintly. "You are far from savage and quite respectable. Though your entrance on Balerion was something else entirely."
He smirked, and for a heartbeat, the formality between them thinned. "If one must make an arrival, one might as well do it properly." He held her gaze, his eyes glinting. "As for being a savage… I can be one in other ways."
Her heart skipped, heat blooming in her cheeks. She wondered what he meant, but did not ask. Instead, she tilted her head slightly. "Tell me something. Why is your hair so short? I always thought the longer hair suited you."
Aemon's smile deepened. "Fire, it burned my hair from head to toes."
She gaped slightly. "It burned away? But I see no burns on you."
"Fire cannot kill some dragons," he said, grinning in a way that made her pulse quicken.
They turned again, and Alicent became aware of the eyes on them. Lords and ladies at nearby tables pretended to watch other dancers, but their glances kept returning to her and the young prince. Aemon was the talk of the day—even on the King's coronation night. She knew how the court's mind worked: every dance, every smile was weighed and measured, stored away for whispered talk later.
"I believe," Aemon murmured, "you've been watching me this evening."
Her cheeks warmed, but she did not falter in her step. "And I believe, my prince, you've been well aware of it."
He didn't deny it. A glint of amusement flickered in his dark violet eyes. "Well, I've been watching you, too. You've always been a good friend… and one who has grown into quite the beauty. Any man who captures your heart will be fortunate indeed."
Her blush deepened. If only you knew.
The song ended, and they stepped apart. "It was a wonderful dance. If time permits, let's speak again, my lady," Aemon said with a nod.
She returned it with a curtsy. "We should. Thank you, my prince."
He leaned just close enough for only her to hear. "Perhaps next time, I'll ask you first."
She smiled as he moved away toward the queen, likely to ask her for a dance. But before she could take two steps, a voice came from behind. "My lady."
She knew that voice. Turning, she found herself face-to-face with Prince Daemon Targaryen.
"My prince," she said, curtsying.
"May I have this dance? We haven't spoken much since our last meeting," he noted with a smile, though it did not reach his eyes. "Of course, my prince. I would be honored."
His hands, unlike Aemon's, gripped her firmly… and lower than she liked. As they began to move, an unease crept through her.
"Tell me," Daemon said smoothly, "why did you dance with my brother? I thought you and I were getting to know one another." His hand brushed against her rear.
She swallowed hard, forcing herself to keep dancing. She could not make a scene. "The prince is an old friend, my prince. I wished to speak with him after more than a year apart."
They passed close to the dais, and she caught her father's gaze. Her fathers eyes were sharp, assessing, calculating. She knew that look. He saw an opportunity. He always did. He had been the one to suggest she speak more with Daemon. Now, she regretted listening.
"Hmm. Best to stay away from him, my lady," Daemon said with a smirk. "My brother is a Northerner, and he worships trees."
She already knew this; that Aemon followed the old gods, he had told her himself. "I'll take that under advisement," she said evenly.
Thankfully, the song ended soon after. "Thank you for the dance, my prince," she said quickly. Daemon gave her a nod and walked off. She felt dizzy and returned to her table.
Gwayne was still at his seat, finishing another course, while Martyn danced with Lady Camila Risley.
"Sister," Gwayne said between bites, "I saw you dancing with the prince. Did you enjoy it? And how did Aemon lose his hair?"
"It was… good," she replied, trying to calm her dizziness. "As for his hair, he said he had an accident with fire. Burned it off."
Gwayne's eyes widened. "Then he's lucky he didn't receive burns." He paused, glancing toward the floor where Aemon now danced with his other sister, Princess Visenya. "I'm curious how good he's gotten with a blade. Before he left, he was already better than most in the yard. Although he lost to grown men because of the strength difference. I could never best him, no matter how hard I tried."
"Then you should ask him, brother. You know what Father says, keep close to the royal family. I'm sure you'll have time, you consider him a friend, don't you?" She replied, smiling. As she watched Aemon dance gracefully with his sister, whose black hair flowed like waves as they danced.
"I shall," Gwayne said, before returning to his plate.
Alicent sipped some wine, grateful for the normalcy of the conversation. But even after that, the dizziness from her dance with Daemon lingered, and she decided it was time to leave the hall.
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