Dragonstone, 265 AC.
The first light of morning filtered through the high arched windows of Aemons' chamber, casting soft golden beams across the cold stone floor. Outside, Dragonstone stirred—the distant cries of gulls echoing over the cliffs, mingling with the steady crash of waves below. A salt-tinged breeze whispered through a narrow window slit, carrying with it the scent of sea and stone.
But inside, the room was still.
Aemon moved with quiet intent, folding each tunic and cloak with practised care. His open travel trunk lay at the foot of his bed, half-filled with neatly arranged belongings: worn leather-bound books, the Valryian steel dagger with a ruby set into its pommel, rolls of Valyrian script inked in his hand. Every item he placed inside was a piece of memory—a fragment of the boy who had lived on this island, now being packed away for the road ahead.
His hand brushed against a bundled roll of parchment, and he stilled.
Slowly, he unwrapped it. The familiar rustle of aged paper filled the silence. Inside were his sketches—paintings drawn over quiet afternoons and stormy nights. The jagged silhouette of Dragonstone cloaked in dusk. A silver-scaled dragon rising through clouds. The Red Keep, imagined from whispers and half-remembered tales.
But one portrait held him fast.
Múna, seated in her favourite chair by the window, light spilling across her face. Her silver-blonde hair cascaded around her shoulders, and in her arms—wrapped in crimson silk—a sleeping infant. Himself. Aemon, as a child, was drawn with painstaking care and soft lines. Her expression was peaceful, almost reverent, as though cradling more than a child—cradling a future.
Aemon swallowed, his fingers tracing the fragile edge of the page. The ache behind his ribs stirred. He lingered, then gently rolled the parchment and slid it between the pages of a book he would carry. A piece of home. A silent promise to return.
He exhaled quietly and closed the trunk with a firm but measured click. The preparations were complete.
Crossing to the door, Aemon opened it to find two servants waiting just outside, heads bowed respectfully.
"Take everything to the ship," he said, voice low but composed.
The servants bowed and stepped inside, lifting the trunk with practised ease.
Aemon remained where he stood, watching them for a moment—his gaze distant, already drifting beyond these walls, the keep, toward the harbour and the open sea that awaited him.
The great library of Dragonstone lay cloaked in a sacred hush. Pale light filtered through tall, narrow windows, illuminating dust motes that drifted lazily in the golden beams. The scent of aged parchment, melted wax, and ink lingered like incense—rich, comforting, and familiar.
Aemon stepped inside, his footsteps soft against the stone, careful not to disturb the memories lingering between the walls. His gaze swept over the towering shelves and scroll-laden desks—each one a relic of the years he had spent here, learning, questioning, growing. And beneath the largest window where morning light pooled sat Maester Geradys, hunched over a tome.
The Maester looked up, a smile forming beneath his tired, thoughtful eyes. "There you are," he said with a gentle rasp. "I half-suspected you'd sneak off without saying goodbye."
"I couldn't leave without seeing you," Aemon said softly. "You were my second teacher—after Múna—and you taught me more than most could."
Geradys pushed himself up, slower than he used to be, but with that same quiet dignity. He stepped forward and placed a steady hand on Aemon's shoulder, his fingers warm despite the chill in the air.
"You were my brightest student," he said, voice thick with unspoken emotion. "Always searching, always reaching. Never content with surface answers."
He gave a small chuckle, half wistful. "Seven help whoever tries to outwit you in court. I pity the poor soul."
Aemon smiled, though his chest ached. "Thank you, Maester. For your time. Your patience. Your belief in me."
The Maester gave a short nod, then turned and reached beneath his desk. From the shadows, he drew forth a thick tome—leather-bound, with strange dark markings, scorched faintly into its cover. There was no title, no sigil, just a subtle glyph pressed into the spine—one that shimmered when it caught the light.
"I've been saving this for you," Geradys said, cradling the book as one might a relic. "It's my most prized possession. I found it long ago, locked in a sealed vault beneath the Citadel. Hidden behind layers of bureaucracy and dust. No one claimed it. No one could read it."
He handed it over slowly as if transferring a secret. Aemon accepted it with both hands, surprised by its weight. The leather felt rough, anciently marked with years of handling and time. It smelled of ash, pine and something faintly metallic.
"The script inside," Geradys continued, "is about the runes of the First Men. The old tongue. Hardly anyone in Westeros can read it now."
He gave Aemon a sideways glance. "Your mother could. Jenny had a gift for languages. She said these runes held truths too profound and vague for most to understand. But I've never been able to make sense of them. I hoped one day… someone might."
Aemon ran his hand over the strange sigil, feeling the faint indentation beneath his fingertips. "You want me to decipher it."
"I want you to uncover it," Geradys corrected gently. "Study the language. Learn what's hidden in those pages. There may be knowledge there even the Maesters chose to forget."
Aemon looked up, the book pressed against his chest like armour. "I will."
Geradys smiled. But there was a weight behind his eyes now—something cautious, something fatherly.
"The world beyond Dragonstone isn't as kind to curious minds as this place has been. The Citadel doesn't love those who ask too many questions. And King's Landing? It devours anything it cannot control."
A pause.
"You'll do great things," Geradys said at last. "I know it. Just promise me you'll visit. One day. When you outrun your destiny and have time to spare for an old man with too many scrolls and not enough teeth."
"I promise," Aemon whispered, his voice catching.
Geradys gave him a mock scowl and wagged a finger. "And try not to burn down any libraries. Or at least take good notes if you do."
They both chuckled, the laughter soft and brittle around the edges.
The Maester stepped back, robes trailing behind him like the closing lines of a well-loved story. He turned down one of the shadowed aisles and vanished between the shelves.
Aemon lingered in the echoing stillness, standing alone. He looked around one final time—at the place that had shaped his mind, the empty chair by the window, and the fading light on ancient wood.
Then, with care, he slipped the mysterious book into his satchel, sealing it with the reverence one might reserve for a memory.
As he turned to go, Geradys' voice called faintly from behind the shelves:
"And write me, you little terror. Don't make me send ravens after you!"
Aemon smiled, the sound following him like the last flicker of candlelight.
As Aemon stepped out of the library, the strange, rune-covered book pressed tightly against his side in the satchel, he descended the spiral stairs with a thousand questions rattling through his mind.
The leather was warm to the touch, worn smooth by age, and carried a faint scent of smoke and stone—like it had been pulled from the bones of the earth itself. A sigil shimmered faintly along the spine, unfamiliar yet strangely familiar, as if it had always been meant for him.
"S.E.R.A.," he murmured under his breath, fingers brushing the satchel's flap, "scan the book. I want to know what we're dealing with."
A soft chime sounded in his mind as the AI stirred.
[Attempting scan… Analyzing…]
A long pause followed. Aemon could almost feel her hesitation.
[Scan failed.]
[Script complexity exceeds the current dataset. The language—believed to be a derivative of the Old Tongue of the First Men—contains unique syntactic structures and non-standard glyph morphology. Estimated decryption time: ninety-two days, fourteen hours, seven minutes.]
He stopped mid-step. "Three months? Are you serious? You calculated my caloric deficit in under a second, but you need an entire season to read a book?"
[Affirmative. Unless supplemental linguistic sources are acquired, this is the most efficient decryption estimate.]
Aemon sighed and leaned against the cold stone wall, frustration knitting across his brow. He pulled the book slightly from his satchel and stared at the cover, running his thumb over the ancient sigil. It was maddening—this was a gift from a man who had spent a lifetime chasing hidden truths. And now it was his burden to unlock.
What secrets are you hiding? He thought. Why give this to me now?
But before he could dwell on it further, another soft ping echoed through his thoughts.
[Alert: Host energy levels have fallen below critical threshold. The current caloric deficit is 4,072. Immediate nutritional intake is advised.]
Aemon groaned, dragging a hand down his face.
"Oh, for the love of the Seven—old gods, new gods, drowned gods, burning gods, Jesus and whatever dark, soulless horror dreamt you into existence—please, save me from this blood-sucking parasite. I'm begging all of you."
[Insult logged.]
[Nutritional deficiency remains unresolved.]
His stomach rumbled, perfectly timed. Aemon scowled. "I swear, one of these days, I'm going to uninstall you and toss you into Blackwater Bay."
[Idle threat acknowledged. Macronutrient intake recommendation updated.]
"Great," he muttered, adjusting his satchel. "Let's go feed the monster."
He turned down the kitchen corridor, his boots echoing softly against the stone. The scent of fresh bread lingered in the air—yeasty, warm, comforting. Farther down the hall, the clatter of pots and the crackle of fire signalled the start of the day. It was still early, but the kitchens of Dragonstone were already stirring to life.
As Aemon walked, he reached down and tapped his satchel—the mysterious book still tucked safely inside.
"I'm going to figure you out," he whispered. "Even if it kills me."
[Noted.]
[Also not recommended.]
Aemon rolled his eyes and picked up the pace, chasing the trail of spices and roasted meat that promised temporary salvation from his ever-hungry, ever-cheerful passenger.
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The sea was calm, draped in a thin veil of morning mist that clung to the coastline like a fading dream. The air was crisp and sharp, carrying the scent of salt, old stone, and cold iron.
Aemon stood at the edge of the cliffside path, gazing down at the quiet port below. The royal ships stood in silence, their sails furled and hulls glistening with morning dew. Red-and-black banners fluttered faintly in the breeze, the dragon of House Targaryen rippling like a flame above the decks.
He began to descend the worn stone steps, flanked on either side by knights of the Kingsguard. Ser Barristan Selmy walked to his right—calm, vigilant. Ser Jonothor Darry followed just behind, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. Aemon's boots made little sound, but each step echoed louder in his mind than the last.
Ahead, the royal entourage stood assembled. King Aerys—tall, stern, cloaked in black—looked more shadow than a man in the mist. Queen Rhaella stood beside him, one hand resting protectively over her swollen belly, the other gently guiding a young Rhaegar. His little nephew clung to her skirts, golden silver hair tousled by the wind, wide purple eyes filled with wonder.
Aemon's gaze lingered on them only briefly before drifting upward—to the looming cliffs of Dragonstone. The towers, carved from black volcanic rock, rose like the outstretched fingers of ancient gods. Behind those walls lay the hatchery, the crypts, and the three dragon eggs that still pulsed with mystery. Within that stone fortress echoed the memories of his childhood.
His home.
At the groan of shifting timber, the ship's plank lowered. Aemon crossed it without ceremony, the damp boards creaking beneath his boots. He moved to the railing and paused, fingers curling around the salt-slick wood as he cast one final look back at the island.
Ser Barristan joined him. The wind tugged at his white cloak.
"Will you miss it?" the old knight asked, his voice low and steady.
Aemon didn't answer right away. The sea lapped gently at the dock below. The taste of salt lingered on his lips.
"Yes," he said finally. "I'll miss it deeply. It was the only place I've ever truly belonged. I grew up here… with freedom. With care."
He didn't mention the gnawing tension in his chest—the ache of leaving the familiar or the uncertainty of what waited in the capital. But it was there, unspoken.
Barristan nodded once, his eyes also fixed on the shrinking island. "Not many princes can say that."
The ropes were cast off. The ship began to drift from shore, sails billowing as the wind caught them like wings. The creak of rope, the snap of canvas, the steady splash of oars—each sounds like a soft farewell.
Aemon remained at the deck's edge, watching Dragonstone grow smaller with every breath. He saw the hatchery in his mind, the warm glow of the lava vein. The crypts beneath the castle, where his ancestors rested. His fingers tightened on the rail.
And then—skyward.
He looked to the horizon, where the sea met the sky, and for a heartbeat, he saw her.
Múna.
Not in form, but in feeling.
Her presence drifted across the waves like sea mist, silver hair blending into the sky.
Her eyes—calm, knowing—still seemed to watch him.
Aemon's throat tightened. "I'll keep my promise," he whispered. "To you… and to them."
He closed his eyes, letting the wind sting his face and steady his heart.
Then, with a final glance at the fading silhouette of Dragonstone, he turned and walked toward the ship's interior. The sea was before him. The future is unknown.
But he would meet it.
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Dusk unfurled across the sea like a velvet curtain, the horizon dipped in hues of ember and violet. The wind had stilled to a hush, brushing across the water with only the gentlest sigh. A golden trail shimmered across the waves where the dying sun kissed the surface, and the ship moved through it like a phantom, sails full and silent.
Aemon quietly stepped towards the bow, harp in hand. The instrument was old—polished smooth by time and memory. A gift from Múna on his fifth name day, carved from pale maplewood and strung with silver-threaded gut. It had always sounded more sorrowful than sweet like it remembered every tune that had ever been played on it.
He sat slowly on the wooden rail, legs braced against the wind. For a moment, he hesitated. Fingers hovering over the strings, eyes lost in the endless blue.
Then, he played.
A single note—soft, wistful—threaded through the wind. Another followed, and another, until the deck was wrapped in a haunting melody. It drifted across the ship like a ghost made of song—delicate and distinct.
Then came his voice:
" I saw the light fade from the sky,
On the wind, I heard a sigh…
As the snowflakes cover my fallen brothers,
I will say this last goodbye…"
Below deck, noise slowed. Footsteps stopped. The quiet pulse of life aboard the ship slowed to listen.
Ser Jonothor stood unmoving, helm tucked under one arm. Ser Barristan's gaze lingered on the sea, but his head tilted slightly as if listening closer. One of the sailors near the sail stopped tying rope, resting his hand over his chest.
Near the mast, a small figure emerged—Rhaegar, golden-silver-haired and curious, drawn by the song. His wide eyes found Aemon's, filled with wonder and quiet sorrow. Aemon met his gaze mid-verse, offering a subtle nod and a faint, knowing smile.
He sang on.
"Night is now falling
So ends this day
The road is now calling
And I must away
Over hill and under the tree
Through lands where never light has shone
By silver streams that run down to the sea
Under cloud, beneath the stars"
"Over snow one winter's morn
I turn at last to paths that lead home
And though where the road then takes me
I cannot tell
We came all this way
But now comes the day
To bid you farewell"
His voice trembled on the final lines, but he didn't falter.
"Many places I have been
Many sorrows I have seen
But I don't regret
Nor will I forget
All who took the road with me"
"To these memories, I will hold
With your blessing, I will go
To turn at last to paths that lead home
And though where the road then takes me
I cannot tell
We came all this way
But now comes the day
To bid you farewell"
The harp's final note faded into the mist.
Silence followed.
Not the silence of absence, but the silence of reverence.
The sea kept its hush. The sails shifted with a whisper. No words were spoken. A breeze brushed past the deck as if the world itself exhaled.
Aemon closed his eyes. One lyric lingered in his mind like an echo:
"I bid you all a very fond farewell.."
He placed the harp gently beside him, its strings still faintly reverberating. Then he rose, the weight of the moment pressing on his shoulders—not crushing, but steady like armour.
As the sun dipped low, it cast the sky in hues of gold and crimson, unravelling threads of light through the thinning sea mist.
Aemon stood at the railing, his cloak curling in the wind, hair tousled by salt and sea breeze. He gazed east toward the waking world.
And there—rising from the mist like something out of legend—stood King's Landing.
The city unfolded slowly: rooftops in haphazard patchwork, smoke trailing from a thousand chimneys. Sept bells faintly chimed somewhere within. Above it all, like a sentinel, the Red Keep loomed, its crimson stone catching the new sun, Aegon's Hill standing tall as the seat of kings.
It was loud, even at a distance. Alive. Restless.
Different.
The capital.
Aemon's chest tightened—not with fear, but with a quiet, shivering anticipation. This was the world he had been preparing for. This was where secrets would be uncovered, games played, and legacy tested.
Behind him, the ship creaked and shifted. Rhaegar stood beside Queen Rhaella now, who wrapped an arm protectively around his shoulder. King Aerys was speaking to a nobleman at the stern. The Kingsguard prepared for disembarkation. The moment was passing.
But Aemon stayed still, his hand gripping the railing, the other resting atop the harp at his side.
A new chapter had begun.
The games would begin soon, and he would have to play.
And with it, the end of one life… and the quiet beginning of another.
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Author's Note:
And with that, Arc II comes to a close 🔥
Thank you for reading. The next chapter begins after a Four-year time skip—new trials, new faces, and the path ahead growing darker still. Stay with me.
—With love,
Your friendly neighborhood writer