Chapter Text
Chapter XXIV
Nor Gods
Aemon Targaryen
The day had come. And yet, as Aemon sat alone in his chamber, staring at the black ribbon on the table before him, he found himself empty of any feeling. He had expected anticipation, pride, perhaps even trepidation. Instead, there was only a numb weight in his chest, an exhaustion borne of weeks spent talking, bargaining, and calculating.
The ribbon was frayed, its edges worn from time. Sansa had made it for him, a small token of familial care that had somehow survived all this chaos. He ran his fingers over the fabric, trying to summon some connection to its meaning.
Family.
How long had it been since that word felt whole? He had spoken with Lord Stark and Robb during their brief time here, before they go back to Winterfell, but the conversations had been... restrained at best. Questions had hung in the air like arrows, sharp and unasked. His father’s piercing gaze had unsettled him most of all, a silent interrogation Aemon had no desire to answer.
He glanced at his reflection in the looking glass. The man staring back at him wore fine black clothing embroidered with a resplendent red dragon, the cloak on his shoulders draped like a king’s mantle should. But the face was pale and drawn, his eyes shadowed from sleepless nights spent poring over ledgers and strategizing with his council. Since learning his true name, Aemon had adopted a more regal appearance, but this attire was unlike anything he had worn before. The weight of it pressed down on him like full plated armour. The only piece missing was the crown, a crown he had neither seen nor asked about. Ashara had taken it upon herself to commission a new one, as none of the crowns of his ancestors had survived the passage of time. He trusted her judgement, even if he lacked the energy to care.
A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. He sighed, fastening the scabbard of his sword to his belt and tugging on his gloves. When he opened the door, the silver-clad Kingsguard greeted him with solemn nods, their polished armour gleaming like looking glass he just looked at. They said nothing; they didn’t need to. Their presence was reminder enough of the expectations upon him.
He followed them through the halls of the Red Keep, his boots clicking against the stone floors. Black banners bearing the three-headed dragon hung from the walls, replacing every trace of the stag that had once ruled this castle. Those had been burned, personally. He and Caraxes had made quick work of Robert’s banners, the dragonfire reducing them to ash with a satisfying roar of dragon. Yet even in this victory, he found no joy.
The courtyard was a sea of activity. A gilded carriage waited at the centre, its sides emblazoned with the sigil of House Targaryen. Ashara’s doing, no doubt. She had insisted he ride in it, citing safety concerns, but Aemon had refused. What did he have to fear? Ghost padded silently at his side, his red eyes scanning the courtyard with a predator’s vigilance. Above them, somewhere in the sky, Caraxes circled like a watchful shadow. No one would be foolish enough to challenge him, not today of all days. The people loved him, or so it seemed. He wondered how long that love would last.
Instead of the carriage, he mounted his white mount, his movements fluid despite the weight of his ceremonial attire. Ghost followed him, a silent sentinel, as the Kingsguard and crimson-cloaked soldiers of his personal guard, formed up around him. He waited as the procession assembled, his sharp gaze flicking over every detail. The Red Keep guards were new, their numbers still insufficient for his needs. Dragonstone’s garrison would also need reinforcement.
Another problem for another day. No one lived there now, it can wait.
As they exited the Red Keep and began their slow procession through the streets of King’s Landing, the noise hit him like a wave. Half a million voices cried out in celebration, their cheers echoing off the stone walls of the city. People crowded the streets, their faces lit with hope and jubilation. Children ran barefoot alongside the procession, waving scraps of cloth meant to mimic banners. He waved back at them, the motion automatic, though his heart wasn’t in it. His smile felt brittle, a mask he had perfected in the lonely halls of Winterfell.
There, he had learned early to hide his troubles. They were his burden, not his siblings’. How many times had he told himself that things would improve, that brighter days lay ahead? Yet the moment he had left that frozen castle behind, life had only grown darker. He had a simple life, he should have been happy, and not wish for more.
Where did it get him? Here.
He glanced at the faces in the crowd, their joy as fleeting as the summer sun. These people didn’t know him. Not truly. They cheered because he had won, because he was a new king, how soon will they turn against him? He wondered.
He saw the ragged desperation in the eyes of those from Flea Bottom, the hollow cheeks of the starving. The crown’s treasury was all but empty, and winter was coming.
The procession continued, winding its way through the city’s narrow streets. Black and red banners fluttered from windows, and flowers rained down from balconies. The Sept of Baelor loomed ahead, its white marble gleaming in the sunlight. It was a magnificent sight, yet Aemon felt no awe as he approached. Instead, a deep unease settled over him.
They finally reached the steps of the Sept, its towering spires reaching into the sky like silent sentinels. Aemon dismounted his horse, his boots thudding softly against the stone. He paused to stroke the animal’s flank, the cool leather of the saddle under his fingers a stark contrast to the heat of the sun. His gaze shifted to the shadow beside him. Ghost, the direwolf, stood at his side, ruby-red eyes locked on him with an almost otherworldly intensity.
"You must stay here, boy," Aemon murmured, his voice low and filled with a quiet command. He brushed a hand through the wolf’s thick fur. “You belong to the Old Gods, not the Seven.”
The Septon would never allow the direwolf inside. Too much of a reminder of the ancient ways. Too wild. Too untamed for the gods of this city.
The fat fool, Aemon thought with a bitter smirk. He’d been forced to meet the Septon earlier than this. A fool, yes, one who saw himself as the keeper of the realm’s sanctity. To Aemon, he embodied all that was wrong with the Seven's followers. And it is this faith and those who profess it that look down with contempt on the bastards they sire themselves.
He would have done the same as Aegon IV, only to spite them.
He knew he couldn't, but the thought amused him a little. But it was better that no one knew he was thinking about it.
He glanced over to where soldiers in the colours of House Dayne were assisting Ashara out of the carriage. She looked as regal as always, dressed in a flowing purple gown that only accentuated her beauty. Despite the years, she hardly seemed to have aged. If Aemon didn’t know better, he would have thought her a woman in her best, rather than one who had lived through so much.
His small council had already disembarked, taking their places behind her with a quiet efficiency. But Aemon's gaze remained sharp, scanning the sea of faces around him. His thoughts darkened when he saw how many guards in gold cloaks had surrounded the Sept. Too many. The City Watch. He didn’t trust them.
And Blackfish, still no word on his response to the offer of becoming Lord Commander. His patience was wearing thin.
His thoughts turned to the current Lord Commander of the City Watch. The man was a bloated fool, a true son of the South. The kind of man who would bend to the weight of gold, who could be bribed with little more than a few promises of power. Aemon knew it. And he was waiting for that day, waiting for the moment when the gold would talk louder than words ever could. Caraxes loved to burn, and the Dark Sister craved blood. He thought of ways to keep both pleased. Perhaps a lesson needed to be taught. But not now. Not yet. The Seven Kingdoms were on the brink, and he needed to stabilize them before he could indulge in such petty games.
The coronation had been delayed a full sennight. A fact that did not sit well with him. Every moment spent in indecision felt like another moment wasted, another opportunity slipping away. The lords from Dorne had arrived, as had those from the West and the Stormlands. But where were the Ironborn? Silence. A strange silence from Balon Greyjoy. Aemon couldn’t help but wonder if he was plotting something, again. If he was, then Aemon would finish what Aegon had started. The Ironborn had never been good for the Seven Kingdoms, just trouble wrapped in salt and sea. But now wasn’t the time. Not yet. He needed patience, even if it was a commodity quickly running out.
Now it seemed wasn’t time for anything he wished to do.
What it so good in being a king, if he can’t do what he likes to.
His small council had already entered the Sept. Aemon followed slowly after them, his steps measured as he approached the entrance. Waiting for signal to enter.
The grandeur of the Sept, its towering marble columns, the high, arching ceilings, the sacred air of the place, felt suffocating to him. He didn’t understand why the coronation had to happen here. People needed to see him, they said. The Seven needed to see new king bow before them. But Aemon knew better. Smallfolk wouldn’t be here. Not truly. Not in the way they needed to. The highborn, the wealthy, they would be the ones in this sacred space, not the common folk. They would remain on the streets, only catching glimpses of their king from afar.
He felt a hand land on his shoulder, pulling him from his thoughts. He blinked, turning to see Ser Arthur Dayne standing beside him. His violet eyes were remarkably gentle, considering the ferocity of the man they belonged to.
"Your parents would be proud of you," Ser Arthur said, his voice calm, his smile unshakably kind.
Aemon hesitated. His parents? He had never known them. He would never know them. It was a truth he had accepted now. Ghosts of the past could never be proud of the living. He could feel a flicker of resentment? Maybe. Rise in his chest, but he quickly suppressed it. Instead, he gave a tight smile, masking the emptiness inside.
“And you?” Aemon asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Arthur’s grip tightened for just a moment, the response unspoken but understood. It was enough.
The signal was given for them to enter, and Arthur withdrew, taking his place behind him. Aemon straightened his back, adjusted his cloak, and took a deep breath.
He moved forward, one step at a time, into the Sept, his mind a swirl of thoughts and uncertainties.
Lords and ladies, draped in their finest silks and jewels, stood shoulder to shoulder. The sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows, bathing the marble floors in a kaleidoscope of red, blue, and gold. The colours seemed to bleed into one another.
Aemon’s gaze flickered over the crowd. Their faces were an open book, each one staring at him with the same sharp hunger, the same unspoken desire. They want something. He could feel it in the air, thick and unyielding. Power. Lust for it was the one thing that could never be satisfied. Everyone wanted it. Even he did, but he had learned long ago that power brought nothing but misery.
The faces of the Seven gazed down from their towering statues, cold and unmoving. Aemon felt nothing. They were not his gods. The Father, the Mother, the Warrior, they were all distant to him, mere symbols that held no sway over his heart. He wasn’t sure what he believed in anymore. The Old Gods? Perhaps. But they had never answered his calls, only burdened his heart and soul. He was nothing but their servant now, nothing but a puppet of fate, tangled in the threads of misery.
The red-cloaked guards stood at attention, forming a path to the altar at the centre of the Sept. Their swords glinted in the soft light, and Aemon felt a faint stirring of impatience. It was all theatrics, a play for the masses.
As he moved forward, he could see the disappointment in the faces of the younger ones. They had expected someone else, someone with silver hair and violet eyes, someone who fit the image of the Targaryen king they had heard about in stories. But Aemon knew better. Looks meant nothing. They had little to do with who a person truly was. And soon, they would learn that.
The guards cleared a path for him to approach the High Septon. Aemon stopped before him, staring into the fat man’s face. The Septon’s eyes were dull, his expression neutral. Aemon felt disgust churn in his stomach, though he couldn’t show it. The Septon represented everything that was wrong with this city, with this faith. But the time would come for change. He would see to it, in his own way. Perhaps Malora, with her Hightower connections, could help him navigate the path forward. The position of High Septon needed a new occupant, and soon.
He unsheathed Dark Sister from its scabbard, the cool steel heavy in his hand. He placed it against the floor and knelt.
The High Septon raised a vial of oil, his hands shaking slightly, and anointed Aemon’s forehead. The oil was warm, an odd sensation against his skin, and the weight of the crown he had yet to wear pressed down on him like a stone.
"May the Father grant you wisdom to rule with justice and fairness," the Septon intoned, his voice hollow in the heavy silence.
Aemon closed his eyes, letting the moment wash over him. The blessings of the Seven came in a rush: the Mother for compassion, the Warrior for courage, the Blacksmith for strength, the Crone for wisdom.
When he opened his eyes again, he saw the crown, carried carefully on a pillow by one of the Septon's attendants. His heart skipped a beat. He had known Ashara would try to make the crown, but he had never expected it to be so beautiful.
The craftsmanship was unlike anything he had seen before. It wasn’t made by a blacksmith of the Seven Kingdoms. No, this was something else entirely. The crown was dark, forged from a metal that shimmered with a cold, ethereal light. Seven rubies adorned it, each one representing one of his kingdoms. And at the centre, etched in fine detail, was the image of a dragon, its wings spread wide. Roses were carved along the band, delicate and intricate.
He allowed himself a small smile. Well done, Ash, he thought. Well done.
The High Septon lifted the crown, its weight undoubtedly heavy, and placed it upon Aemon’s head. It felt cold, but somehow right, as though it had always belonged there, waiting for him.
"I now proclaim His Grace, Aemon of House Targaryen, the first of that name, King of the Andals, Rhoynars, and First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. Long may he reign!"
"Long may he reign!" came the echo from the gathered lords.
The words rang in Aemon's ears as the room seemed to shake with the weight of them. Inside the Sept, the chanting was muffled but distinct, a storm brewing just beneath the surface. Outside, the sounds of the crowd picked up, their voices swelling in a chorus: "Aemon the King! Aemon the Dragon!" The septs bells rang, loud and clear, and banners fluttered in the wind.
Aemon rose slowly, the crown settling on his brow like the weight of a hundred years of history. He looked out at the assembly of lords.
So now it begins.
The door to the throne room opened with a groan, and Aemon entered, his eyes immediately drawn to the sea of faces that once again turned toward him. He would have rolled his eyes if he could, but instead, he fought the urge and let out a sigh. The spectacle was the same as it had been in the Sept: the lords and ladies, their faces a mix of curiosity and reverence, watching him as though he were a rare specimen on display.
He hated it.
More than that, he hated the sight that awaited him at the end of the hall.
The Iron Throne. A symbol of all the bloodshed and folly that had led to this moment. He could almost feel the ghosts of those who had fought and died to sit on it, each one grasping for power that had turned to ash in their hands. Power. It meant nothing. The Iron Throne was nothing but a block of twisted steel, a reminder that those who sought it were fools, fighting for an empty promise. There was no greatness in it, only misery. And his life was already full of it.
As he moved further into the room, the lords who had crowded the Sept stood now at their places along the walls, with more of them perched on balconies high above, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of him.
Soon, the stairs to the Iron Throne loomed before him, and he knew what came next. The climb, the moment, the crown, each one a reminder that this was the price he had to pay for taking his place in this cursed lineage. His gaze shifted upward to the skull of Balerion, hanging above him like some great dark omen.
Aemon took the first step, his boots clanging heavily against the stone. This steel is cursed, he thought. He only touched it when absolutely necessary, his hand skirting the sharp edges of the railing, unwilling to allow the iron to claim him in any more ways than it already had.
With each step, the throne seemed to grow even larger, its iron spires towering over him. The higher he went, the more he despised it, but the more certain he was that he would have to sit on it.
At the top of the stairs, he paused for a moment, staring at the throne. Damn it, he thought bitterly, and then, with an exhale, he sat down. This throne, was colder than anything he had ever felt.
Nothing happened. Aemon didn’t exactly expect anything to happen, and sure enough, nothing did. But he had learned to be cautious, even when there was no immediate danger. He would take nothing for granted. He sat for a long moment, letting the uncomfortable cold steel sear into him, making him keenly aware of the sharpness of the throne’s spires.
King should not seat easily, he surely did not.
Suddenly, Ashara’s voice broke through the silence, loud and clear, echoing in the vast room: "All hail His Grace, Aemon of House Targaryen, the first of his name, King of the Andals, Rhoynars and First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Lord Protector of the Realm. Long may he reign!"
"Long may he reign!" came the chorus, filling the room with reverberating shouts, but Aemon didn’t react. Instead, he looked around the room, his gaze sweeping over the sea of faces.
He looked around at all those gathered. He saw his two Kingsguards at the foot of the throne, and off to the side his small council, and as for the rest....
In truth, he couldn't see a damn thing from that far away.
What was the point? He wondered, the king, except that he was never supposed to sit comfortably, and it was terrible to sit on the damn thing, the cold steel was not comfortable to sit on. Who would have thought, he thought ironically. But a king should be able to see his subjects, and the most he can see is the colour of their hair.
The Throne was really high, and the lords were standing quite far away from it.
Nonsense.
So it's decided that this is one of the few times he'll be sitting here.
He needs something lower, closer to the ground, so he can see and hear who he's talking to.
Either Aegon had very good eyesight and hearing, or all the previous kings had pretended to hear what was said to them from here and to see who they were talking to.
Now he understood why the Hand of the King is always so close to the throne during court.
Because he damn well hears what is said.
The room erupted into cheers, the noise swelling around him like a tide, but Aemon knew better than to get lost in the cacophony. He could see the lies in their eyes. Most of them didn’t care about him. They cared about what he could do for them, about the power they could gain by bending their knee. Only a few, those truly loyal, were happy. The rest, well…
"Now you shall come forward and take your oaths," Ashara said, her voice ringing with the authority of the occasion. "The Wardens of the kingdoms will do so first."
First in line was his father, Eddard Stark. Aemon didn’t need his oath. He knew his father’s loyalty, knew that he and Robb would always stand by him, but the kingdom needed to see it. They needed to see that the North was behind him. That it was settled.
Eddard knelt, his words firm and clear: "I, Eddard of House Stark, swear fealty and service to you, King Aemon, as your true and loyal subject. I pledge you my life, my sword, and my honour to defend the realm and serve you with all my might. I will be faithful and loyal to you, and in your name I will protect the Seven Kingdoms from all enemies, within and without. I swear it by the Old Gods, the New Gods, and the blood that flows in our veins."
Aemon nodded, his response practiced but genuine: "I, Aemon of House Targaryen, accept your fealty and swear to keep the peace of the realm, to protect and defend your House as you protect and serve the Iron Throne. So long as you are faithful and loyal, you will have my favour and justice."
One by one, the lords came forward, kneeling before him, pledging their oaths. Each one, a binding promise that connected them to him, whether they wanted it or not.
By the time the last lord had finished swearing his oath, the sun was high in the sky, its rays beginning their slow westward journey. The day was slipping away, but Aemon knew that there was still much to be done. There were those who needed his judgment. Those who would not be allowed to leave with their heads intact.
He couldn’t afford to waste any more time.
Lord Uller rose as the last of the Lords of Dorne, and he was sure it would be impossible for him to remember them all, no matter how much time he spent with them. It was a feat in itself to learn the symbols of most of the houses of Westeros, but to remember the faces of the current heads of the houses and their sons.
Impossible.
The crown on his head is truly beautiful he will thank Ashara for it, of course. But for now, it dug into his brow with each passing moment, and his neck ached from the weight. Perhaps it was fitting that this crown, beautiful as it was, should be so uncomfortable, just like the Iron Throne itself.
His thoughts were interrupted as he spoke another set of words for the first time in hours. His voice was hoarse from the silence, and it cut through the air with unexpected authority.
"Bring in the prisoners."
The command was simple, but it echoed in the quiet room. The guards, who had been standing at attention by the side door, nodded briskly and moved to open it. The first group of prisoners was brought before him. There was a brief flurry of motion as the guards worked out the proper order in which to present the captives.
Aemon’s gaze shifted as he took in the Baratheon lord, his once-proud figure now looking worse for wear. Stannis had aged in these past weeks, the lines on his face deeper, his eyes dimmer. The fierce spirit that had once blazed within him now seemed clouded, though Aemon noted that his eyes still had a spark, a brightness that had been absent when he had last seen him with his family. At least Stannis had the strength to stand tall, his back straight, despite his obvious weariness.
Aemon respected that. A king should know how to endure hardship, and Stannis had certainly endured much.
Beside him stood his wife, Selyse Baratheon, clutching his arm with one hand, her other wrapped tightly around their daughter. Shireen was a child of modest appearance, made uglier by the grayscale that left her neck and part of her cheek stiff, grey, and cracked. Selyse, despite the absence of that disease, did not look much better.
The gods had not bless Stannis in this regard.
Behind them, Stannis’s only living brother, Renly, stood slightly apart. His handsome face, usually full of mirth, was now drawn tight with stress, his eyes scanning the room with a mix of wariness and apprehension. Aemon felt the faint stirrings of empathy.
History repeats itself, he thought. When Storm’s End was besieged, they stood together, starving, hoping for salvation. Now, they are two again. Only the stakes are different.
"Your Grace," Stannis spoke finally, his voice clipped, yet tinged with the barest hint of defiance.
Aemon leaned forward slightly, his gaze steady. "Will you bend the knee, my lord?"
The silence in the room stretched between them. Aemon watched as Stannis, ever the proud Baratheon, wrestled with the decision. There was a brief flicker of resistance in the man’s eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. With a deep sigh, Stannis relented, though the words that came next carried a weight of their own.
"What about my family?"
Aemon’s eyes narrowed slightly. He studied the man, his thoughts turning over the options. Weakness, strength, both were present in Stannis, but neither seemed absolute.
"You will be pardoned and restored to your rightful place as Lord of Storm's End and Warden of the Stormlands," Aemon replied, his tone calm and measured, though there was an edge to it. "Your daughter, when she comes of age, will be given in marriage to someone loyal to the Crown. And if you have more children, if a son is born, he will be given in marriage, as well."
The words hung in the air, a promise, and yet a reminder that even in victory, there were still sacrifices to be made. Stannis would be allowed to return to his lands, but only on terms that further cemented Aemon’s control.
Stannis looked from him to Renly, his brow furrowing. "And my brother?"
Aemon allowed himself a small smile, the slightest tilt of his lips, though it did not reach his eyes. "He will remain in the Red Keep as my guest."
There was a pause, as if Stannis were considering his brother's fate in silence, but eventually he nodded, acknowledging the answer. "Your Grace," he said again, his voice softening slightly.
Stannis knelt before him, reciting the words of his vow with the kind of formal respect Aemon had expected. The ceremony was swift, but it carried weight. Loyalty sworn, a life preserved, an oath made.
Aemon breathed a sigh of relief. The first one had been easy, all things considered. And the lords of the realm would see it. Stannis Baratheon, the last of the major rebel lords, had bent the knee. This would signal others, make them consider their options. A kingdom could not survive with divided loyalties, and Aemon knew that he had to make examples, even of those who had once seemed powerful.
"You may remain here or return to your chambers with your family," Aemon said, his voice firm yet almost sympathetic.
"We will stay," Stannis replied stiffly, there was no joy in his words.
Aemon nodded. "Very well."
He raised a hand, signalling for the next group of prisoners to be brought forth.
The bloody Tyrells.
Aemon couldn't help but sneer at the sight of them, too well-groomed, too polished for his taste, especially after so many weeks of witnessing the brutal realities of war. He knew their appearance was an attempt to maintain dignity, but it only made him more disgusted. Lord Mace Tyrell, in particular, looked far leaner than when Aemon had last seen him, before the Battle of Harrenhal, but that change seemed more punishment than any kind of improvement. It served him right. Still, Aemon knew he would not be able to enjoy the man’s diminished state for long.
The Tyrells were no longer as powerful as they once were, but their pride was as intact as ever.
Lady Alerie Tyrell stood beside her husband, her gaze fixed solemnly on her father and her younger sister. A flicker of pity crossed Aemon’s mind before he pushed it aside. Pity for them? No.
They bowed before him, but Aemon saw their gestures for what they were: gestures of respect that meant nothing in this moment. He was not a boy playing with his power anymore. He was king, and he would not be swayed by pretence.
"When my father rode to the Trident," Aemon began, his voice as cold and unyielding as the northern winds, "you were feasting behind the walls of Storm's End, instead of supporting your prince, which contributed to his death." His words sliced through the room. "You married your daughter to Prince Joffrey at the first opportunity, and did not hesitate to raise your banners against me on the battlefield."
Aemon leaned forward in his throne, eyes locked on Lord Mace Tyrell. "Tell me, My Lord. Do you know the punishment for treason?"
There was a long, drawn-out silence before Mace replied softly, his voice faltering, "Death."
Aemon smiled, a thin, predatory smile that did not reach his eyes. "You must forgive me, my lord," he said with a slight tilt of his head, "I can hardly hear you from up here. Could you repeat that?"
"Death," Mace Tyrell said again, louder this time, his voice trembling as it broke.
"Aye, death," Aemon nodded gravely, as if the matter were already settled. "And that will be your punishment." He saw the resignation in the man’s eyes, the dawning realization that no plea would save him now.
But to Aemon’s surprise, Lord Tyrell remained silent. Perhaps he had expected a trial by combat, the customary response from noble lords faced with such an accusation. But no such thing came. Instead, his family, his children, looked at Aemon as if they had already come to terms with their fate. Some, it seemed, were more prepared than others.
"Furthermore," Aemon continued, letting the silence hang in the air before breaking it with finality, "House Tyrell will be stripped of its title of Warden of the Reach. The contents of your treasury will be given to the Crown, and sufficient funds will be left to ensure the functioning of your castle. All debts incurred by the previous King will be forgiven."
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. He could feel the heavy murmurs ripple through the room. The Tyrells might be defeated, but their pride was not yet fully broken. Still, they would bend.
Willas Tyrell, ever the dutiful son, stepped forward and bowed his head. "Of course we accept..." he began, his voice stiff, but resigned.
"I’m not done yet," Aemon interrupted sharply, rising from the Iron Throne. His footsteps echoed through the room as he descended the stairs, his presence filling the space. "There is no place for traitors in my kingdom. Your name shall end here." His eyes fell on Willas, then on each of the Tyrells in turn.
"You, Lord Willas," Aemon continued, his voice firm, "You will marry Lady Talla Tarly and take a new name, one approved by the Crown. Your firstborn son will marry Lord Dickon's daughter, or if there is none, the daughter of House Hightower."
"Ridiculous," Lady Olenna Tyrell scoffed from her place, her sharp voice cutting through the air like a knife.
Aemon’s eyes flicked to her, cold and unblinking. "Ridiculous?" he raised an eyebrow, his voice calm but lethal. "No, my lady," he said, shaking his head slightly. "I am merciful. I could take Highgarden away from you and give it to the Florents, or any other house with a claim to that castle and send you all to the Wall to join the Silent Sisters. Do not test my patience, my lady."
The room fell silent at his words. Lady Olenna’s lips pressed together in a thin line, her sharp retort dying on her tongue. She understood, now, that Aemon was not a king who would tolerate disrespect, no matter the age or station of the person who offered it.
"Ser Garlan," Aemon called out, looking at the second Tyrell son. "You will take your wife’s name, and all your children will bear her name." He paused, watching the man’s expression shift slightly. "Ser Loras will keep his white cloak and swear himself into my Kingsguard. As for Lady Margaery..." He turned his gaze on her, and his voice took on a colder edge. "She will remain here until I am certain she is not carrying her husband’s child."
A girl near his age, perhaps one of the Tyrell daughters, spoke softly. "There will be no child, Your Grace."
"Oh?" Aemon’s gaze sharpened, his voice cool.
"I took moon tea to be sure," she added quietly.
Aemon allowed a soft chuckle to escape his lips, turning his attention back to Lady Olenna. "You tried to reach for too much, my lady," he said, his tone almost pitying. "Because of your age, you will remain in Highgarden for the rest of your life, forbidden to leave."
The words struck like a hammer. Lady Olenna’s pride, her sharp tongue, all of it rendered useless in an instant.
"Thank you for this favour, Your Grace," Willas Tyrell said quietly, his voice filled with a solemn understanding that Aemon could not help but respect. His eyes met Aemon’s with a quiet intelligence. Perhaps, in time, this man could prove useful.
Aemon gave a nod of approval. "You may return to your chambers and say goodbye to your father."
With a gesture, he signalled for the next individuals to step forward.
"Lord Leyton Hightower, step forward," Aemon commanded.
The Lord of the Old City bowed low. "Your Grace," he said simply, though the tone carried a great deal of respect.
"I name you my Warden of the Reach," Aemon said loudly, making sure his voice reached every corner of the room. "Serve me well, you and your heirs."
The Hightowers had the influence that Aemon needed. Tarly had been a tempting option, but Leyton Hightower had far greater sway over the Reach, its lords, the Faith, and the Maesters. Despite past grievances, Aemon hoped this was the right choice.
"I will, Your Grace," Lord Leyton replied, bowing again.
"Good," Aemon said simply, nodding.
Leyton stepped back, his new title firmly in his grasp.
As the next group of prisoners, well one person was ushered forward, Aemon’s gaze flickered to the dwarf. Tyrion Lannister. He squinted slightly. From so far away, it was hard to make out the details. But the man did not seem monstrous to Aemon, not in the way the world painted him. Despite the Lannisters' treachery, despite all he had done, there might still be a place for this man in the world.
After all, even a fool might have his uses. Though Jaime says he’s brother is no fool.
Aemon sat tall on the Iron Throne, his gaze fixed on Tyrion Lannister, who stood before him with an air of resignation. The dwarf’s expression was that of a man who had long anticipated this moment, yet it still carried the weight of inevitability.
“Lord Tyrion,” he said, his words deliberate, cutting through the thick silence that enveloped the chamber. “You know why you are here and what you have done. I would like to hear your thoughts on it.”
Tyrion met his gaze and exhaled a soft, hollow laugh. “I was a fool, Your Grace,” he said, his voice laced with self-deprecation. “A fool I was, hoping to find something other than contempt in my father's eyes. I took my chance in the wrong way, and now…” He chuckled bitterly. “Now I will reap what I have sown.”
"Using the wildfire you told Lord Tywin about when your brother asked you not to tell anyone was irresponsible and could have ended much worse than it did," he paused for a moment, "though I believe your father counted on it."
Tyrion grimaced, his lips curling slightly, but he said nothing. Aemon’s gaze swept over the dwarf, weighing the depths of his response. He had to know that the consequences of his actions were severe, and yet there he sat, accepting them with a quiet resignation.
Aemon leaned forward, his voice dropping just a fraction as he spoke again. “But I have a task for you, something far more useful than the wall of ice you’d find yourself behind if I sent you to take the Black. If that sounds more interesting than fading into obscurity.”
Tyrion’s lips quirked in a wry smile. “Anything’s better than that. Though, I must admit, I’d like to see the Wall at least once. Maybe take a piss from its top.” He raised his brow as he spoke, his colourful eyes twinkling.
Aemon allowed himself a brief eye-roll, the slight advantage of being seated high upon the throne allowing the action to go unnoticed. “Ser Jaime told me you were the one who took care of the sewers in Casterly Rock?”
A sudden understanding flashed in Tyrion’s eyes, a gleam of recognition, followed by a sheepish smile. “Yes, I was,” he replied, almost proud in his answer.
“Then you understand what I mean, Lord Lannister?”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Tyrion responded, bowing slightly, though it was clear his pride in the task was only half genuine. The dwarf may have been many things, but he wasn’t naive.
“Very well,” Aemon said, his voice hardening, “until you complete your task, you will remain here, in the Red Keep.”
Tyrion’s shoulders seemed to relax, as if a weight had been lifted. He glanced briefly toward his older brother, Jaime, offering a silent expression of gratitude. Aemon observed the exchange with some measure of detachment. After all, it was clear that Jaime and Tyrion had spent much of the time following the battle in heated, angry discussions. But they had come to an understanding. The younger Lannister, at least, had seen the mistake of his ways and had sought to make amends.
Rest of his family was brought here.
Aemon's hand instinctively tightened around the cold iron back of his throne. When his gaze met Lord Tywin Lannister, whose impassive stare met his with disdain.
Aemon’s voice dropped to a low, dangerous level as he addressed the man whose very presence seemed to fill the room with a suffocating weight. “Lord Tywin Lannister,” he began, every word deliberate, “you are accused of ordering the murder of Princess Elia Martell, along with her children, my siblings, Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys. How do you plead?”
Tywin’s eyes narrowed in a cold, calculating glare, but he remained silent, refusing to acknowledge the accusation in any meaningful way.
Aemon, having long known the truth of the matter, nodded slowly, his gaze unwavering. “I, along with the rest of judges, have heard the testimony of those who were privy to the matter, and we find you guilty.” His voice now carried the weight of the realm itself. “I, Aemon of House Targaryen, first of my name, King of the Andals, Rhoynars, and First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Lord Protector of the Realm, sentence you to death.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with finality. The chamber was silent, save for the sharp breath of those who understood the gravity of what had just been said. Aemon could feel the eyes of the gathered lords upon him, each one waiting for the next move.
"I demand a trial by combat," Tywin said, his voice low, but sharp, filled with the calculated confidence of a man who believed the world bent to his will.
Aemon’s face remained impassive, though his mind had already anticipated this. It was inevitable. “Who will be your champion?” he asked, his tone calm, measured.
Tywin’s lips curled into a faint, almost amused smile. “Ser Gregor Clegane.”
Aemon’s lips twitched in disgust, though he concealed it well. “Ser Gregor Clegane is dead, My Lord,” he said, his voice cool and sharp. “He was slain at the Battle of Harrenhal.” The words carried a bite, a reminder of the man’s violent end at the hands of Prince Oberyn. He spat the last words, the distaste for the Mountain clear in his tone.
A flicker of anger flashed in Tywin’s eyes, but he masked it quickly. “Then I will choose someone else.” He looked toward the gathered knights, his gaze settling on one figure in particular. “Ser Lyle Crakehall.”
The knight stepped forward, his gaze fixed on Tywin as though bound by some unseen oath. His voice was steady, though there was a hint of uncertainty beneath the surface. “I will fight for him.”
Aemon regarded Ser Lyle with a critical eye. He knew Crakehall had been a soldier in the Lannister ranks during the war, but this was not the same as being a true champion.
“Very well,” Aemon said, nodding. “The Champion of the Crown will be Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning.” He let the words settle in the air, for he knew full well that no one stood a chance against Arthur Dayne. The knight’s skill was legendary, and Ser Lyle’s courage faltered, just for a moment. But he did not withdraw. Aemon found that commendable.
The duel would take place as soon as the matters of the manor were settled, and the realm would watch. Tywin had chosen his champion, but Aemon knew the outcome before the first sword was even drawn. The old lion’s time had come, and Aemon would see it ended, swiftly, decisively, and without mercy.
Aemon’s voice echoed through the throne room, cutting through the tense silence. "Lady Cersei, you stand accused of adultery and infidelity to your late husband, King Robert Baratheon. This is treason to the Crown. None of your children are of Baratheon blood. How do you plead?"
The words dropped like stones, causing an uproar from the assembled lords. Shouts and gasps filled the room as everyone reacted with shock, disbelief, or scorn. The members of his council, as well as Arthur, already knew the truth, so they were calm. Although Jaime walked around with marks on his body for a week after this conversation. Arthur was not happy with his former squire's decisions.
His father demanded that he behead the knight, which was reasonable. But Jaime will atone for his mistakes in service.
Cersei's smile, so often a mask of pride and power, faded as the reality of the moment set in. Her skin paled, and her once-glorious composure cracked. Aemon could almost feel pity for her children, for the shock in their eyes was clear. They were just children, after all, and the world they had known was about to shatter.
Joffrey looked like the fish from the Tully symbol with his mouth open. Fool.
When Cersei finally collected herself, she turned to face Aemon with defiance burning in her eyes. She hissed, “What are you ranting about?”
Aemon ignored her words. “The children’s true father begged me for their lives,” he said, his tone growing colder. "Former Prince Joffrey Baratheon, now Joffrey Waters, will take the Black with his uncle Kevan Lannister. The younger children, Tommen and Myrcella Waters, will be legitimized as Lannisters. Tommen Lannister will be heir to Casterly Rock, and Lady Genna Frey, née Lannister, will be his regent until he comes of age. The crown will choose a suitable wife for him when the time comes. Myrcela Lannister will remain in the Red Keep under the care of her uncle Tyrion Lannister until she comes of age.”
Aemon took a long breath and continued, his voice firm, as he cast a final judgment. “Lady Cersei Lannister will join the Silent Sisters or face the execution block.” He allowed the words to sink in before he added, “All debts owed by the Crown to House Lannister will be forgiven, and half the gold in the treasury at Casterly Rock will be transferred to the royal treasury, as already confirmed by the Lady Regent. For the next twenty years, House Lannister will pay one-fifth more in taxes, and the entire region of the West will pay one-tenth more."
A heavy silence fell over the throne room. Lords exchanged wary glances as they absorbed Aemon’s terms. He had been surprisingly merciful, all things considered. He could have been harsher, but his small council had tempered his more vengeful desires. Still, in this case, Aemon knew his judgment had to be firm.
His fingers curled slightly around the cold iron of the throne. The Lannisters had pushed too far for too long, and he had no patience for their schemes. They had already done enough damage, and their time would soon be up.
He could have killed them all, he thought. The world would be a better place with fewer Lannisters in it. Yet even in his anger, Aemon understood that the realm would not be healed by such rashness. At least, not yet. There were still children here who needed a chance to grow into something more than the twisted legacies of their parents. Perhaps with some guidance, they might yet make something of themselves.
A moment passed before a voice broke the silence. “And who is the father of these children?” one of the lords asked, his voice trembling with curiosity, or perhaps disbelief.
Aemon sighed, hoping that no one would ask this question and that everyone would concentrate on what he had just said. He knew very well not to get his hopes up.
He had spent some time before with his council thinking about the answer to this question. But in the end, they came to the conclusion that the only way out was to tell the truth.
“Ser Jaime Lannister,” Aemon said plainly.
The room erupted into chaos once again. Shouts filled the air as disbelief and outrage spread like wildfire. Cersei's face contorted in shock and fury. The children, especially Myrcella and Tommen, seemed to shrink in their seats, their world crumbling around them. Joffrey’s face twisted with a mix of anger and confusion.
Aemon had no patience for this. "Silence!" he roared, his voice a thunderclap that reverberated through the chamber. Caraxes, his dragon, let out a low growl in response, adding a menacing note to the command. The room fell deathly quiet as the power of the King’s voice and his dragon’s presence quelled the turmoil.
Cersei, now pale and shaken, looked between her children and the man who had just exposed the truth. Aemon saw the moment when she realized the depth of her defeat. Her haughty pride had been stripped away, and she was left exposed.
Aemon’s voice softened, though the bite was still evident. “So, Lady Lannister, what is your choice?”
Cersei raised her head, her defiance returning in full force, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her fear. “I demand a trial by combat,” she declared, her gaze fixed on Aemon.
The King stared at her for a long moment, the weight of the decision pressing on him. Finally, he spoke, his voice cold and final. “So be it. Ser Crakehall will fight for both of you.”
It took hours for all the captives to stand before the Iron Throne, but the fate awaiting the Lannisters and Tyrells was one none of the other lords or knights would dare wish for themselves. It was a stark reminder that even the mightiest could fall.
Finally, he managed to steal away to his private chambers, if only for a brief respite. The steel crown was a constant burden. He eagerly removed it from his head, the relief that washed over him was indescribable. The weight of leadership was never felt more acutely than in these quiet moments of solitude, where he could finally stretch his legs after hours of sitting.
He reached for a goblet of wine, the coolness of the drink soothing his parched throat. But before he could savour a second sip, a sharp knock echoed through the room. It was time to return to the courtyard of the Red Keep, where the trial by combat would take place.
He sighed, slipping the crown back onto his head. Whoever said that the crown was heavy was right, it was damn heavy. He took one last sip of wine, the taste still lingering in his mouth as he stood and made his way out. The momentary peace he’d found was gone, replaced by the grim reality that the day was not over.
When Aemon had exited the throne room earlier, he had noticed the way the lords now looked at him. It wasn’t the same as before. They had realized, perhaps too late, that they were not dealing with a child to be manipulated and bent to their will. No longer could they whisper in his ear, hoping to sway his decisions. He had earned their respect, or perhaps their fear. Either way, it was a shift he felt in his bones.
Some had been bold enough to suggest that he was not yet of age to rule, that a regent should be appointed in his stead. In truth, he wouldn’t have minded Ashara as his regent. Nothing would change, for she had never seen him as incapable of making his own decisions. She knew him better than anyone else did. But the others, those who sought to rule through him, those angered him.
His response had been simple, but effective, and it worked every time. His regent was standing above them, his skin red with fire. Caraxes, his dragon, had silenced them before they could speak further.
Aemon shook his head, banishing the thoughts of them from his mind. Opportunists. They’d all be dealt with in time, just like the Lannisters.
As he walked through the halls, his thoughts turned back to the courtyard, to the trial that awaited him. The day had already been exhausting, and this trial would only add to the weight. He longed for it to end, to be rid of the stifling clothes and heavy crown, to sit in the saddle of Caraxes or beneath the heart tree in the Godswood, playing harp with Domeric.
Gods bless Bolton. Domeric had come to him days ago, asking if there was a place for him at Aemon’s court, expressing a desire to stay in the South rather than return to the North. Aemon had been glad to hear it. Domeric was one of the few people he trusted, a loyal friend who would prove invaluable in the days ahead.
He missed his family, too. His thoughts drifted to Sansa, who would have loved this tournament. She had always dreamed of attending one. Arya would have enjoyed it too, though for different reasons. He missed his little sister, more than he cared to admit.
Shaking his head again, he tried to focus. These thoughts would do him no good now.
When he arrived in the courtyard, he found that everyone had already gathered. Tired faces were set in grim determination. Aemon was not alone in his weariness. But this day, this moment, was more exhausting than anything he had endured in the lead-up to it.
He took his seat at the front, watching as the High Septon said his prayers over those who were about to duel.
Arthur, ever the calm one. Aemon often wondered if the man had been born with a sword in his hand. Arthur was as much a part of the sword as the very air he breathed. He would be the one to face the challenge for Aemon’s honour today, and Aemon trusted him more than anyone else.
Aemon’s gaze flickered to the side, where Ashara sat down next to him. She was fidgeting slightly, a concerned expression on her face. That surprised him. Ashara was never one to show worry so openly.
“You’re worried,” he observed quietly.
She turned to him, offering a small sigh. “I always fear when that oaf fights.”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Aemon reassured her, squeezing her hand lightly. “Today is not the day for Arthur to fall. Besides, he’s the best.” He glanced at the second Kingsguard, his gaze lingering on Jaime Lannister. The disdain was subtle but evident. “Even Jaime has had his problems with him.”
He felt the Lannister throw knives at him with his eyes and smiled slightly.
As he surveyed the crowd, his eyes fell on Lord Tyrell. The man would meet his end here, once the duel was over. He saw Margaery, her eyes red from crying, and her grandmother, Olenna, looking strangely... conflicted. Aemon raised an eyebrow. Curious. As far as he knows, she was the one who always made all the decisions in the Tyrell house, she brought it on herself.
She has no right to be sad.
But then, any parent would mourn the loss of their child. He couldn't deny that.
His gaze shifted to Tywin Lannister, the dwarf who would soon meet the same fate. He couldn’t bring himself to feel anything for the man. The Lannisters had made their choices. Now they would face the consequences.
The High Septon finished his prayer and turned to Aemon. The moment had come.
Aemon rose from his seat and looked out at the assembled crowd, his voice ringing out over the courtyard. “Let us begin, then. Let the gods decide.”
The gods would decide nothing today. Certainly not the outcome of this duel. Aemon had no doubts: Arthur Dayne would emerge victorious. Ser Lyle Crakehall, for all his skill, was no match for the Sword of the Morning. His sword was masterful, each move an exhibition of his craft, but knowing how to fight didn’t change the inevitable. Arthur proved that within minutes, disarming Crakehall and holding the legendary sword Dawn to his throat.
Crakehall didn’t need any more persuasion. "I yield!" he shouted, his voice shaking.
With that, the fate of the Lannisters was sealed..
Aemon’s gaze drifted to Prince Oberyn, who stood among the crowd, his eyes burning with hatred as he stared at the Old Lion. Jaime Lannister stood nearby, disbelief flashing across his face. Perhaps he had never expected his father to die, or maybe he was thinking of his sister, who knew? But it didn’t matter. It was over.
"Fetch me the block," Aemon ordered, his voice cold as ice.
He could feel Tywin Lannister’s eyes on him, and it was a look of defiance, a challenge. But nothing could save him now. Aemon’s thoughts were sharp, his mind already set. The punishment was inevitable. The blood of his siblings had been spilled by the Lannisters, and today, the price was paid.
Tywin was a broken man now. Cut off for weeks, no allies, no one to speak on his behalf. He had no means left to bribe, to threaten, to beg for his life.
Aemon drew Dark Sister from its sheath, the dark steel gleaming in the midday sun. The sword felt like an extension of his arm, the weight familiar. He gazed at Tywin, whose green eyes, so cold and calculating, now held no hope. “Any last words, my lord?” Aemon asked, the question slipping from his lips like a formality, though he hardly expected an answer.
Many words rolled on the tip of his tongue, however, but he swallowed it down. He couldn’t afford that now.
He would like to let Caraxes eat the man or burn him. He can't. It would not be good for his reign if the lords and commoners called him a mad king so soon.
Perhaps in the future, though, Tywin’s death would be different. Perhaps one day, Caraxes would feast on the man’s flesh, or he would burn in a pyre. But not today.
Tywin’s cool, piercing gaze never wavered, but he said nothing. No words, no final plea.
Aemon nodded once, his face impassive, and then he swung.
The head rolled, the crowd went silent for a breath, and then the body slumped.
A small squeal echoed from the crowd, a woman fainted, her screams echoing into the air, but Aemon barely heard it. His attention was already elsewhere, his thoughts moving swiftly, calculating the next steps in his reign.
Cersei. She probably hadn’t expected it. Probably hadn’t thought that her father’s death would lead to her own. She never had. And yet, the moment had arrived.
The guards moved quickly, grabbing her and dragging her to the execution block. She flailed and screamed, calling for her brother, Jaime.
Jaime didn’t move. Aemon noted the brief flicker of sadness that passed through his eyes, but it was gone in an instant.
"I changed my mind!" Cersei screamed as she was forced to kneel. "I changed my mind! I want to join the Silent Sisters! I don’t want to die!" Her voice cracked, the desperation clear.
"It’s too late for that," Aemon said, his voice cool, detached. He felt a strange heaviness in his chest, a discomfort that twisted at his stomach. He had always learned to kill men, never women. But this was justice, hard, unforgiving justice.
He wiped Dark Sister clean on a cloth from his coat pocket and looked at her one last time. “Any last words?”
"I beg you! Please, I don’t want to die!" Cersei whimpered, her voice rising to a desperate pitch. Her plea was pathetic, almost laughable. But Aemon said nothing.
His sword swung in a swift arc. There was no sound but the sickening thud of the blade meeting its mark. Silence descended on the courtyard.
The second head rolled, joining the first.
Aemon wiped his blade again, cleaning it thoroughly before sheathing it. He glanced at his guards and said, "Bring Lord Tyrell."
As they led the man to him, Aemon saw his family watching from the sidelines. Lady Margaery’s tears were fresh, her grief palpable. Loras Tyrell’s face was unreadable, but there was no emotion in his eyes, only a distant resignation. The older siblings, too, understood. There was no other way.
“Any last words, my lord?” Aemon asked, his voice firm but devoid of emotion.
Lord Tyrell sighed, a deep, regretful breath. “Forgive me,” he said, But he didn't know what he was apologizing for, it didn’t matter. Tyrell looked at his family then, his voice growing louder. “I love you.”
Aemon nodded. He had no sympathy for the man, but he didn’t need it. This was not a moment for mercy.
With a flick of his wrist, the final head of the day rolled.
The silence that followed felt deafening. Aemon wiped his sword one last time, then sheathed it. Blood was smeared across his gloves, and he removed them with a sigh, watching the chaos and the sadness unfold around him.
"Treachery will be punished," Aemon said, his voice carrying over the courtyard. "Loyalty will be rewarded. Ask those who betrayed and those who were loyal. They will tell you. It's best that you remember."
The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning, and he knew they would be remembered.
“I think it’s time we finally had something to eat,” Aemon said, trying to offer a semblance of normalcy. “I invite you all to a feast to celebrate my reign, and the future of this kingdom.”
There was no great cheer in response. Many of the lords still stared at the bodies lying in the dirt, at the blood soaking into the earth beneath their feet. But he knew that when the time came for the celebration, they would be themselves.
He turned, making his way back to the Red Keep, to wash away the blood and rest for just a moment before the feast began.
Arthur and Jaime appeared by his side, walking in silence.
"You did a good job," Aemon said to the Dornishman, who merely nodded in acknowledgment. Aemon then turned to Jaime. “And you? How do you feel?”
Jaime gave a shrug. "Free?"
Aemon nodded. “You have time off until the feast. You can spend it with your children. Your aunt is already with them.”
Jaime didn’t speak immediately, but finally offered a quiet, “Thank you, Your Grace,” before walking away toward the chambers where Tommen and Myrcella waited.
Aemon couldn’t help but think what a bloody day it had been. And tomorrow, there would be another one waiting for him. But for now, at least, he could breathe.
Aemon hated feasts. He was sure of it now. He had thought the one in Winterfell, to celebrate Robb's wedding before they left, was tiresome. How naive he'd been. The lords in the North, though far from perfect, were nothing like those here. They were open in their aims, even if their ambitions weren't always honest. But these southern lords, they wore their intentions like masks, their smiles as false as the notes he'd played when Domeric had tried to teach him to play the harp. A bloody farce. That’s what feasts were, empty, tedious affairs that made him feel trapped in a gilded cage.
He damn well hated them.
At least his Hand was a woman, a rare thing that gave him some comfort in this sea of other women and man. She was the one he could walk into the throne room with, the one who sat beside him, offering him respite. On the other side of him sat Lord Stark and Robb, a silent presence he couldn't ignore. The rest of his small council and Domeric were there too, but it was hardly a comfort.
Every lord with a daughter of his age seemed to think this was the perfect moment to present his daughter as if she were a prize to be won. All of them, without fail, congratulated him on his kingship while eagerly offering up their daughters, innocent, beautiful girls who had no say in the matter or those who knew their worth.
To marry their daughters, of course. A king could not survive long without a queen.
Aemon wondered if he'd ever get the chance to truly choose a bride, or if he'd be forced to wed one of his councils choosing. He hoped, at least, that Ashara would spare him from this parade of women, though when he complained, she only looked at him sternly and reminded him that he’d have to make the choice sooner or later. The sooner, the better, she said, because if he didn't, this farce would continue.
He grimaced, already anticipating the endless stream of courtesies and offers.
The worst part, however, was the knowing glances of Robb and Domeric, both of them with stupid grins plastered on their faces. Damn them. Now he knew how Robb had felt when he, too, had been the one reminding Aemon every day that he should get married.
Curse them all.
Still, there was some small comfort in the music. Though that, too, had its problems. Music meant dancing. And dancing meant women would want to dance with him. But Aemon had no intention of indulging in that. He was a damn king; no one would force him to make a fool of himself.
Why should he? He could barely even dance.
Another piece of meat from his plate slipped from his fingers, ready to be tossed to Ghost, when the unmistakable sound of footsteps reached his ears. The rhythmic pace was too soft to belong to any man, and too purposeful to be that of any servant. It was a woman’s step, light yet assured.
He sighed, raising his eyes, preparing himself for yet another round of pleasantries, another breast shoved in his face by yet another noblewoman eager to secure a marriage contract.
Are all southern women this... simple? he wondered.
But then his gaze caught sight of her, a woman with fiery red hair that seemed to blaze in the candlelight. Her eyes, too, were red, burning with an intensity that made him pause. She wore robes of crimson, the fabric flowing around her like a river of blood.
Melisandre. He had heard of her, the Red Priestess who had served Stannis Baratheon. The woman who claimed to hold secrets of the divine.
She stopped before his table and bowed, her voice a silk thread that slid into his ears. “Your Grace,” she said with a respectful tone that seemed at odds with her fiery appearance.
Aemon regarded her, eyes narrowing. “My lady.” He wasn’t surprised to see her here, though he couldn’t shake the feeling that her presence was somehow... misplaced. Stannis might have kept her close, but Aemon had no use for her strange religion. It didn’t belong in Westeros, especially not in the King’s Landing.
“My name is Melisandre of Ashaii,” she continued smoothly, her eyes glinting like twin rubies. “Red Priestess of the Temple of Volantis. Might I have a word, if you please?”
Aemon’s lips twisted into a thin smile. Perhaps, just perhaps, this would be his escape from the oppressive formality of the feast. “Of course,” he said, his tone neutral, as he rose from his seat.
As he moved toward the door, he noticed Malora’s watchful gaze, sharp and unblinking, following Melisandre with a look that bordered on hostility. Aemon couldn’t help but find it strange. It was the first time he’d seen a woman from Old Town who appeared as though she might kill someone at any moment.
He shrugged it off and led the Red Priestess upstairs to one of the balconies that overlooked the city. The evening air greeted him, thick with the scent of smoke and the stench of the streets below. It wasn’t Winterfell, that much was certain.
Bloody stench.
His Kingsguard stood vigilant at the entrance to the balcony, alert as always. Aemon took a deep breath, savouring the silence for a moment before he finally addressed Melisandre.
“What brings the Red Priestess to Westeros?” he asked, his voice tinged with curiosity. “I don’t want to sound ignorant, but this religion is not... popular here. In the East, yes, but here?” His gaze was steady, though he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that she was trouble, like all the witches who had appeared in his life.
Melisandre’s smile was slow, almost predatory, and she tilted her head ever so slightly. The ruby around her neck seemed to glow in the dim light. “I came to Westeros in search of the promised prince,” she said, her voice laced with mystery.
Aemon’s eyes narrowed at her words. The promised prince?
"The only thing promised to me, my lady, is death," he replied coldly, meeting her gaze. "You’ll find no Azor Ahai in me."
Her smile didn’t waver, but he could feel the tension in the air. “Born amidst salt and smoke, shall wake dragons from stone,” she whispered, her breath hot against his ear.
Aemon’s lips curled into a smile, though it lacked warmth. “I have awakened mine in the flesh,” he said, stepping back, creating some space between them. He didn’t want to be near her. He had seen enough of women today to last a lifetime. “You’ll find a better candidate in my aunt. She’s the one who awakened dragons from stone, from what I’ve heard.”
The Red Priestess’ eyes widened slightly, as if she hadn’t expected that response. She must not have known of Daenerys. Or perhaps she didn’t care.
“No ancient hero will come to save us, my lady," Aemon said, his voice firm. "The Great Other, is that what you call them? There is only cold and death ahead. Spare me your prophecies.”
She didn’t seem discouraged, though. “We will see,” she said cryptically.
Aemon met her gaze, but said nothing more.
“If you wish so,” he finally sighed, looking up at the stars. “Now, leave me.”
The moment her footsteps disappeared into the distance, Aemon rested his head against the cool stone of the railing. He closed his eyes for a moment, wishing for nothing more than to disappear into the night and never return to this madness.
But that wasn’t an option. Not yet. There was still much to be done.
And time, as always, would not wait.
Sitting in the royal booth, watching the dust rise in the tournament grounds below, Aemon began to understand why the southerners were so enamoured with tournaments. There was a grandeur to it, a theatricality that made men into legends and boys into dreamers. The sun glinted off polished armour, the pennants fluttered in the wind, and the thunder of hooves shook the ground.
He could see the appeal. For the participants, at least.
But as a spectator? It was boring.
There was little to do but sit and watch as men clashed with lances and swords. There were lessons to be learned, of course, how men fought, their techniques, their tells, but Aemon felt the itch to do more. To sit idle, clapping politely, while others proved themselves on the lists made him restless. He didn’t want to watch; he wanted to fight. To test himself. To see if his years of training with Robb, Domeric, and the knights Kingsguard had truly made him worthy.
He could, couldn’t he? He was the king. Surely no one could tell him otherwise.
Yet the thought soured as soon as it came. It would be pointless. As king, his presence would taint the competition. Some knights would throw the match, handing him an easy win out of loyalty, or fear. Others would seize the opportunity to make a name for themselves, seeking to unseat the king not for glory, but for malice. Neither option appealed to him.
No.
If he were to enter a tournament, it would have to be in secret. An alias, a nameless sigil on his shield. Only then could he test himself against others, not as Aemon Targaryen, but as a man. Only then would the blows be honest, the victories earned. And if he failed? Then he would know where to improve. There was no shame in failure if it made him stronger.
He could almost see it. The thrill of the charge, the lance steady in his hand, the impact of wood against steel, the roar of the crowd. But it wasn’t the tournament he sought to win. No, this was just preparation. A means to an end.
What he truly sought to win was far greater.
The gods have made sure of that, haven’t they? he thought bitterly. Cunts, every last one of them. They had laid their curse upon him, thrusting him into a destiny he neither wanted nor understood. A chosen king, a promised prince, a saviour born of ice and fire. What utter rot. He would show them. He would punish them. He would punish his ancestors, too, for whatever games they had played to bring him to this moment.
He would do as he pleased, forge his own path, and conquer the destiny they had chained him to.
Never mind the means. Only the end mattered. History would remember his victories, not the cost of them.
A roar from the crowd jolted him from his thoughts. Two knights had clashed on the field below, one unseating the other with a clean strike. Aemon barely noticed. His mind was elsewhere, on the dreams that plagued him night after night.
Or rather, the nightmares.
He would wake, gasping for breath, drenched in sweat. Three times a night, sometimes more. Each time, the same visions haunted him: the Godswood on the Isle of Faces, the Weirwoods with their red eyes and twisted mouths, the faces carved into their bark leering at him as if mocking his every step. Faces of the dead, pale and lifeless, staring into the void as the world around them froze. A sunless sky, an endless winter.
The cold seeped into his bones, even now, as if the memory of the dream had become real.
Which was worse? The choking stench of King’s Landing, or the frozen silence of that dream? He couldn’t decide. Perhaps the gods could. Or perhaps they would delight in leaving him to suffer in ignorance.
All he knew was that something was coming. Something vast and unstoppable. And he was meant to face it. He was meant to fight it.
But how?
And more importantly, how could he win?
The truth clawed at him like a dagger in his side. He didn’t know what was coming. He didn’t know how to fight it. And in every vision, every glimpse of the future he had seen, there was one constant: he failed.
Again and again.
The gods were cruel to give him this burden, but he would not crumble beneath it. If he could endure the first blow, why not the second? If he could fight his fears, why not the cold? Why not death itself? He had to believe it was possible.
What would he be, in the end? The bearer of death, or the harbinger of dawn?
The sound of splintering wood snapped him back to the present. The crowd erupted as another lance broke on the lists. His gaze sharpened, focusing on the tilt just in time to see Arthur fall from his horse, hitting the ground with a heavy thud.
Aemon leaned forward in his seat, his lips curling into a faint, wry smile.
He liked these odds.