Chapter Text
In his second life, people often said that Aemon was a frowning babe, and the fact made him sad. He had not intended to frown, but truly, the expression had been carved into him for decades before his last death, and he no longer remembered how he had felt and what he had looked like without the deep-rooted melancholy.
It hadn't always been like that. He remembered a childhood racing under the sun with Naerys on his back, laughing breathlessly, and an adolescence full of promises, shared looks, and giggles behind curtains. He remembered how he had been happy once, how the world had seemed so bright and promising, and how he had felt as if a tiny distance further and he could have reached the sky. He had only ever had two lifelong dreams - the prosperity of the realm and the smiles of his delicate little sister. During those long summer years, he had believed in honor and happiness and a future full of glory and songs.
That had been before Viserys II's order. Naerys had stumbled and nearly been bedridden from the shock of the announcement, but she had been mindful of his moods and still attempted a shaky smile that exuded more pain than peace. He had been... he did not know how to explain what he had felt back then, as his heart clenched and his head hazy with an unfamiliar rage that had so rarely been present inside his mind. He had come to his father, he had begged, on his feet and then on his knees. They all knew that Aegon had hated Aemon, and he would seek to destroy him by breaking Naerys. But Viserys had been adamant, and he had been more than just a father to a dysfunctional family. In one second of madness, Aemon had thought of killing Aegon, of ridding the world of a monster that would seek to taint his own family and the world with its wickedness. The second passed, and Aemon had been so ashamed of himself that he had nearly wept.
(Because of that thought, because of that guilt, Aemon had spent the next half century defending his brother with everything he had. Half a century of wasted efforts, as historians had deemed.)
And so Aemon had donned the white cloak, Naerys had turned further into the Faith to escape the pain inflicted on both her mind and her frail body. They had endured it, to the best of their abilities.
Until they had not been able to.
Daeron had just turned eighteen, Aegon had beaten his wife bloody after her most recent refusal to share his bed - it had only been two months after her last miscarriage, and Aemon had spent another night staying awake outside the door, his nails digging to his palms and his eyes blurry with numb fury as the sounds of his sister's pained gasps (she hadn't even the strength to scream and fight) and his brother's beastly advances had traveled through the thin wooden door. (Aegon had enjoyed that, opting to always visit Naerys when it had been Aemon's shift to guard her, and though the first time had killed something in him, he still had enough to die a little more each time.)
A part of Naerys might have been broken that day, too. Because after Aegon had left for one of his mistresses, she had dressed herself and sneaked into Aemon's chamber. It had been the first time in eighteen years. She had preferred to bundle up her pain and seek help from the Faith instead of worrying him. They had only enjoyed each other's company in the presence of many others, maintaining a strict distance and trying to ignore the elephant in the room. Not this time, though. This time, they met each other in the private quarter of his chamber, no words exchanged, no smiles given, her beautiful face still marred with blood and bruises. She had fallen into his embrace and she had silently cried all the tears she had been secreted away in the deepest corner of her heart. (People had been so mistaken about her. She had been frail of body, but never of heart or mind. She had always been stronger than she looked. She had endured all those years with that monster, after all, even when her own body betrayed her and her dignity got questioned unjustly in every corner of the court. She had successfully raised a stellar son, despite all the horrible examples this court had provided him.)
That night, she had even... attempted, kissing him and reaching for him as her tears dried up and her eyes shone with a harsh, resolute light. He had recoiled from her - not because he had not wanted to, or because of honor, or because of his devotion to the Faith, but because he had feared her regret when everything had been said and done. He wouldn't have been able to endure it. She may feel that need right then, when her rage and her pain and her grief had been too raw to withstand, but she would rue that night later, she would hate herself, her Faith would be broken, and he would rather she live hating the world (and him) while loving herself, than acting on his desire and ruining her in every way possible. She had taken his rejection with grace, as her eyes shuttled and she pushed herself primly away from him. Naerys walked away from him without a word and they had never mentioned that night again.
He had been the one to regret it later, as she had distanced herself from him for the next seven years of their lives, had offered him the smiles that had not reached her eyes, and had not allowed him to enter her birthing chamber of the twins - which she had always allowed for all her previous labors. It had hurt him something terrible, to hear her groans and muffled screams through the wall without being able to be there and hold her hands. They had never reconciled, not before his death, and he had closed his eyes with her name on his lips and the sorrow spreading across his limbs.
And so he had been reborn with a frown on his face, a frown that deepened still as he gleaned from his new family that Naerys had passed away just a year from him, once more being treated like a broodmare and enduring indignity even in death.
Not even the loving embrace of his new parents could fix that frown, neither could the kindness and sweetness of his new siblings do so. Aemon felt a world apart from them, feeling as if a part of him had been dead when he had been reborn without her by his side. A part of him (a part that he dared not voice even to himself) resented the Sevens for bringing him back to life, when it was Naerys who deserved a second chance at life. Every drop of love (from the kisses, the hugs, and the sweet words) he received in this life only ever made guilt well up inside him and his thoughts plagued with the whispers of 'It should have been you, Naerys. This should have been you.'
So when his mother gave birth to another girl in 306 AC, and the girl looked so similar to the tiny babe he had sniffed at a century and a half ago, Aemon cried and spoke his first word: 'Naerys'. He turned his tearful eyes toward his father, who was looking both undecided and frozen with... something (fear? realization?) and begged again, in a nasal voice still wet with tears: 'Naerys.'
Aemon could see Valerion Targaryen lock his jaws together, see the sadness and resignation settle in his grey orbs. In the end, his father closed his eyes and kneaded at the sides of his nose, breathing out almost heavily:
"Aye, let's name her Naerys."
Viserion refused Aenar, almost violently, and daily. Rhaegal…did not, but also did not show any signs of anything other than disinterest toward him. After two whole years of trying, their parents had finally given up, especially after Rhaegal had taken to zealously following Aemon everywhere when he was in the vicinity (oh gosh, he had a dragon now, even though he was still not big enough for him to fly - because apparently, his parents only allowed him to fly if he had a band of nannies with him). Naerys’s birth put the final nail in that coffin, as in her third-month celebration, their mother carried her toward the flight of dragons that had just descended on the yard to honor the family day, and Viserion fairly fell over himself trying to get a better look at her. He even pushed Aeragax’s wing out of the way to get closer, which earned him a tail swipe powerful enough that he flew halfway across the yard. They touched snouts (Viserion with his gigantic snout and Naerys with her wispy forehead), in the end, and Naerys’s nannies had been instructed to bring her to the yard every afternoon to babble to her dragon, the same way her four siblings always gathered over there at the same time to either fly or bond with their own beasts.
At first, Aemon worried that this incident would sour Aenar and Naerys’s relationship. In history, siblings had killed each other for less. His worries were unfounded, as Aenar had only spared a passing interest in the news, and even sported a brief look of relief when he asked if he no longer had to follow Viserion around. It was not very Targaryen of him, admittedly, but Aemon was just grateful his brother was such a generous and mature child.
It seemed he wasn’t the only one grateful, because he caught Daemon and Maegor’s loaded glance at each other after Aenar’s reaction, golden coins exchanged behind their backs. Aemon was aghast, were they betting? Weren’t they a bit too young for that? He had to refrain from scowling disapprovingly. He was a bit too young for that , too.
Well, at least they were on good terms now, even quite close, all things considered. Unlike a year or two ago, when Aemon had barely been one and had been having an unhealthy obsession with eating his toe (he blamed the nonsensical physiology of a baby). He had heard in passing how the two oldest princes had had the worst fallout after the Ironborn’s subjugation. It wasn’t the usual rough-housing those two had always had. They each had aimed for blood during that fight in the yard. Maegor had nearly taken out Daemon’s left eye (he still bore a light scar on his brow) and Daemon had pulled out half of Maegor’s hair, almost tearing his ear off (the ear recovered, but Maegor had taken to shave his head clean after that). The King had chained them up by the ankles and thrown them through the window of Maegor’s Holdfast, distressing their dragons and traumatizing the denizens of the Red Keep. Fortunately, Aegarax and Temeraire had been able to scoop them up in time, just before their heads got smashed on the ground. It had been messy, and Aemon remembered the dread roiling inside him at the thought of being reborn once again into a dysfunctional family. Thanks the Seven that the enmity hadn't lasted, and after a few days, the two were spotted together again, thick as thieves and terrorizing the Red Keep as a unit.
Aenar and Aemon were too small to join them, and neither of them was such hellions, besides. Aenar was a happy child, but it was a genuine happiness, as he lacked the deadpanned mischievousness and general mercurial temper the first two sons had, and Aemon was... well, even Aemon knew he was a boring child. He had been boring the first time around, and the addition of a long period of self-imposed chastity had only made things worse.
His family was accepting of him, even though he was pretty certain Daemon always choked on his spits and Maegor always shot him confused disapproving looks whenever Aemon uttered something pious. Often enough, his second brother would turn his head toward his first, giving him a look that Aemon did not understand, and Daemon would make a complicated face and shrug sheepishly before looking away. Even so, all three of his brothers played with him often, reading him books (for some reason, the books they chose were very complicated for a child, which was strange, considering he was two years old) and showing him swordplay moves (which he didn't really need to relearn, but he was appreciative anyway, and often clapped enthusiastically to encourage their young heart - the claps often earned him another concerned look by the two eldests, which confused him). His sister Gael sang him and Naerys lullabies most nights, and brought them (and their entourage of nannies) to the yard to play with the dragons and watch the princes' practice. Gael trained, too, though never as hard as the boys, and always mindful of the fact that there were small children on the sideline waiting for her to finish.
Naerys was a babe, and Aemon had been worried that she might have been reincarnated with memories as well. He was right, most likely, because Naerys rarely cried and her eyes as she gazed at the world were so very knowing . Besides, the look she gave him was scorching in its distant politeness - ridiculously out of place on the face of a newborn babe. She smiled often in the presence of Gael and Aenar, but tensed up imperceptibly when Daemon or Maegor visited, while spending most of her awake time ignoring Aemon (who stuck to her bedside zealously despite himself). It pained him when he finally realized she might be agitated due to their oldest brothers’ similarities to Aegon. It isn’t the same , he whispered to her in the middle of the night, sneaking out of his bed and talking to a quietly awake Naerys, They are not the same. She ignored him, as usual, but he was happy to note that she no longer flinched as badly in the oldest princes’ presence, and not at all as time went by.
Their parents were always busy, but they still tried to show up as much as possible in the nursery and the training yard whenever they did have free time. His father was kinder than what Aemon had expected of a King that age - with the reputation of a savage conqueror besides. Both of them were solemn (and beautiful, and younger than their age, but that was neither here nor there), but his mother was soft in a prickly way, and his father was disciplined in an indulgent manner. They suited each other well enough, and mayhaps because of that, they fostered such a harmonious family life for all of their children, despite their grueling schedule and all the stress that should be piling up on them. Aemon and Naerys were basically raised by their older siblings, but their childhoods were fulfilled enough.
Aemon was three when he met Greataunt Daenerys for the first time.
Daenerys had sacked Volantis, taken over the Southern part of the Dothraki Sea, uniting it with her previous territory of Slaver's Bay, building herself a whole Southern Kingdom below the Free Cities, hemming the Eight Cities in between Westeros and her new nation. Said eight had shaken with the sudden aggressive trespass of their territories, and were up at arms to unite against the common cause - the hubristic little dragon queen. That had been before Sonagon and Temeraire had flown over with their dragonlords. Maegor hadn't even dismounted, and King Valerion (alongside half of his warband) had taken but a night and a day of parley with the leaders of the eight remaining cities, before the Free Cities (or what was left of them) had to grudgingly agree to a truce with Queen Daenerys, and accepted that Volantis might not return to their fold anytime soon. Mayhaps they had been harboring the hope that the Triarchy would rise once more and make enough noise to buckle the hold of the dragon queen on their cities. Their hope might come true one day, but not in 307 AC, and definitely not when Daenerys had nieces and nephews flying above the Free Cities to and fro to visit her in the five years after their acquaintances.
Only after she had secured her hold on the Kingdom of Meereen (her new name for the large Southern area), did Daenerys finally set foot on Westeros’s soil for the very first time.
People had been saying that Daenerys shared great resemblances with Naerys. Aemon… didn’t see it.
His sister had been more slender, and though she was small, she was taller than Daenerys. Their greataunt of this life was just tiny. Their faces had some similarities, but mostly the generic features that Targaryens of Rhaenys's branch tended to share. Daenerys's cheeks were fuller, whereas his sister's had been delicate, almost gaunt. Naerys's eyes were imperceptibly bigger, and the outer canthus drooped lower, fanning by thick silvery eyelashes. Aemon was not sure if Daenerys Targaryen had ever lowered her eyes in her life. Even if she had, no trace of that was left behind, as she surveyed the welcome party with sharp, calm eyes. His mother took a step forward and gave her an embrace. Only then that the expressions of the Dragon Queen of the East soften, and she reciprocated with a slight smile. (Even the smile was not the same. What was wrong with historians?)
Daenerys didn't stay, for long anyway. She was given a quarter in both the Red Keep and on Dragonstone (because apparently, she had good relations with Daemon, though Aemon would be hard-pressed to find it, since Daemon treated her with the polite interest he reserved for everyone outside of the family; were there some histories between them?). However, she was a Queen of her own Kingdom now, and said Kingdom was detrimental for both herself (and her ideology of freeing and taking care of all the slaves in the world) and for the Great War, as Father had said during one of the family bonding times. So every year, Daenerys would spend three months in Westeros, and the rest in Meereen. Their family would visit often, as they were already doing now. It wasn't the best arrangement, pray, but their Greataunt had that grand dream that could not be contained within the restricting walls of Westeros, and the Seven Kingdoms were crowded enough with seven dragons flying around and cantankerous dragonlords knee-deep in dirty politics. So in the end, the arrangement worked well enough for both sides.
Daenerys did ask for a Valyrian ward by her side, and Aemon was nervous that she might pick him, or Naerys, and he did not think he could bear the separation (even only for three-fourths of the year). Valerion shrugged and asked the kids outright if any of them would volunteer ('Except for you, Maegor, put your hand down. You are already promised to something else.'). Aenar did, and he was even cheerful enough to ask if she could be fine with a Targaryen child without a dragon. Daenerys had given him a glorious smile that would melt any grown man's heart, though Daenys did cut in that Aenar could only be Greataunt Dany's ward in a year - he was only four at the moment. The Queen of Meereen agreed amicably, pleased that she would have a companion in the years to come.
Aemon was also three when he finally realized that his father was more calculating than he had thought. At first, he hadn't cared all that much when, two years ago, he overheard Valerion suggesting (almost as an afterthought) for Daemon and Gael to start taking over as the patron of the orphanages in King's Landing and in Dragonstone. They were a bit young, but endearing the First-in-line to the mass was never a bad idea, and their Lady Mother and Lord Father were entirely too busy to visit so often, so Aemon didn't dwell on it. However, he did care after he woke up in the middle of the night and once again, overhearing his father and Daemon in the next room. It was Aenar's fourth birthday, their mother had just rushed back from the Wall, so their father allowed all six children to have a sleepover in the chamber adjoined theirs. His mother was still breathing calmly beside him, her eyes shut in restless sleep.
"I will be collecting orphaned boys and girls of good potential and have them as my... hm... personal servants."
"Pull out from being a patron, then, have Gael be the only one at the moment. Gael’s charity efforts and your... garrison should be separate properly."
"Garrison? So that truly was your purpose when introducing me to charity work. You want me to have a personal army of my own, Kepa?"
Aemon's High Valyrian was blotchy, he had never used it all that much in his last life, but since all three of his oldest siblings were adamant in teaching and forcing him to speak the language daily, he gathered enough in the bits and pieces he did catch.
"You are the first in line. You cannot always rely on my army, nor the fleeting loyalty of the bannermen. Not when one day I will be dead, and mayhaps not even when I am alive. It's timely enough that you figured it out on your own."
"... I might... Kepa, I might pose a danger to Maegor, Aenar, and Aemon. Is it wise to initiate a move that might divide this family like that?”
Aemon felt his heart warmed, though the touching moment was ruined as the sound of the King's light chuckle resounded through the crack of the door:
"Well, thank you for being so thoughtful, my boy, but I sure hope none of the children I raise would be so greedy and ungrateful. Besides, that is the chance we have to take. I want you to snatch the orphans up before they can be brainwashed by the Faith. It is always the impoverished and the orphaned that are most vulnerable to their doctrine. Besides, don't worry, I'm not playing favorite. Maegor and your younger brothers, each will be allowed to build their own personal force, after all. Big or small, I don't believe in letting children rely fully on their family's soldiers. Especially not in this turbulent time."
That was alarming enough. It was as if his father was encouraging them to stay aggressive at all times, to think he would condone even making use of orphaned children. And to do what? Aemon was naive, he admitted, compared to many people of his line, but even he wasn’t so naive as to not recognize Daemon’s goal of building an elite martyr army that would lay down their lives for him without half a thought. His father supported that, even though his children were so young. The oldest hadn't even reached ten, and already he was schooling them in hoarding personal armies.
A few months later, Lady Olenna passed away on her deathbed, supposedly peacefully, but one never knew in this Red Keep. A large funeral was held, and Lord Robb Stark traveled South with his family to pay his respects. A bunch of unrelated Lords also flocked to King's Landing, eyeing the vacant seat of the Hand while Lady Olenna's body had barely been put to rest. It was the first time Aemon got to see Uncle Robb, Uncle Bran, Lady Margaery, and Cousin Egan. It seemed that Cousin Lyarra - who would be Aemon's goodsister in the future - had come down with a cold and had to stay behind in Winterfell, and Cousin Alaric was a babe still, too small and too frail to travel so far.
Cousin Egan was a bright-eyed boy with beautiful blue eyes and a head full of dark brown curls. He smiled widely when introduced to the Targaryen children, shaking hands with Daemon and Aenar most enthusiastically, bowing a bit fumblingly in front of Gael and Naerys, and prodding teasingly at Aemon's cheek. When he was face-to-face with Maegor, though, who was his age and was still fuming after being grounded for kicking Ser Loras down the stairs (accidentally, he had insisted, but anyway), Cousin Egan froze and stared. The silence got awkward, and Maegor's face darkened, looking ready to crush some skulls. When even Daemon looked as if he would intervene, Egan stuttered dazedly, freckles bright and almost blushing:
"... Pretty."
The reactions were instantaneous. Daemon broke into a fit of roaring laughter (which he tried to muffle under his hand, unsuccessfully), Gael bit her lips to cover her own smile while hissing 'Daemon!', Aenar snorted, Aemon hiccupped, baby Naerys giggled, and Maegor waited a beat longer for the word to sink in properly before springing himself at Cousin Egan.
Cousin Egan lost two front teeth (at least it were only milk teeth) and sported a large bruise on his left eye, his nose still bleeding profusely when the Maester was brought into the chamber... And still, for some inexplicable reasons, Egan seemed unfazed by the entire debacle and kept following Maegor all around with a bright smile on his face, like a lost puppy. Cousin Egan had a puppy, by the way, a direwolf puppy from Nymeria's litter. A puppy that was the same size as his owner and was also trodding happily behind the two boys - Egan tugging and pulling and Maegor looking close to giving him another uppercut, which he did, in just a few seconds later.
"Your son is a menace," said Uncle Robb, seemingly amused at the sight of the two boys wrestling each other in the yard, "I will call him Menace Targaryen from now on."
The Lord of Winterfell and the King were sitting in his solar, Kingsguards outside the door while Aemon and Aenar were playing on the mat in the corner of the room. Sometimes Valerion would miss the young children, and he would allow them to be brought into his solar and play quietly together while he worked. It was fortunate that all of his children were very well-behaved, though Aenar was more talkative than others.
"Egan earned it, to be honest. No boys would be pleased to be called 'pretty', not at that age, and definitely not with Maegor's temper."
Robb shrugged, looking amazed:
"Aye, well, yet my boy seemed entranced by the young prince anyway. I have never seen him so taken with anything before, even after being beaten like that..."
"... Do you think that wife of yours...?"
"I know what you are worried about, but that's not it. The boy wasn't close to her, following me around all day every day, and he had already been following the Old Gods for years."
"So she chose Lyarra to educate on the Faith of the Seven?"
"... Aye, though I'm not too sure if my girl is very pleased with that. She is usually so docile, but is getting rebellious now that her friends up North are ostracizing her because she was the only one who keeps being herded into the Sept."
Valerion's smile was small but pleased, and Aemon was stunned. He had never seen his father so relaxed in front of anyone but his mother. The King closed his eyes for a beat, though, before musing almost absentmindedly:
"... This works out better than I thought."
"What?" Uncle Robb's head snapped back from the window, "Don't tell me, you want Egan to be Maegor's Second?"
"Aye, why not? They seemed fond enough of each other."
" ... Prince Maegor just punched my son in the gut. And Egan is following the Old Gods already. Shouldn't Maegor's Second and Third have to follow the Seven for them to join the Seventh Order with him?"
"Egan can still stand up normally after Maegor's punch? That means fondness in Maegor's book. Don't look at me like that, it isn't my fault my boy is special in his way of expressing affection." Aemon's father twitched another smile, "Can you ask Egan and Lyarra to switch?"
Uncle Robb gave Valerion an incredulous look:
"Don't jest. It is a religion, not a pie that they can share or exchange at will."
"I'm not jesting. The nature of the Seventh Order means that those who finish serving their time will no longer have to follow the Seven. It will, of course, be bad publicity if a previous Brother of the Seven Order immediately turned to another religion, or turned atheist. However, by law - confirmed by written documents of the High Septon himself - it isn't illegal or a betrayal by scriptures."
The Lord of Winterfell's face was hard:
"Think about what you are asking. You are asking the Heir of Winterfell to fake-following the Faith for nefarious reasons, joining a dangerous Order and probably risking his life even in the selection stage, then becoming a turncloak after the serving time is finished. All for what? Politics?"
"... I am not asking Egan anything I haven't already asked of my own son. And no, it isn't for politics. My son is for politics, your son is for protecting my own."
"... How can he ever rule the North when he follows the Southron religions?"
"I have already talked with Mother Mole and the next religious leader. Don't worry, once he comes back, the Northern Belief and its followers will welcome him with open arms. The Northern Lords might grieve, as usual, but they won't when their smallfolks are coming at them with pitchforks and zealous support of Egan Stark."
"... I do have a second son, don't you remember?"
"Aye, and that put a damper on my plan. But it's fine, within the next year, I will be sending Daemon up North to be fostered at Last Hearth and man the Wall. Allow him to pick Alaric up and he will get used enough to the Wall that people will get the hint."
"So you are asking me to offer up one son to play chess with the Faith, and another to freeze his dick off across the Wall?"
"... Well, do you wish to try talking with your family about it? I'm quite certain Egan will agree, Lyarra will be happy she can change back to following the Northern religions and hold on to her friends, and Margaery will be ecstatic she has the firstborn following the Faith and a second son close to the Heir."
The two adults stared at each other, before Uncle Robb shook his head almost resignedly:
"I hate that you are making my family an extension of yours."
"... Doesn't that mean that I love yours just as much as mine?"
The Lord of Winterfell hit him across the back at that, looking disgruntled still.
As expected, Lord Robb Stark became the Hand of the King, to the widespread disappointment of the vultures. He stayed in King's Landing without any of his family members, despite his wife's wish to remain with him. His brother Bran Stark stayed in the North as the regent to his son Egan Stark. Prince Maegor was instructed to fly North often, once every fortnight, till he even had a chamber of his own in Winterfell. He allowed Egan on Temeraire sometimes, too, and brought him South to visit his diligent father.
The wedding between Lord Edric Dayne and Lady Arya Stark had finally happened, and the celebration in Starfall was magnificent. Their entire family, even baby Naerys, joined the festivities and congratulated Aunt Arya (who looked pretty, nervous but determined, and likely to punch her husband in the face during the bedding, or so Uncle Robb and their father had snickered to each other). Nymeria sat docilely on the side of the throne of Starfall, licking her paws as her eyes followed the jittery steps of her bonded. There was no bedding ceremony, though, and neither the King nor the Lord of Winterfell had to command it, the groom himself - Lord of Starfall, tall, blond, dark-skinned, dark blue eyes, and ridiculously handsome - had stood up and smiled courteously as he said firmly that Starfall had no such customs, and he would not disrespect his ancestors by suddenly initiating it in his one and only wedding.
The ceremony was joyous. Lady Catelyn (who had been shipped here on dragon's back with Lady Sansa and young Lord Rickon) had cried uncontrollably, blaming her age for such a disgraceful display. Lady Sansa (two sons and a third on the way) was sporting a complicated expression on her face, before breathing out a rueful sigh, and smiling whole-heartedly at the mix of panic and confused joy on her sister's face. Lord Rickon didn't say much, only grunted a few congratulatory words like a caveman, and suddenly, Aemon felt as if he knew where his father had inherited his occasional broodiness that scared the courtiers so much.
That was the celebration, though. Two hours after the groom and the bride had left for their bedding, and the guests had all retired to their chambers, Aemon was awakened by his mother, and he was astonished to find their entire family on dragon's back. They flew high above the clouds, everyone got bundled up in heavy clothes even though they were in the Southern sky. No one said much of anything, his older brothers and sister sitting astride their own dragons with grim faces and sharp eyes. The nannies and the warbands were on the dragons' backs as well. Aemon wondered if they were going to war.
When the destination was finally in sight, Aemon's heart dropped to his gut. How many times had he been here? Had there ever been any good memories attached to this place? Why was it that this place had not changed all that much after all those long years?
In the dark, quiet as the death, seven dragons descended around the Old Palace of Sunspear.
This plan must have been a long time in coming, because every single step was much too smooth for it to be anything but a carefully crafted scheme. Many of the guards had fallen unconscious - or sleeping - around the outer wall, those that hadn't were made silent quickly as the Kings and warbands sliced their necks open. The dragons had all snapped their wings up into the shadows (aye, even Aemon had learned the final details of warging, though the entire practice crept him out a bit), but were close enough for a grand introduction when it came down to it. But even so, the entire Shadow City outside seemed to have been put to sleep (too quiet, too dark, too dead), and the terrible memories of the first Dornish War flashed in Aemon's mind.
They took over the palace in twenty minutes, perhaps less. After the Outer Wall, two silent Dornish men had appeared in front of them and led them to the internal walls, past sleeping guardsmen and directing them to the throne room inside the Tower of the Sun. Aemon kept expecting an ambush or an assassin to jump out from the shadow to attack them, but nothing happened. After Valerion Targaryen and Daenys Targaryen had situated themselves comfortably on the thrones, and the children had been directed to stand behind and next to them on both sides, their Kingsguards, nannies, and warbands flanking them, the two Dornish servants curtsied quietly and left the room.
Right after that, the door creaked open once more, and though the children and the warbands tensed up, the King and the Queen seemed composed and expectant. The big belly of the Lord of Whisperers appeared from the other side of the door. He gushed sweetly, as always, and kneeled down while putting his slimy lips on Father's fingers. Aemon respected Valerion a bit more when not a trace of disgust could be seen on his face. Lord Varys stood up straight behind the King, and cleared his throat delicately toward the billowing darkness on the other side of the door.
In a moment, a crowd of people was ushered in.
"Your Grace!" Prince Oberyn Martell was jovial in his greetings, more so than when he had usually been at King's Landing. "It is our honor that you can visit so early, and in the middle of your beloved cousin's special day, as well."
He and his daughters (because they must be, judging from the resemblances) were the only ones not in chains or escorted by Dornish spearmen. Behind him, an older man on a wheeled chair had his hands tied up to the armrest and was staring unblinkingly at the King and the Queen, his face cold and harsh, despite the frailty exuding from the bent back and the legs that couldn't walk on their own. Next to him was a beautiful Dornish lady, who shared certain resemblances with both the man in the wheeled chair and Prince Oberyn Tyrell, she walked with her back straightened and her head held high, even as her hands were tied behind her back. The young man behind her didn't have her poise, or their father's calmness. Trystane Martell was fidgeting nervously, shifting on his feet and tugging at his bonds behind his back. A sweet-looking young girl with fearful green eyes and golden curls was hiding behind Trystane's back, tugging at him with her tied-up hands (why was she the only one whose hands were tied in front of her?). Further back was an even older man, looking shriveled and half-dead as he got hauled over by the guardsmen.
"Isn't this too harsh a treatment, Your Grace? Only because we were remiss in sending back a young lady that has been too taken with our son?"
King Valerion had his chin on his hand, his entire torso leaning on the right side of the throne in (deceptive) indolence and his left eyebrow was raised:
"Well, that too. But do you truly believe treason can be covered away with a minor trespass?"
At his word, Lord Oberyn signaled so that the guard pushed the three hooded figures to the front, a few other men struggled to hold them back, but was knocked unconscious. The hoods came off, and Aemon peaked from behind Maegor's back to watch as an Imp, a bald middle-aged man with blue eyes, red beard, and hateful expressions, and a comely young man with silver locks and light purple eyes all got pushed to their knees in front of the royal household. Aemon's blood went cold, and he could actually feel Naery's body seized behind him in shock, he grasped blindly back to hold her tiny hand. This man looked so familiar it was painful to stare into his face. How many times had he imagined Aegon's bastard with Daena to look like when he grew up? It would be like this. Daemon Blackfyre would have grown up looking exactly like this Aegon the Pretender.
"Brother," The man was saying with a gallant smile that was more youthful bravado than any actual substance, "Are you so afraid of me that you would resort to an underhanded tactic like this instead of honorably meeting me on a field?"
The King’s eyes gleamed, and Aemon might have imagined his whispers of 'Now who's the one using underhanded tactic again?'. Whatever he might have said, the words were soft enough that Aemon doubted anyone but their family could decipher. No one moved a muscle, though.
Prince Oberyn cleared his throat, moving forward, but was mindful enough to keep a certain distance from the Throne.
"As Lord Varys's letter has stated, My Lord, I have been most distraught that my brother would be so desperate as to bring in a child of unknown origin, with the intention of wedding his own daughter to him and plotting treason against the Iron Throne. I, well, of course, as your seven-year Master of Coins, could not bear to watch him commit such a mistake. So here you are, the Pretender himself, and the Traitor Jon Connington, and of course, Tyrion Lannister."
The King gave Lord Oberyn a bland smile - that didn't reach his eyes - and asked almost softly (softer than Aemon had ever heard from him):
"Indeed. In exchange, what would you wish to have as a reward for such...outstanding contributions, my Lord?"
The Red Viper kept the taunting smile on his face, taking three more steps near the throne, and opened his mouth to answer.
Everything happened all at once.
The Snake's blade sprang from beneath his sleeves as he rushed toward the children, and the spears of Dornish guardsmen all turned as one toward the King and his family. They weren't the only ones moving, though. In one breath, less than even that, Maegor's sword (when did he draw it?) swung and Oberyn lost the arm he was holding the dagger. As the Red Viper reared back in surprised pain, the tendons of his knee got torn open as Aemon’s second brother slashed at his legs from behind. The Prince of House Martell stumbled into a kneeling position with an astounded look on his face, Maegor’s sword leveled at his throat. Still within that one breath, Gael and the wildling archers took a step back behind Daemon and his nannies and shot straight at Trystane's throat and Arianne's eye. Myrcella’s scream was horrific. Daemon and the warriors by his side didn't waste a single moment and started cutting down the guards surrounding them. From behind the Martells, a portly man with a big round head and milky grey eyes was stumbling away from the fighting, only to fall unceremoniously down as Queen Daenys’s spear went straight through his skull. By her side, the King had effortlessly broken Varys’s knees with a swift kick, the bald Spider lying face-first on the floor with Valerion’s foot stomping on his back.
A lot of things happened, but it was just one moment. The Martells did bring a considerable number of guards, but the wildlings were more vicious, and each had been used to slay at least four men in the same moment, so they made quick work of it. Daemon, encompassed in their circle of protection, managed to kill one grown man and pull Tyrion Lannister (who was shorter than even Daemon) to his feet, and hold him by sword point as he retreated to his family’s side.
Silence reigned as Myrcella ceased her hysterics when Arianne (arrow pulled out but the eye was lost and was bleeding profusely) pulled her into a hug that looked more like a restraint (now where was the rope binding her hands?). It was Oberyn Martell who broke it, a bloody smile on his lips:
"...Was I laying it on a bit thick?"
Valerion shrugged politely:
"Aye, my Lord. It's hard to believe that you would betray your brother so readily. Your whor* and your daughters? Sure. But you?... Besides..."
Tyrion gave a smile that twisted his grotesque face further, still being restrained by a stone-faced Daemon:
"As promised, Jon Snow, I deliver Aegon the Pretender to you in chains."
Sharp intakes of breath were heard around the room. Jon Connington shot the Imp a spiteful look, while the actual Pretender just looked shocked, disbelieving, and heartbroken.
The King only nodded, his face expressionless:
"Aye, and as promised, my Lord, Tommen and Myrcella are safe and sound."
The hiss of outrage from the Martells was strangling, but nothing would be more terrible than the venomous spits of Ellaria Sand, even as she and the Sand Snakes were held at swordpoint by the wildling nannies:
"Not anymore."
The moment she finished her words, Myrcella started convulsing violently, blood seeping down her eyes and her nose, bubbling in her surprised, open mouth. Arianne still held her close in a vice grip, the gesture almost lovingly, if not for the tiny, golden form suddenly turning frozen inside it. The Princess of Dorne turned toward the throne, flashing a bloody smile not much different than Ellaria Sand and the Sand Snakes a few steps away from her:
"Don't look so devastated, my Lord Tyrion. You brought the tyrant King to our door, you killed my brother, and you took my eyes. Surely you don't think all that slights will go unavenged."
The Imp's face contorted in anger - though the grief showing up there might seem a tad theatrical, but he stilled as Daemon's hand once again squeezed warningly on his shoulder. Daenys Targaryen sighed to conclude this chapter of the matter:
"Must you? Now I will have to find my cousin Bran another wife."
The Seven knew, Aemon's mother was rubbish at matchmaking. He had heard of a few of her infamous matches, and they were outrageous.
"Moving on," The King spared Lord Tyrion a (shallow) look of sympathy, before continuing insouciantly, his foot digging deeper into the meaty back of the Spider, "Don't thrash, Viserys Blackfyre, you are unsightly enough staying still."
Another shocked silence followed. This was entirely too much excitement in one night, for a tiny body of a toddler.
"Your Grace," Varys's voice was pitiful as he whined up the foot of the King, "Please, Your Grace, I do not understand. I am not a part of Prince Oberyn's mad scheme, I swear..."
"To whom, I wonder…" Valerion pushed his feet further still, before calmly reaching down and cutting Varys's left wrist open, swiftly and matter-of-factly, "Confirm, Viserys Blackfyre. Is that your true name?"
Varys hissed out in pain, tears streaming down his meaty face (somehow, the entire expression seemed fake to Aemon's eyes):
"My Lord, I am Varys, I am but your humble servant. I do not understand what you mean."
The King looked contemplative, then he broke an arm, and the scream emitted from the Master of Whisperer was nothing short of horrific, the high-pitched voice rose an octave and everyone inside that Throne Room finched.
"No?" Aemon's father seemed fascinated with the resilience, "Answer to the heart of the question. Who said that you cannot be both Varys the Spider and Viserys Blackfyre at the same time? Now that I think about it..." He stomped the other foot down and Aemon could hear a 'crack' sound as the obese man's left knee got snapped into two. Another wet scream of pain, "Viserys Blackfyre, Varys the Spider, A Faceless Man of the House of Black and White... How resourceful of you."
When Varys stuck to his silence and pitiful sobbing, Valerion looked up and shared a glance with his Queen. Daenys didn't even nod, she stood up and stepped forward, Lyra Mormont and Ygritte flanking her side. Before anyone knew what just happened, the Queen had already had the Pretender's neck in her grip, pulling him to the side, away from the snarls and thrashings of Jon Connington toward his liege. Lady Mormont gave the older Lord a swipe of her sword scabbard, silencing the noises he made.
It was at that moment that Aemon realized that Varys was getting nervous. The moment the Queen got hold of the Pretender, the Spider had ceased his fake crying and was twisting under the King's foot. Valerion ground down without a thought, almost smiling now that Varys stilled under him when Daenys's dagger dragged across Aegon's neck. Aemon's father repeated his question:
"Are you Viserys Blackfyre?"
The bald man tensed up, eyes still locked onto Aegon's, but he stayed silent. Valerion didn't need to gesture, Daenys cut off an ear. The Pretender screamed, Jon Connington jerked toward him, and Varys twitched like an insect.
"Are you Viserys Blackfyre?"
"... Yes."
"Too small, I cannot hear you."
The Queen drew her blade across Aegon's face, cutting from the edge of the left eye, across the straight nose, to his right cheek. The man twitched and groaned.
"Yes! Yes! I am Viserys Blackfyre, once upon a time."
The sound vibrated within the close space, and everyone's face turned deathly white, even the Martells.
"Good," Valerion spoke softly, "Is he your nephew then, Aegon Blackfyre?"
A pin dropped could have been heard in the ensuing silence, before the Pretender yanked at his bond and shouted in crazed pain:
"No! How dare you?! I am Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of His Name, the rightful..."
Another shriek replaced his ramblings, as the Queen's dagger cut off his other ear. When she moved, methodologically toward the Pretender's nose, Viserys Blackfyre rasped out, painfully:
"Yes! Stop! Yes... He is... He..."
"...is your sister's son, no? Serra Blackfyre's child with Illyrio Mopatis."
The Spider didn't answer, only slumping down in defeat and staring unblinkingly at the Pretender's face, as if making sure he was still alright. This particular no-answer was already an answer enough. Aegon Blackfyre's lavender eyes were wide, less from pain and more from the shock of his entire life being upheaved by a lie. He tugged blindly at his binds, not caring that Daenys's blade was drawing blood from his movements.
"That is a vile lie! That's...! Griff! Lord Connington, tell them! I am no Blackfyre! I am..."
One look at the lord of griffins, and the Pretender shattered before their eyes. The balding griffin's face was a frozen mask, his eyes red-rimmed and far away. He looked like a dead man whose mind had escaped him and was circling back to twenty-five years of efforts and love pouring on a bastard child unrelated to his Prince in every way. His lips were mumbling quietly, painfully, almost deliriously:
"His eyes are lighter than Rhaegar's, that's all..."
Aegon shrank back into his corner, his bleeding face forgotten and his grief and disbelief raged on in waves. Ygritte and Borroq each took one arm and hoisted him to an upright position. The Queen and Lady Lyra Mormont returned to their seats.
Ignoring the existential crisis both Connington and the Pretender were having, Valerion quietly cut off all the tendons in Viserys Blackfyre's body, making sure he could no longer move, only lying soullessly like a doll on the floor. Then, the King sank into his throne once more, and addressed Prince Doran Martell, whose wizened face looked as if it had aged another century in just a few minutes in here. Still, all throughout the shenanigans, the old Prince still had not looked away from the King:
"What are you looking at, Prince Doran?" Aemon's father asked conversationally, holding one hand up almost tauntingly, "Wondering when the poison you put on the armrest of the Throne will start working inside my body?"
That statement upset both their side and the other side. Maegor whirled his head back, while Daemon and Gael, alongside the Kingsguard, glanced anxiously at the King and Queen, whose face seemed calm as usual. Valerion pulled something very thin out of his hand, before letting go and that thin film bounced back.
"Skinned gloves. Same structure as the masks some of the lesser assassins used to employ without the magic of the Many-Faced God. You wouldn't think I would be so careless as to bring my entire family here, to this pit of venom, without precaution?"
Queen Daenys continued beside him:
"And before you ask, we have put more antidotes inside our body than we have eaten or drunk in a week. So the mist outside the inner wall and the perfume on the two Dornish guards you sent us are only minor inconveniences."
Aemon knew there was a reason why he had been forced to drink a whole bunch of medicine the last weeks. They all had to build their tolerance of poison, which always started when the prince or princess turned three. This practice was new, probably only put into practice by Valerion Targaryen, and was only safely employed because Archmaester Aemon was still alive and in charge of this project. He doubted anyone in his family had trusted the rest of the Citadel that much. But even with the habitual doses to build tolerance, the amount of things they had to drink the last two weeks was impossible. That was also why each of them had been bundled in several layers of clothes and gloves even though the business was so far South. Their parents wouldn't take that many chances.
Prince Oberyn and the rest of his family looked restless at the revelation, but there was still an eerie ease from Prince Doran and Princess Arianne, who had still not successfully stemmed the blood. Slowly, almost scornfully, the older Prince said:
"You look like him, Your Grace. You look more like your father than your mother. But the coloring is all hers." Then his lips twisted into a self-deprecating smile, "Such griefs they gave us. I should have agreed to Oberyn's decision to kill Lyanna Stark the moment the Silver Prince gave her that damn garland of blue roses. Would have saved the realm then."
Both the King's and the Queen's faces had darkened at the callous mentions of their parents, but Valerion put a hand on Daenys's, stilling her, as he replied coldly:
"The realm burned because my Grandfather was mad and cruel, it would have burned either way. The naive star-crossed lovers just put a nice lid on it."
Aemon's mother entered the conversation with a frown of her own:
"So Dorne only knows how to act on spite, doesn't it? No one sees the head and tail of Dorne when the Baratheon was warming the Iron Throne, and yet, you cannot accept Lyanna's children sitting where you think Aegon should have, is that it?"
Prince Oberyn finally snarled in his broken form on the floor:
"We would rather die than kneel to the bastards of that Northern whor*!"
Valerion moved faster than anyone's eyes could catch, and Prince Oberyn's head flew in a wide arc before falling unceremoniously down just in front of Doran's feet. Ellaria Sand screamed and the Sand Snakes jerked away from their captors, not caring that the blades were digging into their skin. The King nodded, and the heads of the entire family of the Viper went flying. Another one moment and another batch of Martells got dispatched without fanfare.
"I thank you for your contributions to the Kingdom when you held the seat, Prince Oberyn." Aemon's father said, just as callous as Doran had been when speaking of his grandmother.
He addressed the purple face of Prince Doran once more:
"Are you waiting for the Golden Company to barge in? Don't bother, they won't."
Princess Arianne was clutching at the shoulders of her father, her face grim and her fingers shook, but she braved through:
"Let us go. We can strike a deal together. You have only a handful of people here, whereas the Golden Company is hiding just outside the Winding Walls. Your dragons won't find them amidst the sand. One word from us and the people of the Shadow City will either lead them through the tunnels here, or will burn them in their barracks. The choice is yours, Your Grace."
The King blinked at her:
"What people of the Shadow City?"
Even as he said that, an explosion was heard right outside. The screams and the terror could be heard even in the Throne room. Even without closing his eyes to reach Rhaegal, Aemon knew that his dragon was following Sonagon to destroy the city. Prince Doran looked ready to faint, and Princess Arianne’s face was white with disbelieved terror:
"You would commit genocide without a thought? Dorne will fight you till the last breath. Like the First War, we will hide under trenches and beneath the sand, and you will break, just like your ancestors."
Valerion Targaryen leaned forward:
"Only Sunspear and the Shadow City will fight to the last breath, I'm afraid. Isn't that right, goodcousin?"
The group of hooded people who had been standing at the back of the room pushed forward and pulled down their hoods. In their ranks, Edric Dayne stood tall, Aunt Arya beside him, looking feral as her eyes drilled into Arianne's, and her hand resting on the pommel of her sword. Behind them stood Lord Ryon Allyrion (whose mother passed away a month ago), Lady Larra Blackmont (whose face was wet with tears and whose eyes were glued on the headless corpse of Prince Oberyn), the Fowler twins, Lord Trebor Jordayne, Lord Gulian Qorgyle (whose father had been bedridden for half a year), Lady Sylva Santagar and her husband Lord Eldon Estermont, Lady Nymella Toland, Lord Daeron Vaith, Lord Wyllis Wyl, and Ser Cletus Yronwood. (Now Aemon knew why one-third of the wildling nannies had been absent. They had to stay behind to make room for the Dornish Lords and Ladies.) Notably, no Uller was present. Behind them, the Maester of Sunspear stumbled forward, confirming that the ravens had been sent, Arya gave her cousin an imperceptible nod, indicating that the message was written properly.
"From today forth, House Martell and Sunspear will be no more. With the Lords and Ladies of Dorne as witnesses, let it be known that my family and I have shown our goodwill, have elevated the House for years, have even willingly come to Sunspear to give them a chance to explain themselves, only to be met with further treachery. By the law of Gods and Men, House Martell has broken faith in every possible way, and has tried to put a Black Dragon on the Throne due to their greed and their personal dislike of the Northen lineage. The people of the Shadow City have harbored foreign sellswords within their homes and walls, seeking to unleash carnage upon the Kingdom. To that end,” The King nodded grimly at the two pale Martells in the middle of the hall, “I sentence them all to death."
Prince Doran gripped the armrest of his chair, his eyes bloodshot:
"You cannot kill them all. Both the people of Sunspear and the Golden Company, they will run away through the tunnels, they will hide beneath the sand, and hit back. Our son, Quentyn Martell, and Tyene Sand will avenge this barbaric display. Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken ."
Queen Daenys stared at him with her signature dispassionate eyes:
"No, they won't. Why do you think Ser Arthur isn't with us right now? Why do you think he hasn't been with us for nigh on a year now?"
Aemon's mind worked faster than it had ever done in this life. No wonder, Ser Arthur had been sent here. He and his men had found secret entrances to and fro Sunspear, and had destroyed all hiding places within a few hundred miles radius, leaving no place for the people of Sunspear and the Golden Company to run or hide. Aemon chanced a glance at Edric Dayne, finally realizing why a Minor Lord's wedding had attracted nearly all Dornish Houses, many other Houses all across Westeros, and even the personal attendance of the entire Royal Household. No wonder his parents had been confident. This wasn't a war between Dorne and foreign invaders. This was a war between the Dornishes themselves.
The King waved his hand and two boxes were brought forward, the content spilling out onto the floor:
"This son, you mean? And this lady?"
The sightless heads of Quentyn and Tyene stared unblinkingly at their only remaining family members, and Arianne turned to retch onto the marbled floor, hands covering her mouth in disgust. (Where had it gone? Her ruthlessness as she held Myrcella’s twitching corpse in her arms?)
"You shouldn't have sent them to the Free Cities. My aunt is never slow to act."
They could smell smoke now, and fire, everything was so near. The temperature had been rising so steadily since after the first explosion was heard. His nanny picked Aemon up, and his parents stood, even as the wildings surged forward to smash the Pretender's skull into two and behead Jon Connington in one smooth movement. His father turned to Tyrion, who was thanking the wildling who was picking his niece's body up from the ground:
"Was Connington the one who had been in contact with the Faith of the Seven?"
"Aye, though I don't know if he contacted the High Septon himself, or another branch of the Faith. Letters were exchanged for five years now."
Valerion's face was indifferent, even as he commanded:
"Put his head in a box and send it to the High Sparrow, then."
Queen Daenys gave him a look, as if asking 'Should we antagonize them so early?'. The King only shrugged back 'They are dancing on our heads; we are just letting them know that we know.'
As their entourage passed the frozen forms of the Prince and Princess of Dorne, Valerion turned to address them one last time, before the blade of the wildlings could pierce their hearts:
"Farewell, my Lord and Lady. Please give my stepmother and my half-siblings my regards. If not for you, we would have honored them properly, as we have always done these long years."
Two more heads fell down, and their entire family (still wearing the gaudy ceremonial attires of the wedding inside the cloaks and gloves) shed their outer clothes on the steps of the Old Palace. They marched out into the burning street, wildlings and Kingsguards making a protective circle to shield them from the crazed and terrified people howling and burning all around. As they mounted the dragons, the sun was already rising, though its light was distant enough that it could not dwarf the roaring flame behind and around them.
Aemon felt as if he had been able to get over his trauma with Dorne, though it was likely he would develop a few new ones after this day could end.
