Game Of Thrones: The Dragon Targaryen

Aemon Targaryen knew he shouldn't be here, but he simply couldn't stay away.

The second son of Aelor didn't like people. Well, that wasn't completely true—he didn't like being around people. His older brother could talk to anyone, even girls, but Aemon was far different from Renlor. He'd never been comfortable around people who weren't his family, and half the time he wasn't even comfortable around them. People were unpredictable, driven by goals Aemon didn't understand.

And they talked so buggering much.

Books were different. They were small, stationary. Quiet. They were exactly where you knew they were when you wanted them and could be left without any need of explanation, which suited Aemon perfectly. But they were also so much more than that. Books told of times long past, of heroes and villains and the feats of honor and horror they carried out. They spoke of battles long past and the glories won there. They told stories of chivalry and valor, of brutality and deception. They let you become another being without the need to rise from your seat; Aemon had conquered the world with Aegon Targaryen, had pillaged with Harwyn Hardhand, had slogged through the blood and mud of the Trident with his father, all from the confines of the Red Keep.

A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies. The man who never reads lives only one.

Aemon had discovered his love for books even as Grandmaester Colmar—perhaps the only non-Targaryen Aemon liked—was first teaching him how to read. He'd discovered the hidden tunnels of the Red Keep not long after. They were excellent for disappearing to be with himself and his books, to curl up in one of the innumerable nooks and live another life for a few hours. There were others who used them—children his age and younger, Varys' little birds—but they left him be and he did the same for them.

Being in the tunnels lead to some interesting opportunities, to be sure. He could listen in on any number of conversations if he were of a mind. But Aemon wasn't of a mind; he wanted to be left alone, so he tended to leave others alone as well.

Except for today. Today, he simply had to listen.

The stories of the Long Night fascinated him. The tales of men and White Walkers and their War for the Dawn were considered nothing more than legend, spoken of in stories but not truly believed by anyone south of the Neck—or even many of those north of it. It was mentioned in the same breath as Lann the Clever or Brandon the Builder; stories that were more myth than legend. Whether or not Others ever had—or maybe still did—walk the north of Westeros was beyond Aemon's knowledge, but the tales of terror and heroism spoken of in the stories of them fascinated him.

And now, it seemed, they might be coming again. He knew he should be terrified and part of him was, but part of him was also breathless at the idea. An utterly ridiculous notion, what with the potential for the end of the world and all, but one he couldn't help.

It wasn't like he would be the hero to fight the Others back if there truly was a Second battle for the Dawn anyway. Aemon was no warrior and he didn't pretend to be; he had no skill for swordplay and no d.e.s.i.r.e to improve upon it. Once he had been ashamed of that fact; Ren was a solid swordsman and his little, austere brother Baelon was already deadly—and unstable, but that was a concern for another time. And of course there came the fact of his parentage; Aelor Targaryen was considered the best—or at the very least the deadliest—bladesman this side of the Kingsguard. It was perhaps foolish but nonetheless natural to assume all of his sons would be skilled as well.

Two out of three so far isn't too bad I suppose. I'm sure Daemon will make it three out of four when he comes of age.

Aemon's thoughts trailed off when he heard Aegon call the Small Council meeting to order. The voice was muffled and seemed to come from different directions—Aemon had never been sure exactly where the hidden niche was in relation to the Small Council Chamber—but he could understand his cousin plainly enough.

"Good morning my Lords." There was a grumble of returned greetings, from Varys' chittering to Colmar the Grey's deep bass. "I'm sure we all know precisely why we are here."

"Another raven arrived from Lord Stark early this morning," the Grandmaester said. "The North is taking Lord Commander Mormont's warnings seriously; Eddard Stark and his son are gathering ten thousand Northmen to ride to the Wall's aide." There was a slight hesitation, and when the giant with the deformed face spoke again his voice was a shade quieter. "Prince Jaehaerys will ride with them."

Aemon strained to hear if his father had anything to say about that, but the Dragon of Duskendale kept his silence. He wasn't entirely sure just what had gone down between the two; his father refused to discuss it, and no reference of it was made in any of Jaehaerys' letters. Yet it was clearly evident something had gone down between them, for anyone with eyes could see there was something off kilter in the Targaryen dynasty—something beyond the exile of Viserys, which, while no one said it aloud, the family was more thankful for than depressed by.

Of course, we're Targaryens. Something is always off kilter in our bloodline.

"Ah yes, the ominous threat of giants and snarks from beyond the Wall," came the cheery-toned voice of Tyrion Lannister, attending his first Small Council meeting after replacing the massive Lord Wyman Manderly. The dwarf Lannister was known for his quick wit and willingness to bed anything female, seeming to have settled for life as a bachelor and accepting his uncle Kevan and his sons as his heirs. While his diminutive size made things difficult for him as a ruler—as did his apparent loyalty to the dynasty that had destroyed nine-tenths of his own—his mind was brilliant, a fact even Aelor had made mention of before.

That fact alone bore the truth of the statement; for his father to compliment anything Lannister was a rare occurrence. He had, after all, gone on a bloody crusade to wipe the bloodline out a decade and a half earlier, nearly succeeding before something had stayed his hand. He suspected that something had been his mother, Alysanne—she was the only person Aemon had ever seen talk her father down when he was angry.

"I'm less worried about the snarks and the giants than I am the wildlings, Lord Tyrion," replied the King. "Reports place their numbers at over fifty thousand."

Another voice spoke, grim and unforgiving. Those traits by themselves could be either Chief General Randyll Tarly or Master of Sh.i.p.s Stannis Baratheon, but Aemon quickly identified it as the latter. "Reports normally stray far from the truth, especially when concerning enemy numbers."

The Lord Paramount of the Stormlands was a hard man, strong and utterly unyielding. He had resorted to eating boot leather rather than surrender during his brother's rebellion, only yielding when Lord Stark had arrived to vouch for Aelor Targaryen's leniency. Rumor had it that even that hadn't been enough, the true reason behind the steely-eyed man's capitulation concern for his child brother Renly.

Aemon wondered if Stannis regretted that now. His brother was a charming, handsome man who instilled love in his followers in a way Stannis never had. He was also blisteringly ambitious, having left Stannis' court when his heir Steffon—his second of three children, behind the girl Shireen and before the newborn Lyonel—had been born. Renly had taken up residence at Highgarden with the Tyrell's, wooing the girl Margaery as well as forming a close friendship with her brother Loras, the Knight of Flowers. Many wondered if he was working behind the scenes to garner support for a potential coup of Stannis, though how young Renly intended to pull it off when his elder brother clearly had favor with the Targaryen dynasty was unclear.

"I realize reports are by nature unreliable, Lord Stannis," Aegon said, voice slightly strained from irritation. "My uncle has made that point clear to me since I was old enough to listen. But the Night's Watch is in shambles, and even half that number could well pose a threat."

"With a seven-hundred foot tall Wall in their way?" Came the skeptical voice of Yohn Royce, the Valeman Master of Laws.

"Yes, Lord Royce, even with a seven hundred foot Wall in the way. We have a guest here who can attest to that fact. Yoren, take the rhetoric if you will."

This voice was one Aemon had never heard, rough and Northern. The second son of Aerys strained to hear his drawl clearly. "Thank you, Your Grace. I myself don't see near what some of my brothers do; I've been a recruiter for the Watch for near thirty years, ever since a wilding axe took away my ability to fight well. But I know that the Watch doesn't have enough mean to defend the Watch proper, and the wildlings have found ways to get 'round it."

"Pray tell, how do unwashed barbarians bypass the Wall?" Lord Royce's voice was dripping with contempt; his family had battled the mountain tribes of the Vale—often called wildlings themselves—for countless generations. Bronze Yohn was a good man, but hatred could sway a man's mind from reason and even civility.

Aemon's father was a sterling example of that.

"Many ways. They can take canoes from Hardhome and land behind it—they can't get across in large numbers that way before we find out, but they could land enough to attack the remaining men of the Watch. That and they can climb it."

"Climb it," spoke the surprised voice of Lord Tyrion. "Now that is a feat worth respecting, no matter if it is our enemies doing it."

"Yes, Lord. Spikes and ropes. Plenty of them die in the attempt, but plenty more live."

Randyll Tarly piped in. "Can they mass under the Watch's nose that way?"

"No. But the Watch numbers less than a thousand men now, and those are spread out across the few forts we still have manned. All the bastards need to do is get enough behind us to take Castle Black, and then let the others come pouring through."

Aegon spoke again. "As I'm sure my lords remember, the Watch has been forbidden from having defenses south of the Wall ever since the defeat of the Night's King." That name sent shivers down Aemon's spine. "If the Watch falls, nothing stands between them and the mainland of all of Westeros. If their numbers are even near what reports have them to be, they are a threat beyond anything we have faced in a hundred years." Aegon's voice became more commanding, more kingly. "I intend to gather a force and go to the aide of the Night's Watch. If this threat is nothing so be it, but I do not intend to risk the lives of innocent smallfolk because I refused to heed warnings from a man we all agree to be highly competent."

Aelor spoke for the first time then, his father's cool baritone easily heard and commanding of respect. "We all know the other fear of this mentioned in reports, the one none of us want to believe. I'm not saying it is viable and I'm not saying I support it, but I have learned it is impossible to be overly cautious in this savage bitch of a life. King Aegon has my full support in this, and I volunteer the veterans and levies of Duskendale to march North under the King's command."

Aemon could hear the thanks in his cousin the King's voice; Aegon had ruled well in his short stint after the regency, but all knew the Dragon of Duskendale was still the true power in the Seven Kingdoms, no matter that Aelor didn't want to be. It bothered Aegon plainly, but the King knew perfectly well that a pledge of full support from the Warrior Prince—especially if he pledged his men to serve under Aegon instead of himself—would sway the minds of the others. "I accept it, uncle." A pause, as Aegon likely turned to face another although Aemon obviously couldn't see from the dark niche he was in. "Lord Tarly, I understand you have chief control of the army in times of war, but I will lead this expedition myself. I invite you along as an advisor."

Tarly's response was immediate and neutral; Tarly was grim and unforgiving, but he had a knack for handling himself well in political situations. "Of course, Your Grace."

"Uncle, I request you serve as regent while I am gone."

"I refuse."

The silence was total for a long moment. This time Aegon's voice was cold. "Say again, uncle?"

Aelor's own voice was calm and confident. "I am going with you."

"I am in command of this."

"You are. You have full command of the army, including my own levies and retinue. I will defer to your orders in all things, as is my duty. But I am the strongest sword outside of the Kingsguard that you command, and I have more experience in bloodletting than any other man in Westeros outside of Ser Barristan. The wildlings are known for their savagery; we need some of our own."

There was more silence, and Aemon could only presume his father and cousin were having a battle of wills. Aegon broke first. "Very well." His tone promised retribution; Aelor knew perfectly well that Aegon sought to escape his shadow in the North, and he was still potentially going to take that form him. Aegon wouldn't forget it. But then again, the Dragon of Duskendale would know that perfectly well also.

Aegon's first blow came instantly. "Lord Tyrion, you will serve as regent in my stead." Aemon raised his eyebrows; leaving a Lannister—even one Aelor had spared and out in power—in charge of the Dragon of Duskendale's city of birth was a cutting move. Aemon supposed the King was trying to reassert his command over his uncle's; he just hoped this enmity didn't increase.

"Of course, Your Grace. The Halfman is at your service."

There were a few more negotiations between the council—when they would leave, what forces in addition to the men of Duskendale would accompany the King, what Kingsguard would remain behind to protect the remaining members of the royal family—that Aemon only half listened to, though he was pleased to hear no more hostility between Aegon and Aelor, at least for now. His mind was racing with the excitement of the expedition north. The sensible side of him hoped it was nothing more than rumors, that there was no true threat of wildlings or anything much more dangerous. But the side of Aemon that longed for adventure despite his bookish nature disagreed.

And in that moment, Aemon Targaryen decided he just had to see this for himself.

He found his father at the door of the balcony the Dragon of Duskendale had always loved, looking out over the city he had saved sixteen years earlier. It was raining still, the air having taken a chill of late. Aemon supposed the Starks would say 'Winter is Coming', the house words they seemed so adamant about, but no white raven had arrived from the Citadel confirming that fact. Still, the second son of Aelor had been raised in a near endless summer, and he could tell there was certainly something different in the air.

His father heard him before he even had a chance to speak, turning to look at him. "Aemon," he greeted smiling, towering over his son. Aemon had taken after his mother in all regards except his violet eyes, his frame average of shoulder and height, contrasting his father's impressive height and burly form. Aemon was still a few moons shy of fifteen, meaning he still had a chance to grow more into his father's build, but he doubted it would be the case. Not that he minded; large people demanded attention by virtue of being bigger than others and thusly instantly noticeable. Average people however could bend in, and that is all Aemon wanted.

"Father," he returned voice quieter than his sire's. "I have a confession to make."

Aelor grinned knowingly, taking his son by surprise with his next words. "I wondered if you would admit to listening in on the council. Barristan bet you would keep your silence; Colmar adamantly disagreed. It seems the Grandmaester was correct."

Aemon was shocked and embarrassed for a moment, wondering how the Hand of the King had known, before the truth dawned on him. "Varys," he breathed, face ashen. "The little birds."

Aelor had something of a twinkle in his eye as he grinned. "They sing in the east, they sing in the west, and they sing right in the middle."

Aemon bowed his head, though he knew Aelor wasn't angry. "I apologize for the subterfuge, father, but I was too curious to resist."

Aelor waved it away. "Nonsense, son. Join me."

The Dragon of Duskendale returned to leaning against the doorpost of the entry to the balcony, watching the rain fall. Aemon took the other side, looking out over the bustling and sprawling behemoth of a city. One could still see the aftermath of the Lannister raid in Flea Bottom, scorch marks on some of the buildings that had survived. The pile of burnt wood and charred bone of the funeral pyre had been cleaned out before Aemon had even been born, new buildings built in place of most of the old ones, but there were still open lots of blackened ground where the heat of the fires had burned away the life underneath.

"I imagine you have come to discuss the council."

"Yes father."

"What are your thoughts?"

Aemon didn't hesitate. "I am glad the King is taking the threat of the wildlings seriously, though I wonder if he should perhaps have taken the other threats seriously as well."

His father turned his head to look at him, raising an eyebrow. "You mean the Others?" When Aemon nodded, Aelor grunted. "It is a hard story to believe, myths and bedtime stories meant to frighten children. Still…there is more to this world than swords and quills. I wonder if we should not be more concerned as well."

"I have read the stories of the Battle for Dawn more times than I can count. It by all means sounds like a terrible, horrifying time, yet I can't help but wish…" He trailed off, not willing to put this irrational hope into words. His father was a supportive man, having accepted Aemon's scholarly disposition in a way Randyll Tarly had never been able to accept his heir Samwell's, but he knew the whole notion to be ludicrous.

Except apparently it wasn't. "You wish it were true, so you could witness it yourself." Aemon glanced at his father sheepishly, the Dragon of Duskendale reaching a large hand out to pat his son's shoulder. "I know the feeling; before the Kingswood Brotherhood and Robert's Rebellion, I wanted nothing more than a war to prove myself. It is the nature of young men who haven't seen the true thing; Renfred and I were much like your cousin Aemon and brother Renlor are now, chomping at the bit to win the glories of battle." His father grunted again. "Such fools we were, but we weren't the first and we certainly won't be the last."

"I once heard Ser Barristan tell Ren that war is nothing like the stories, that young men wish for it until the day they first see it and then they wonder why they wished for it at all."

Aelor nodded sagely. "That's about the truth of it. Bards make it sound like a glorious, honorable thing, but war is anything but."

Aemon hesitated a moment before plunging forward with his request. "I would like to find out." His father stood up abruptly, taken aback by the statement. "I wish to go North with you and Aegon."

Aelor turned to face him fully, face confused. "You've never had an interest in war before, Aemon."

The son mimicked the move of the father, facing one another fully. "And I don't now. But I have always wanted to see the Wall, to experience for myself the beauty of the north. And if there are truly Others and giant and who knows what else marching to destroy humanity, I would never forgive myself for being too cowardly to see them for myself before they are either stopped or they succeed."

Aelor's face grew stern. "Never call yourself a coward again, Aemon. The fact that you are willing to travel north with a war party when you want nothing to do with war is in itself evidence to the contrary."

"I am no warrior, father, but I am skilled at managing anything I put my mind to, and we know it. Make me a quartermaster or a scribe, whatever it is you need; just allow me to travel with you and see the truth or falsehood of these rumors with my own eyes."

The Dragon of Duskendale was watching him, face now serious. "You do know that if their truly is a threat, there will be battle, and however unlikely it is there is a chance we will not emerge the victors. The enemy will not care if you're warrior or a whipping boy; they'll kill you just the same. It is the nature of men and war."

Aemon nodded. "I know, and I will not lie to you and say I am terrified of that possibility. But I need to do this, father. I love books and I am uncomfortable around people, but I know that a life spent dreaming of things I never allow myself to see is a life wasted." Aelor regarded his son for a long while, face unmoving. Aemon waited with bated breath, eyes pleading.

Finally his father let out a long sigh. "Very well; you may join us." Aemon's heart soared and he began to thank his father profusely, but the Dragon of Duskendale brought his hand up firmly to stop the gratitude cold. "On one condition; you have to be the one to explain this to your mother."

The excitement fled instantly.

Her husband was in his armor again.

Alysanne Targaryen had only seen Aelor wear the black plate with its warring dragons twice since the end of Robert's Rebellion, and neither time had she been happy about it. The first was when he had ridden to the Stormlands to extinguish the line of House Rogers, burning their castle and lands as he had Lannisport all those years ago. The second had been more recently, when Corliss Roxton had nearly raised his flag in doomed revolt. Both times she had been terrified to see her husband ride away, not knowing if he would ever return to her and their children; whether or not Aelor loved her as much as he had the long-dead Elia Martell was a question even Alysanne didn't know the answer to, but it hadn't stopped her from loving him as much as a body could.

This was the third time she was to watch him ride away, and that feeling of dread was as present as ever.

Warrior, on the other hand, was nearly giddy. The massive black stallion sensed that the mass of horses and men scurrying to and fro in the stables and courtyard of the Red Keep was a war party and he was acting like a horse a quarter of his age, excitedly bellowing his war cry of a neigh and nearly prancing around the post he was tied to. The stallion was twenty years old, not ancient for a horse but certainly older than any other animal being geared up for war. Alysanne had questioned Aelor's decision to ride the old destrier to the potential battles up north and not one of his many descendants; there were well over a dozen black-hided stallions in the courtyard that had been sired by the famous horse. As vicious as he had been in his youth and as attached as Aelor was to the aptly named beast—he'd ridden the horse everywhere since the war, although destriers were bred for battle and didn't have the smooth gait most looked for in a horse for everyday riding—she wondered if her husband shouldn't take a younger animal.

Aelor had cut the head off of the idea instantly. He swore upon the emerald dagger he had killed Robert Baratheon with that Warrior was more man than horse, and that there had never been a smarter animal or an animal more suited to war than the old stallion. In her many years around the beast, she couldn't deny the former.

Her husband was saying his goodbyes to Rhaella, Saera and Daenerys. Most of the knights swarming the courtyard in preparation for riding out were in travel clothing—if there was to be a battle it would be weeks away, and they saw no reason to subject themselves to the discomfort of wearing armor when there was zero chance of battle. Even King Aegon wore a doublet and cloak of black and crimson, not the ornate and expensive armor he owned. Aelor, however, was in full plate, the same suit he had worn in those fierce battles of the rebellion. Alysanne had learned that when Aelor donned the armor he donned the mindset of war; whenever he was riding towards a fight, guaranteed or just potential, he wore his armor almost exclusively.

Alysanne watched with tears threatening to fall. This time was not like the other times her husband had ridden out to war. Both of those times his victory was all but guaranteed, and while it was likely this one was no different there was certainly an undercurrent of what if.

And, the true reason behind her discomfort was that he was taking four of her sons with him.

Her eldest Ren sat his stallion beside the King, who was her child in all but blood. They were talking giddily, excited by the prospect of war in the way Aelor told her only unbloodied boys could be. Aemon, her sweet, quiet Aemon, sat another horse behind them, face carefully blank. She had been surprised and terrified when her second son—the one meant to inherit her father's lands and her ancestral castle—had come to her professing her intent to ride north with the war party. Her second child was no warrior and never would be; why in the Seven hells was he going to ride to war? She had been nearly hysterical in forbidding him, but her son had shown the steely resolve few knew he possessed in insisting he was going along with or without her blessing. It had taken—and still was taking—everything she had to prevent herself from begging him further to remain in King's Landing with her.

She supposed it was hypocritical of her to protest Aemon not go when she was allowing two of his full brothers to, especially when one of them was younger than him. Alysanne hadn't been surprised when Aelor broke it to her that Baelon was riding along; he was, after all, her husband's squire. Though only recently having turned two and ten, her third son belonged with a war party. He was quieter than even Aemon and twice as grim, so silent that Alysanne had once wondered if he was a simpleton. She'd learned later that he was anything but—Baelon was brilliant, at least in terms of strategy and swordplay. But he was also eccentric and dangerous; he was Aelor incarnate, though clearly more Aerys than the Dragon of Duskendale and perhaps even Viserys. Alysanne spent long nights praying to the Seven that her son not be a second coming of the Mad King, but so far they had given her no sign dissuading her that he was.

She couldn't help but love him, however, no matter his potential to become a monster. She'd grown used to loving dangerous men with the potential for unprecedented violence.

One of those men came to a stop in front of her, resplendent in the black plate that fit him so well. His helm with its white flame crest was tucked under his arm, as scarred as his face from the blade of a long dead Lannister. Aelor bent down to place a kiss on Alyssa's head, the babe somehow sleeping despite the cacophony of noise coming from the horses and men in the courtyard.

"Promise me, Aelor," Alysanne whispered as she pulled her husband into the side that wasn't supporting her youngest, gripping his black plate fiercely as he wrapped his armored free arm around her small frame. "Promise me you will bring our sons back to us."

He held her close for a long moment, running a gauntlet through her dark hair, before leaning back and placing a long kiss to her lips. "I promise," his comforting—to her at least—voice reassured when he leaned back, grinning.

It was an empty promise, one they both knew he couldn't guarantee to keep, but it was enough for now.

Alysanne Lefford watched as he strode to and swung up on the massive stallion, Warrior impatiently pawing the ground in his d.e.s.i.r.e to get to the rush of battle both horse and rider so loved. She watched as he rode to join her sons and two knights of the Kingsguard at the head of the column, Baelon close behind, each Targaryen mounted upon a stallion as black as their banners. She watched as Aegon ordered the column forward, to meet with the men of Duskendale under Donnel Buckwell at the castle of House Byrch and the men under Lord Whent of Harrenhal at that cavernous ruin of a castle.

And when the last horse disappeared out of the courtyard of the Red Keep, Alysanne Lefford wept.