Disclaimer: My old disclaimer starved to death so I've managed to breed a new one: I do not claim any ownership of this piece nor the works it is inspired from, with the exception of any OC's, they're MINE!
"Blah": High Valyrian.
"Blah": Common Tongue.
'Blah': Thoughts
And from the ashes the Dragon woke.
Castle Black: Ser Alliser.
Ser Alliser Thorne looked down at the cold bloody corpse of Lord Commander Snow with smug satisfaction. He may be a man of the Watch, but in his heart he had always, and would always remain a Targaryen loyalist. He had held off killing the twice over traitor's bastard as long as he had solely out of respect for Maester Aemon, but Maester Aemon was dead, and Alliser Throne had refused to follow Jon Snow one more day, lest he get them all killed.
"Fetch wood and oil for a pyre," he barked at the other mutineers.
Soon after the men left the blasted direwolf started howling.
"Go in there and kill that wolf," he ordered the others who glanced between themselves.
"The wolf won't be 'appy whi'us after this he won't," one of the older lads who had been a relatively loyal dogsbody for Alliser for years said.
"Fook me," another muttered.
"Ain't no way I'm gonna go inter the same room as that bloody wolf, not me," a third man protested.
"I'll do it," Olly, the young lad who had stabbed Snow in the heart said.
"It's a shame when a lad of two and ten has more guts and bigger balls than the rest of you twats combined," Alliser mocked them just as a few of the men returned with armfuls of wood, straw, branches and oil.
While the rest of the men certainly didn't appreciate Alliser's insults, they let them lie, 'anyfing to stay away from tha' wolf,' more than one man thought.
A quick pyre was hastily cobbled together and Snow was unceremoniously dumped atop of it and oil poured over him afterwards.
"He was my Lord Commander," Ser Alliser started. "And he was the bastard son of a whore and a traitor who would have destroyed the Night's Watch, but now his watch is ended."
"And now his watch is ended," the others muttered.
Dropping the torch onto Jon Snow's chest, several things happened at once. A panicked agonizing scream and accompanying vengeful snarls signified Olly meeting what sounded to be a gruesome end. Flames started to lick over Snow's corpse as wildfire amongst a field of dry grass. The sound of doors slamming open all around them as brothers of the Night's Watch poked their noses out to figure out what all the fuss was about. And lastly the Red Woman was looking towards them with a look of horror in her eyes as she held out her arm as if to try and stop them.
"YOU FOOKIN TRAITORS!" Ser Davis and Dolorous Edd shouted simultaneously
Alliser was about to take control of the situation, truly, he was. But just as he was prepared to shout the others into submission something happened.
The Red Woman groaned as if in pain. Falling to her knees, the entirety of Castle Black watched in shock as the ruby around her neck glowed. The brighter it glowed the older the woman looked until she looked like an ancient crone. As this happened the fire consuming Jon Snow's corpse shone just as strongly and grew to such prominence and intensity that the top of the flames flickered above even the tallest tower in Castle Black. The heat was so unbearable that several men collapsed, even Alliser barely held his tongue as he felt his skin blister all over.
"WHUS 'APPENIN?" Chell, one of the mutineers screamed.
'Whatever is happening it can't be good,' Alliser thought worriedly as the flames grew brighter, until they were so bright that everyone had to avert their eyes. A mere moment later every inhabitant was blown off their feet at the cataclysmic explosion of heat and light.
Waking up, Alliser vaguely noted that not a single speck of snow could be seen inside the castle. A perfect crater fifteen feet across and six feet deep stood where Jon Snow's body had burnt. Of the Red Woman there was no sight, with the exception of her ruby necklace that had cracked in two and rested upon a pile of ashes. The last observation Alliser made was that his fellow mutineers had all been tied up or burnt to ashes if they had stood too close to the pyre. Standing above his fellow mutineers were the friends of the bastard who must have come to their senses first, turning his gaze to the right he was just quick enough to see the sole of Dolorous Edd's right boot introduce itself to his face.
*G*R*A*T*U*I*T*O*U*S*L*I*N*E*B*R*E*A*K*E*R*G*R*A*T*U*I*T*O*U*S*L*I*N*E*B*R*E*A*K*E*R*G*R*A*T*U*I*T*O*U*S*L*I*N*E*B*R*E*A*K*E*R
Somewhere: Jon Snow.
"Why?" Jon whispered as he opened his eyes, only to look around in astonishment. A mere moment ago he had been stabbed numerous times in the chest, finished by his own steward who plunged a dagger into his heart. By that time he had been ready to just give in, the pain so great, and he was tired. Tired of his brothers, tired of the Free Folk, tired of this or that argument. Tired of not having a single good night's sleep as dreams of the dead woke him, but instead of rest or seeing his family again he was…here.
'For that matter, where is here?' he thought. Looking around he found could see that he was in a rocky uneven terrain. Hills and rock formations all around. Sand was everywhere, along with the odd bush here or there, and some patches of grass, not to mention the heat of the sun that was boiling down on him. A small tower could be spotted in the distance, perhaps an hour or two of walking from where he stood.
With a target in mind he had barely taken three steps before a bright flash of light from behind him made him turn around.
"Lady Melisandre," he said with a hoarse voice as he averted his eyes. She looked as inhumanly beautiful as always with her crimson eyes and blood red hair, and she was currently clad in nothing but her nameday suit.
"Who are you?" she asked, curiosity and wonder alike tinted her voice.
Jon frowned, he had spoken with her mere hours before. "Jon Snow, My Lady," he told her patiently, perhaps whatever had caused her to end up in the afterlife had made her confused.
'Impossible,' she whispered, before she laughed. She laughed as she hadn't done in years.
"My Lady?" he questioned.
"Who did you say your mother was 'Jon Snow'?"
"My father never told me," Melisandre smiled victoriously as he replied in perfect High Valyrian, likely he had never even noticed that they switched languages. If he replied instinctually in High Valyrian when proffered, the Old Blood was indeed strong in him.
"Would you like to know?" she asked him.
"How could you know? Did you meet her?" he asked her suspiciously.
Melisandre shook her head. "No, but I've heard the tales, and during my years I have seen enough of your kin from near enough to recognise the truth," she told him, while something showed in her eyes that Jon had never seen before…pity.
"Tell me," he sighed, this time replying in the common tongue.
"Lyanna Stark."
Jon gaped, 'surely she isn't suggesting?' "How dare you?" he hissed. "My father would never lay with his own sister," Jon was fuming at what she suggested, somewhat due to outrage, but also out of guilt. He had seen both the statue of his aunt Lyanna as well as drawings, and from what people said, Arya was Lyanna come again, and more than one lonely night had been spent dreaming of a far more grown up Arya, 'stop it, that's wrong,' he reminded his treacherous mind.
"I can assure you," Melisandre's voice had a definite amused timbre to it. "That if your father had a sister of the right age he would most definitely had lain with her, whether he would still have taken or courted your mother is a mystery."
Jon sighed as he shook his head to try and wake from whatever nightmare he was in, the Red Woman made no sense what so ever, and it was wearing on his already frayed temper. "Speak sense My Lady," he spat, "Enough of your riddles."
Melisandre bowed. "Look at your hair?" she stated simply causing Jon to furrow his brow, of all the things she could ask him, she wanted him to look at his hair.
Still if it would make her start to make sense he might as well indulge her. He should have known better, he dimly noted as he stared in shock at the lock of almost pure white hair with strands of silver amongst them that he held in between his fingers. Frantically he tried to find more locks of hair, all for it to look similar to that first lock he found. Looking down he yelped as he realized for the first time that he was wearing just as little as Melisandre, and that the hair around his cock seemed to match the hair on his head.
"Your father, was Rhaegar Targaryen," Melisandre continued. Thankfully she ignored his sudden embarrassment, and was even helpful or kind enough to not deliberately look at his manhood.
Jon vaguely felt himself collapse to his knees. 'Why?' he asked, 'why would my father lie to me all these years?'
"To protect you from the truth," came another voice, and Jon whirled his head around. Where the voice had come from stood an old man. Long snow white hair, with a wrinkled face, one of his eyes were missing, while the remaining one was as red as blood. Slung over his shoulders was a mottled old cloak, an almost perfect copy of the very same cloak Jon had worn until very recently, and even more importantly was that the young man standing beside the older one was someone knew well.
It had been over five years that Jon had last seen him, but his younger brother 'or is it cousin,' would never be a stranger to Jon. First of all, Bran was standing, and looking just as amazed if not more than Jon. He had grown taller, and cut his hair it seemed. Bran who had always had his dark Tully red hair down to his shoulders in a hopeful attempt to imitate Jon, something which had not pleased Bran's Lady Mother.
"BRAN!" Jon shouted as he threw his arms around his younger brother.
"I missed you Jon," Brans sniffled as he clung just as hard to Jon
Reluctantly Jon parted from Bran and looked at the stranger. "What is going on?" Jon demanded.
"You died," the old man said abruptly, and Bran gasped, seeing the horrible wounds on Jon's chest for the first time. The wounds had already scarred over, leaving no less than eight nasty looking scars. "You were supposed to die," the old man continued, causing Bran to narrow his eyes angrily at him. "But the aftermath was not how I had…"
"You what?" Bran snarled. "Are you saying that you deliberately caused my brother's murder?" that certainly got Jon's eyes to narrow into slits as well and his hand reached for Longclaw, only to snarl at its missing presence.
"Your Brother," the old man started. "Should never gone to the wall in the first place. I did what I had to do to free him."
"And how exactly, will killing me make me free?" Jon snarked.
"You are no longer bound to your vows," the old man said succinctly. "And as such free to fulfil your destiny."
"What do you mean destiny? What does all of this have to do with Rhaegar apparently being my father? What the HELL IS GOING ON!" Jon was shouting the last words, and Bran didn't seem to be more in the know than Jon, even Melisandre seemed to be somewhat confused.
The old man looked at Bran before laying his hands on Bran's shoulders. "That is enough for today Brandon Stark," and to Jon's amazement, both Bran and the old man disappeared quite literally from the empty air with the old man returning in the blink of an eye.
"You know the tale of Lightbringer?" he asked Jon and Melisandre.
"Lightbringer was the sword of Azor Ahain," Melisandre said. "Blessed by R'hllor as he drove the still hot blade through the heart of his wife."
Jon nodded in assent, though in the North R'hllor was never mentioned in the tale, but it was known that Azor Ahai had forged the blade by plunging it into the heart of his wife Nissa Nissa to use to defeat the Walkers and beat back the Long Night.
"Wrong," the old man said, and if Jon wasn't mistaken there was a hint of smugness in his tone.
Melisandre certainly seemed to take it as a personal blow as her face screwed up in indignity.
"Lightbringer was never a sword," the old man continued. "Lightbringer was, and always will be a person, a child to be specific."
"Years upon years ago, it was prophesised that the Prince-Who-Was-Promised would be bourn from the line of Aerys and Rhaella, this Prince would be the Song of Ice and Fire, destined to beat back the Long Night. For years Prince Rhaegar believed it to be first himself, and then his son Aegon, but he eventually realized the truth, that the child would have to be born from Ice and Fire both, that is why he sought out Lyanna Stark."
Jon's mouth felt dry like a desert, no matter how much he wanted to deny it he couldn't help but hang on to every word.
"He explained it to your mother, who agreed to his proposal, even knowing her fate," at this the old man seemed both sad and impressed.
"Her…her fate," Jon questioned.
"As with Nissa Nissa, giving birth to Lightbringer would doom her own life, no Maester, woods witch or shadowbinder could have saved your mother, giving creation to such power comes at a price, a price that was extolled even heavier on your father who paid with not only his own life, but the lives of his parents, wife and children."
"What power?" Jon asked, "I have no power, I don't even have a name."
The old man laughed. "No power? You may not have the greensight, but you are most definitely a Warg. When you were but a babe you rode out a plague for weeks that laid down nine and thirty grown men and women in Winterfell, coming out of it without so much as a mark while the others who survived were forever marked by the pox scars. You had the power to, even in death reach out to me. You drew on the power of the Red Priestess to save yourself."
Jon blinked while Melisandre looked at him curiously and even somewhat hungrily. "But, I've never consciously used that power that you speak of, I cannot enter Ghost to see through his eyes, or control his actions.
"Have you ever tried?" the old man asked, to which Jon shook his head. "You have a power that is beyond the ken of mere mortals, even your cousin Brandon whose greensight I've never seen nor heard the like of cannot compare, the blood of Old Valyria and Winter Kings combined is truly a marvel, and once you learn to control it, only then will you be prepared to stand against the Night's King and his armies, and even so it may not be enough."
Jon shook his head in denial. "But I am dead," he said. "I cannot do anything."
"You are not dead," the old man shot back. "You are merely in between, cast adrift on the eddies of time and space, but come, our time is short and there is something you must see before we both return to the real word."
Confused both Jon and Melisandre followed the old man towards the tower in the distance. A tower guarded by three men with white cloaks, facing seven others and as they got closer Jon was shocked to recognise the lead figure of the seven as his father or was it uncle? Ice was gripped in his hands.
"Father," Jon shouted, to no avail, none of the ten men there could hear him, and he doubted that they could be seen either, as neither Jon nor Melisandre could draw their gaze. Melisandre at the very least should have drawn a few appreciative glances.
"I looked for you on the Trident," Ned said to them.
"We were not there," Ser Gerold answered.
"Woe to the Usurper if we had been," said Ser Oswell.
"When King's Landing fell Ser Jaime slew your king with a golden sword, and I wondered where you were."
"Far away," Ser Gerold said, "or Aerys would yet sit the Iron Throne and our false brother would burn in seven hells."
"I came down on Storm's End to lift the siege," Ned told them, and the Lords Tyrell and Redwyne dipped their banners, and all their knights bent the knee to pledge us fealty. I was certain you would be among them."
"Our knees do not bend easily," said Ser Arthur Dayne. "Ser Willem Darry is fled to Dragonstone, with your Queen and Prince Viserys. I thought you might have sailed with him."
"Ser Willem is a good man and true," said Ser Oswell.
"But not of the Kingsguard," Ser Gerold pointed out. "The Kingsguard does not flee."
"Then or now," said Ser Arthur. He donned his helm.
"We swore a vow," explained old Ser Gerold. Ned's companions moved up beside him, with swords in hand. They were seven against three.
"And now it begins," said Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. He unsheathed Dawn and held it with both hands. The blade was pale as milkglass, alive with light.
"No," Ned said with sadness in his voice. "Now it ends.
Even though he knew the outcome, Jon still watched with anxiousness as the fight raged. Ser Arthur was indeed as good as the legends claimed, and Jon could see that he would be lucky if he could have kept up with him, though he felt a small amount of pride that his own skills exceeded what skills his father appeared to have, which confused Jon as he knew that Lord Eddard Stark was the one who had killed Ser Arthur, and as Howland Reed plunged a dagger into Ser Arthur's neck from behind Jon knew why.
To ease the suffering of the greatest Knight Westeros had seen in hundreds if not thousands of years his father picked up the pale blade and in a single stroke removed Ser Arthur's head from the shoulders.
"We must follow," the Old man said, shooing both Jon and Melisandre up the stairs, right behind Ned and Howland until they came to a room with a single bloodstained bed, a pair of maids stood to either side of the bed, a bed which held who the old man and Melisandre claimed to be his mother.
Lyanna Stark was indeed beautiful as most people had proclaimed. There had been those of course who claimed that her death, and the fact that a war had been fought over her had caused people to exaggerate her beauty, but Jon would like to think them wrong.
Even having gone through the rigours of childbirth there was an undeniable beauty in the young woman. While not a 'classical' beauty in the sense that Queen Cersei Lannister was or Margaery Tyrell was rumoured to be, Lyanna Stark had an undeniably wildness to her. Her features were the best that the North could produce, just like Winter could be beautiful it was also deadly, that was the sort of imagery produced by Lyanna Stark.
"Listen to me Ned," Lyanna spoke with a weakening voice, the pain almost overcoming her. She leant close to whisper to her brother, causing both Jon and Melisandre to do the same. "His name is Aemon Targaryen, if Robert finds out he'll kill him, you know he will, you have to protect him…promise me Ned," she leant back as her brother accepted a small child into his arms, a child that Jon could see was undeniably him, even so shortly after having been born the babe had the same dark eyes, seeming almost black or dark indigo in the right lighting. "Promise…me…" Lyanna muttered again, her eyes opening and closing at their own accord, the presence behind them, the sparkle that was usually present in anyone's eyes diminishing more every second.
"I promise," Ned sobbed and Jon felt his heart clench painfully.
Even as the life left her Lyanna, his mother, opened her eyes one last time and Jon knew, he just knew that she could see him, as her eyes seemed to drink in every detail on his face, and he felt himself give a trembling smile as he laid eyes on his mother for the first 'true' time. 'Be strong my son' she whispered so low that no one could hear it, but Jon was good enough at reading her lips, and expression that he knew what she said.
"I will mother," Jon said as he tried in vain to dry the tears away from his eyes.
A pained sob brought Jon's attention back to the face of the man he had called 'father' all his life. Ned Stark's shoulders were shaking as he held his only nephew, orphaned before he could even walk.
"Ned," Howland Reed who Jon had forgotten completely spoke suddenly, causing both Jon and his uncle to startle at the slight Crannogman who was holding a hand at his bleeding side. "What will you do?"
His uncle held his silence for a moment before he laid a last kiss on his mother's brow. "I'll raise him at Winterfell," Ned said. "I will not let Lya's boy grow up without family…to the world he'll be Jon Snow, my son."
"He'll be a bastard," Howland said carefully. "Your wife will not like it."
Ned nodded sadly. "He'll have a hard life, but he will be alive, I'll not have him share the fate of his brother and sister," and Jon felt a sudden stab of pain in his heart.
He knew what had happened to Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys, to think of them as siblings was strange, even more so was the fact that if his uncle had not done what he did then Jon 'or is it Aemon?' would have shared their fate. Would he have been strangled by a pillow? Or would the King have split his skull open on a wall like Clegane did to his elder brother?
He didn't even notice that he had fallen to his knees weeping until the hand of both Melisandre and the old man touched upon his shoulder. All the revelations of the last few hours, including his own death. Not even the death of Ygritte had been as painful, nor taken such a toll upon him, worst of all, Jon knew now that all of the pain was his own fault, it was the price for his birth, for which he could never repay.
"Now you know," the old man said. "You are the last male heir of our House. The world is yours to save, and the Iron Throne yours to take."
"Our House?" Jon questioned.
"Once, long ago, before I became the Three-Eyed-Raven, I was Brynden Bloodraven. Hand of the King, son of Aegon IV Targaryen. The future prosperity of our House rests now upon your shoulders."
"But, what about the Targaryen across the sea?" Jon asked as he searched for her name. "Daenerys," he finally said as he remembered the name.
"Perhaps she has a part to play, perhaps not. I cannot see the path that lies before her."
Bloodraven turned to Melisandre. "You are older than you appear, and powerful besides," he said. "You must teach him. Train him to use his powers, even if they do not correlate to the Red God, if he cannot master the power that resides in his blood, the world is doomed to eternal darkness."
Melisandre nodded. "He is R'hllor's chosen, I will not fail him."
"Good, now remember…" and before they could hear what Bloodraven had to say the world turned to flame and ash. Winds of scorching heat turned and twisted until both Melisandre and Jon 'Aemon,' he reminded himself tumbled out of a roaring fire amongst hundreds of men and women.
The army that surrounded them were dressed in impeccable, albeit strange armour. Their arms and legs were protected with intricate plate, richly decorated with strange imagery of fantastical beasts and glyphs. A few wore either single wholesuit plate cuirasses while others had armour of segmented plates, while the vast majority wore long protective shirts and mid-thigh length skirts of scale, what every armour had in common was the distinctive smoky ripples of valyrian steel, for that matter every man and woman alike had flowing manes of hair ranging from the almost pure white that he himself had acquired to a more golden white, and purple eyes of all nuances shone in the firelight as they stared at him and Melisandre. Standing closest were twelve men, armoured just like the others, but with elaborate robes on top of the armour, in hues of red, green, blue and purple, and right in front of Jon 'Aemon' he told himself yet again, stood the man who could be no other than the leader of the army they had encountered.
Standing tall at well over six feet, he was clad from head to toe in silver plate that had been worked into a piece of art. Pictures of ancient battles to writings in High Valyrian and glowing gems, all of it had been engraved and incorporated into the armoured plates. Serrated edges, ran along his bracers, and his dragon shaped helmet held a flowing plume of bright yellow horse hair. Like his helmet's plumage, he wore a flowing cloak that just barely touched the ground, this in the same yellow colour. His shield was yellow, with a single swooping dragon dragon in black above a chevron in red.
Looking at the man's face Aemon barely held himself from gulping. There was intelligence in those eyes, but also cruelty, and if how Melisandre's eyes glowed slightly when she performed her magics was anything to go by, the man was also a skilled sorcerer. And as if things could not be worse, the man was flanked by the largest monstrosity Aemon had ever laid eyes on.
The dragon, for what else could it be was so large that its mouth alone was large enough to allow three men to stand side by side inside without hitting their heads at the roof of its mouth. The black curved teeth were the length of longswords while the dragon's yellow eyes were the size of dinner plates. Scales the size of Aemon's fists covered the entire dragon like a suit of armour in tones of deep red to blazing orange. If this dragon was anything close to what Balerion had been, he understood perfectly why Torrhen Stark had knelt before Aegon, and he was amazed at the balls 'or stupidity' of the Lannisters and Gardeners who had actually engaged Aegon's forces.
"Who are you, whom deem yourself worthy to appear before me?" the Dragonlord questioned, his voice was harsh and brooked no argument.
As quick as he dared, lest he lose his life to the maw of a dragon, Aemon knelt and lowered his head, and he breathed out a short sigh of relief as Melisandre copied his actions, though she prostrated herself even further by letting her forehead rest on the ground with both of her hands stretched out before her.
"Let me handle this," Melisandre whispered to him.
"My Master is Aemon of the House Targaryen," she spoke, almost causing Aemon to protest at her calling him Master, but he figured that Melisandre understood better than he.
The Dragonlord frowned for a moment. "Ah yes, the ones who fled to the west a few years ago, to settle a small island. I remember how we all mocked them when they warned us all of what was to come," he sighed deeply. "How I wish now that we had heeded their warning."
The Dragonlord grabbed Aemon's chin and lifted his head so that he could stare into his face. "Where is your dragon? For that matter, why do you appear before me naked?"
"Great Lord," Melisandre said, still prostate on the ground. "My Lord Master's majestic beast was slain as near was he by a jealous freedman whom guested him in Myr, only instinctual magics kept my Master and I safe."
The Dragonlord narrowed his eyes as he studied both Melisandre and Aemon, noting the numerous scars he had picked up over the years, including the recently healed ones on his chest. "The same has happened everywhere recently. Lys was the first, and then, one after the other the Free Cities rose against us. What few of us survived the doom were murdered alongside our dragons." Turning his head towards Melisandre he continued. "And who are you? Who presumes to speak in my presence?"
Melisandre took it in stride though, and Aemon was once more impressed at how almost nothing, not even death by dragonfire could unnerve her. "I am my Master's most loyal, I perform whatever My Master needs or desires, whether it be to act as his tongue, or be his instrument of death," Melisandre answered, and Aemon had to give her points for audacity and ingenuity.
The Dragonlord turned to one of the robed men who stood closest. "Is it possible that this young man's attempts at sorcery interfered with the ritual?"
"My Lord Emperor," the robed man started. "Anything is possible, perhaps he is indeed what we came for. We prayed to Urrax and cast our spells in the hope that the way forward would be made clear, and he showed up. It cannot be happenstance."
Jon gulped, the only Emperor Aemon had ever heard of in the vaguest terms would be Aurion the Dragonlord who led his army into Valyria only to disappear. In the Smoking Sea.
"Well, Aemon of House Targaryen?" the Emperor questioned. "I am assembling a great host to retake our homeland, are you the one who can help me find the way?"
Perhaps Aemon was. If there was one thing Valyria was full of it should be Valyrian steel, which would be needed against the White Walkers, and Valyria had said to be the centre for all magical teachings in the known world, but to enter it…a risky undertaking, but as it was he had little to lose.
"I know the way Your Grace," Aemon replied as he bowed his head again.
"Then I shall offer you the honour of joining me. While never amongst the most influential of families, House Targaryen always enjoyed a position of wealth and prominence in Valyria, other than mine own daughter and what few relatives you have far to the west there are no more Dragonlords in the world. Swear yourself to me, and I shall reward you unlike no other. For your undying loyalty and aid in reclaiming our home I shall give you the chance to accept a new dragon for you to ride, and the chance to lead my armies into battle."
Aemon swallowed. A dragon of his own. Ever since he and Robb were children he had dreamt of riding a dragon, and after the one incident when Robb broke his heart by saying that he could never be the Lord of Winterfell due to his bastardry, Aemon had always proclaimed to be Aemon the Dragonknight or Daron the Young Dragon, and now, now he could barely hold his chuckles as he realized that he was related to both of his childhood heroes, descended from one of them even if the rumours about the Dragonknight and his sister Naerys were true.
"He is the Dragonlord Aurion of House Belaerys," Melisandre whispered, just low enough that only Aemon could hear.
While it was certainly strange to suddenly find himself in a whole other place in the world, and hundreds of years before he had even been born, he knew that he must accept the situation for what it was, if he had to stop the Long Night before it could even begin he was fine with that
"I, Aemon of the House Targaryen hereby swear myself to you His Grace, Aurion of House Belaerys, First of his name as Emperor of Valyria. I swear to uphold his command, the be his sword and shield against the darkness, from this night and all nights to come." Aemon barely managed to stay serious as he took the oath of the Night's Watch and changed it as he saw fit.
Aurion took out his knife and made a shallow cut in the palm of his hand before offering the blade to Aemon, who took the hint and repeated the gesture and clasped his new Lord's hand in his own. "As your Lord and Emperor I hereby accept your oath of fealty, and do swear that if you stay loyal and true, I will reward you with greatness, and if you prove to be false I will wreak upon you righteous vengeance."
Aemon got his first personal taste of magic as he felt his blood boil, and something take hold in him. 'blood magic,' he realized with trepidation. Blood magic had been used as he swore his oath, and he knew that any attempt at raising his blade against his new Lord would be futile. His own blood and magic would see him dead before he could finish the attempt.
A pair of servants wandered over, 'slaves' Aemon thought with disgust as he spotted the collars on their necks. Next to all the Valyrians around him they looked positively plain, with dark brown hair, skin and eyes. "These slaves will show you to a tent where you and your…pet can rest for the night. We ride for Qohor on the morrow to gather more or our Valyrian kin."
Aemon nodded. He remembered enough to know that Aurion had started his army from Qohorik colonials, increasing his small army of perhaps a thousand to several thousand. He also knew that Aurion had with him thirty thousand men to Valyria, so most likely they would have to visit each of the Free Cities in turn.
"What should I do with the…slaves Your Grace?" Aemon asked Aurion.
The Emperor waved the question away with a gesture. "They are slaves, do with them what you will."
Aemon tried his best to hide his grimace. He knew that the east had practiced slavery since time immemorial, the Valyrians just as cruel as the ones who came before and after, but he had never thought he would be mixed up in it all. While the temptations to protest slavery or let them go he wasn't stupid. Sure he may have tried just a little bit too hard to emulate his uncle, managing to get himself killed for it, but he knew enough that if he was truly the one to beat the White Walkers, he would need every advantage he could get, and the civilization of Old Valyria had seen no equal in the annals of history, before or since, so he would bite his tongue and play along. He had done so amongst a hundred thousand Free Folk, all whom had wanted him dead and would have killed him at the slightest sign if his duplicity, he could do so again.
"Show me to my tent," he ordered the two slaves who bowed deeply, leading him with all haste through the small camp to a generously sized tent that had been erected with all haste, a single bed stood inside with blankets and pillows of luxurious silk. Upon a small ebony nightstand stood a candlestick of Valyrian steel, three candles burning merrily on it, other than that the tent was empty. Before he could dismiss the two slaves however they had grabbed his arms and made him pose as they started to take quick measurements of anything and everything, causing him to squirm in discomfort when their hands came close to, or accidentally touched his cock, the sight of a naked Melisandre who was given a similar treatment was not helping his restraint at all.
Eventually they finished and disappeared swiftly, backing away with surprising speed and grace as they bowed over and over. He turned to the bed where Melisandre was already laying down, the seductive pose she held her body in, resting on the side with her head supported in one hand while the other hand laid comfortably at ease on her thigh. "Come My Prince," she said as she gestured to the space beside her and Aemon could see that it would be a tight fit. The bed was just large enough for a pair of lovers to share in comfort. "Tonight, we rest, and tomorrow we begin a new game." Weighing his options, Aemon sighed before joining her on the bed, barely restraining himself from cursing as Melisandre draped herself over him as if they had been lovers for all their lives. While Melisandre dozed off swiftly it took Aemon some time, helped in no way by his manhood that was more than eager to engage the woman who rested atop of him. He had almost given in to her once in Castle Black, and if things continued the way they had done so far during this crazy day, he knew that he would give in to her charms soon enough."
AN\:Had to write this, it's been going on in my head for some time now. For this particular piece, I am going by the show version mainly, when it comes to timeline and such, so no Jaeherys II. The GNC is just a Stark fanboy's dream and Wun Wun is the last giant.
As for how long I intend for Jon/Aemon to be stuck in the past I don't know, but I do know that IF I continue this, magic will be a lot more prevalent than in the show or books. Current pairings for this would be Jon and Melisandre, with one more joining/replacing Mel eventually.
Does this seem interesting? As in interesting enough that you want me to continue it? Or should I just shelve it and add more to this chapter whenever, instead of making it into a full fledged story of its own?
Read and Review.
Cheers
Manowarrior.