Scouts after disclaimer which has hidden itself in the crows nest, obviously not interested in making an appearance.

Camp of Aurion Belaerys, Emperor of Valyria. 9 moon turns ADV (After the Doom of Valyria).

Aemon awoke with a start. His sleep had been marred by nightmares, and as soon as he felt the lingering pain in his chest from the scars he knew that it was no dream. His entire life had been one lie after another. His uncle Ned Stark whom had pretended to be his father all his life had never once considered telling him the truth, even his name 'Jon' was a lie.

Every time he had asked Lord Eddard Stark about his mother he had been met with excuses or stone cold rebuttals. Even the last time they saw each other, just before Jon was about to swear away his life for good in the Night's Watch his uncle lied to him. When Lord Stark said, 'Next time we see each other, we'll talk about your mother,' Aemon had spotted the lie at once. The trembling of his face, the emotional placating tone, just the same as it always was at the earlier occasions he'd asked about his mother.

It bothered him, to know how little his uncle must have thought of him. That he was willing to let his only nephew by blood to be mistreated and mocked to the point where he felt worthless and without a place in the world. Not only that, but he, and Aemon's uncle Benjen, Sers Rodrik and Jory Cassel, Maester Luwin, every adult who had played some part in his upbringing had led him false. Reminding him every so often that the Watch treated men equally, bastard or otherwise. They certainly didn't mention the thieves, rapers and murderers who made up the majority, nor even the fact that almost a full quarter of the current members had been sent there for no other reason than following who they saw as the lawful King during Robert's Rebellion, Ser Alliser had certainly been one of them.

'If only Ser Alliser knew who he stabbed to death,' Aemon thought with a chuckle. He would almost be willing to pardon the man if it meant that he could see the staunchest Targaryen supporter on the Wall realize that he had just plunged his dagger into the chest of the last male Targaryen.

"You are awake my Prince," Aemon turned his head and realized that Melisandre was already awake, and judging by the dusk outside the sun still hadn't risen.

"Bad dreams," he murmured. "You are up early yourself."

Melisandre shrugged slightly. "The Lord of Light sustains me, I need little sleep."

As good an answer as any, Aemon certainly had nothing to prove her wrong, and he had seen some of her power at first hand, having little need for sleep was hardly the most impressive thing. Studying the Red Priestess he noticed that she seemed far less self certain than she used to be. When he first met her she was as proud and certain as Prince Joffrey, her faith in the Lord of Light making her into a bastion of confidence and vitality, now...

She looked tired. Her scarlet eyes were dim, brows furrowed and she kept biting her lips in worry, albeit the fashion in which she did was certainly having an effect on his lower extremities, and he offered a silent prayer of thanks to the Old Gods that she appeared before him in clothes this time. She was dressed in a flowing strapless dress of red silk, with a sash of the same colour thrown over her right shoulder, held in place at her waist with a utilitarian leather belt.

"The slaves have finished your own garments my Prince," she said as she slowly walked over to the table and picked up a pair of trousers made from black leather that would be laced up on the sides.

"Ah right," Aemon said as he glanced about. "Would you…mind waiting outside?"

Melisandre smiled as he blushed. "I must be the one to dress my Prince," she said patiently. "We are now in a time shortly after your people were at the height of your power, and with the exception of your ancestors who live in Dragonstone at this point in time, you are one of three remaining Dragonlords left, and as such you must play the part."

Aemon sighed. He had of course had to do this before, during the year or so he spent along the Free Folk, but that didn't mean he had to like it, and yet, perhaps it was here he did belong. He had never felt as if he truly belonged, when he lived in Winterfell or on the Wall, always the feeling as if something was missing. The occasional dreams he had about his cousin Arya, whom he thought to be his sister at the time certainly hadn't helped him feel like a proper Northerner.

"Wait," Aemon said suddenly as he was struck by a realiziation. "There are more than just three Valyrians in the world," he said accusingly. "The Velaryons, Celtigars and Sunglass families are all of Valyrian heritage, Lys and Volantis is crawling with those who have the Old Blood."

"Very good my Prince," Melisandre said as she seated herself on the bed. "But while they are certainly of the Old Blood, they are not of 'The Blood'."

Aemon frowned, "What is the difference?"

"'The Blood' as it is or was known, are those who descended from the original forty families who tamed and rode Dragons. Every single dragonrider have come from one of those forty families, they were the nobility and ruling class of Valyria, they were the ones who ruled. So while the Velaryons are Valyrian, and quite rich at that as skilled merchants and seafarers they never had a voice in politics. They were sworn to the Targaryens, whom in return for fealty and tribute, repaid the Velaryons in the conclave where they had a voice as one of the forty."

"So the Targaryens championed the Velaryons causes in the conclave in return for…profit?" Aemon asked, somewhat disappointed.

Melisandre laughed. "You make it sound much worse than it was."

Aemon grumbled. "I don't like politics," politics did nothing more than get people killed.

"You make it sound as if the Velaryons got nothing for their trouble. Their men and ships were sworn to the Targaryens, but as they were sworn the Targaryens also had oaths of their own. Oaths that compelled them to represent the interests of their vassals in the conclave, and if needs must defend them with their dragons should war come their way."

Aemon nodded, that made much more sense, and also nearly identical as to how the House system in Westeros worked. "How do you know all this?"

A shadow stretched over Melisandre's features. "I grew up in this," she whispered. "I was nine when the doom came, by that time I was already sold into slavery in Volantis, so while I may not have grown up as nobility, I grew up when Valyria was at its zenith, everyone knew these things."

Aemon gaped. "But…that's…you must be hundreds of years old."

"Yes," Melisandre whispered. "For hundreds of years have I walked this earth, alone, with nothing but the flames and the Lord of Light to keep me sane. I've served as a bedslave and a maid alike, I was tortured in Asshai by the Shadow by my master who performed vile experiments of dark magicks, but the longer I stayed with him, the more I learnt as I snuck into his chambers to read his books and scrolls at night. I performed my spells and rituals on small animals, until I was ready to break free. The Lord of Light guided me, and I killed my master, then I left Asshai behind…changed, but more devoted than ever to R'hllor's ways."

Aemon's mind went a thousand paces a second as she revealed more of her past. "So, how have you managed to live so long as you have? You should be nothing more than a pile of bone by now."

Melisandre shuddered slightly and hugged herself as if trying to ward off a cold wind. "The magic of the shadowbinders is powerful, immensely so, but not without cost." "When I killed my master, I offered his soul, along with the souls of my unborn children, in return for life."

Aemon frowned. "What do you mean?"

"The Shadowbinders from Asshai are not truly alive, nor are they dead, and their experiments often strip their subjects down into some form of half life as well. I sacrificed my master's soul, as well as my ability to birth living children, in return for eternal youth, or something close to it."

"You'll never have children?" Aemon asked.

"Never," Melisandre whispered. "The only children I can give birth to are mere shadow and vapour, a from of dark vengeance hungry for blood."

Aemon shuddered, he had heard the muttered rumours of how Melisandre had dealt with Renly Baratheon. "And do all red priests know these things?"

"No," Melisandre said. "The magics from Asshai are a blight on the world, and an affront to R'hllor, and if not for the fact that the Great Other still stares hungrily down at the world from the north, biding his time, we would have brought flame and death to Asshai a long time ago."

He was impressed, as much as he would like to remain unimpressed, there was something about the religious zeal that was worthy of admiration. Not that he would ever convert to her faith, but he could see that she still trusted her god deeply. "And yet," he started. "I hear that you have been using your shadow magics to serve Stannis."

Melisandre winced at the reminder. "I have, and if I can serve R'hllor's will by defeating the Great Other, I will gladly damn my soul for eternity in death."

"Truly?" Aemon asked with a raised eyebrow. "You'd accept being burned in a lake of fire for all eternity by using tools that your God have declared to be anathema?"

Melisandre's eyes seemed to be burning again as fervour and determinations wept trough her. "If you wish to win the war for the soul of man, the war for life itself you must be willing to sacrifice everything. THAT is the resolve you must have Aemon Targaryen, do you have it? Can you keep defying the great cold and darkness even as it strips away everything you have ever loved and held dear?"

"I don't know," he whispered. "I have already given and lost so much. In a single night I lost my life, I lost my father, mother brothers and sisters all over again. I learned that all my life has been one lie after another, I learnt that both my uncles didn't care for me enough to warn me about what the Watch truly was…if they had loved me, would they not have told me the truth? About the watch at least?"

Melisandre looked at him with both pity and understanding. "And how does that make you feel my Prince? How does it feel that everyone you ever looked up to let you live this lie?"

Aemon looked down at his hand that was resting over the covers. It was clenched together in a fist and shaking badly. "It makes me furious," he hissed. "The only crime I ever did to Lord and Lady Stark was to be born."

Melisandre gently put her hand over his. "Then use that fury," she said. "The fury of the Dragonlords was legendary, besides their dragons it was their greatest strength."

"Explain!" Aemon barked.

"Magic my Prince," she said. "Magic is dangerous and powerful, some say it is a sword without a hilt, but it is more than that. Magic is a beast as ferocious as the great beasts of war that your ancestors rode, a force of unfathomable power that have to be broken in, dominated to your will, and emotions are the key, and love and fury are some of the most powerful emotions there are."

Aemon nodded, thankful at the little nugget of information. "Then perhaps we should start my education."

Melisandre smiled. "Good, but first I must dress you."

"Oh…right. Remind me again why it must be you who dress me."

"Your new Emperor, and everyone else here believe I am your slave. As your slave it is my task to dress and undress you, to wash your clothes, fetch your food, and pleasure you when you desire it, a role I will be happy to play if it lets you stay here in a position of power rather than as a slave."

Aemon stroked his chin thoughtfully for a moment, it made sense to a certain point of view. "So as long as we play along, we should be safe?" he asked as he stood up, trying his best to not show any discomfort at his nudity.

"For a short time at least," Melisandre answered as she started to lace up his trousers.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Did you not find it strange that Aurion accepted you so eagerly?"

"No…" Aemon replied unsurely. "I wasn't exactly at my best last night."

"I thought as much," Melisandre said as she started to lace up his other leg. "You are nearly his social equal, in that you come from Dragonlord stock. In his eyes, you are already better than anyone else in the world, and he would not have to fear you either."

Aemon frowned. "What do you mean he wouldn't have to fear me?"

"Dragonlords were too proud, or too afraid to try and kill each other. They valued the 'dragonsblood' the flowed through the various families, far better to publicly shame a Dragonlord than to destroy the precious blood and seed he represented."

Aemon shook his head in amusement. "So instead of killing their rivals, they just…embarrassed them?" he asked while trying his best not to laugh.

"Indeed. Depending on how it was dealt with a Dragonlord might even choose voluntary exile for a few years before returning, though it had to be quite the scandal for a Dragonlord to go into a voluntary exile for so long. Most just holed up in their tower for a few weeks before returning to normal life."

Aemon shook his head at the strange ways of his ancestors, though he had to admit that public shaming and exile was far better than cutting down an entire family, root and stem along with all their servants and smallfolk, like Tywin Lannister had done to the Reynes and Tarbecks. "And what does this have to do with not fitting in?"

"At the moment you are without coin, weapons or a dragon, but it will be expected that you amass the first two relatively quickly, a dragon of your own I am less sure of. But with wealth comes other expectations."

"What expectations?" he asked.

"Slaves my Prince. As a member of one of the forty you will be expected to have slaves, to not have them would prove far more troubling than to have them."

"No," he growled. "I won't have slaves, it is against everything I stand for." It was against the Old Gods themselves to keep slaves.

"And if you don't take them we will be watched with suspicion, maybe even killed, not to mention that should you refuse someone else will take them, someone who might not be as kind a master as you."

Aemon closed his eyes in fury while Melisandre threw a short-sleeved light brown shirt over his head followed by a sleeveless silk tunic. Far lighter than any garment he had ever worn in his life, but perfect for the heat in the current climate. The edge of the collar was trimmed in gold while the main colour was soft cream, the only other decoration was the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen that had been embroidered over his heart. "I do not like this, Melisandre," he admitted, as he held out his right arm so that she could fit a leather vambrace to it.

"You do not have to like it my Prince, but it must be done all the same," she replied as she started fitting a vambrace to his left arm. After the vambrace had been fastened she guided his legs into a pair of dark brown boots and secured a leather belt around his waist. "Our first lesson should require a sword my Prince," she said. "Mayhap we can find one in the camp."

Aemon and Melisandre walked out of the tent and he was almost immediately blind struck at the beauty he saw. He had seen enough auroras in the far north that the majesty of them had started to wear thin, but never had he seen a sky such as this. Shifting between light and dark pink, with thin white puffy clouds scattered. The sky seemed to sparkle ever so slightly as the brightest stars still shimmered slightly, while the occasional shooting star sped across the sky, though far closer than he had ever seen before.

"A remnant from the doom," Melisandre whispered to him. "The sky appears to be on fire sometimes, and bolts of flame will continue to mark the sky for years still."

"It's beautiful," he said as he continued to stare, that is until his ears caught the faint sounds of steel clashing against steel. "Come," he commanded as he started to walk towards the noise, dodging tents which contained still snoring occupants. The majority of men and women in the camp still slept, with the exception of the sentries and the slaves who were already hard at work. Eventually he came to the clearing where the fire he and Melisandre had stumbled from still burned brightly, and to his amazement the flames were burning in a clear purple tone, rather than orange. Not too far from the fire stood a small gathering of men and women in various forms of armour in a small circle, while two men stood in the middle, sparring swords in hand and doing their best to strike one another.

Aemon didn't have to spend more than a few seconds observing them before he knew that if they were the quality of the majority then he would be in for a long and hard road. "Stop!" his voice rang out clear and loudly, causing the combatants to halt while the spectators whirled around.

Walking briskly forward he entered the circle. "You," he said, pointing at the man to his left. "Your guard is too low, that is why you are constantly too late to block his strikes when he strikes high," turning to the man on his right who was smiling somewhat smuggle he tore into him. "You on the other hand are too uncoordinated. Your swings are wild and without guidance, and your grip is poor."

Both men grumbled angrily but refrained from commenting.

Aemon on the other hand looked around and found a sparring sword that he grabbed and held out, showing both of them the proper way to not only hold a sword but also how to stand.

"I don't like holding it like that," muttered the man who's grip he had corrected.

Aemon swung, and took a certain amount of satisfaction at striking the sword right out of the man's hand. "Learn to like it, or I'll break your hand next."

Looking at the gathered men and women around him he sighed in frustration. Near all of them seemed to be impressed by the relatively simple move he had just performed. "Anyone of you ever swung a sword before?" he asked as he planted the blade between his legs with his hand on the pommel.

Three people held up their hands. "At someone?" he continued, and all the hands disappeared, and he was somehow reminded of his first real meeting with Jaime Lannister.

"It's a strange thing, first time you cut a man. You realize we're nothing but sacks of meat, blood and some bone to keep it all standing. Now the first thing you need to know about swords, can anyone tell me?"

Silence met him before one of the younger ones spoke up, a girl who reminded him painfully of Arya from the grin on her face and the fact that she wore dirty shirts and breeches instead of dresses, that and the sword she had on her side. "Stick em with the pointy end," she grinned, causing a round of laughter.

Aemon laughed himself. "Aye that is the gist of it," he admitted with a laugh, remembering telling Arya the same thing. "But the most important thing to remember is that a sword is no toy. In the hand of a trained wielder it is a tool of death, and even in the hands of someone unskilled it can be dangerous, one wrong move and your lying on the ground with your blood pouring out."

Looking around he saw that he had the attention of everyone now. "We'll start with the basics first. How to hold a sword, how to stand, and how to swing it. You'll be out here every morning," he said almost growling as the majority of them groaned.

"For how long?" one of them asked.

"Until I say otherwise," he barked. "It is clear than none of you know how to hold a sword, and I don't know about the rest of the men and women in the camp either, so until I am satisfied you're mine, unless the Emperor says otherwise."

"And what makes you so qualified?" one of them snarked, foolishly doing so while Aemon could see him.

Aemon pointed his sword straight at him. "Come here and I'll show you."

The man paled slightly at being singled out, but did as asked and raised his sword while gripping his shield comfortingly. "Now, try to hit or disarm me," Aemon ordered him.

The man didn't need to be told twice as he surged forward and swung hard, only to overextend and trip as Aemon had taken a single step back. "Again," Aemon ordered as he waited patiently for the man to get to his feet.

The man swung twice more, Aemon easily avoiding both strikes by leaning to the right or to the left. The third strike he blocked and forced both of their blades low, before he suddenly grabbed his sword by the blade and hilt and rammed it up so that the pommel struck the man underneath the chin, sending him to the ground with a curse. "The blade isn't the only part of a sword."

After he was certain that he had their attention again he continued his lecture. "My father started me on sword lessons when I was a boy of five. Since then I have practiced every day for the last five and ten years. I've fought the barbarians of Westeros, led men into battle and even fought the living dead and their demonic masters in the far north beyond Westeros' great wall of ice, that is why I am qualified to teach you."

Suddenly everyone went down on one knee, and as soon as Aemon heard the voice behind him he knew why. "Do not forget that he is also one of The Blood," came the voice of Aurion.

"Your Grace," Aemon said as he also knelt before the last living Dragonlord beside the Targaryens of Dragonstone.

"You may rise Archon," Aurion said, causing Aemon to hurriedly search his memory for the title before he remembered. Archons were the elected leaders of the Valyrian conclave of Dragonlords and Aemon supposed that as the only other man in Aurion's forces with the potential to ride a dragon it made sense that he retain the title.

"You know your craft well," he said.

"I do Your Grace," Aemon replied. "You never know when you might find yourself in a situation without your dragon at your side."

Aurion nodded. "Just so, though I must confess that I am curious, I was not aware that your family had been in a war lately."

Aemon kept his face cool and emotionless, a feat which he had apparently perfected before his sixth nameday. "I was always one to crave adventure Your Grace. I served for four years on the Wall in Westeros, I fought the wildlings beyond the Wall, and I fought in defence of the Wall when a wilding army attacked it."

Aurion smiled slightly. "Most impressive, tell me, what sort of men are these that live in Westeros?"

A test Aemon knew. "They are men Your Grace. Petty Kings fight over borders, men fight over wine gold and women. Worshippers of the empty idols of the seven fight against the men who worship the trees, a primitive folk compared to the might of Valyria."

"As I thought," Aurion said with a firm nod. "But they do know how to fight at least, if your own skills are a result of their teachings."

Aemon shrugged slightly. "I've picked up a trick or three during my time there."

"Very well. I must agree with you, you should continue this every day."

"I will do as you command Your Grace," Aemon said as he bowed.

"Good, build me an army worthy of Valyria."

Aemon looked at one of the Emperor's advisors who was wearing flowing robes of purple. "If I might make one request Your Grace?"

Aurion nodded and gestured for Aemon to speak.

"My family was never the most accomplished of sorcerers, and what little knowledge we had was for the most part left in Valyria when we left. Might I request that your sorcerers can continue my burgeoning education in the arts of sorcery?"

Aurion laughed. "You lack not for ambition Archon," he said while turning towards the sorcerer at his side. "What say you Baelarr? Can he be taught?"

The man called Baelarr studied Aemon deeply, his indigo eyes shining ever so slightly as he stared at Aemon and Aemon barely kept himself still as he felt…something caress him, causing goosebumps to appear on his skin.

"I think so Your Grace, a small test first perhaps," he told Aurion who nodded. Turning his gaze back at Aemon he smiled encouragingly. "Perhaps a simple spell to summon a small flame in the palm of your hand, do you think you can do that?"

Aemon smiled. He could do more than that, as Melisandre had taught him one of the spells she knew just before they came across the impromptu sparring session, and while he hadn't tested it out yet, he felt certain that he could do it. "I require a sword," Aemon said as a reply, causing the sorcerer to furrow his eyebrows in confusion, while Aurion looked at him sharply, before nodding to one of his personal guards who swiftly drew a longsword of Valyrian steel.

Aemon held the blade lightly, testing its weight and balance as well as taking a few practice swings. It was certainly light, lighter and also shorter than Longclaw which Aemon believed lost to him forever, but certainly a fine example of smith work. Taking a knee he laid the blade in the palm of his left hand and made a slight incision, the blade so sharp that he didn't even feel the pain as it drew blood. Doing as Melisandre had suggested to him he imagined a roaring flame, consuming everything, his thoughts, his troubles, anything and everything and then he felt it.

The power of magic filled him. A roaring firestorm, a cataclysmic thunderstorm with hurricane winds buffeting him, while monstrous seas tried to drown him, all these sensations hit him simultaneously, and as the red priestess had thought him he focused on his fury. With the wellspring of pain, betrayal and suffering he had experienced in his life it was easy and he 'felt' himself grab the power that threatened to overcome him by the scruff of its neck as if it was a wild beast to dominate.

With the magic firmly under his control he stood up while simultaneously dragging his hand alongside the flat of the blade which burst into red hot flames and as he looked down he could see that the cut he had made had already healed over, the only sign of it were a few specks of dried blood in his palm.

"By Syrax," the sorcerer gasped as Aemon held the still burning blade. "I'll say that we are going to enjoy teaching you Archon," he said breathlessly.

Aurion too looked impressed. "You will teach me this," he told Aemon simply.

"Of course Your Grace," Aemon replied. "It will be my honour."

"Good, now continue your lesson, I wish to…observe for now."

Aemon continued the lesson for another hour and a half, the majority of the time spent on the basics, teaching them for the most part how to hold a sword, shield or spear. How to stand and how to handle basic care, since the majority of the soldiers weren't armed with Valyrian steel, but good steel nonetheless, every day he would spend one to two hours teaching them, aided by the few personal guards of Aurion who thankfully had at least some amount of military training. He learned quite a lot during the next week actually. The majority of the four hundred and thirty-seven men and women were from Aurion's personal household. They had been traveling towards Qohor where Aurion had a large estate in order to celebrate the birth of his son.

Then the doom had happened. The majority of Aurion's family and holdings were in Valyria, Aurion himself as a third son had never expected to be the head of his family. The tragedy had expanded when his sister wife had flown her dragon back in order to try and save their children, only to perish in a blast of flame, he had thought himself cursed when his son had died later that very day from a mystery illness that had laid low over half of Aurion's household, leaving him with less than five hundred men and women, a dead son, a living daughter, his dragon and a pair of dragon eggs.

Fortunately his dragon was large, very large, so large in fact that he and his dragon alone would be enough to discourage anyone from attacking them. And when word reached him of how the few remaining Dragonlords had been butchered in their sleep along with their dragons he had known enough to be careful. Fellow Valyrians wouldn't betray him, member of the Forty were worshipped as representatives of the Gods themselves, having a small amount of their divine essence in the form of the 'Dragonblood' flowing through their veins.

Aemon had at first been treated with some small amount of suspicion but was quickly accepted by the men and women who made up Aurion's small army. The vast majority of them had been something simple as merchants, cooks, carpenters, fishers or sheepherders, well they had been the ones in charge of the slaves who did the dirty work, though most of them had worked side by side with the slaves to a point at least. There was no way that a Valyrian shepherd would be cutting the wool or cleaning up the droppings, but he or should would still participate watching the flock during the night or day, and a crewmember of a ship would still help carrying sacks or crates of produce off a ship. It was strange to Aemon who had at first thought that slaves did literally everything in Valyria, but he was disabused of that notion quickly enough, there were far too many Valyrians to support all of them just sitting on their arse, though the number of men and women who spent years or decades pursuing the arts was impressive, it also seemed to be almost something of a pilgrimage for a freedman, which was the average Valyrian to travel the world to seek his or her fortune for a few years, very few in comparison to the rest of the world decided to try their hand at soldiering.

What use did Valyria have for armies? At the height of their power, shortly before the doom there were according to Aurion no less than eight hundred Dragonlords with mounts large enough to be ridden for the purpose of war. House Targaryen itself had five dragons when they left Valyria, and had more than enough dragon eggs to hat ten more for sure. The very few men and women who participated actively in a 'soldiers' life, were usually personal guards, mostly there for show as a show of status, though they did have some purpose outside of Valyria if a Dragonlord ever decided to visit one of the colonies or other cities.

"I imagine there are few of us left now," Aurion said. It was nine days since Aemon and Melisandre had appeared and he had been permitted to dine with Aurion for the first time, a relatively simple meal of spiced horsemeat, rice and various dried fruits, and they were currently discussion the current state of the Valyrian people. "Every single one of the colonies have rebelled, even Volantis have rejected the rule of the Dragonlords and instead proclaimed to be the heir of Valyria."

Aemon nodded thoughtfully, he had learned quite a lot about this subject from Maester Luwin who had always seemed to share Aemon's fascination with Valyria and its people. "With all luck we will find more of our people," he said. "We've always been in the minority in all of these so called 'Free-Cities', so with all of the Dragonlords seemingly dead, or the majority of them I cannot say I am surprised that they all decided to rebel."

"Don't I know it," Aurion sighed. "Though Volantis at least wasn't a surprise. They've been arrogant for almost a century already, up jumped merchants with gold and greed instead of wits."

"They'll come to regret it," Aemon said. "We can start in Qohor, and from there we head west and then south. Stop at each one of the cities and get as many of our people to rally to your banner, until we've gathered enough to rebuild Valyria anew."

Aurion looked thoughtful. "Your idea has merit. I was going to go to Qohor and raise a host there and reclaim Valyria first before doing anything else."

Aemon didn't know if Aurion actually did that or not, all he knew was that Aurion had led a great host into Valyria. "I think caution would be best for now Your Grace. There are several disturbing rumours about Valyria, so a larger host wouldn't hurt, nor would waiting."

"Waiting?" he questioned.

"Yes, even now, almost a year later, Valyria is shrouded from view in great clouds of steam and ash, the heat can be felt across the newly created smoking sea all the way to Oros. Letting the calamity take a bit longer to settle wouldn't be a bad idea."

"No it wouldn't," Aurion admitted. "If we go west and then south we will come to the narrow sea soon enough," Aurion said.

"Yes…" Aemon half questioned.

"We need more dragons, while my daughter has but an egg it has yet to hatch."

"What are you getting at Your Grace?" Aemon asked.

"When we arrive in Pentos we can spend time there to rest and recuperate, during that time I wish for you to travel back to your kin on Dragonstone, see if you cannot convince your family and their vassals to provide aid for our endeavour. Men, ships, produce, all will be welcome, perhaps even a new dragon for you."

'Fuck,' was Aemon's first thought. He wasn't particularly keen to show up on Dragonstone and try to convince his ancestors that he was a Targaryen, let alone ask for something as big and important as men, ships or a dragon, but at the same time what choice did he have? If he refused Aurion would no doubt be displeased and suspicious, he would just simply have to accept the command and hope his ancestors didn't kill him when he showed up. "It will be good to see home again," Aemon said as he inclined his head slightly

"Father, Archon," Came a new voice from behind Aemon, a voice he hadn't heard since that first morning when he was training the new 'recruits'. Apparently the young woman/girl who had reminded him so much of his former sister Arya, was actually Aurion's daughter.

"Daughter," Aurion said imperiously. "Archon," he said as he turned to Aemon. "My Daughter Rhaena Belaerys, Princess of Valyria," turning to his daughter he gave a rare smile. "Daughter, this is Aemon of House Targaryen, Archon and Lord General of Valyria," Aemon felt his eyes widen at that last sudden title.

"Your Grace," he gasped. "You honour me."

"Your blood and skill alike is superior to any of the others we have here amongst us. Yu may be young, but you have the right blood and name and a mind for battle, Valyria could do little better currently for a General."

"Thank you Your Grace," Aemon said before standing up so that he could give a proper bow to the Princess. "Might I add that it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance Princess."

The Princess was dressed much in the same fashion as her father and Aemon were. Her garments were of thin almost see through silk in creams, light blue or soft pink, and Aemon cursed his eyes as they seemed to automatically drift towards the young woman's bosom. Her dress was distracting enough, held up by straps over her shoulder so thin that they seemed to be non-existent. Her back was left bare while the plunging neckline was wide and deep, just barely hiding her nipples though with how sheer the material was he could still see them just barely. Over her shoulders she carried a richly embroidered shawl of cream and gold while her flowing silvery gold hair had a hair clamp the size of a hen's egg studded with sapphires. She was beautiful, especially for a girl her age, a far cry from the dirty eager little warrior he had kept an eye on during the daily practice sessions, she was certainly one of the more eager ones, the fact that she reminded him so of Arya was not helping at all. Now though the only thing the allowed him to connect the eager little warrior to the inhumanly beautiful princess before him was the humorous glint in her lilac eyes and the sweet voice she carried.

"The pleasure is mine Archon," she replied as she sat down next to her father who was looking quite pleased as he looked at them both.

"I expected you here some time ago daughter," he said sternly. "It is unseemly to be late when I have invited a guest to dine with us."

Princess Rhaena had the good grace to blush slightly in shame at the rebuke. "I wanted to appear properly dressed for once," she said as she shot Aemon a quick look.

Aurion arched an eyebrow, causing Aemon to laugh.

"Your Grace surely knows that the Princess has partaken in my lessons."

Aurion nodded, "I do, and how goes her progress?"

"She is progressing well, she has promise with a shortsword for the moment, though her shieldwork is still somewhat sloppy," he said honestly.

"It is heavy," she grumbled, causing both Aemon and her father to laugh.

"It is supposed to be heavy daughter, were it not, it would not defend you and you'd have your head bashed in."

Aemon smiled reassuringly. "You show promise Princess, and as long as you continue the exercises I teach then I have no doubt that you will become a skilled warrior soon enough."

Rhaena smiled at that. Aemon had actually been surprised to learn that his ancestor Aegon's wife Visenya being a skilled warrior as well as a sorceress was actually the norm rather than a rare occurrence. Valyrian society was very liberal when it came to gender roles, nobility in particular eagerly encouraged sons and daughters alike to master at the very least one weapon, somewhat understandable he supposed as they could all be called into war service if they had a dragon large enough to be flown into battle, and when the nobility did it then so did the commoners try to emulate them as best as they could. The only thing he had discovered so far that had clearly defined roles for gender was the marriage ceremonies of the Valyrians, ceremonies that would surely cause a septon or septa to faint in shock, even the Dornish would probably be shocked.

"I intend for her to wed soon," Aurion said suddenly, shocking Aemon somewhat. It seemed to be a bit too soon, how old was she even? Aurion must have seen the look on his face as he laughed. "She is already three and ten, and started her moonblood a year past," he continued, ignoring how his daughter went red at the mention of that.

"Begging your pardon Your Grace," Aemon said uncomfortably. "But isn't it a bit early for that? You would have to find a proper husband for her, and she is young yet to bear children."

Aurion narrowed his eyes slightly. "My physicians have assured me that she is healthy, and it is quite common to wed at her age as you well know," actually Aemon didn't know. Sure it happened often enough in Westeros that a girl was wed shortly after she bled for the first time, but most of the time one waited until the girl turned five or six and ten, three and ten was seen as too early for most Lords. "Besides," Aurion continued, not having seen Aemon moment of deep thought. "I am the last of my line, my daughter the only progeny left to me. Her brother who should had taken her to wife burned along with the rest of our kin in Valyria."

Aemon lowered his head slightly. "My apologies Your Grace."

"No need," Aurion said. "You are all that I need."

"Your Grace?" Aemon questioned, surely he couldn't mean?

"You are young enough, and you are of The Blood same as my daughter and I. Once we have retaken Qohor you will wed my daughter."

Aemon felt his heart miss a beat. "Your Grace," he protested, completely lost for words.

"I will not have my line die out with my daughter," he snarled. "My daughter is young and healthy, she will bare you strong sons and daughters alike, I will require a son and daughter from you to carry my own name."

Aemon certainly couldn't refuse either, no matter how much he wanted to. He was seven years older than her. It would have been easier if she looked like a girl rather than a woman. She was young yes, and it showed, but at the same time her hips had already started to develop a swell, and her bosom while not large was more than big enough to turn his head and send his blood boiling, the fact that she reminded him so of Arya was the final nail in the coffin as some men said.

"You honour me Your Grace," Aemon said, what else could he say? Especially when Rhaena was looking at him like that, she certainly liked what she saw, and they had conversed enough during the past week to develop a liking to each other.

"I trust you are pleased daughter?" Aurion asked Rhaena who smiled.

"Very pleased father," she said. "I feared you would have me marry one of the commoners, pretty to look at and charming in their own way, much like dogs or horses, but not real men."

Once again Aemon was reminded of the fact that while the Valyrians had certainly been the most advanced society in history, and depending on your birth, the most free and liberal as well, there was a certain arrogance prevalent in them, arrogance that had for the most part been well earned. Didn't mean he had to like it though, as it was attitudes like that, which gave Aemon painful flashbacks to the Lannisters, with the exception of Tyrion who had been more of the 'sarcastic, snarky arrogance' of someone who knew that the world was shit and didn't give a fuck.

At hearing his daughter mention marriage to a commoner Aurion actually spat on the ground. "I'd sooner wed you to a horse than let a commoner wed mine only daughter. You are of The Blood of the Forty, nice of your ancestors have served as Archons in the conclave, only the blood and seed of a fellow Dragonlord will do," he told her, and Aemon wisely decided to never mention to Aurion that he was only half Targaryen, and from a line of Targaryens who had more than once wed into so called 'lesser' blood.

One of Aurion's sorcerers entered the tent suddenly. "My pardons Your Grace," he said. "It is time for the Archon's studies."

"Of course of course," Aurion said, waving him off.

"I thank you for the meal Your Grace," Aemon said as he stood up. Turning to Rhaena he gingerly clasped her hand and raised it to his lips to lay a soft kiss on it. "Again, it was a pleasure to finally be proper introduced my Princess."

"The pleasure was mine Archon," she replied with a smile and a slight bow of her head.

Giving her hand a last gentle squeeze Aemon followed the sorcerer out of the tent toward the edge of the camp where they usually practiced.

He had, according to his tutors come quite far for such a short amount of time. Already he could summon living flames in his hands, he could purify any drink or food for foreign substances. He could lock and unlock simple locks and had started ever so slightly on increasing his strength, though that last one was something that would take a long time to master properly, and even then, there were limits on how much a man could increase his strength.

As for his tutoring with Melisandre he had continued there as well. The trick of lighting a sword was but the first. Regardless of the fact that he did not believe in R'hllor he was capable of performing some of the same feats. He had less need for sleep than most and rarely grew fatigued. He could see into the fires to receive faint images and visions, though not to the clarity that he could interpret anything, more like hot flashes of images, gone as quickly as they appeared, the he could use the flames to communicate with another doing the same. That particular skill was what made the Red Faith of R'hllor so widespread and powerful apparently, as the High Priest in the Red Temple in Volantis could keep in contact with every single devotee across the world who had learned the art, and art which Melisandre had admitted to employing, though she angrily suspected that High Priest Benerro may have steered her false, resulting in the series of disasters and bad decisions that Stannis had made. At least Stannis had not listened to her when she broached the subject of burning Shireen as Benerro had suggested her to coax him into performing. Instead he had banished her from his camp and sent Shireen, his wife Selyse and fifty mounted Knights north to Eastwatch.

As for the skills in his northern blood he had little guidance, left to simply follow his instincts and will, though he had managed to successfully warg into a bird, he had no permanent bond or control over the little creature which had flown away in panic once he let go of its consciousness. As he sat down cross legged across from Baelarr he suddenly realized that he would be wed soon, and what's more it would be a Valyrian wedding ceremony. 'Oh fuck,' he thought once he realized that fact. 'I hope none of my family is watching me from the afterlife,'

And so ends chapter two. As I've mentioned this is a bit of a mix between books and show. I am going by show 'timeline' so Jon/Aemon is 20 at the end of S5/book 5 instead of 17. There are some other changes as well.

The Dornish plot which was bad enough in the books is non existent here, so no Ellaria and the Sand Snakes betraying everything Oberyn stands for by killing Doran and Trystane, for that matter both Arienne and Quentin are also alive here.

Victarion Greyjoy has accepted his brother Euron as King and as such sailed to Mereen which is under siege by Volantis and numerous sellsword companies. Yara is actually Asha, but Asha and Theon have participated in the Kingsmoot, and with Asha's loss taken a lot of the best ships and made a runner for it.

I was naturally furious at how D&D completely ruined everything Stannis stood for by the burning of Shireen, especially after the strong father/daughter moment they had the episode before, so here Stannis sent Shireen, Selyse and bodyguards up to Eastwatch and then towards Castle Black to safety while he marches on Winterfell.

Barristan is still alive and currently holding Mereen against the armies besieging it.

I still haven't decided whether or not to include Faegon, JonCon and the Golden Company and their invasion of the Stormlands into this, Varys and Tyrion at the very least are both in Mereen, ostensibly to advise Dany who is currently cursing her lazy dragon as she is forced to walk as a slave in a dothraki khalasar.

The GNC is somewhat operative, in the fact that the majority of the Northern Lords are plotting against the Boltons, who are actually backed up by the Freys and yes Sansa was married to little Ramsay and escaped the same way she did at the end of S5, and the Blackfish is still pissing of Walder Frey and his brood by reclining in his favourite chair on Riverrun's battlements where he does a lot of fishing, as well as taking the odd potshot at the Frey army with his longbow in order to keep them on their toes.

No Jeyne Westerling in this one, so Robb actually did marry Talisa Maegyr, which I have no doubt that some of you my excellent readers can figure out the significance of.

Lastly, feel free to make a guess as to what a 'Valyrian' marriage ceremony is like (this particular ceremony is reserved for the forty families, and also explains as to why they could marry brother to sister for literally thousands of years and still remain not only inhumanly beautiful, but also smart and intelligent enough to master magic and technology not seen before or since).

PS: I changed my username.

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Daemon Belaerys.