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287 A.C
Highgarden
"My lady," a voice sounded from behind and Olenna turned to face the newcomer.
To her disappointment, it was only one of the many servants they employed that bowed so deeply she could have sworn he would tip over.
"What is it? Hurry up boy," she snarked and hid her smile as he blushed in embarrassment.
"A letter from the Lord Hand, my lady," he stumbled slightly over his words as soon as she took the letter, he was off, scurrying back to the shadows.
She turned around and unsealed the letter, she barely needed to look at it to know what it contained. Only refusals were so long as people felt the need to justify themselves. She, herself, had long lost that need, perhaps it was one of the benefits of experience.
Still, given the Hand's age, one could expect he had learned the same lessons. She balled the letter in her fist and unceremoniously threw it over her shoulder.
Jon Arryn was a fool, though perhaps a hand was only the reflection of the king he served. And Robert Baratheon was an even bigger fool. Perhaps the only one to trump her fool of a son, that was saying something.
If only he had respected her council, the imbecile would have marched and crushed the Rebellion when there was still time. If he had, they could have had a queen. Her golden rose would no doubt be married to Prince Aegon, if he had not married his sister that is, or he could have married both, the Dragons certainly never had a problem with incest or polygamy.
Instead, he had feasted for a full year at Storm's End, away from the fighting, away from the glory he should have collected for their House.
Instead of having a future queen, they were relegated to second-rank Houses, they had kept their titles sure, but everything they had worked for three centuries had been reduced to naught. So much so that the King refused to attend a tourney they threw for Margaery's nameday.
And only the gods knew how much the King loved tourneys.
There was no doubt in her mind that the Reach's host would have easily bled through Baratheon's army, well before the North, Riverlands, and Vale could join the fray.
It was the limit of her power, while she controlled most things, once Mace had left for war, the most inane of news could take weeks, if not moons to reach her and her son had somehow grown a backbone during the conflict, surely emboldened by all the men at arms surrounding him. One he had all but lost upon returning.
As long as she breathed, Olenna knew she would never entrust her son with an army again.
Thank the gods, it seemed the stupidity Mace was afflicted with had skipped over his children's generation.
Willas would make for a strong lord one day, at three and ten he already showed his prowess with the sword and lance, he had inherited her mind instead of his grandfather's. He also loved to spend time with his animals, having already bred more than a few of very good quality.
Garlan was much the same only he focused far more on his training than his older brother, and though he was three years his cadet, Garlan often surpassed Willas during their spars. She still needed to find a worthy knight to squire for, but she had heard of a Morrigen knight, perhaps one she could summon to get the measure of.
Loras too would one day need a knight to squire for, as he was already showing promise to be a great swordsman, though he was truly too young, at seven namedays to know, a grandmother knew.
Her fourth Tyrell grandchild was most assuredly the most precious, and though Olenna should not have a favorite, she did. Margaery simply was special, her golden rose, far more intelligent than her older brothers combined, which was saying something considering none were dimwitted. She would be a beauty too, though she was young, she had seen enough pretty girls turn into literal witches to know her granddaughter was not of them, no, Margaery was fit to be queen.
If only the Stag showed a modicum of intelligence, if only.
287 A.C
Myr
Oswell whistled softly as he walked around the men of the Company of the Wolf, there were definitely more than there had been only six moons ago, a lot more.
Though there had been many additions to its rank, many still knew of him that he could walk freely inside their encampment.
They had named the Company after his king's mother, though he had been asked about it, the men he rescued from the Night's Watch had chosen to trust him in the end. He would have preferred to name it after the Targaryens but that would have sold the game immediately.
"Ser Alliser," Oswell exclaimed, grabbing the attention of the Commander of the company.
"Ser Oswell," he answered, raising his eyebrows in surprise, "I was not expecting you,"
"You know how these things go, commander, I was around so I thought why not show up?" he chuckled and the knight barked a laugh.
In truth, he had been getting back from Volantis, where he'd heard the Golden Company currently was. It had been a trip for nothing, Jon was not there, whether what he heard was false or Griff' had already moved on, he knew not.
The fact was that he remained the one to manage his building spy network.
Right now, it only consisted of a dozen 'little birds' as Varys would have referred to them, though Oswell would need to find a better name. A few people in each of the free cities took the offered gold for information.
It was a barmaid in Pentos in fact who had heard of the Golden Company's newest contract and a fruit merchant in Myr that had heard men in golden armor talking about a certain exiled Westerosi Lord fighting with them.
"I trust the king is well," the escaped knight said as he directed him toward the largest tent around.
"He is," Oswell nodded and entered after the other knight, once more, he found himself impressed.
In the middle, stood a large table with no chair, but with a map of Westeros and notes on it, the walls too, were decorated with other large maps, showing in detail each of the Kingdom as well as a few more of Essos.
It was clear what they did when not busy with a contract.
"What can I help you with, ser Oswell?" he asked, coming back with two full cups, "Summer Isles' rhum,"
Oswell gratefully took it, "To the king," he toasted and Alliser followed his lead, each taking a gulp. He could not help but sigh, though Summer Islanders were a weird bunch, they made one hell of a drink.
"The company is growing well," he observed, and the commander nodded proudly.
"It is, we should reach two thousand men in a few moons, with five hundred horses, and three hundred knights, most men are Westerosi but we're beginning to get some Essosi as well," he wrinkled his nose as he finished.
"We're taking care of it," Alliser said before Oswell could ask, "The men are telling tales of the dragons each night, of what we owe to them, and what can be done if one day, the dragons should claim their throne back,"
"Good," Oswell smiled, over time, they would build an extremely loyal force, one that would believe wholly in Aemon and with a right to.
Though he saw too little of him for his taste, Oswell had seen the babe turn into a toddler and then a boy, in only a few years he would be a man grown. But what most amazed him were the changes each time he came back. He had almost dropped his jaw to the floor when learning of the child of three teaching himself how to read, and though he should not have been surprised, he was when witnessing the promise and sheer talent the King possessed with a sword.
He was everything his father was and much more, maybe it was the blood of the First Men mixed with the blood of Old Valyria, maybe it was only him.
He had heard, years before, that given Rhaegar's proclivity with books as a child many said Queen Rhaella must have swallowed some books and a candle whilst he was in her womb. If it was so, then Lyanna had swallowed all of that and a sword as well.
Still, as he witnessed the success that was proving to be the company, he could not help but be reminded of his unaccomplished task.
"I require a man," he began and the knight snorted, Rhum coming out of his nose as he did. Oswell widened his eyes for a second, he did not expect a man as serious as Alliser to laugh at something like this. "As I was saying, I'm in need of a discreet man, educated, clever and cunning,"
"Can I ask what for, ser Oswell?"
"The king needs a master of whisperers," he simply said and it was enough to have the knight lay down his drink on the table as he frowned and his eyes widened.
Before anything else could be said, Alliser walked out of the tent.
"SOMEBODY BRING ME WATERS! NOW!" he yelled and Oswell chuckled.
Alliser walked back inside, and another man followed soon, which was enough for Oswell to take hold of the hilt of his sword.
"Ser Oswell, meet Alton Waters," Alliser introduced them, and Oswell relaxed, the man was young, perhaps five and twenty, or around. What attracted his attention though were his eyes, a brilliant blue only few possessed.
"Sers," he bowed his head.
"Waters?" Oswell asked.
"Yes, Ser," the blue-eyed man answered, "I'm a bastard but I was raised at my father's keep on Claw Isle,"
Oswell smiled, Celtigars were loyal to the Throne, or they had been at least if only for the blood of Old Valyria both Houses carried in their veins. Though one of them was stronger.
"Waters should earn himself a knighthood in a contract or two if he makes it," Alliser informed them and said soon-to-be knight widened his eyes before smiling.
"I have an offer for you then," Oswell said, he trusted Alliser's word and well, he had to find someone. He needs not to be perfect, not at first, he would have years to develop his network and his skill, if he accepted.
"Ser?" Alton frowned.
"Your king needs a master of whisperers, Ser Alliser tells me you know how to read?" he asked and saw his eyes widen but he quickly composed himself.
"And write and count, ser,"
"Good, he also tells me you're smart, discreet and that you have some cunning to you,"
Alton shrugged, "I wouldn't know Ser, but I trust Ser Thorne's word,"
"Smart lad," Oswell smirked. "Do you accept?"
"Yes, Ser," Alton said without hesitation.
"Then it seems we have a lot to talk about,"
288 A.C
Starfall
For the umpteenth time in his new life, Aemon found himself seating on the floor of his bedroom, his purple eyes focused on a stuffed dragon that lay a few feet away from him.
"Accio!" he exclaimed as he moved his hands towards him rapidly.
Having to really on spoken words and movement to do magic was not something he had thought to be reduced at. Yet he was, after all, there was a reason why young wizards and witches learned with incantations and precise wand movements.
It helped to focus the mind on the task ahead. Sadly, unlike young witches and wizards, he did not have a wand.
The Deathstick remained out of reach, and he had no idea if it would even ever show up.
That was why he continued practicing magic, even if he had met nothing but failure. Even the slightest bit of magic could prove a major boon for what his plans were.
And to Aemon's surprise, it worked, and the stuffed dragon smacked him in the head as it flew to him.
"Ouch," he instinctively said before his eyes widened as the realization of what had happened hit him, shortly after the stuffed Balerion did.
"I did it!" he could not help but whoop in joy.
"Accio!" he tried again and one of the many books he had on his bedside table flew towards him and Aemon had to duck to avoid the same fate as before.
"Wingardium Leviosa!" he changed movements and the same book rose from the ground enough for Aemon to take it and open it to a random page.
'What changed?' he could not help but wonder. For years nothing he tried worked, and just like that, it seemed to work.
There was a knock on his door and he shut the book and turned, to find his mother entering his room with a beaming smile.
"Happy Nameday, my little dragon," she said and kissed his cheek as she hugged him.
Aemon's eyes widened, was it this that had changed? He had completely forgotten but today was his seventh nameday. He knew seven was a powerful and important number, well, it was not like it changed anything. He could finally do magic.
"There is something for you," she said and he quirked an eyebrow, "something your mother left for you when you were born,"
Once more his eyes widened as they broke the hug, "there is?" he asked with a smile.
It was a weird thing, to have three mothers. First, there had been Lily Potter, she had loved him so much that he had been protected against the worst dark lord in history. Then Lyanna Targaryen, who had not gotten to hold him for more than a few minutes before she passed. And finally, Ashara Dayne, the only one who had sort of raised him.
And though he loved them all, it was the last he found himself closest with, the only one he truly knew.
"Follow me," she offered, and he did.
"Happy nameday, your grace," Arthur said and ruffled his hair.
Aemon resisted the urge to groan, the knight abstained from using titles in everyday life, knowing how dire it could be if he used the wrong one at the wrong time. Still, despite his own wariness of titles, he knew he would have to get used to it.
Both followed Ashara, Arthur keeping his hand on the hilt of his sword, as always and the trio made their way through the castle until they arrived in one of the many dining rooms in the lower levels.
"Happy Nameday," his aunt, Ashara's sister exclaimed as she approached them, carrying little Edric in her arms. "Happy Nameday Aems,'"
"Thank you," he smiled as Alysanne kissed him on the cheek.
"We'll join you in a few minutes to break our fast," Ashara said and her sister nodded, understanding they had something to do on their own.
They got out of the room and once more both followed Ashara as she led them into one of the caves under the castle.
"You stored it there, sister?" Arthur asked.
"Where else?" she answered, "it's not like we know what's inside,"
Aemon frowned, what were they talking about?
They passed another door, this was the lowest he had ever gone inside the castle, the lower levels having been forbidden to him. Maybe this was the reason?
"This is for you Aemon," Arthur pointed towards a chest in the back of the room they were in, it was otherwise barren he realized as Arthur lit a few torches on the walls.
Aemon approached and he could not help but widen his eyes at the three-headed dragons carved into it. However, there were no locks, he could not even see where it was supposed to open.
"Neither of us could get it to open," Arthur said and Aemon almost lost his footing as took another step forward, it was faint, but the magic was there. No wonder they could not open it.
But could he?
Slowly his hands approached what he assumed was the lid and the left head of the dragon moved and cut through his palm, Aemon yelped, more in surprise than in pain.
There was a click and where the chest was sealed shut before, it opened and Aemon gasped.
An egg.
More specifically a dragon egg, there were other things too, letters, a wooden box, and a few books. But Aemon had eyes for only one thing.
The white dragon egg was speckled with lines of a deep red.
He heard both his mother and Arthur gasp as they moved to stand beside him.
Aemon gingerly picked it up and watched, almost in a trance as the blood dripping from his palm disappeared inside of it. He almost dropped it as he felt something move inside. It was warm too, warmer than any dragon egg ought to be considered they were all supposed to have turned to stone.
"It's alive…" he whispered, realizing what it meant, dragons were not gone. They were only waiting for someone to wake them.
For years he had wondered how he was supposed to find dragon eggs, making plans to visit the places that possibly held some. Summerhall, Dragonstone, Winterfell, the Red Keep, he was sure he could find others too. Though most of these places would require he was equipped with at least his wand.
But now he had one, one was not enough but it was a start. Though he would still need to figure out how to hatch them exactly. Given what he now knew of his ancestors' efforts to hatch the eggs, it would not be as simple as Hagrid had made it seem.
Both Ashara and Arthur gasped as their hands came to touch it, apparently they were feeling the life inside of it.
Almost regretfully, he handed it to Arthur to rummage through the chest.
"It's cold now," the knight observed, and Aemon frowned, before touching it, there was nothing wrong. "I can feel it again,"
So, they needed a Targaryen, or magic, or perhaps both.
Still, he went back to the chest and pulled out the small box, it had different dragons carved all over, some he recognized from the drawings in his books, Balerion, Syrax, Vhagar, Caraxes, Meraxes, and on and on it went. He opened it and could not prevent himself from gasping.
On a velvet cushion lay an intricated circlet which in and of itself had nothing special, except for the material it was built of, valyrian steel. The rippling effect of the light on it was all Aemon needed to know.
"Aegon's crown," he whispered.
He took it in his fingers and turned it around, examining the artifact that could in itself justify a claim to the Iron Throne, as had Blackfyre.
He refused to put it on though, while he had no desire to be king, he knew it was needed, but wearing such a crown had to be earned. Right now, he was not the king of much.
He passed it to his mother and grabbed the next object, a letter.
It was sealed with the Targaryen sigil, he broke the seal and unrolled it.
My Son, Aemon,
Rhaegar keeps telling me I will be having a daughter, but I know he is misgiven, I can feel it. Just as I can feel you will be perfect, which only deepens the sadness I feel. You are but a few hours from this world but I can feel my strength leaving me.
I can only hope I will get to see you grow to what you are meant to be, my son, but I must prepare for my family, our family, is right, Winter is coming.
I could only watch from afar as my disappearance began a war more terrible than I ever thought possible and I am left to wonder why. Rickard and Brandon should have received my letters before they even learned I was gone. Or at least one of the following ones. Eddard too was supposed to have received a letter, telling him I would not marry his 'brother by choice' as he calls that foul boy. Even he should know I was not kidnapped. My letter to him might have been only a sentence long, it was enough to make it clear how I feel. Not that any but your father cares for such a thing as my feelings.
Rhaegar and I married in front of the Old Gods on the Isle of Faces and in front of his gods in a small sept near Harrenhal. You will find everything you need to prove your claim in the chest prepared for you, it was supposed to be only another security to secure your father's rule but… Once I have deposited this letter inside, I will seal it shut and it will not open without you.
But make no mistake my sweet child, your father was wrong, the Iron Throne cannot be claimed by peace, only Fire & Blood can pay for it.
And I know you will be better than your father, than me, the best of both of us. I can only hope it will be enough to see you through, but know, that we will always love you, whether or not I survive to see you grow up, you make me proud already.
I love you, always,
Your loving mother,
Princess Lyanna Targaryen
Despite having long outgrown his need for a mother, he could not help the tear that escaped his eye and left it to roll down his cheek.
Still, the content of the letter was not lost on him.
After learning what had happened during the war that had seen Robert Baratheon ascend to the throne, he had gotten to ask more than his fair share of questions. Though he was not told of the details of the battles, he knew enough to ask the question why?
Sure, Aerys was mad, but how could his uncle, Brandon, go to King's Landing and be so stupid as to challenge the prince? How come he did not know why his sister had left?
Had she not informed them? If not before, then after? Apparently, she had, and it only made it more mysterious. Either they had received her letters and ignored them, or they had never received them at all.
He could only hope it was the second option because the first was so much worse.
Sadly, ravens were not exactly the most reliable of messengers, they could easily die on the way, either purposefully as it only took an arrow, or just in one of the many ways a raven could die naturally. But over four ravens failing?
His other uncle, Eddard, had been in the Vale at the time. The trip was much shorter, and so was Robert Baratheon. If anything they ought to have received word of what had truly happened.
They had not because once again, if they had, it was so much worse.
"What is it, Aemon?" His mother asked and he handed the letter to her.
He had no idea what it all meant but something was not right, he was missing something crucial to understand the bigger picture.
288 A.C
Starfall
Aemon's eyes snapped open, he rose to his feet and gagged as he breathed in. That was when he noticed the land around him.
It was one of desolation, the ground was littered with small craters, and to his surprise, the remains of muggle vehicles were destroyed but still there, unmistakable.
He approached slowly, not fully believing his eyes. What was it doing here? And where was there exactly?
Something was terribly wrong. He looked around once more, trying to find something, anything that could tell him what was happening. The more he did, the more he felt he was having a Deja vu.
But in what way? He could not remember but it was as if it was stuck on the tip of his tongue.
Still, it meant it was not real, although it felt so.
Suddenly he saw bright blue flashes and heard cracks all around as wizards and witches apparated in and portkeys were used to transport muggle weaponry and personnel, quickly forming into two separate armies.
And he remembered where he was.
Vancouver.
All at once, his memories came flooding back in. The Battle Of Vancouver had been the one he had seen his last friends fall and what little hope he had left.
For a moment nothing happened.
He tried to spot his former self and easily did so. Harry Potter was standing in the middle, his left hand now made of silver after it had been chopped off by a dark-cutting curse. He was easily spotted.
On his sides stood Neville Longbottom and Susan Bones.
His last two friends.
At the beginning of the war, Neville had been in a relationship with Hannah Abbot and Susan with a French wizard he had never learned the name of.
Needless to say, their respective companions had not made it long into the war. And the two had found comforts in each other arms.
He had envied them for that.
His love for Ginny had been too strong to simply fade away. Even as Aemon Targaryen he felt regrets whenever he lay his eyes on one of the drawings he had made.
Still, what had happened there had destroyed the last part of him that still cared.
He felt his body tense as he remembered what was going to happen and could only watch on as the two armies faced each other. Each made up of hundreds of wizards and thousands of muggles. Both had come with every weapon they could take with them and there was only a quarter of a mile separating them.
Someone yelled and a sickly purple light left the wand of one of the wizards on the opposite side, a scream of pain was heard as the target failed to avoid being hit and all hell broke loose.
At once the two sides began to sprint to each other and he heard the roars of a jet engine as two fighters jet zapped by but not without unloading two missiles each, heading straight for his enemies of once.
As he remembered, two struck true, destroying a tank but two others were stopped by a group of wizards each which redirected them toward the charging army.
The Battle of Vancouver had been the last of its kind and he knew they could be thankful for that. From then on the war had been fought discreetly, with small skirmishes here and there but not like that, and for good reason.
He saw the elder wand being rose and the two redirected missiles changed their paths and went back to crash into one more tank, stopping it dead in its tracks.
Aemon ducked on instinct when he saw a spell head his way but found he had nothing to fear as another one he had missed went right through his legs.
With a confident step, he began to make his way to where Harry was going to be in a few moments.
He passed through soldiers unloading their riffles on their enemies only to be felled by a sickly yellow curse as they began to gouge their eyes out and soon died horribly.
He did not need to step over the bodies of the fallen as they appeared immaterial and continued.
Thousands had died that day, given the numbers that Humanity had at the time it had been one of the biggest mistakes to have been made.
He advanced seeing more devastation than even his memories had accounted for.
Wizards, witches, and muggles alike lay injured and dead everywhere, some still fighting to breathe, but it would be hours before help came.
Finally, he arrived near Harry, Neville, and Susan.
They had taken position behind a carbonized tank and were on the defense of two distinct groups of wizards supported by a dozen soldiers that made sure to empty magazine upon magazine on the trio.
Just as he remembered, one of the enemy witches managed to push the tank and he heard a piercing scream as Susan was crushed by it.
Aemon closed his eyes, she had not deserved that. Despite the world they lived in, Susan was one of the few that could still see the hope at the end of the road.
A primal roar sounded and stopped the fighting as suddenly, a huge grizzly bear surged through and began to tear into his enemies while Harry tried to heal Susan.
To no avail and he could only watch on as the redhead breathed her last and a second later, a sickly yellow curse impacted the bear.
Neville's animagus was formidable but he was still a bear. While the blood-boiling curse made its way through him, he still had the force to take one last swipe with his huge claws and beheaded the wizard that had just cursed him and fell, slowly transforming back to his human form and Aemon could not nothing but watch as his last friend breathed his last.
He felt a tear roll down his cheek, Neville too had deserved better.
But no matter how hard he tried he could not remember what had happened next and so, he carefully watched his former self and could only widen his eyes as he saw Harry rise from the smoking carcass of the tank, the elder wand pointed to the sky and in one slash, brought it down and with it the largest bolt of lightning he had ever seen.
The blinding flash forced him to shield his eyes and when he opened them could only witness the utter destruction he had brought. A wide but shallow crater had formed where the bolt stroked, annihilating the squadron that had been responsible for Neville's death.
Harry was not done however, his face was contorted by rage and the magic he used reflected that.
As soon as he could see again, Harry went on the offensive, dealing killing blow after killing blow and uncaring of the screams of those that fell to his wand.
Aemon followed but felt his steps falter and his vision began to darken until he began tumbling down in a dark-as-night space, seemingly unending.
His arms were flailing around, trying to catch onto something, anything to break his fall, until he slammed face-first into the ground and his world went black.
Aemon's eyes snapped open and he instinctively reach for a wand that was not there.
His dream, or more like his nightmare, had left him breathless.
It took him a few moments to situate himself. Over a year had passed since he had a dream so vivid, he remembered the battles they had gotten into. The price they had demanded.
Aemon splashed his face with the water in the basin next to his bed and finally managed to regain control of his breathing.
It was hot in his room, hotter than what he had gotten used to in Dorne, which was saying something.
But that was easily explained by the continuously lit fire. Why Starfall even had fireplaces, he did not know but such was the case.
For moons, it had been lit, and nothing had changed.
The egg did not bulge, nor did it crack.
It stood defiantly, its red-speckled white scales unfazed by the fire and it almost felt like it was throwing a challenge to Aemon.
The only thing that changed was the unusual amount of wood they got themselves delivered. Aemon knew it must have raised more than one eyebrow to see a Dornish castle order such a quantity of wood. It was not usually the region that needed to warm its keeps.
Even with the incredibly long seasons, they seemed to be having in this world. Aemon guessed it was another thing that had to do with magic, how else could one explain a spring or a summer that lasted for years?
Still, the wood held a purpose.
Ever since he had discovered the egg, he had made sure it was always hot. Either seating in the middle of a roaring fire or on red embers.
It changed nothing, the egg still felt alive, and he could still feel the warmth emanating from it. And Aemon found himself being able to touch it even after it had been in the middle of flames for hours.
Neither did feeding it his blood, but he kept doing it as well, it felt right somehow and his instinct was reinforced by the words of his House.
Maybe the key was there.
It did not seem to hurt it at the very least.
Still, between tending to the fire, training with Arthur, and learning about Westeros, his days were full.
But the chest had not been the only surprise he got for his latest name day, when he had gone back to his chamber that same night, it had been to find a certain silvery smooth cloak.
He had almost dropped the chest in his surprise.
The cloak of invisibility.
The one and only, certainly not one imbued with a disillusionment charm or one woven from Demiguise hair, but the one gifted by Death herself to his ancestor, Ignotus Peverell.
Though it was not the most useful of hallows to someone in his position, its apparition after seven years had come as a relief.
Death had not deceived him, not that he could understand why she would have.
The only and best theory he could come up with was that the other deathly hallows would appear in the future, likely on a nameday of particular importance but which?
One and ten was an important nameday for any young witch or wizard, but was it significant in any other way? Aemon knew not, he had never heard of it mentioned as one of the powerful numbers.
Three and ten though, was a magically potent number, in perhaps every culture back on Earth, it meant something, whether muggle or magical. It stood to reason it did so here as well.
The only other he knew of would be seven and ten, the age at which one became an adult, but more importantly, it was when witches and wizards hit magical maturity. An age at which their powers had finally stopped growing.
Otherwise, multiples of seven could also be counted as powerful numbers but it decreased with each multiplication.
That only meant he would have to wait, perhaps the wand would show up in four, seven, or ten years, in all cases he hoped it appeared before the stone.
The more he thought about it, the more he was reassured in his belief that using the stone should always be a last resort solution. Ginny had been visibly hurting after only a few minutes on a different plane, and she had been summoned by Death herself. It was likely he would not even be able to summon souls of his past life, well only trying would tell him that, but one did not play with matters of the soul without consequences. No, souls were better left alone, but he was also aware enough to know he might not have a choice in the future.
288 A.C
Starfall
"Thank you, Alanis," Aemon said as the healer tightened the bandage on his forearm.
"My pleasure, my lord," the olive-skinned man answered, "though I would hope you stopped having so many incidents,"
At that moment, Aemon wished he had the elder wand, it was evident the healer knew something was up, that he did not believe his excuses for the many cuts he had to heal.
Sadly, there was no other way and he was not about to stop feeding the egg.
"Aemon," his mother entered the quarters of the healer, "again?" she sighed as she observed the freshly replaced bandage, and he could only offer her a tentative smile.
She had made no secret of her displeasure, and as much as he had come to love her, Aemon had simply continued. Having a dragon was primordial to the success of everything he was supposed to achieve to earn his afterlife.
"If you still wish to, we can go now," she said, changing subject easily and he could not help his smile as he nodded eagerly.
His mother had recently offered to teach him about her religion.
Though she had never broached the subject before, Aemon had known the subject of religion was a contentious matter in the Dayne household. Both Arthur and Alysanne followed the Faith of the Seven, while their sister followed the Old Gods. But none seemed to be particularly devout people and so his religious education had so far been limited, not that he particularly minded.
Still, he was curious, his birth mother's family followed the Old Gods as well, as did most of the northern kingdom, but few books talked of them more than in passing.
It was also easy to see the stigma the old religion carried in the eyes of the maesters writing the books he read. As most saw the Northmen as savages, heathens, only for the gods they followed.
While Aemon was not one to pray nor to follow gods, he easily knew which faith he preferred, given only one was not visibly disparaging the other nor was she taking advantage of the smallfolk who trusted the institution.
As far as he could tell anyway, it was why he needed someone that knew the religion to teach him more about it.
After all, as much as he might despise the concept of religions, Aemon was not foolish enough to ignore them, not when they had this much power over the people's lives.
"We'll take the horses," Ashara smiled back and Aemon followed, the Sword of the Morning only a few steps behind as they made their way out of the castle.
They soon reached the wooden bridge that led to the western shore of the Torentine where the stables stood.
Three sand steeds waited for them, including the black one her mother had gifted him for his sixth nameday.
She had been the one to teach him how to ride, something he had never done before, and something he found he enjoyed greatly.
It reminded Aemon of times that seemed ancient now, when he had rode Buckbeak over the Forbidden Forest and the Black Lake when he had freed Sirius with the hippogriff, and also when they had flown to the ministry to save his godfather on thestrals.
Even on the latter occasion, things had been much simpler back then.
Still, there was nothing for it and he keenly observed his surroundings as they rode next to the Torentine, heading north.
Unlike much of what he had learned Dorne looked like, the banks of the Torentine were lush and green, the river giving life to the entire area, most was planted, with fruit trees that were feeding a large part of the kingdom and a large source of revenue for House Dayne.
It took them another ten minutes ride to reach the woodland that was barely seeable from the castle, it was the first time he ventured this far from it.
"Let's dismount, we'll continue on foot," his mother told them and they followed, quickly tying the horses to a few low branches.
Ever since they had left Starfall, Arthur's hand had not left the hilt of his sword, and it seemed he only tightened his hold on it the more they got away from the castle's protection.
His mother soon led them into the woods, going deeper and deeper, seemingly perfectly aware of what path she was taking. And Aemon's curiosity only grew, had the followers of the Old Gods left temples and ruins as the old religions of Earth had?
Finally, they reached a clearing and he could not withhold his gasp at the sight offered.
A tall white tree with blood-red leaves, a weirwood tree. But what attracted his attention was not the unusual coloring, nor the carved face, clearly looking at something above, its mouth wide open in what appeared to be awe. No, it was the magic he felt, it was without a doubt the strongest magic he had felt since arriving in this world.
Almost as if in a trance, he slowly approached, his hand extended towards the white bark of the tree.
Before he could touch the weirwood, he snapped out of his trance as he realized the tree actually wanted him to touch it.
At that moment he was reminded of a lesson he had learned years ago, never touch anything that wants something, certainly not without protection. Even more so when you could not see where it stored its brain.
None of the books he read mentioned that aspect of the tree, that it was sentient, though it was said none had ever grown south of the red mountains. And given that the Andal invasion had seen weirwood trees being cut down all the way to the Neck, Aemon had thought it would take years for him to encounter one.
It seemed he had been wrong, not that he minded that much.
And though the books lacked detail, he had always thought the trees would be bigger, taller. Not that it was a small tree, but Aemon had expected it would tower over the rest of the woodland.
"There are rules to abide by in the presence of a heart tree, Aemon," his mother said, interrupting his thoughts and he raised an eyebrow, 'rules?'
"They're the eyes and ears through which the Old Gods witness the happenings of the mortal world, to lie in front of one is to forfeit your life to the gods,"
Aemon rose his eyebrows in surprise, as well as in disbelief, it was not his place to criticize the beliefs of an entire people, but he firmly doubted that this was true. Even if the gods truly existed, which was already a large step away from his usual belief system, still Aemon kept silent.
"I thought none grew in Dorne?" he could not help but ask.
"It is the only one," she confirmed with a smile, "but compared to the ones on the Isle of Faces, it looks like a child, even though it has been here for at least as many years as House Dayne if not more,"
Aemon's eyes widened at this, House Dayne had supposedly come to Westeros among the first of First Men, and considering the expression of the carved face, he could only guess it was looking at the star that the Daynes believed to have fallen where Starfall now stood.
Though none of it was verifiable, he found himself inclined to believe, after all, legends often held some truth to them.
"You said rules?" he asked.
"Never harm a weirwood tree, you understand?" His mother said, this time looking deadly serious, and Aemon nodded. "You would curse your soul,"
Unlike being struck down by gods for lying, he knew well enough that it was possible to curse one's soul. Especially with acts that went against the natural order and given the magic he felt from the tree, Aemon could not help but think that to hurt one might enter the category of acts one should never engage in.
Aemon could only watch as his mother knelt before the weirwood tree, her lips moving without making a sound, and so, he stayed silent as she prayed.
He hesitated before copying her, it could do no harm he thought, and it had been the religion followed by Lyanna, Daemon likely believed in the old gods as well. At the very least it was a way to connect with the other side of his ancestry for he was as much of a Stark as he was a Targaryen, even if he only carried the latter name.
He prayed for the safety of his family, that they would live long enough for him to get to them. Whether it would help or not, Aemon ignored it, but it could not hurt.
Once Ashara's lips stopped moving, she opened her eyes and he immediately found himself under her gaze.
Once more admiring her beauty, it was no wonder Ser Oswell rarely let her leave his sight when he came back from his trips. And she was as gentle and loving as she was beautiful, and he could only hope Daemon also had someone to rely on, for it was much more important for his brother's development.
"Can you tell me more about them?" he asked, though he had hardly broached the subject since his nameday, Aemon still felt the need to know of his family. "My parents?"
She gave him a sad smile, "I only met Lyanna once, at Harrenhal, a tournament," she explained seeing his raised eyebrows, "Well, I saw her a few times there, but the first time she was standing up to squires that were beating up one of her father's bannermen, Howland Reed,"
Aemon did his best to conceal his reaction at hearing the last name, he was the man accompanying his uncle back North. He had not heard the name in over seven years.
"Did she?" he asked.
"She did," she confirmed with a smile, and Aemon gave one of his own, happy to learn his birth mother despised bullies as much as he did. "You should have seen her, three boys at least twice her weight, they were down in less time than it takes to say 'Targaryen'," Ashara chuckled.
"There was also the knight of the laughing tree matter, your grace," Arthur reminded his presence to them.
Aemon resisted the urge to sigh at the use of the title, while he knew the knight was right in saying he needed to get used to it, it did not mean he would ever enjoy it. And Aemon counted himself lucky that he was only called that when they were alone.
"The knight of the laughing tree?" he asked, having never heard of it.
"During the tournament at Harrenhal, after your mother saved the Crannogman, the three knights whose squires had assaulted him were challenged by a most singular knight, your grace," Arthur said with a rare smile, "They were beaten, easily, the knight demanded the squires to be taught a lesson, your father Rhaegar was ordered by his father to find the knight of the laughing tree and bring him back,"
"He never did," Ashara completed with a smile.
"No, he did not," Arthur said, it was obvious to Aemon both fondly remembered those times, when things were easier, "though we did find him, or rather her, the Prince only brought her shield back, one adorned with a weirwood tree carved with a laughing face,"
Aemon smiled, he had already guessed where the story was going but it did not mean he did not enjoy learning more.
"Is that how they met?" he could not help but ask.
"It is," Ashara confirmed. "I believe your father was impressed with your mother's skill but Arthur was always closer to Rhaegar than I ever was,"
"We all were, your grace, while the knights she defeated were nothing special, she was barely over six and ten, and already far more skilled than many I have seen,"
"How was he?"
"The crown prince was a good man, an excellent swordsman, intelligent, perhaps too much for his own good…"
"What do you mean?" Aemon frowned.
"Your father carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, ever since he was a boy," Arthur began, "like you, he learned to read young, though not as young, and from that moment on he always had a book in hand, devouring knowledge, until one day, he read something, though he never spoke of it, and it changed him. He requested a sword and armor and from that moment on, he could be found in the training yard, practicing with his father's kingsguard,"
"He never spoke of it?" He could not help but think there was more to it, what could change a child so much?
"Never, your grace," Arthur shook his head, "the crowned prince was a melancholic man and he seldom let others enter his thoughts, even the princess,"
"My mother?" Aemon asked for clarification.
"With both your mother and princess Elia, your grace," Arthur smiled sadly, "if I am truthful, I do not know if the prince could be truly happy,"
Aemon could remember a time when he had been much like what his kingsguard told of the kind of man his father was.
The brooding type.
Though it had passed him, he could easily remember the times were everything seemed to be so bleak, if only he had known…
Sadly, brooding served no purpose, it made nothing better. It was better to focus on actually solving the issue, but it was not as easy as it seemed. And visibly, Rhaegar Targaryen had never found the strength to pull out of his funk.
Maybe no one had ever managed to pull him out, if Aemon was honest with himself, the only reason he had managed to overcome his own had been because of his friends. Because Ron and Hermione would simply not leave him alone.
While Arthur and his father might have been close, one was a kingsguard and the other was a prince.
There would always be a distance, much like there was in his relationship with the knight.
Arthur simply never let his guard down, he had left the side of 'raising' him to his sister while he focused on protecting and then training him.
"Come, Aemon, let's get back," his mother pulled him out of his thoughts and he acquiesced before retreating into the woods.
289 A.C
King's Landing
The stench was worsening by the day.
Just the day before, they had been returning from yet another royal hunt, and the disgusting smell overtook their group miles before they set foot in King's Landing.
At one point, the wind blowing through the Blackwater Bay made it even worse and many had to cover their faces with soaked tissues.
Yet, Barristan bore it, showing as little of his discomfort as he had led the Usurper and his party through the streets of the capital.
While at the beginning of his reign, almost eight years ago, the crowds had clamored for Robert Baratheon, they no longer did. Aerys might have been mad, but he was not a bad king, the best proof of it was perhaps the royal treasury. Even at the height of his madness, gold had been flowing in steadily and before he had left King's Landing for the Trident, there had been over a million gold dragons safely stored away.
It was all but gone now, Barristan knew, he had been asked to go down where it used to be just last moon. There was nothing left of it but for paintings and tapestries which would no doubt end up being sold at some point.
His heart ached at the thought of selling the remnants of the Targaryens to fund the King's whoring and feasting.
Though he was seldom allowed on the small council's meeting, the dismissal of the previous master of coin and the invitation of a new one, a certain Petyr Baelish, a bannerman of the hand, certainly told a tale. One of mismanaged and misspent coins. So much so that the Crown was already indebted to the Lannisters and the Iron Bank, for several millions of gold dragons.
But Barristan bore it all knowing that one day it would change.
When Ser Oswell had been here last time he had shared tales of the young king's exploits, of his talent with a blade, and of his deep interest in books.
It soothed his tired bones to know it was not all for nothing.
Though some might have qualified spying as dishonorable, Barristan knew the context mattered and besides, he had not even sworn a full kingsguard vow.
Still, for once he had been summoned to the small council meeting chambers, and to his surprise, the Usurper had showed up, something that had perhaps not happened since his coronation.
"Well, don't waste my time, tell me why it's so important I assist," Robert Baratheon reminded himself to everyone, though none could forget him, given the sheer space he took. It was a far cry from the demon of the Trident.
"Your grace," the hand began, "I wanted to introduce our new master of coin, Lord Petyr Baelish of the Fingers,"
Robert chuckled as he gulped his cup, "I remember you, Littlefinger isn't it? You're that lad who challenged Brandon Stark for Ned's wife,"
Though the king laughed, he was the only one to do so. Lord Varys, as usual, kept a blank face and guarded his emotions well, as did Stannis, the master of ships. Kevan Lannister, the master of laws did a worse job of hiding his disdain, though except for Varys and him, it went unnoticed as he masked it quickly. But they all knew that it was unwise to start making an enemy of a man who had risen from so low so fast.
The Fingers were a small and barren region of the Vale, a place where none could rise high, not as high as a position on the small council anyway. Yet, Petyr Baelish had. From lord of an insignificant keep, to master of customs in Gulltown, a position that essentially made him the one in charge of trade for the whole kingdom considering how isolated it was. And finally, to master of coin, and all of that in just a few years.
It was impressive, and also something to be wary of.
Barristan could see the stag had gotten under the skin of Baelish, but he too remembered this, still, the master of coin did an admirable job of masking his annoyance.
"Indeed, your grace, and I carry a reminder of my juvenile arrogance to this day," Baelish answered, tracing a line from his hip to his collarbone, where Barristan assumed the scar ran.
He had been lucky to survive such a wound.
"Jon, I swear if you've asked me to attend for this…"
"Patience, your grace, please,"
Barristan withheld his sigh, it was pathetic.
"Onto other matters," Jon Arryn continued as it seemed the King relented, "we've received words of large swaths of woodland going amiss in the Riverlands,"
Barristan perked up, this was potentially interesting and added to the information he was already gathering.
"Woodlands?" Baratheon thundered, "You think I care about fucking trees? I thought you had news about the dragonspawns running in Essos!" he smacked his cup on the table, spilling most of its contents and Barristan was glad he was relegated to the other end of it.
Still, word was that the raids from the Ironborns had been decreasing dramatically in the past moons. Something that would be a matter of joy for many, he had no doubt, though they should not be so quick to celebrate.
Ironborns rave and pillage, such is their way, it has been for thousands of years and it would continue to be so for just as many, if not more.
Usually, it was inconsequential enough that they were left to petty lords to deal with. To varying degrees of success.
As such, learning that they were stopping only caused him to worry. There had to be a reason. And there was only one he could imagine would justify a pause for the Ironborns.
Preparation for something big. A rebellion? He questioned himself, it would be foolish. While the squids caused worry on the local scale, not since Aegon's Conquest and the death of Harren the Black had they been in any position to pause a real threat to the entirety of Westeros.
Still, even if they did, he would not be the one to inform the Stag of this for Barristan had a king of his own that needed warning to plan accordingly.
289 A.C
Starfall
Things had seen little change in the past year.
Aemon still spent his time training, either his magic or his swordsmanship, learning new things, and taking care of the dragon egg.
The egg received daily doses of his blood, though it had had little effect. But Aemon could tell he was right to do so given how the egg reacted to it, almost humming at each feeding.
Still, it showed no sign of hatching. He knew he was missing something, some crucial piece of information that would let him hatch it. But what that was? He had no idea, none of the books in Starfall's library contained any mention of it. Though he would have been surprised if they did, knowing to what length his ancestor had gone to hatch eggs of their own.
No, there was something he was missing and the only place he could possibly learn of it was both far and close.
The Citadel, the center of learning and knowledge of this world. Located in Oldtown, barely a sennight worth of travel by ship, much longer by the road. The only problem was his age, at only eight namedays, neither Arthur nor his mother would agree to go, not for a few years at least.
Apparating had never seemed more like a better option, but he knew that doing so would be even more foolish.
Doing so without having already been to the destination was the perfect recipe to splinch himself, and without a wand, it was almost as good as a death sentence depending on which part he left behind.
"There is one person that might know,"
Aemon was startled as Arthur interrupted his thoughts.
"What?" he could not help but ask.
"Your father often corresponded with Maester Aemon,"
"Who?" he asked, why was he only learning of this? And who was this man who bore the same name as he?
"Maester Aemon Targaryen, your great-great-great uncle, your father and he exchanged letters regularly for years, though I know not what they discussed, I know Rhaegar always eagerly awaited a response,"
Aemon frowned, "Maester Aemon Targaryen is alive?" he had read of him before, "but he must be…"
"Over ninety namedays," Arthur nodded with a sad smile, "it has been years, he may have passed…"
It was, ninety namedays as a wizard was not shocking age. Dumbledore had been over one hundred and fifteen at the time of his death, and had it not been for the curse he could have lived decades longer. He could still remember Griselda Marchbanks, his Owls' examinator, who had also given his examination to Dumbledore. The witch must have been closing in on two hundred, and she had been as sharp as he guessed she ever was. Though he had no idea what had happened to her, he did not doubt that if the world had not gone to hell, she would have lived many more years.
But Aemon Targaryen was not a wizard, it was undoubtedly he possessed some magic, but not enough to qualify as a fully-fledged wizard. Ninety was not an age most ever came close to in Westeros or Essos. Life was hard, especially for the smallfolk, but even for the lords and ladies when he compared it to how life was for the average muggle on Earth back in the early 2000s.
Here, if people reached sixty or seventy it was already considered to be extremely long-lived.
"He's still at the Wall?"
"He was eight years ago, he's never left, he knows you live but nothing else,"
There and then, Aemon knew he had to write to him, only to verify the oldest member of his family still lived. And hopefully, he would have an answer.
"There is something else, your grace," Arthur said and Aemon knew the knight meant to broach an important subject when he used his title. "The Lannister fleet has been burned by the Ironborns, almost entirely,"
"How?" Aemon raised his eyebrows in surprise when Ser Barristan had informed them the Ironborn were preparing something big, they had theorized on what, where, and when.
But none of their estimates had accounted for something so bold, that had apparently worked. He could not help the small smile on his face, knowing it was the Lannisters who had sacked King's Landing.
"They came into the night, broke Lannisport defenses with sheer numbers, and set alight the Lannister Fleet, it is said Euron Greyjoy led this attack,"
Aemon nodded, while he was not familiar with the Greyjoys anymore than to know they led the Ironborns, it was not important. What was important was the fact that the Lannisters would need years to rebuild their fleet.
"There are also reports of countless raids on the shores of the Westerlands and of the Reach,"
This did not make him smile however, while he enjoyed learning of the Lannisters' suffering, it was not them that paid the price of the Ironborns' ambitions.
"The royal and Redwyne fleets are undamaged?" he asked and the lord commander of his reduced kingsguard nodded.
Then the Ironborns were screwed, if only they had waited a few more years, perhaps he could have taken advantage of it, but it was not to be. And it would only strengthen Robert Baratheon's rule.
289 A.C
The Wall
Ice and snow had replaced the words he was most familiar with a long time ago.
So long in fact, that it sometimes seemed like he had lived several lives. One as a prince of the Crown, another as a student at the Citadel, and one at the northernmost point of the Seven Kingdoms, aiding to guard the realm of men.
And yet, despite the extreme cold, despite the despair that reigned at the Wall, he had always had hope.
Until the news of Rhaegar's defeat and his family's fall had reached him of course. For moons, he had waited, to see either a direwolf or a stag on the horizon, coming to claim his life for his family's crimes. But they had not come, eight years had passed, and no one had.
He could only guess most had forgotten about him and only the hope that his family had survived managed to sustain his will to live. And even then, it had been years since word of them had reached this far North.
To think his family had fallen so low that its last surviving members were children and an old maester living at the literal end of the world.
"Maester Aemon," his steward interrupted his morbid thoughts. "A letter for you,"
"Thank you Clydas, I will read it later,"
"I think you should look now, maester, it carries your house's sigil,"
Aemon's eyes widened, had he heard right? He gestured for the younger man to bring it to him and gasped as he did.
The three-headed dragon stood on the seal as if all was normal.
His fingers trembling, he broke the seal off and began reading.
Dear Great Uncle,
First of all, I would like to apologize for taking so many years to contact you, I only recently learned of my heritage.
But I can only express my relief at finding out our family is not as reduced as I thought. And so, I write with the hope that you still hold your vows.
For obvious reasons, I shall silence my own name except for the fact that my father was greatly inspired by the letters you exchanged.
In these turbulent times, I write to you, not as a mere correspondence, but in the hope to bring solace to a Dragon alone in the world, for I know you must have been waiting for my letter.
Our shared heritage has already manifested itself to me, though how to make it bloom remains a mystery. As such, I also write to you to ask for advice, in the hope that Fire can be brought back to the Realm once more and that you can find in it, as I do, the spark that will end the darkness, the hope that the Blood of our enemies can wash their crimes against our own.
I am surrounded by allies, ones who carry the dawn of our House on their shoulders. And I also write to you in the hope of finding an ally, even one bonded by many oaths.
Yours in kinship,
A.T
Aemon felt tears roll down his cheeks and made no effort to stop them. Finally, his many times' removed nephew had contacted him.
For so many years, he waited, knowing a son of Rhaegar lived and yet completely blind to his life. He had had no idea how to even contact this young Targaryen. And so, Aemon was left to wait, until this very day.
And he could only feel relief at knowing his relative was supported by one of the greatest knights who had ever lived. If Ser Arthur Dayne survived, then it was also likely he was not alone and it only raised the old maester's feelings.
He could not help but feel his heart soar like it had not in many years at understanding the boy carried his name.
Still, it appeared like his nephew needed his help. If Aemon understood what he was saying, his namesake had obtained an egg and he now sought to hatch it.
Immediately, he grabbed a roll of parchment and dipped his quill in ink, maybe some good would come from his exile at the Wall. For in his many years here, he had read books and scrolls not even found in the Citadel, texts thought lost to time.
The secret was in the words of their family, but it was not the only thing, every piece of magic of the Dragonlords of old relied on a crucial piece, sacrifice. For only Death may pay for Life.
288 A.C
Volantis
Her Lord had been most insistent, in fact, Kinvara could say for sure he had never been so.
Most of His requests came in that form, requests, her Lord was never one to demand, but her devotion was such that simple requests became instructions to be followed, to make sure her Lord's will and word were adhered to by as many as possible.
She could still remember the day she had joined the Red Temple, so many years ago. Like most who did, it had not been of her own volition.
But never had she regretted it.
Not since her Lord had shown her destiny, what her purpose in this world was and how she would best serve him.
Decades had passed, if she was honest with herself, she had lost count of how many.
She had waited, patient and convinced that what the flames had shown her would one day come to pass.
His Chosen would rise and would bring the Dawn.
And he would need her help to do so, she had bided her time and spent decades spreading her Lord's word and influence, every day converting new followers to His will.
Not once had she questioned his word, not once had she doubted his power and in the future he had shown her.
And her dedication had been rewarded, when for all the others, the flame became inanimate, for her it did not.
He had shown her, what was required, the many trials she would have to endure to finally stand at the side of his Chosen.
R'hllor had shown her that the time for the prophecy to come true was neigh.
Her Lord's will was now for her to follow the path of the Dragonlords of old.
And as she had for the many years spent in her Lord's service, Kinvara set out to see his vision realized.
