Apologies for the delay, here is chapter fourteen
As always I own nothing,
295 A.C
King's Landing
"Thank you, lad'," the old man squeezed his hand with surprising strength, "you don't know how much relief you bring to these old bones,"
"I hope you and your wife enjoy the Reach, sir," Aemon answered with an easy smile. "And may the Seven watch over you,"
"And over you as well, young man, farewell," both elderlies gave him a beaming smile as he closed the door behind them, with a quick tap of his wand, it was locked and Aemon turned to face his companions.
"Well?" he raised an eyebrow.
"Well chosen, Aemon," Oswell answered, "the streets around are narrow enough that we can make a quick escape to the docks,"
Aemon smiled and nodded, Arthur had been insistent they find one in such a location and though he could apparate and disapparate at will, the same could not be said for his children.
Apparition was far too unstable to try with such a magical object, he simply could not risk it, and making another trunk would take too much of his already limited time.
The manse had been pricey, but still, he had not bothered negotiating. It was unlikely he would find another large manse in the area near the River Row. It resulted in a rather fishy smell, not the most comfortable but it was still better than the stench that otherwise permeated the city.
It was even worse than it had been described to him, and both Arthur and Oswell had confirmed it had only gotten worse over the years.
The little that he had seen of the capital had only confirmed it. Malnourished children ran everywhere, most probably abandoned or orphans and the sheer number of beggars was overwhelming. To think that the king was supposed to rule over the city filled him with nothing but disgust for Robert Baratheon. What kind of man let the situation get this bad when they had the power to do something?
To be fair, his ancestors had done no better.
"Make sure they leave the city without spreading rumors," Aemon instructed the two knights and they both nodded. While walking the streets of the capital for the first time, they made sure to remain as unrecognizable as possible. Each of his guards had had their body hair change color, and Aemon had even modified his purple eyes to familiar green ones.
Much like Oldtown, King's Landing was a literal spy nest, one could never be sure they weren't being overheard. Well, by the time he was done protecting this manse, it would be safe inside, still, none would refer to him by his title while in King's Landing, it was simply too dangerous.
"Let's get settled," Aemon said to his kingsguards and pulled out his messenger book, needing to get a message to his spymaster.
It would be useful to know more about the situation in the city and how his investigation was going. Thankfully, the couple had left a quill and the pot of ink they had used to sign the selling agreement.
No doubt Alton would respond quickly.
It was also bound to be a good time for him to investigate who was stealing from the crown, his master of whisperers had kept him updated on his findings, ones that had posed quite a few challenges. But the arrival of lords, knights, and commoners would distract the city, and the guard, hopefully enough for them to conduct their business inconspicuously.
As he had come to learn from Brienne, the king was hosting a tourney in honor of his heir's tenth nameday. Well, the reason mattered little, especially when one considered the sheer number of tourneys that had been held in the past fifteen years, it seemed Robert Baratheon needed little reason to host one.
But it had been the reason for Brienne coming to the city, to take part in the melee. Many knights and fighters would be coming from all of the Seven Kingdoms to try their hands at the lavish prize money. Though the impressive warrior from Tarth had little regard for the gold, no she sought the king's favor, to grant her what she had always dreamed of, knighthood.
All four of his companions were adamant she would not be getting what she sought. While they all agreed she was knight material, the bias against women was strong and few would agree with the fact that she deserved it.
Still, in Aemon's eyes, there was no doubt she was worthy, for her fighting ability, but also for what she stood for.
It had been easy to see she was the honorable sort, the kind of knight that would truly stand for those unable to defend themselves.
But as with most things in the Seven Kingdoms, it was not enough. Apparently, like learning, wielding a sword also required a cock.
Aemon was confident that Brienne would prove the opposite was far truer, but that did not mean it would get her the knighthood she wanted.
Still, the tourney was a fortnight away and he still had to get settled in.
The manse in question was very different from what he had seen in this world and reminded him of the houses he had seen in Mediterranean countries, riads if he remembered correctly.
The whole building was organized around a large patio, in which fruit trees grew, though instead of lemons and clementines, it was mostly apples that grew here. A fountain stood in the middle, one that had immediately attracted his eyes, mainly for the three stone dragons from which the water was coming off, replacing their natural flames.
The rest of the stonework continued in the same tone, depicting scenes in which the dragons were the main protagonists. The craftsmanship was exquisite.
It was one of the things he guessed were common when Targaryens ruled the realm, but that had become increasingly rare as the Baratheon dynasty prospered.
Large, colorful flowers also covered the interior walls of the patio and filled his nostrils with a pleasant scent that contrasted heavily with both the fishy scent of the harbor and the general stench of the capital. It was obvious his predecessors had taken great care of the place.
Having this manse at his disposal also allowed Aemon to apparate in and out of the city, even say, during a siege.
It would certainly assist in taking the city with minimal bloodshed.
Still, he had a lot to accomplish before that came.
King's Landing
295 A.C
"Point me, Alton Waters," Aemon whispered with his wand resting in the palm of his hand, the wand turned, before it stopped, indicating no direction whatsoever. And Aemon sighed before sheathing his wand back in its holster.
"Come on, let's keep going," he urged his guards on, and they slowly left the district of Vysenia's hill. The area around the Great Sept of Baelor had proven as fruitless in his efforts to find his missing spymaster as the street of silk or Aegon's hill where stood the Red Keep.
It was the limit of the locator charm, it could only point to something relatively close.
"You know it's likely…" Arthur tried and Aemon nodded, he did not need to be reminded it was very much possible his spymaster had been discovered, and if he had been killed, then the point-me charm would also prove useless.
"We still have to try," he replied, clenching his jaw.
They had been in the capital for a sennight, and outside settling in, training, and visiting his children, he had done little else. But seven days were all he was willing to wait for his master of whisperers to come forward. Only he had not, and for the past two days, they had been looking for proof of where he might have gone, and of what could have happened to him.
They arrived quickly on the street of the sisters and Aemon tried once more, unsuccessfully, and barely half an hour later, the group was standing beneath the massive ruin that was the Dragonpit.
It was truly impressive, it had massive walls that were hundreds of feet high, and just as massive bronze doors. It was simply huge, it had to be to house dragons, but it was also wrong. The whole thing felt completely unnatural.
Dragons were not meant to be caged.
Mayhap the maesters were right and it had impeded their growth, or mayhap it was a lie they had spread to hide their actions, in any way, once he took the city, he knew one of his first acts would be to have the Dragonpit torn down. Where he would house his children was still in question, but one thing was sure, he would not imprison them.
"Point me, Alton Waters," he tried once more, and unsurprisingly, it was met with failure and he sighed.
"We must consider him dead, Aemon," Oswell squeezed his shoulder.
"Fuck," he swore, his kingsguard was right, or he had left the city, which was arguably worse, as it would mean he had betrayed them. But more than that, if Alton was truly dead, then the spy network he had painstakingly created over the past decade was all but gone.
"Can't you locate that book of yours?" Arthur tried, and Aemon widened his eyes, feeling the urge to smack himself.
"Point me messenger book," he tried and smiled as the wand seemed to find what he was looking for, before stopping, pointing toward his own pockets. "Right, of course," he mumbled, magic could be picky at times, "Point me to Alton's messenger book,"
The elder wand spun and spun, until it stopped, pointing southeast.
"Flea bottom," Arthur concluded.
"Or the Red Keep," Oswell reminded them and Aemon narrowed his eyes, Alton's investigation had been rather sensible, and likely to involve very important men. They would have to be to dare embezzle their king. It was probable one such man resided in the Red Keep itself.
"We'll try Flea Bottom first," Aemon chose, it would be easier if it was there instead of the royal palace.
If anything, the stench in Flea Bottom was overwhelming, Aemon thought as they walked the narrow and filthy streets of the poorest district of the capital. It was truly the worst of it, and Aemon could not help but feel pity for the many who were forced to live here.
If he was honest with himself, he was disappointed in all of his ancestors for having let the problem grow to such a size.
King's Landing had never benefitted from proper city planning, it had simply grown on its own, and seated high above in the Red Keep, the Targaryens had not seen the problem for what it was.
But the situation in Flea Bottom was the source of many problems for the rest of the capital, epidemies had spread from there all the way to the Red Keep and the richest districts, it was also a true nesting ground for rebellious ideas.
The only way he could see to fix the issue would be to destroy the entire area and rebuild, though it was easier said than done, that would mean relocating the tens of thousands of people living here, a truly massive project for any king. And one that none had dared to tackle.
Still, solving the many issues that plagued the capital was not why he was currently there, walking under heavy escort.
While in the rest of King's Landing, Sers Jaremy and Roland stayed at a distance, Arthur had insisted they not leave his side while in Flea Bottom. Being the poorest district also meant it had the most crime.
His wand was held loosely by his side, only there to make sure they were following the right direction and finally, they stopped in front of a rundown inn, the exterior was grim from the filth around, and the windows were completely opaque.
He nodded to the two knights and they took position on either side of the entrance, to stop anyone from running, and his kingsguards entered before he did as well.
Aemon coughed from the smell inside, if possible, it was worse than outside.
"Upstairs," Aemon whispered to his guards, following his wand.
They had to get to the third floor before it stabilized once more, Oswell took the position in front, while Arthur guarded his back, both with swords half-unsheathed.
On the fifth door, it changed position, and he nodded.
Both his kingsguards got their swords out, and he silenced the door's hinges before putting his ear against the door, Aemon smirked as he could hear the sound of flesh clapping against flesh. He nodded once more and Oswell took his position, and the Black Bat pushed open the door, before throwing a look inside.
He turned and nodded at them with a smirk, before pushing it the rest of the way.
Aemon walked in with his wand raised, and immediately, his eyes zeroed in on the familiar brown leathered book he had entrusted his spymaster.
A jet of red light flew, and the man collapsed on the unsuspecting girl, with another jet of red light, she too fell unconscious.
"Tie him up," Aemon instructed while he pointed his wand at the young woman's head. "Obliviate," he whispered, and a silvery strand made its way to her forehead as Aemon changed her last memory.
She would only remember servicing the man and leaving, a pouch of silver stags wealthier.
"Cloak him," he chuckled, "I don't need to see that,"
It seemed the stunner did not put all bodily functions to sleep.
With another flick, Aemon conjured thick chains around his prisoner and took a second to observe his face.
He was nothing special, with pale skin, brown hair, and a few scars here and there but nothing to tell him this was someone important.
Aemon summoned the book to his hand and flipped through it, unsurprisingly there was nothing, it had worked as intended.
"Rennervate," he pointed his wand, and the man woke with a gasp.
His brown eyes searched the room relentlessly and widened as he realized his predicament.
"Hold him," he simply said and Arthur complied, holding the prisoner's head firmly in place.
"Don't resist," Aemon advised, pointing his wand, "it will only hurt more, Legilimens,"
Immediately he began to sift through memories, his most recent ones to begin and the more he looked the less he felt guilty about ruining the man's mind.
In the last week alone, he had killed eleven people, including a mother in front of her son. Only because she had dared refuse him.
The time he did not spend killing was spent fucking whores and abusing them, Aemon had probably done the woman a favor by interrupting.
Finally, Aemon fell on a familiar face, Alton's and he tore through the memory, witnessing how his spymaster had easily dispatched two of his would-be assassins, only to be struck by a knife in the back.
"You should have left Littlefinger's business alone,"
Aemon exited the assassin's mind, and the man went limp as Arthur let go.
"You know who?" his lord commander asked.
"Littlefinger," Aemon frowned, he could have sworn he had heard the name before, likely from Alton's lips, but he could not place a real name on it. "Do you know of him?"
"I don't," Arthur frowned, "he must be recent to the capital,"
"I do," Oswell answered, "I heard of him last time I visited, the merchants are cross with him for all the new taxes he's created."
"The master of coin?" Aemon asked with wide eyes, "Petyr Baelish? Shit,"
It made sense if he was honest with himself, he should have probably seen it coming, who else but the master of coin to defraud the crown? But that meant he could not just kill him, if he was truly betraying his king, then the man was bound to have precautions in place. And he had a lot of information to extract from the man, one he knew the perfect spell for.
King's Landing
295 A.C
The excitement of the tourney had spread throughout the city over the past few days and while he would deny it, he too felt the excitement.
The tourney organized for the nameday of Robert's heir was everything Arthur and Oswell had described tourneys to be.
Hundreds of knights had arrived from all over the realm either to participate in the melee, joust, or archery contest or simply to enjoy the festivities and so had dozens upon dozens of noble houses.
He had to give it to Robert Baratheon, he knew how to throw a party. No expenses as been spared, from the lavish prizes to three days of feasts he had organized for the highborns of the realm.
The Joust had begun yestermorn and had quickly seen dozens of knights being unseated, though most with few injuries. The competition would continue in the afternoon and finish on the morrow, though the crowd had already chosen its favorites, like Ser Garlan Tyrell, the second son of Mace Tyrell, or Ser Balon Swann, who had lost the archery contest to a Summer Islander, wielding one of the famed goldenheart bows. And of course, the knight Aemon had most anticipated to see, Ser Barristan Selmy.
He planned to talk to the knight before he left the capital, but with Alton gone, he had no idea how to contact him.
"He's here," Alton heard whispered in his ear, and he quickly scanned the stands.
For the first time, Lord Baelish had joined the festivities and sat close to the royal family's seats. The master of coin was a man of small stature, with sharp features, and wearing a small, pointed beard. He was not an easy man to get to, though Aemon should not have expected otherwise, since learning he was involved in Alton's murder, he had done his best to learn all he could about the Lord of the Fingers.
For a lord of a small and barren land to rise to such a position meant only one thing, Petyr Baelish knew what he was doing. And every time Aemon had seen him exit the protection of the Red Keep, he had done so with an escort.
Aemon let his eyes roam over the stands as the crowd kept growing, slowly surrounding the arena in which the melee was to take place. Quite a few houses had arrived, the most important ones being given seats in the stands.
He could spot the sigil of House Piper, the lords of Pinkmaiden in the Riverlands, as well as the crest of House Sunglass, a few rows below, one of the houses of the Crownlands. As well as the weirwood from House Blackwood, one of the major houses of the Riverlands.
One which shared an infamous feud with its neighbors, House Bracken. The whole thing had started thousands of years ago, during the Age of Heroes, with both houses claiming the title of River King. And if its beginnings were ancient and likely little but myths and legends, the feud had been fed continuously over the centuries, with one house converting to the Seven who are one during the Andal invasion while the other kept to the Old Gods, or when the Brackens had betrayed the Blackwoods during the Ironborn invasion before Aegon's conquest.
That particular act had always struck Aemon as particularly foolish, while he could understand they had been at odds for millennia, the Ironborns were savages. And to choose them over their fellow riverlanders had likely not ended well for the Brackens.
Otherwise, House Blackwood had been extremely loyal to his family. Ever since Aegon's conquest, they had always raised their banners when asked, and as they had amongst the most men in the Riverlands, their help was always useful.
As the King was a Baratheon it was not surprising that most of the houses that had shown up were of the Stormlands, he could spot the black cross covered by yellow trefoils of House Gower, the black crow of House Morrigen or even the white owl of House Mertyns.
There were also plenty of seats reserved for the Lannisters, far more than there were for the Stags.
None bore the direwolf though, the trip from Winterfell was three moons long on horseback, and that was if you did not stop. As the lord of Winterfell, Eddard Stark would have to stop in almost every keep situated on the way and the trip would have been lengthened by two or three moons.
Besides, tourneys were not part of the North's culture, which was far more practical than the South in this aspect, adding to the fact that knights were almost exclusive to the Faith, and there was no reason for the Starks to show up.
Still, there were many other houses present, including one Aemon had hoped would come, the Tyrells. One man he could guess was Mace Tyrell sat beside a beautiful blonde woman, likely his wife, a Hightower if he remembered well. And on his right, was his heir, the cripple Willas Tyrell, though for how long he would remain a cripple was to be determined.
"The King of the Seven Kingdoms!" a herald shouted and the fighters that had assembled in the arena fell to their knees, "Robert of House Baratheon, the first of his name!"
Aemon laid his eyes on the Usurper for the first time in his life.
And he was left unimpressed. The man was huge sure, but not the dangerous kind of huge. Where was the demon of the trident?
From the corner of his eyes, he could see both Arthur and Oswell tense at the sight of him, both men no doubt wishing they could run him through with their swords. And no doubt would if given the opportunity.
Following the king was his queen, Cersei Lannister. Rightly qualified as one of the most beautiful women in the realm, with her elegant features, cascading golden hair, and brilliant green eyes, not unlike the ones he was wearing at the moment.
And then came the royal children, and Aemon could not help but smirk, the fact that they were all Lannisters was even more apparent when one knew their true parentage, there was not a drop of Baratheon blood inside them.
"Would you like to bet my lord?" A weasel-like man broke him from his observations and Aemon resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "We have odds for all the fighters,"
"Even the big one there?" he pointed at the bulking figure of Brienne of Tarth.
The warrior had chosen to go in anonymously, and he could understand why as there was a chance, they would not let a woman compete.
"The unknown?" the two heads shorter than Aemon man asked for confirmation, "Five to one,"
"Here, ten dragons on this one," he said as he pulled out a jingling leathery pouch from one of the many enchanted pockets he had, making the man's weasel-like eyes widen before he schooled his features.
"Of course, my lord, here you go," he pocketed the small pouch and handed him a small slip of paper with his bet and odds.
"The same for me," Arthur added from his side, both of them had practiced with Brienne, they knew what she was capable of.
As quickly as he had arrived the small man had disappeared into the crowd, looking for other customers.
"Begin before I piss myself!" the king bellowed, difficulty rising from his seat and refusing the helping hand of Jon Arryn.
Aemon snorted. Some had started the festivities sooner than others.
"Let the melee begin!" the herald beneath the king still obliged and shouted.
The seven groups made up of a dozen fighters each immediately began closing in on the middle of the arena.
There were not many rules in the melee, only blunt weapons were allowed, and one could not attack a member of his group before the fighting had started in the middle. Attacking someone on the ground or in the back was not well perceived and you were not supposed to kill purposefully, though accidents are frequent.
Multiple war cries sounded inside the arena and a second later, the fighters met in the middle, steel crashing against steel and already the first men were falling.
It was a huge mess, with over eighty contestants at the beginning, he could hardly distinguish anything that was happening and was forced to wait, not trusting in the crowd's cheers and boos as they believed they had spotted something.
"Is it always this chaotic?" Aemon asked.
"Always," Arthur answered with a smile, "we wait until they have thinned the competition,"
Armored men fell right, left, and center, some suffering only minor injuries, and others left the arena screaming, often with at least a bone needing to be set.
He had no idea how much time passed until he was finally able to spot Brienne.
There were only about two dozen fighters left, all expensively armored, and all but two had coats of arms.
It was truly getting interesting.
Brienne faced a single opponent at the moment, and he was quickly losing ground. With every blow he managed to parry, he had to take a step back, and soon enough, he found himself backed against the wooden barrier.
With a quick move that Aemon barely managed to see, his sword was sent flying and he yielded. Arthur whistled in appreciation.
In the meantime, four others had been eliminated and one of them had received such a heavy blow to the head that it was unlikely he would ever be the same again as he had collapsed with a sickening crack, if he survived that is.
"Ser Balon Swann," Oswell indicated on his left as Brienne engaged a knight armed with a morningstar. With surprising speed, Brienne began to weave around the knight, avoiding the blunted pikes at all costs as she knew a blow, even blunted, would be extremely painful. What few strikes she could not avoid she managed to block with her shield, but with each impact, the wood splintered more and more, it was a matter of time before it failed her.
However, it seemed Brienne was aware of that and as she baited the marcher knight for what seemed like the tenth time, he felt for it and Brienne quickly closed in inside his guard and the morningstar was sent flying. The next moment Ser Balon was out of the contest.
There were only seven left and Brienne spun her great sword in her right hand, ditching the almost destroyed shield, and began to taunt the knight of House Piper, recognizable by the pink maiden on his chest plate.
He charged, not caring that his opponent was a head taller and had just dispatched the previous one.
Brienne ducked under his blade and punched him in the chest, making him stagger back a few steps. It was not enough to deter him however as he made another try, this one more careful and their blunted swords clashed in the middle.
He tried to overpower Brienne but much like Aemon had found out, it was incredibly difficult to do so. And sure enough, he failed, and Brienne disarmed him. However, her opponent did not see it that way and pulled a dagger from his waist.
Multiple screams were coming from the crowd as a warning, but it was not needed.
Brienne had not been duped, and the next thing everyone knew the fighter from House Piper was cradling his broken hand as his dagger fell and the she-warrior dealt him a second blow to his head, making him collapse.
Once more the crowd cheered as they witnessed her bring down a cheater. While rules were not the important aspect of a melee, it was shameful to break them and never served to endear one to the public, whether noble or not.
Aemon looked at the other two fights taking place. One was a regular one versus one. A representative from House Morrigen against Ser Garlan Tyrell.
Both were wielding great swords and dealt blow after blow to the other, seemingly unable to decide who was the better swordsman, though Aemon could see the former was starting to tire as his strikes seemed to deal less and less damage to his opponent.
But the most interesting fight was the other one, as the last two Lannisters, one the kingsguard that had replaced Jaime Lannister, had teamed up, trying to take down the only unidentified fighter. He was wielding weapons of the like Aemon had never seen, or at least not used in this way.
With a fishing net and a spear, he had successively disarmed and made each of his opponents yield.
However, tackling two opponents was always a bit trickier and it was all but impossible if one did not train before. Which was not the case for this one.
While he had been on the defensive since the lions had begun their attack, the Lannister on his right slipped in the mud, and the fighter took advantage of it.
Making Aemon widen his eyes, he launched his net at the still-standing Lannister, sending him tumbling back, and thrust his blunted spear against the forehead of the one that had slipped, knocking him out cold.
The crowd cheered as he did so and the remaining Lannister managed to untangle himself, not fast enough however as he found himself taking hit after hit of the warrior's spear, rapidly gaining ground on his opponent and forcing him into the other, still ongoing fight.
Brienne was doing the smart thing and stood on the side, waiting to see what would come of the two duels, no doubt taking note of the abilities and weaknesses of each.
The Lannister and Morrigen fighters collided, Ser Garlan having spotted the other being maneuvered into his fight had taken advantage of it. Both he and the unidentified fighter ended their fights, knocking out their opponents with either the butt of the spear or the hilt of the sword.
They looked at each other for a few seconds before the one wearing the red huntsman on his chest nodded, the other one did as well and they both turned around, to where Brienne was. Good, they had identified the true threat.
The one wielding the spear snatched back his net from the ground and began spinning his spear while Brienne took a stance, both hands on her great sword and feet firmly grounded.
They separated, each taking a side while she stayed in the same spot, waiting for them to make their moves.
Ser Garlan launched at her, Brienne parried with her sword but stumbled as she took a hit in her shoulder, a reminder she now faced two opponents.
She remained unfazed by it and sprang towards the one with the net and spear, she feinted, and he fell for it, throwing his net in the hope of catching her sword, it was her hand however that was in the way. She snatched it and roughly pulled, forcing its owner to take two hurried steps forward, only to receive a heavy blow of her armored fist on his helm.
He was visibly disoriented by it, leaving Brienne to focus on her other opponent.
Their swords clashed several times in quick succession, once more Brienne feinted, but he did not fall for it, and for the first time since they had begun managed to land a blow on the woman.
She shrugged it off and kept going, forcing her opponent back against the wall of the arena and to everyone's surprise, headbutted him.
Each could hear the sickening crunch of what Aemon guessed was his nose and the man visibly staggered but as Brienne was about the knock him out, she was reminded of the second opponent who had recuperated and landed a blow in the back of her left knee, forcing her to kneel.
She was not one to be destabilized by so little however and used her lowered position to deliver a fist to the spearman's balls.
The crowd collectively winced, as did the King, whose hand had come down to protect his own almost instinctively.
He too, fell to his knees and Brienne used the flat of her sword to knock him out, she rose from her knees and in one, practiced move, brought her sword to bear against her opponent's throat.
"I yield!" Ser Garlan called loudly and offered a bow to Brienne.
The crowd went wild as she raised her sword in the air and claimed victory.
The wooden barrier visibly shook with the crowd as the last opponents were pulled out of the arena and there was only Brienne of Tarth.
She went to kneel beneath the King's seat and the crowd quietened, one could hear a fly, as once more the King struggled to rise from his chair.
"The winner!" he cheered while spilling his wine everywhere but where it was meant to and the crowd cheered with him, though this time Aemon did not. "Give the knight his prize!"
A small jingling chest was brought forward, containing the two thousand gold dragons of the prize money.
"Your grace," Brienne took off her helm and the crowd gasped collectively. Most nobles in the stand leaned to take a better look and began whispering among themselves. "I would ask instead to be given the honor of knighthood," she spoke clearly and everyone could hear her, "if it would please your grace,"
Aemon held his breath.
And the Queen began to laugh, and she was soon joined by her husband and the rest of the nobility in the stand.
Many in the crowd mimicked their lords and ladies and soon everyone was laughing as the kneeling and blushing Brienne of Tarth. Everyone but his companions and Ser Garlan looked at his peers with disgust.
"A woman? Knight?" the king bellowed and roared in laughter.
Aemon clenched his jaw and closed his eyes, slowly breathing out.
Still laughing, the king and his court left the stand, to be escorted back to the Red Keep.
Soon enough, the crowd emptied, and Aemon silently entered the arena, his face mostly covered by his cloak.
He approached the still kneeling Brienne, her blue eyes shining with unshed tears. To shame someone for your amusement felt deeply wrong to him.
"Brienne?"
"Did you come to mock me?" she sensed his approach and asked, sounding utterly defeated.
"I didn't," Aemon smiled sadly. "I came to help," he offered her his hand to get up.
"I don't need your pity,"
"Good," Aemon kept his hand up, not relenting, "I don't have enough of it to go around,"
She looked at him, seemingly trying to find out if he too would end up shaming or mocking her but accepted his hand and got up.
"Take your winnings," he advised. "I know it doesn't feel like much right now, but you'll kick yourself later if you don't,"
She reluctantly took the chest and tucked it under her arm.
"I didn't expect you to come," she said as they left the arena and his guard fell around them.
"What?" Aemon chuckled, "And miss you knocking out all those prissy knights? Never!"
"It was a good performance, Lady Brienne," Arthur complimented.
"Thank you," Brienne averted her blue eyes, blushing. "Why didn't you participate? You could have…"
"Won?" Aemon asked. "Maybe," he conceded with modesty, "but where would the fun be? I'd love to see all those knights you crushed when they learn it was you that defeated them,"
He would be ready to pay quite a sum to see something like that, the king might not acknowledge her worth as a fighter, but that was his loss and potentially Aemon's gain.
"Come on, we should celebrate, it's not every day you win the melee is it?" Aemon urged her on and the would-be knight gave him a shy smile, before nodding.
"This is yours?" Brienne asked, wide-eyed as they arrived in front of his manse.
Aemon chuckled, he could understand the reaction. It was a beautiful building and certainly one beyond the means of the meager bastard merchant he had presented himself as.
"It is," he answered as he opened the door with his key and she narrowed her eyes.
"You're no merchant, are you?" Brienne said, clutching the hilt of her sword, which instantly had his guards do the same. Her eyes widened, and she gave him an accusatory look.
"Please, Brienne," he smiled, "I'll explain everything inside."
"Alright," she said, looking at him suspiciously.
"Who are you?" she asked once the door was closed. "Your name isn't Aemon Sand, is it?"
"Could you get bread and salt?" he asked Jaremy who complied.
"I don't need guest rights, I just need answers," Brienne protested.
"It'll be easier this way, please," he gestured for the patio and the blonde warrior nodded, though refused to take a seat.
"Thank you, Ser," Aemon thanked the knight and offered the bread and salt to his guest.
"Ser?" Brienne asked, only feeling more confused. Still, she took the offering and quickly swallowed it, Aemon could not imagine it was pleasant. "Explain,"
Aemon chuckled, it was rare people talked to him that way, but still he was not one to take offense. "I guess I should start at the beginning, what do you know of the rebellion?"
"What does the rebellion have to do with-"
"Please, humor me," Aemon interrupted her question, "It'll all make sense,"
"Right," she narrowed her eyes, "I was young then, I only know what my father taught me, but I know it started when Rhaegar Targaryen kidnapped Lyanna Stark, that Brandon Stark and his father were killed by the Mad King, and that Aerys then asked for Eddard Stark's and Robert Baratheon's heads to Lord Arryn."
"Then I'm afraid I must correct you," Aemon said, taking a deep breath, "Brandon and Rickard Stark were indeed executed by Aerys, and the Mad King did demand for the heads of Lord Arryn's wards, but my father certainly did not kidnap my mother,"
"Your father…" Brienne slowly repeated, before her blue eyes widened with shock and she pulled out her great sword entirely, in less than a second, the four knights had him surrounded.
"You would break guest rights, Brienne of Tarth?" Aemon asked with a raised eyebrow, gesturing for his guards to stand down. Brienne placed far too much faith in honor to break one of the most ancient laws there was.
"You're a Targaryen," she stated, and she lowered her sword.
"And what of it?" Aemon tilted his head.
"You're an enemy of the realm."
"Am I?" Aemon chuckled, "Or am I an enemy of the king that just humiliated you?"
This seemed to do the trick as she sheathed her sword back, though it was not enough to make her hand leave the pommel of the sword.
"You still lied to me," she said accusingly.
Aemon winced, he knew she would not appreciate being lied to, Brienne of Tarth was probably the most honorable person he had met.
"I did," he gestured for the seat in front of him once more, and this time she took it. "My name is Aemon Targaryen, trueborn son of Rhaegar and Lyanna Targaryen,"
"But I thought…" Brienne began. "Was the prince not already married to Elia Martell?"
"He was," Aemon pursed his lips, this was not one of his favorite things about his father, "But as I'm sure you know Targaryens have never been ones for the norm, he took a second wife in my mother,"
"So the rebellion was a lie?" she asked, eyes filled with horror at the thought of so many pointless deaths.
"It depends," Aemon disagreed, "do you consider Aerys was not a mad king who deserved to die?"
She shook her head.
"Then I'd say the rebellion was justified," he saw Arthur bristle at this, the subject would always be a point of contention for them. His Kingsguard believed in Rhaegar's ability to take the crown from his father without much bloodshed. As far as Aemon was concerned, it was naïve, mad men simply did not relent. It was even likely he would have implemented the same plan Jaime Lannister had stopped. "I apologize for having lied to you, Brienne, but it was as much for your safety as it was for mine,"
"Why tell me now?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.
"Because I believe we can help each other."
The six-foot-and-a-half-tall woman stayed silent, her eyes silently judging him.
"How?"
"How rude of me," Aemon smiled. At least she was not outright refusing him. "I forgot to reintroduce my comrades,"
She frowned but nodded anyway.
"Brienne of Tarth, meet Sers Jaremy Rykker, Roland Wendwater, Oswell Whent, and Arthur Dayne,"
They had all sheathed their swords back at this point, and Brienne's blue eyes widened even more than they had earlier, and she gaped like a fish out of the water.
"You're- You're the rightful king," she realized at the same time. "You plan to take your throne,"
"Not now," Aemon answered, "I still have much to do, but I will, one day, and I would like you to be by my side when I do,"
"You would start a war, for your crown?" She asked, eyes filled with judgment, but Aemon shook his head.
"It will not be me who starts it, but you're a fool if you think one is not coming, especially when the realms learn the king's children are all bastards born of incest,"
Brienne gasped. "How…"
"Why Jaime Lannister told me before he died," Aemon smiled, "I think we have a lot to talk about,"
"I'd like to introduce you to my children," Aemon said and Brienne gave a dry laugh, before realizing he was not joking.
The blonde woman had agreed to join them on the rest of their travels and to accept a place amongst his guards, though it had taken showing her a lot of the evidence of why he thought a war was coming anyway. In exchange for her service, she would benefit from the tutelage of his legendary kingsguards, something he was sure would have been enough to convince her had he mentioned it earlier, and would in time, earn a knighthood when she distinguished herself. There was one subject though that he had not breached, dragons.
"Children? Your grace?" Brienne asked and he sighed, he had had the foolish hope she would not take to his title.
"Call me Aemon, Brienne," he answered first, "especially in King's Landing, but yes, my children,"
He flipped open the lid of the trunk, to reveal unending darkness.
"But I must ask you to swear you'll keep what I reveal inside a secret until I say otherwise,"
"I will," Brienne answered with no hesitation, though she looked at the inside of the trunk with confusion written all over her face.
"Then follow me," he said and climbed inside, his feet quickly touched the ground but no one was following. "Trust me!" he yelled, "climb in,"
Seconds later, he could see her climbing down the ladder.
"How? How is this possible?" she asked, dumbfounded while surveying the landscape. It was truly a peaceful place, with the crick running down the valley, parting it in half, and green grass all over the horizon. "We're inside a trunk…"
"The simple answer is magic," Aemon chuckled, "the more complicated one is a complex mix of runes and charmwork,"
"It's not possible…" she whispered, still looking at what she claimed to be impossible.
"And yet, here we are, inside a trunk," Aemon said, "but it's not as big as it seems, the horizon is nothing but an illusion,"
"I-I just…"
"I know," Aemon gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze, "it's a lot to take in, but it's real, and nothing compared to them,"
"Them?" Brienne frowned.
"Them," he smiled, pointing to the sky, to the three flying dragons.
295 A.C
King's Landing
A walking stick clicked rhythmically against the hardwood floor of the Tyrell manse as Aemon stood under his faithful cloak, waiting in the shadows of Willas Tyrell's chambers.
He had been planning to visit the man and had expected it would require breaking into the Red Keep, but apparently, only Mace Tyrell and his wife had been granted rooms in it. No doubt another insult the Crown paid to the Reach. Their loss, his gain, it would only be easier to turn them to his side if they felt they had nothing to lose and everything to gain.
The door of the room opened, and two men entered. Willas Tyrell had a slim figure, and walked with a cane, a result of an injury dealt by the Red Viper during the Tyrell's heir first tournament. To be left crippled by a joust was truly a shame, and though it did not impede his capacity to lead, few lords would respect a man who could not defend himself.
The second man entered carrying a pile of books in his much stronger arms, he had a sword on his hip and carried himself the way a fighter did.
"I thank you, Ser Tanton," Willas said, lighting the candles in his room one by one.
Aemon frowned, he could not remember ever hearing of a knight with this name, though he was of the Reach.
"My Lord," the knight bowed as he lay the books on the main table. "By your leave,"
"Of course, Ser, have a good night,"
"You as well, my lord," the knight said and closed the door behind him. At once, Willas dropped on an armchair with a heavy sigh and undid his brace before he began massaging his injured leg.
Aemon took a second to observe him, he looked young, younger now that he appeared to relax. Willas had the typical brown hair of the Reach, and despite his current relaxation, he was sure he could spot a clever mind hiding behind his hazel eyes.
Without betraying his presence, Aemon flicked his wand and silenced the room, there was no need to alert the Tyrell household. And he shrugged off the cloak.
Willas' eyes widened in surprise before he opened his mouth to scream for help.
"Please my lord," Aemon raised his hands in a peaceful gesture. "I mean you no harm,"
"Guards!" he screamed and Aemon sighed. Willas tried to rise from his chair but without his brace, fell back in.
"They won't hear you, but you have nothing to fear." He tried again, "I swear it on the Seven who are one,"
Though it did not mean much for a non-believer like him, he hoped it would be enough to assuage the heir of Highgarden who now stared at him, eyes wide both with fear and curiosity.
"If you mean no harm, you won't have an issue with my guards,"
Aemon chuckled, "I'm afraid that's not possible my lord, what I want to do should not be witnessed by eyes other than mine or yours,"
"And what is it you wish to do?" Willas asked, "If you harm me, the wealthiest kingdom in Westeros will come after you,"
"As I said, my lord," Aemon refrained the urge to sigh, was it so hard to accept he wanted to help? "Harming you would defeat the purpose of my visit,"
"And what is that?" he narrowed his hazel eyes, and threw a look to the door, no doubt hoping help was coming.
"To help you," Aemon nodded toward his leg, "or try at least," depending on the damage, it could need skelegro, not a potion he had at his disposal.
"Many have claimed to be able to over the years…" Willas said with a raised eyebrow, clearly skeptical. "All charlatans,"
"Few possess my talents," Aemon conceded with a nod, "and I have no doubt many wish to possess at least part of Highgarden's renowned treasury,"
"And you would have me believe you don't?"
"I would," Aemon smiled, it was likely that in time, the Tyrells would choose to share their wealth with him. "For a man of my talents has little need of gold,"
"No man would offer to heal me without wanting for something," Willas replied, and once more, Aemon was forced to concede his point with a nod.
"You're right, of course, but I don't think my price will be too much, not for a man like you," he said, taking a seat facing the Tyrell heir, "certainly not for getting your leg back,"
"And you truly believe you could help me?" Willas asked, still skeptical, not that Aemon could blame him. He had never seen magic like his.
"I can, it is only a matter of when, but I will not know until I have taken a look,"
"Then if you can do what it is you claim, and that your price is within reason, I shall grant it,"
"Oh my price is within reason," Aemon chuckled and gestured for Willas to rest his leg on the knee-high table between them. "When the time comes, you will meet me under the weirwood trees in Highgarden's godswood and you will introduce me to your grandmother,"
Willas raised his eyebrows to his hairline, "if you can heal my leg, you have a deal, but may I know your name,"
"You can call me Aemon," he said with a smile, it was no bother if the Tyrell heir discovered his true identity. In fact, it would probably serve him if he did, just not right now.
"A peculiar name," he observed, "with a peculiar face,"
"I've often been told," he smiled again, "but perhaps I should look at your leg," Willas nodded at this, "where did the horse step on?"
"Here and here," Willas pointed to his femur and right below his knee and Aemon frowned.
"If it is your knee that is damaged, treatment will have to wait until I can procure some ingredients," he warned and tapped said knee with the tip of his wand, and an image of his bones appeared from thin air, hovering above his leg and Aemon sighed, his knee was fine.
"What sorcery is this?" Willas gasped, eyes wide, not with fear but curiosity.
"Not sorcery," Aemon corrected, "magic,"
"There is a difference?"
"Many," he nodded, "but the main one as I understand it, is that sorcery requires sacrifice, magic doesn't,"
"Then how does it work?" Willas asked, his eyes searching for a parchment and a quill.
"I had been told you were the curious sort," Aemon softly chuckled, Hermione would have been the same. "Magic comes from within, some are born with it, most are not, but it is also everywhere in the world around us, the air you breathe, the soil under your feet…"
"Fascinating…" Willas breathed out. "Could I learn?"
"I'm afraid not, my lord," Aemon answered, "I've come across few that can,"
He had several theories as to why, but none that he could verify.
"But regarding your leg, you were lucky,"
"Lucky?" Willas snorted. "If you call that lucky,"
"I do," Aemon nodded. "Look here," he pointed to his knee, "if it had been damaged in any way, I'd have to vanish your entire kneecap and regrow it, trust me you don't want that for yourself," he could not help but shudder at remembering the many times he had his bones regrown, but the first had been the worst.
"How so?" Willas asked again, clearly very curious.
"First the potions taste nasty, it makes you want to gag," he chuckled, "One of my teachers, an idiot, once vanished the bones in my right forearm, it took all night to grow back and I screamed for most of it,"
"What you claim seems… Impossible,"
"And yet," Aemon chuckled, "now look here, that's your femur," he pointed to his thigh, "see how the bone has regrown? That's an easy fix, painful but quick,"
"Is that it?"
"No, see there?" he pointed at his ankle. "It's the same issue, your bone wasn't set right." Both injuries were easily fixed, and it surprised him it hadn't been done so in the first place.
"So, you can help me?"
"Yes," Aemon could not help but smile, "as I said you're lucky you don't need that potion,"
"This potion, what is it?"
Aemon could not help but chuckle, he was really a male version of Hermione.
"It's called skelegro, I have all the ingredients but one, it grows missing bones back,"
"How does it know which bones to target?" The Tyrell heir asked, frowning.
"Magic," Aemon shrugged.
"What of this ingredient you're missing? Maybe I can help…"
"I doubt it," he snorted, "unless you know where I can find fairies,"
His best hope was Valyria, Marwyn had also concluded it would be the best place to find such an ingredient. If it was not, then he would have to experiment with the archmaester's suggestions.
"Indeed," Willas softly laughed.
"We can begin," Aemon smiled, "if you're ready?"
"Now? May I ask what you will do?" he asked, this time perhaps more anxious than he was curious.
"You may," Aemon nodded, "You see this?" he ran his finger across the badly healed break. "That's the new bone your body created, I need to break it and vanish it, then I'll set the bone right, for your ankle, it's the same issue, it will hurt a lot, you might want some leather to bit in,"
"Can you not do something?" he asked, "with your magic I mean,"
"I could," Aemon nodded, "but I don't want to risk it, I can stun you if you want but that's it,"
"Stun me?"
"Put you to sleep," he explained, "but you'll still feel the pain when you wake up,"
"I'd rather be awake," Willas nodded, "I have a belt in this chest,"
Aemon flicked his wand and the belt flew out of it, right into his hand, leaving the Tyrell heir gaping.
"Here," he handed him the belt, making him close his mouth, "bite hard,"
Willas did just that and Aemon nodded, "All alright,"
He applied the tip of the elder wand right above the break in his femur, "here we go," he channeled his intent through the elder wand and the tip glowed a bright yellow.
Willas grunted and his leg almost shook, "stay still," Aemon said and continued.
Above, he could see the surplus of bone slowly breaking apart from the original one. He could feel drops of sweat run down his brow and finally, the last of it broke away.
Willas was now completely pale, his jaw straining hard on his belt from the pain he felt.
"Evanesco," he whispered, focusing intently on the small shards of bone around the injury and they disappeared from the image above. He gave a small tap against the bone and it was set in its original place and Willas screamed through the belt.
"We're done with the thigh," he indicated, and Willas nodded shakily. "Now with your ankle," he took a deep breath and began the process anew.
Once the surplus of bone had broken apart, he vanished it again and tapped his wand against Willas' ankle and he let out a muffled scream again.
"Here," Aemon conjured a glass and filled it with water, and took away the belt from the pale-faced Willas who quickly emptied the glass, setting aside the display of magic, for now at least.
"Are you done?" he asked, having regained some color.
"I am," Aemon nodded, and widened his eyes as he tried to stand, "No!"
He stopped him and helped him back into his seat.
"Am I not healed?" he asked frowning.
"Not completely," Aemon sighed, "I have reset the bones where they belong, now they must stay in place for your injuries to heal properly this time,"
"How long?"
"Stay immobilized for a fortnight," he spoke, "then you can begin to move again but no weight on your leg for another fortnight, and then you'll have to slowly begin training your leg to walk again,"
"Training? I know how to walk,"
"Look," Aemon summoned another version of the image of his leg, this time showing his muscles, and he did the same for the other, "you haven't used it in years, your muscles have grown weak, it will take time, at least half a year if you are diligent, more if you aren't."
"I will," Willas nodded eagerly, "but surely meeting my grandmother is not enough to repay you for this,"
"It is," Aemon nodded, "but perhaps you will do me the favor of avoiding mentioning my gift until I can meet her,"
"How am I to explain my miraculous healing?" Willas arched an eyebrow.
"Right," Aemon ran a hand through his dark locks, "You can explain how I healed your leg but you don't need to explain everything you have seen or will see,"
"No, I guess I don't," Willas softly chuckled, "but she will know I'm hiding something, she always does,"
"As I said, just until I meet her,"
"And when will that be?" he asked, "I will need to get back to Highgarden by then,"
"At least a year," Aemon answered, "maybe two,"
"Then I thank you Aemon," Willas bowed his head as much as he could. "Your kindness will not be forgotten, may the Seven watch over you,"
Aemon rose from his seat and offered a small bow, "Until next time, my lord," he winked and turned on his heels, disapparating back to his manse.