Author's Notes: Good day, everyone! Thank you so much for your support in the form of reviews, favorites, alerts, and reading! It cheers me to see this fic is still enjoyed by so many. I have been itching to get to these later chapters in particular, so I hope you all continue to hang on for the ride. Stay safe out there!

As always, a big thanks to Catzrko0l for helping to beta this fic. It is definitely better for it!

Chapter 86

Aemon XXXI

He was not one to look forward to seeing death. In terms of justice, death was a consequence and the person meting it out was merely doing a duty. This day, however, Aemon wished he could have the privilege of taking more heads. It would make little sense for him to step into the ring and challenge any of the knights who demanded trial by combat. There would be little point to their justice if he gave them another stab at killing him. He would at least have the pleasure of removing both Lord Tywin's and Lord Leo Lefford's heads from their shoulders.

He hid away in his apartments the night before, refusing to see anyone. He stalked out onto the balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay and stared out across the water. The full moon shone brightly down on the surface, giving the night just enough depth that he could see the ships moored out on the water. How could you do this to her? We have done all of this work! Jaime is able to marry his love, but mine is taken before I even so much as set eyes on her?! For the first time since he had been brought back, his faith in the Gods wavered.

At first, when they had possessed him to cleave Lord Umber's sword in two, he had taken it as a sign that the Gods not only wanted him on the throne, but that they would support his reign. He hadn't exactly expected his enemies to be struck dead before they even so much as breathed a word of conspiracy, but the Gods had been noticeably and pointedly silent for far too long. Had they abandoned him once more to his wits and let the dice fall where they may? But then how were they to manage against the Long Night without dragons? He'd only been bestowed one egg! Had the single egg been the sign that the Gods no longer cared about Daenerys' fate?

Aemon ground his teeth together and his clenched fingers dug into the stone of the balcony railing. You deserved better, Dany. Both in the last life and in this one. The Gods may sneer at you, but I will always love you! He was not about to throw away the chance at victory in the Long Night out of sheer spite, but if he ever met the Gods to their faces, he would spit on them.

Ghost sensed his mood and hovered so closely that Aemon could feel his presence through the trousers of his leg. If he slept at all, it was barely a wink in the early hours of the morning. His anger had finally cooled to a low boil, but he knew that with one wrong word he was on the verge of erupting like a volcano. With any luck, Jaime and his uncle Ned would make sure he did nothing too rash today.

He cast a glance at Rhaegal's egg resting inert on its cushion and gave it a grudging nod. Once Lord Tywin was beheaded, he would waste no time. He'd already ordered a funeral pyre to be built in the Dragonpit. The ruins were bereft and crumbling, but an initial survey showed they were still in use. Prostitutes from a nearby brothel moved through the tunnels to conduct their clandestine affairs. A cache of wildfire had also been hidden in one of the tunnels; Healer David had made a claim on the barrels and they'd been carefully carted away for his use. Aemon hoped that in spite of it being within the city, the main grounds were clear and open to prevent a fire from spreading like in Summerhall. He was going to find a way to hatch Rhaegal come hells or high water.

Jaime hadn't seemed too happy that his father's corpse would be used in the ritual, but Aemon couldn't decide if it was a result of lingering familial ties or if it was because of his disdain for fire. He had only given Aemon a curt nod before he made his excuses.

Aemon broke his bread alone once more. Even though most of his Stark cousins had been moodier after the attempted kidnapping and murder, their bluster had started to return with the conclusion of the trials. Even his uncle had appeared satisfied that justice would be served. He could not tolerate the idea of breaking bread with Jaime either. While he doubted Lady Brienne would have joined them at their table, seeing Jaime whole and happy would have only served to infuriate him. He wished to brood alone.

Aemon cast one last forlorn glance out of the balcony to Blackwater Bay, only to find the same ships that had been there the night before with a few smaller ones approaching. He'd sent Ser Barristan on the Rhaella, one of the biggest ships they'd had. It would have dwarfed all of the other ships. He tamped down the grief that threatened to overwhelm him and headed out in the Red Keep. The trials by combat were to take place on the tourney grounds.

"Your Grace?"

Aemon did a double take and found Ser Edmure Tully waiting just outside his apartment doors. His face was strained and he appeared to have been fidgeting.

"Yes, Ser Edmure Tully?"

"A word, if you please?"

"Very well. What is it that you require?"

Ser Edmure swallowed thickly and he was already sweating despite the early hour. "You mentioned in Ser Leo Lefford's trial that my sister, Lady Lysa Arryn, would be on trial."

"Yes," Aemon said and he braced himself.

"For what crime is she to be tried?"

"When last I was at the Eyrie, Lady Lysa confessed to murdering her husband, Lord Jon Arryn," Aemon replied carefully.

Ser Edmure's mouth fell open and his eyes bulged. "N-no th-there must be some mistake."

"I apologize, Ser Edmure, but there is no mistake. You will hear all of the facts at her trial. I will be sending for her shortly. You have my deepest sympathies." He turned to walk away, but Ser Edmure grabbed at his arm.

Ser Arys stepped up to stand between the two and the Hound menaced Ser Edmure with his sword; Ser Edmure hastily dropped his hand. "I am sorry, Your Grace. No offense intended. But please, Your Grace, please have mercy! I know my sister is a bit … odd, but she is well-meaning. I know that her son means the world to her. Please have mercy."

Aemon nodded at him. "I will see what I can do, but no one is above the law, Ser Edmure."

Ser Edmure nodded. "When do you plan on summoning her?"

"There is yet still work to take care of in regards to Winterfell, but once the armies have departed, she will be summoned."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Ser Edmure said and rushed off, grief still apparent on his face.

Aemon released a breath, grateful that Ser Edmure hadn't brought up the spurious quarantine he'd put the Eyrie under. He would have to think of a way to explain it for the trial. Had Edmure gone to his Uncle Ned at all? It hadn't seemed that way. After his uncle's disappointment with his use of the fraudulent letter, could he rely on him to maintain the story? It was almost a relief that he'd be well on his way to Winterfell by the time Lady Lysa arrived.

When Aemon stepped out onto the grounds, he found a general air of conviviality entirely at odds with his mood: his uncle, Robb, Lady Margaery, Sansa, and Arya stood at the front—Robb still frowned unhappily at him, but he knew better than to make a scene, in contrast to his wife Lady Margaery, who gave Aemon a warm smile and dropped into a short curtsey before returning to her conversation with Sansa; Arya stamped her feet and glared angrily at her father, and Aemon had a feeling she was unsuccessfully trying to convince him to allow her to attend the trials by combat.

The Tyrells were behind them his family, followed by House Lannister. Jaime, Brienne, Tyrion, and their Uncle Gereon were all remarkably at ease since it was to be the day the longstanding patriarch of House Lannister would be executed. To his surprise, Prince Oberyn was waiting patiently with his daughter Sarella; she, David, and Lady Delphine talked politely while Cyrus absentmindedly strummed on a lute. While he observed all this, Lady Lucille wandered over to Arya and began talking animatedly with her now that she'd lost the argument with her father. He had a feeling the two were going to steal away under the Keep while everyone was at the tourney grounds. At the front of the procession, the other Kingsguard were already grouped with their mounts while Olyvar minded both of their horses.

He wouldn't begrudge Jaime any of his happiness after waiting sixteen long years to see Brienne again, but it took everything he had to keep the rage from his face as he was forced to look at him and at Robb and Margaery with their easy smiles. His cousin had the one thing he had been holding out for only to be gutted. It wouldn't be long before the Small Council was going to start bothering him about finding a suitable queen. He intended to wear black for some time and he hoped it staved off their pushiness.

The Red Keep was otherwise nearly empty save for the servants going about their duties. The rest of the nobility had likely already departed for the tourney grounds to grab their seats. However, the king's procession heading through the city meant it would be slower. Aemon wasn't terribly keen on parades at the best of times. He imagined Jaime would kick him if he knew he had no plans to smile, but given the circumstances, the people of King's Landing would have to settle for a neutral expression.

"Are we ready then?" he asked his uncle.

"You're the king, Your Grace. We go at your command," his uncle said.

He gave a nod and pulled himself up onto his horse. Taking his cue, everyone else began climbing onto their horses or into their carriages.

Aemon noticed David start walking away back to the Tower of the Hand. "David, are you not coming?"

"Beg pardon, Your Grace, but I'd rather not. I do not enjoy being forced to stand by and watch people die. I would rather be useful elsewhere," the healer said in a flat tone.

"Hmm," Aemon grimaced. Killing Tywin would feel like justice, but the trials by combat certainly didn't. "As you will then."

The Hound was the biggest of the Kingsguard and he led the way onto the streets. Lord Willas had arranged the Gold Cloaks to stand as barriers to the throngs of people who tried to shove their way through as they cheered. Aemon nodded to some people here and there, but otherwise kept his face forward. It had not yet been announced that Daenerys was dead. Would it matter to them when Daenerys had not even been born in King's Landing? Perhaps not, but it mattered to him and he was determined to make her known to her people.

The prisoners who were preparing to fight had been loaded into a barred cage and were brought up at the back. Even from his place at the head of the parade, Aemon could hear the cheers change to hisses and roars of anger. He ignored the happenings in the back and kept his eyes forward.

Once at the parade grounds, an army of stable boys took the horses as they dismounted. Aemon's large chair, made of dark oak and polished to a mirror shine, was placed in the center, and stood alone and apart. His seat was separated with space for his Kingsguard to stand at the ready beside him. Olyvar stood just behind his chair on the right, refusing to sit. Jaime sat on his right and his uncle and the rest of the Starks sat on his left. The Tyrells and Prince Oberyn and his daughter filled in the seats behind them. The Lord and Lady Alexandratos took the seats behind Jaime and Brienne.

When the prisoners were escorted to stand near the circle they were going to fight in, Aemon noticed many of them swiping off the food debris the crowd had pelted at them. He frowned. Even as angry as he was, the mistreatment of the prisoners was something he profoundly disliked. While they did not deserve luxury, his uncle had taught him that the criminal still deserved regard.

To ease his mood, he turned to Jaime, "I'm surprised you're not dressed for combat."

Jaime was wearing a leather jerkin, but he still had his sword on his lap. His friend gave him a crooked smile. "I've already embarrassed Ser Lyn Corbrary; he's the only one out there worth anything."

"There is always something to learn from an opponent," Brienne said from Jaime's other side.

Jaime turned his smirk to her. "With you, perhaps. I'm surprised you're not in your armor, my lady. I would certainly enjoy watching you take the measure of Ser Lyn."

"I do not kill for sport," Brienne replied. She frowned tersely. "I would have liked another attempt at Ser Osmund Kettleblack."

"He died recently, didn't he?" Aemon asked.

"A week past," Brienne said. "Infection of the blood."

"How tragic," Jaime replied mockingly. Brienne nudged him with her elbow, but Jaime only chuckled.

"If you had wished it, my lady, I would have been honored to have you serve as a champion of the crown," Aemon said, attempting an encouraging smile at her.

She blushed to the roots of her hair in response and muttered, "Thank you, Your Grace."

The master of ceremonies said, "We are ready, Your Grace."

Ser Lyn Corbray was brought in front of him, two Winterfell soldiers flanking him on either side. He glowered and Aemon could see his fingers flexing like he couldn't wait to grab for his sword.

Aemon stood and gazed down at the man. "It is your trial by combat, Ser Lyn Corbray."

"You better return my sword to me, you dragon bastard," Ser Lyn growled.

The crowd hissed and booed at the response and a few more pieces of fruit were thrown his way. Aemon held up his hand and the crowd ceased. Then he beckoned to his soldiers. A soldier marched forward and held the sheath out. Ser Lyn took his sword and held it close. Aemon couldn't help but notice that it shook in his hand and he had to drop it quickly to his side.

"You have requested a trial by combat, Ser Lyn. You have left your fate in the hands of the Seven. Who will stand and represent the Crown as champion?" Aemon called as he looked around. There was quiet as everyone awaited a volunteer.

Then behind him, he heard, "I will be your champion, Your Grace." Ser Daemon Sand stepped forward from his post and knelt to the ground before Aemon, holding his spear in front him.

Ser Lyn Corbray's face went ashen.

"Thank you, Ser Daemon. May the Gods guide your spear and justice be determined," Aemon replied. He returned to his seat. Jaime leaned over as best he could. When Aemon leaned to meet him in the middle, Jaime whispered, "Ser Lyn Corbray is best known for killing Prince Lewyn Martell, one of the Kingsguard defending Prince Rhaegar on the Trident."

Aemon had of course heard a multitude of times about the events of the Trident, but apart from Robert Baratheon landing the killing blow on his father, the other contributions had slipped past him. He wondered if the Martells actually still harbored any enmity over that. He glanced back at Prince Oberyn, who gave him a knowing grin. He had a feeling if it really burned, Prince Oberyn would have volunteered. He was grateful at least that the prince could refrain from putting himself in danger yet again.

Ser Lyn and Ser Daemon squared up. Ser Daemon deftly dropped into a fighting stance with his spear held up, his grin wolfish. Ser Lyn couldn't hide his wince as he raised up his sword.

"Oh, a pity, the arm I broke seems to be paining him," Jaime said.

This shouldn't take long then, Aemon thought and he dug his fingers into the clawed arm of his chair. He let the moment hang in the air and then he nodded at the master of ceremonies.

"Begin!"

Ser Daemon slid a few steps closer, waiting. Ser Lyn fell back. His sword was pointed forward, but it plainly shook in his hand. Ser Lyn was forced to prop up his right arm with his left hand. The shield strapped to his left arm clacked against his Valyrian steel sword and made it difficult for him to swing with the shield strapped to his arm. Ser Daemon jabbed, but his spear was blocked. For a time, Ser Daemon chased Ser Lyn around the circle, the same pattern of movement repeating. The crowd began to grow restless.

"Finish it already!"

"Lyn Corbray, why don't you grow your hair long and braid it? You're already half a woman!"

"Have his balls even dropped?"

"Do you have a cock or a cunt?"

Ser Lyn's face was growing redder by the minute. He dropped his left arm and tried to fight only with his right hand. He roared and brought down his blade. Ser Daemon nimbly jumped away and jabbed the spear into Ser Lyn's side. The old knight stared down at the spear in shock and then Ser Daemon ripped it out. Blood gushed down Ser Lyn's leg and he slumped, feebly using his left hand to pressure the wound. Then Ser Daemon ended it by sticking his spear up underneath Ser Lyn's chin. When Ser Daemon pulled out his spear, Ser Lyn toppled over, his eyes wide and staring, blood pouring out of his mouth.

A cheer rose up from the crowd, but after their earlier dissatisfaction, it was half-hearted at best. Ser Daemon used Ser Lyn's own exposed shirt to wipe the blood from his spear tip and then he bowed once more before Aemon.

"Well done, Ser Daemon. You have brought justice to King's Landing. The Gods smile upon you," Aemon said solemnly.

"It was my pleasure, Your Grace," he replied with a satisfied smile.

Jaime suddenly vaulted over the standing walls.

"Where are you going?" Aemon said.

He didn't answer and pried Lady Forlorn from Ser Lyn's fingers and wrangled the sheath off his body. Once he returned, he gave Aemon a crooked smile. "Ser Lyn Corbray is a traitor. By law, if one is deemed a traitor, he loses all rights to his property and the Crown claims it. That includes Lady Forlorn. His brothers are going to be sore about this."

The prospect of getting his own Valyrian steel sword after he'd itched for Longclaw should have been momentous, but Aemon felt only the most fleeting moment of excitement. It was all well and good that he now had a tried and true weapon for the Long Night, but the cavernous wound from Daenerys' empty presence left little in his heart for optimism.

"I see. Thank you, Jaime," Aemon said, taking it. He inched it out of the sheath to find the steel smoky gray rather than an icy white like most swords. A heart-shaped ruby shined from the pommel. Lady Forlorn… He grimaced at the name. A Valyrian steel sword is a Valyrian steel sword.

Two soldiers picked up Ser Lyn's body by its hands and feet, hauled it off the field, and threw it onto a waiting wagon. The other knights who were awaiting their own trials by combat stood nearby under guard, pale and shaken. The next one was called and he tentatively stepped forward into the fighting grounds. Ser Preston Greenfield stepped forward as champion for the crown. Judging by the whoops of the crowd, they found it more exciting than Ser Lyn's battle, but it ended pitifully fast with the knight having his sword swatted out of his hand and Ser Preston's sword driven through his throat.

Jaime clicked his tongue. "Hardly worth the time. They should've just settled for a more dignified beheading," he said as the third knight was disemboweled by the Hound.

Aemon glanced over at his uncle who was sitting stolidly. "How are you finding the proceedings, Uncle?"

"I take no joy in watching men die, Your Grace. I am merely glad that justice is being done," his uncle replied evenly.

Is it? Aemon thought. He was not particularly fond of necessarily leaving the decisions to the Gods. His brief possession by the Gods in his fight against Lord Greatjon Umber had left him shaken more than elated. Yet there was no doubt about whether his Kingsguard were being possessed. None of them had the eyes of fire that Ser Barristan had described to him. They were fully possessed of their own bodies. Were the Gods quibbling over the fate of such lowly imbeciles?

Perhaps they were wasting their time on this when they should have been safeguarding Daenerys, Aemon thought bitterly.

The fights were over before the noon meal. Each of the Kingsguard had been a champion and each one proved their skill by killing the knights who had demanded trials by combat. Aemon did wonder if any of the knights would have preferred the beheading once it became clear that each champion was going to be a Kingsguard. They always had the option to take the Black, but it seemed that was considered worse than death.

Perhaps it is, Aemon thought. An icy chill stole over him and he shivered briefly as he thought about the dead slowly rising from their graves north of the Wall. He had felt blessed that he had died after the threat of becoming a wight was gone.

The return to the Red Keep was done with similar fanfare as the crowds cheered for him and those in his party. His mood was hardly improved and he merely nodded and tried to sit up straight to project an image of control, though he hardly felt it. He held his lunch alone. He was certain he'd challenge Robb to a duel otherwise if he had to deal with his sneers. He again pondered the dragon egg.

They were back on the horses before too long, carving yet another path to the Great Sept of Baelor where the stage was set. Just like the knights from the morning, Lord Lannister and Lord Lefford were loaded up into a cart. Their legs were free but their hands were bound behind their backs.

When Aemon stepped up onto the stage, Jaime, Tyrion, his uncle, and the High Septon were the only ones present. Jaime's earlier carefree attitude was gone and was now replaced with a grim frown. Aemon even regarded the block with some hesitation. Beheading Ser Amory Lorch had been a perfectly dull affair. The man had been responsible for the horrifying death of his half-sister Rhaenys Targaryen, but despite the family ties, it had hardly felt personal. Beheading him had felt like little more than crushing a cockroach. While he had no personal ties and had only ever lectured Lord Tywin, he was still killing the man who was Jaime's father. Whatever facade Jaime wore, he knew he was going to be affected by his father's death and Aemon would be inflicting that pain. He hoped this was not something that would create a fissure between them.

Jaime knew. He knew from the very beginning that his father would never support any of this. He arrested him knowing that, Aemon told himself. He couldn't keep help but glance back at Jaime.

Even as grim as Jaime appeared, he noticed Aemon and gave him a curt nod.

"Bring Lord Lefford to the stage," Aemon shouted.

The Winterfell guards escorted Lord Lefford to the stage. His head was tipped down and his expression was glum as he stood there. The crowd roared furiously and called for his death.

"Lord Leo Lefford, on this day you are to be beheaded for your role in the treasonous plot against the Crown. Do you have any parting words?" Aemon shouted to be heard over the crowd.

Lord Lefford was quiet for some time and then he said in a low voice that only Aemon could hear, "I apologize to my daughter. Her safety and happiness is all that should ever have been on my mind. I should never have dragged her into this."

"Is that all?"

Lord Lefford finally looked at him and gave a shaky nod.

"I will ensure she hears your final words," Aemon replied.

The look Lord Lefford gave him suggested he didn't believe him. With a nod by Aemon, the Winterfell soldiers pushed Lord Lefford forward and then shoved him down to his knees so that he laid across the block. A basket was in place to catch his head. Aemon would not stand for any further defiling of the corpse more than necessary.

The crowd, which had been screaming its fury, hushed as Aemon stood to the side. He unsheathed Lady Forlorn and held it pointed down in front of him. As loudly as he could manage, he recited, "I, King Aemon Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, sentence you to die for your treachery. May the Gods, old and new, have mercy on your soul."

Aemon leveled the sword at the neck and positioned himself. He brought back the sword; all eyes were upon it as he swung down and Lord Lefford's neck was cleaved through and his head fell into the basket. His body weeped blood.

When the body was removed, Aemon called out, "Bring forth Lord Tywin Lannister."

Lord Tywin shrugged off the guards and walked up, his head held high so that he towered over Aemon and looked down his nose at him. Aemon remained unmoved. His clothes were just as ragged and filthy as they had been on the day of the trial. Without the armaments and the weapons, Lord Tywin seemed smaller. If anything, the anger roiled in Aemon's gut upon seeing him and he had to restrain himself from immediately slicing Lord Tywin's gut open and watching him bleed out.

"Lord Tywin Lannister, on this day you are to be beheaded for the following crimes: murder, treason, conspiracy, and assassination of a member of the royal family, Princess Daenerys Targayen. Do you have any final words?" Aemon recited. He could hardly see Lord Tywin through the curtain of red over his eyes and his hands trembled in his rage.

The crowd's displeasure seemed to swell at the name of Daenerys and there were calls for Lord Tywin's head.

"Yes," Lord Tywin sneered. He turned to address the crowd. "You condemn yourselves to a fate worse than death. I could have saved you. You only have yourselves to blame when he starts slaughtering you like a wolf among sheep."

His words were met with boos and food pelted at him from all sides. Aemon watched with some satisfaction as a rotted pear splattered against his clothes.

Jaime snorted. "A lion is hardly a shepherd either, Father."

"The dragons are all mad. They died in the fires of the doom of Valyria. The survivors will only bring the same fate upon this entire kingdom." Tywin had to shout the words to be heard over the chorus of boos and shouts of anger.

Aemon gritted his teeth and ground out, "On your knees!"

Lord Tywin did not bother resisting and dutifully got down in front of the block, lying his head across it. Even from that angle, Aemon thought he saw Lord Tywin's face change in puzzlement. A servant had placed another basket in front of the block and in it, the dragon's egg rested at the bottom.

"I, King Aemon Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, sentence you to die for your treachery. May the Gods, old and new, have mercy on your soul."

Aemon took a moment to temper his anger so that he could hold his blade in stillness. Much like before, he lined the blade up before bringing it back behind him for a mighty swing. He only needed a single slice and Lord Tywin's head fell into the basket. The crowd erupted into deafening cheers. He glanced at Jaime who appeared dazed and fixated on his father's body.

"Take Lord Tywin's body to the Dragonpit. I will take the egg," Aemon said. He removed the egg and placed it back into the chest it had originally come in. He looked at the egg glistening with the blood and wondered if that was enough. He had his suspicions that it would take more than just the blood of his enemy.

He went over to Jaime and put a hand on his shoulder. Jaime started and pointedly stared at the hand. Aemon dropped it. He thought about reiterating to him that there was no other fate for Tywin, but decided instead to say, "I am sorry."

Jaime simply nodded.

Aemon went to Tyrion as well and said, "I am sorry."

Tyrion sighed and said, "Thank you, Your Grace. He was a stubborn old goat. I have been a bastard in my father's eyes all of my life. There was nothing I could do to change that image. Jaime told me he tried to steer him from committing treason, but to no avail. He would not be moved. So goes the story of Tywin Lannister."

Aemon thought he would be relieved that his two greatest enemies—Tywin Lannister and Petyr Baelish—were finally dead, but his mood only seemed to grow darker as they rode back to the Red Keep. He wasted little time heading to his quarters to change for the funeral pyre and the egg hatching, which was set to begin at sunset.

For the third time that day, the party struck out from the Red Keep. It had been whittled down to include just a few Kingsguard, his uncle, Jaime, Tyrion, Prince Oberyn, and Sarella, the last two of whom were only interested in the dragon hatching. Robb thought the hatching was a fool's errand, among other things, and Lady Margaery expressed her apologies and stayed behind. Jaime was apparently not keen to keep Lady Brienne's company in the funeral; Aemon had a feeling Jaime would be doing a fair amount of his own brooding.

There was no grand parade for their trot through the streets and they were able to make better time. Once out of Aegon's Hill, they hurried their horses. Aemon had only ever been to the Dragonpit during the day. In the darkening evening, he found the long shadows eerie. The ruins felt desolate and even emptier since there seemed to be no life around, not even the gentle chirping of crickets disturbed the air. He hoped the orange light of the setting sun was a good omen for the living fire he hoped would soon be born.

The servants were just placing the body, including the head, onto the pyre when they arrived. Aemon shifted uncomfortably and whispered to Jaime standing next to him, "Are you sure you're okay with this?"

Jaime whispered, "I don't fancy having to kill my father again should the Night King raise him from the grave."

Aemon shuddered at the thought.

The sun was just beginning to set when they all heard a commotion from the way they came. The voices were loud but no one could hear what was being said. Finally, a Winterfell soldier walked over to him with an exasperated expression, bowed, and said, "Your Grace, there are two men asking that they be allowed to watch. One claims to be an archmaester of the Citadel."

Aemon frowned. "Bring them to me."

He was surprised when one of the men turned out to be David. He found no warmth in David's posturing, but he was no longer glaring. The man beside him was hunched and walked with a long rod. His hair was thick on his head and beard, and even poured out of his nose and ears. He was broad in both the face and the shoulders with numerous satchels slung across his body. He wore no chain that Aemon could see.

"Healer David, I am surprised you would be interested in this particular funeral."

"If you think I am here to pay my respects, you are mistaken … Your Grace." David ground his teeth together. "Lord Tywin can rot in all Seven Hells. No, we're here for the hatching."

"I am Marwyn, Your Grace, an archmaester of the Citadel. I have traveled the lengths of Essos studying most everything. I have a particular interest in your attempt to hatch a dragon. Many have tried over the intervening years, including King Aerys II as well," the gruff man said and looked speculative. "Needless to say, he failed."

My grandfather attempted a hatching? Thank all of the Gods for his failure. "Yes, Archmaester, I am aware of the dangers. But an attempt must be made," Aemon replied. For us all.

"I have no interest in stopping you. If you'll allow me, I will document the process, whether it goes well or ill," he said.

"Very well, you may attend," Aemon replied, though he was puzzled. He hadn't announced it to court that he was attempting to hatch the dragon or even gave the details of his plan. He put it down to David being close enough to Jaime to perhaps have heard.

"Healer David," Aemon said as the two began to walk a small distance away. They both stopped. "I have been meaning to speak with you and have found myself severely short on time. I am truly sorry for your loss. I would never have asked Vicente or any of your group to sacrifice themselves for my cause."

"And yet he did so anyway," David said sharply.

"He did. Is there anything more that I can do to honor his loss?"

David regarded him quietly for a moment. A servant approached with a torch and the orange light flickered in his eyes and on his face. "You can honor him by not treating his loss like a lost coin. It may seem of little consequence to you, but it could be your life or your death. Now, if you please, Your Grace, I will be finding my spot."

Aemon nodded, and David went to stand with Marwyn several feet away.

"Your Grace?" The young man held the torch up.

"Just a moment. I want to place the egg on the body," Aemon said, reaching for the small chest with his egg and pulling it out. Fresh blood glistened on its side in the firelight. He made a slit near the crook of his elbow and dribbled his own blood atop it for good measure.

The servants had created a cradle using Lord Tywin's hands, and so he placed the egg there. He gestured to the servant and took his torch and lit the kindling on the bottom in a few places. The fire slowly grew as it began feasting on the wood. Everyone was silent as they were transfixed by the fire.

Aemon could feel his heart pounding beneath his clothes as the flames reached Lord Tywin. Come on, come on. This is as close as I can get to the pyre Daenerys did. My greatest enemy is burning, not alive, but it will have to do. Please let that be enough.

Before long, Lord Tywin was engulfed in flames, yet the egg remained unmoved in his arms. Aemon felt his heart falling as the minutes ticked by and the dragon remained inert. He began cursing silently under his breath. It seemed only Daenerys was capable of hatching dragons, but with her gone there was no hope. For him or for the kingdom. The Long Night would overwhelm them and they would fall into darkness.

Crack!

Everyone jumped as a great splitting noise rent the night. A red comet shot up into the night sky, leaving a trail of embers in its wake. Once the red glow faded, they could no longer see it, but there was no mistaking the sound of leathery wings. Aemon stepped forward as if in a daze. His mouth opened in shock as a small shape descended to him and out of the shadows, a baby dragon. He held out his arm and the dragon clumsily latched onto it. He was grateful for his thick clothing as he felt the pinching claws latch on like a vice.

"I'll be damned," Jaime whispered behind him.

"Magnificent," Prince Oberyn crowed. "There is no mistake. You are the blood of Rhaegar."

"A hatching," Sarella whispered. "I saw a dragon hatch! This is amazing!"

"The Gods were with you tonight," David said.

Aemon started and was surprised that David had come up to him. Even in the light of the fire he had difficulty reading his expression.

"Perhaps," Aemon replied. "They should've equally been with Daenerys."

In the flickering light, the twist of David's smile appeared mocking. "The Gods be willing," he said and turned away to walk off into the dark.

Archmaester Marwyn stepped forward, his own face eager and unabashed. "Marvelous. Thank you, Your Grace." He stared openly at the dragon as it preened and stretched. "I have done much to study the topic of dragons. If you would allow me, I would stay to provide you counsel and study your own dragon."

Aemon stroked the neck of the dragon with a finger, still in awe over the dragon hatching, but he frowned over at Archmaester Marwyn. "I will consider it," he said. For a time, he'd been happy to keep the dragon in the egg for its own protection. That was no longer possible. Like a mother wolf, he felt his hackles raise and he resisted pulling the dragon in closer.

"What will be its name?" Jaime said drolly.

"His name is Rhaegal," Aemon replied.

"Very good, Your Grace."

Aemon began walking away, but he noticed Jaime stayed, transfixed by the fire. "Are you coming?"

"When the fire's out."

His brother Tyrion sidled up to him and they watched together.

|-The Dragon's Roar-|

Aemon sat in his solar with papers scattered across his desk, but his attention was entirely on the dragon sitting on a cushioned chair. He immediately commissioned a perch to be created so that it could comfortably stay at hand. He marveled at its size. He had, of course, seen the dragons when they were larger than ships, and he had difficulty reconciling those enormous beasts with the tiny creature in front of him that was hardly bigger than a cat. Like a kitten seeking comfort, it had hovered close to him and curled up with him when he'd gone to bed.

He'd ordered a plate of shredded meat and hand fed the dragon its first meal. It had eagerly snatched the meat, and he was surprised that it seemed to take care with its snapping teeth. Beyond being fierce and intimidating, he thought they were remarkably intelligent. They could read Daenerys' moods and understand her. They were usually only threatening when they wanted to be threatening. She called herself their mother and they adored her like children.

Now he could be a father to Rhaegal.

He sighed, thinking about Daenerys, and felt his grief return.

A knock sounded at the door.

"Enter."

Jaime came striding into the room. "You sent for me, Your Grace?" Aemon noticed that he seemed to take great pains to not look at the dragon.

"Yes, are you doing well?"

"Fine, Your Grace."

Aemon rolled his eyes and said, "As my current Hand and soon-to-be Master of War, I would appreciate if you didn't skirt the dragon like you're afraid of it."

Jaime sneered. "I am not afraid of the dragon."

"And yet you didn't look at him, coming in here. You still haven't looked at him."

With some exasperation, Jaime glanced over at the dragon and back at him. "Does that satisfy you?"

"Hardly!" Aemon left his desk and crossed over to pick up Rhaegal and stepped over to his friend.

Jaime was just stubborn enough to not move his feet, but he leaned away all the same.

"Look, I understand why you don't care for dragons. But you know we need them. You are going to be my Master of War and will have close contact with Rhaegal. I need you both to trust each other."

"I don't see why I need to be familiar with the beast," Jaime said, looking away.

Aemon scoffed. "The dragon's not a fool. I know you recognize that Drogon and Rhaegal were smart enough to differentiate friend from foe." He lowered his voice. "You tried to kill Daenerys! Yet the dragons recognized your change in allegiance once you committed yourself to our cause and never attempted to harm you. Rhaegal needs to know you can be trusted." He held up Rhaegal. The dragon leaned forward in curiosity, but it clutched at Aemon's arms.

Jaime kept glancing at the dragon with his mouth drawn into a firm line. But he looked at Aemon too. With a sigh, he raised his hand carefully and presented it to Rhaegal. The dragon looked at it curiously, but made no moves. Jaime reached over and rubbed the scales on the dragon's breast. It stretched, rearing its head back. Jaime just as quickly snatched his hand away.

"Now, are you satisfied?"

"That'll have to do for now," Aemon huffed. He set the dragon back on its cushion and went back to his desk. Rhaegal suddenly leaped up and flapped his way clumsily over to him and alighted on his arm.

"At least the dragon likes you," Jaime said with no small amount of relief.

"Now, I want to discuss showing the court the wight. It needs to be do—"

A knock sounded at the door.

Aemon and Jaime glanced at each other. "Enter."

Grand Maester Brunal strode into the solar, a scrap of parchment clutched in his hand. "News from Massey's Hook, Your Grace. Lord Massey has sent an urgent raven."

Aemon held out the arm not occupied by the dragon. The grand maester gave him the parchment and jumped back as the dragon hissed at him. Aemon saw Jaime smirk. He broke the seal and read it. His mouth fell open and he felt like the breath had been stolen from him.

"What news, Your Grace?" Jaime asked.

"A great fleet of fifty ships has been spotted entering Blackwater Bay. The ship leading it is a galleon flying the Targaryen flag and two great birds fly around it. Please advise with all haste."

Author's Note:

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