Aemon Targaryen (103 A.C. thrid moon)

Sea Dragon point

The journey to his future land wasn't long, despite the summer snow and the twanging of the winds. The minimal road that the North had was not the most passable. So the journey took three weeks, with him visiting Deepwood Motte.

Flashback

"My prince, it is an honor to host you and your dragons in my humble domain. May the old gods be with you. To the dragonwolf, the prince of the North," Garred Clover shouted and pulled his sword, then went to one knee.

"Thank you, my lord. We accept bread and salt," he said with a nod as the castle of Deepwood Motte came into view. "My prince, may I show you to your chambers?" A girl, perhaps two years his senior, asked.

"Of course, may I have your name, my lady?"

"Of course, your grace. I am Diana Glover, your grace, the eldest daughter of Lord Glover. If it pleases you, your grace."

"Well met, my lady. I'll follow where you lead," he said with a smile, making the girl blush. "If that's your will, please follow."

Deepwood Motte was a true wooden keep, made possible by the wolf woods.

"This is your grace, I hope the room pleases you," she said with a smile when she opened the door. "It's lovely, my lady. Thank you. Deepwood Motte smells wonderfully like the pine of the Wolfswood," he said, giving her a warm smile.

"It does, my prince, although I only notice it when I return. Now, I don't anymore, a pity; it's a nice smell indeed," she replied with a grin, her eyes twinkling.

"True, the North in general smells much better than the South does. Oh, and don't get me started on King's Landing itself," he said, shaking his head.

"Well, it's good to hear the North is well-liked by the prince of the North and our humbled Glovers as well," she said, smiling. "Well, I'll leave you to settle in, your grace. The feast will start in three hours," she said, bowed, and left the chambers.

"Ser Harrold, please join me," he said, and the old knight entered. "My prince, you asked for me," Harrold said, bowing his head.

"How do you find the North, Ser? We have been here together for the past two years," he asked.

"Hmm, the air is cold, fresh, and it reminds me a lot of my old home, the Crag. The Northern ale is good, but I still prefer a good Summer Sea wine. Most lords are more honorable and less slippery than those in the South. One of the many reasons I chose to become a Kingsguard. I never wanted to deal with that as a lord. I'm sure my father wanted his second son to marry for land and title, but I only wanted to be a knight. When I heard of the chance to become a Kingsguard, I took it with all readiness. It was the greatest honor of my life; the second was serving you. You have made your father and family proud with the way you have conducted yourself," Harrold said, genuinely.

"Thank you for saying so, Ser. Having you here has been a great comfort. You are like family, and together with my uncle, you are like a father to me after my own father passed. So thank you for all your lessons," he said, making the man's eyes well up.

"Aemon, thank you. It's been an honor to train you and to be seen as family. I will always do my duty to you and your family until I draw my final breath, whether in sleep or in defense of you, Aemon," Harrold said, his voice edged with emotion.

End Flashback

The cold western wind from the sea, thick with the smell of salt, blew through his nose as he and his dragons, Balerion and Vhagar, flew in the skies above the seas of Sea Dragon Point. The castle had its foundation built, and a small wooden keep had been constructed in the center of the work town. This would be his home for the upcoming two years and the home for his future children—a Targaryen bastion in the North.

The harbor of the keep was large and, at the moment, harbored a fleet of some twenty warships in the bay. The sight was glorious, and there were also several trading ships present—the first signs of increased trade in the North, which would help during the coming winters.

A palisade surrounded the town, and masonry was set up, ready to build the walls and the keep. Stone would be used, and he would use Balerion and Vhagar to build the first Valyrian Masonry since Valyria. Here, he was free to build and explore, away from the eyes of the maesters. He had to test the loyalty of the maester of Sea Dragonholt, the name of the castle at Sea Dragon Point.

To be sure, too many Targaryens had health problems. But before they were kings of Westeros, that wasn't the case. His mother had told him that Rhaegar had his suspicions. His grandmother, Rhaella, suffered from too many miscarriages, and even the good Queen Alysanne lost many babes. Then there was the tragedy of Summerhall, and according to Balerion, it was a very strange event, like an explosion. The only way he knew such a thing could happen was with volcanic power or black oil exploding in flames. During his time, there was also Wildfire, a highly flammable substance, which was valuable in the fight against the White Walkers.

"Land outside the palisade looks like there is no space for the both of you," he said in High Valyrian to Balerion. Vhagar and Balerion landed outside, and the people of Sea Dragon Point stared at them, many of them perhaps never having seen a Targaryen or a dragon before. They looked terrified and in awe of the dragons.

"All hail, Prince Aemon, Lord of Sea Dragon Point," a man hailed him as he approached and knelt. The people who had gathered all knelt in turn.

"Rise, thank you all for joining me. My people of this western shore of Westeros, I'm glad to see that these past 11 years have been fruitful. In an hour or so, my retinue from Winterfell will join us. Soon, the whole of Westeros will hear of this place—the stronghold and the city. Together, this place will become a bastion of strength for the North and my house," he said, and all the people cheered.

Two Moons Later

The blood of Balerion boiled hot, and the strain had been intense. The first steel had been forced into a fire ignited by dragon flame. Then he had imbeded the steel with the blood of Balerion, repeating the process multiple times. He wasn't sure how many times. During the forging of the blade, each flood of blood, both his and Balerion's, was followed by hammering the steel and chanting the spell Balerion had taught him.

"Sagon jin naejot, sagon hen vekhat. Sagon daor haji Valyria," he chanted each time, (By fire and blood, let the iron be fire. By the blessing of Valyria.) Each time he chanted the words in the smithy he had built.

After the flooding was done, he hammered the blade into shape—a shortsword, something he could test. After sharpening it, he heated the blade straight out of Balerion's flame. It glowed hot with heat, and he tempered the blade in the boiling blood of Balerion.

"Now or never," he whispered to himself.

"Don't worry, my friend; you have labored hard these past two years and studied all I had to teach. It will work—a newly forged blade of Valyrian steel," Balerion reassured him.

And true, it worked. All of Balerion's teachings in masonry, metalwork, dragon care, lore, and writing had paid off. But he had always kept it a secret, known only to his mother, who had helped him keep it hidden. The knowledge held was far to valuable to let loose into the world. How many men would try, and use perhaps evilier means to make the steel?

Now, after he pulled the blade from the blood, no cracks or explosions to worry about, only a newly forged Valyrian steel blade. "I did it, Balerion. Damn, I didn't think it would work," he said, holding the light blade in his hands; it still looked hot.

"Did I say it wouldn't, my friend?" Balerion asked mockingly. He walked out with the blade, opening the door of the Valyrian smithy. "My prince, you were in there for numerous hours; I was worried you had passed out from the heat," Ser Harrold said, half relieved. It was true, the sun was setting in the western seas, and he had entered after his vast.

"Well, it was all worth it, Ser. Look," he said proudly, presenting the blade to Ser Harrold, who looked at him with wide eyes, gaping at the blade.

"By all the gods, it does look like Valyrian steel. May I feel it, your grace?" his voice still awestruck.

"Of course, Ser, try it, please," he said, handing the blade to him. The guard of the blade was made of silver and gilded beautifully into dragon scales, and the pommel had one wolf head and one dragon head, with red rubies for their eyes.

"It feels like it's yours, your grace. I had the pleasure of testing your brother's blade once. It feels similar. A true work of art, and it honors both sides of your family, it seems," Ser Harrold said, examining the pommel.

"Yes, that's what I based it on. Stay on guard; I will make sure everything inside is cleaned up. Then we will test if we can trust our maester here, or if Balerion has a nice snack today," he said with a grin and headed back inside the Valyrian smithy.

Leaving the blood to boil was one of the necessities for forging. The dragon blood seemed different than other blood; it didn't dry up when it boiled, only when it cooled and dried.

The book of lore he had written, he picked up and closed the smithy. Closing it, and the key, as necklace around his neck. Walking toward the temporary wooden keep in the center of the town, he covered the blade. He wasn't yet ready to reveal it to the world. It was the discovery of the age, and the Blackstone used to build the walls of the holdfast was also a new invention. The stone was harder than any other, and it had different uses. It was also very malleable when heated to a certain point, although the process was very dangerous due to the heat. Many stonemasons had been burned, all of whom had taken a blood oath to him and his house to keep the secret. The penalty for breaking that oath was death and the extermination of one's family.

"Maester Dusard, I have something I wish to share with you. I have made a discovery," he said, allowing Ser Harrold to hold the blade while he slipped a mouse into the maester's chamber.

"Truly, my prince? What might that be? Nothing of illness, I hope. You have done great work here at the keep and the land in general. I was more than pleased when I heard I was to be stationed at your keep. I hear you were always a bright young man," Dusard said, but how could he trust the man; he was a maester. But this would be the test.

"Ah, that's good to hear, Dusard. Ser Harrold, if you please," he gestured to the knight, who laid the blade on the maester's desk. "Remove the cloth, and you will understand what I mean," he said to Dusard. The maester did so and gaped at the blade in shock. "Your Grace, am I seeing what I'm seeing?" he asked, quite frantic.

"Yes, Dusard, that is Valyrian steel. I just forged the blade, and I want you to write a letter to my mother, informing her that I have succeeded. I want this new discovery to remain a secret until I have spoken with my family about it. I will not have the word spread. Is that clear, Dusard?" he asked, his tone authoritative.

The man gulped and nodded. "Of course, Your Grace, your will is my command, and any lord who rules this land," Dusard said, his words shaky. "Good. It would be wise for you to learn more about this in the coming weeks. Tomorrow, I shall forge a new one, and I would like you to learn alongside me. I know the Qohor smiths can reforge Valyrian steel, so I will tell you now: betray me and this secret, and I will bring fire and blood upon you and your family," he said, a low growl in his voice, making the man turn as white as milk.

"I wish you a good day; I shall return for the letter later this evening," he said, leaving DusarD, in his chambers, he walked with Harrold to his chambers.

"Harrold, join please," he said.

"Remember the warging is nothing to worry about." He said to the knight.

"Ofcrouse my prince, I hold the watch." Harrold said with a smile.

He closed the door of his chambers and sat down on his chair. Searching for the warg bond with the mouse, he entered Dusard's chamber. The man was muttering to himself.

"This is the moment of your oath, Dusard. Either you stay loyal to the crown and your lord or become the maester of the Citadel, the same Citadel that made you vow to end all magic and unnatural things. But you are a Northerner as well; you know of the Wall, the legends of the Long Night, and my gods. I have been told they are nothing more than trees. Prince Aemon has rediscovered the secret of forging Valyrian steel. The amazing Blackstone and the design of the castle are marvels of old Valyria. When I went to the Citadel to learn more, they wanted me to destroy the dragons and the magic of the world, fearing what they don't understand. It undermines their power. Damn them, and all the gods," the man muttered.

"Very well, I will hold to my vow to the crown and my brilliant lord. Let the Citadel burn with their old men stuck in their ways. I pledge my mind and loyalty to the man who rediscovered the secret of forging Valyrian steel. It's better than what those old men at the Citadel have done," he said, then burned the letter he had written.

After that, he blacked out the Warg connection and was back in his chambers. "So, Father was right. How many children, if not Aemma's children, passed away because of them? Our blood does have a connection to magic, as do the Starks. The maesters are mostly ignorant of that. Otherwise, I would not be surprised if the same thing happened to them," he thought to himself.

"Harrold, it seems we have a loyal maester," he said.

Sea Dragon point Future Map

Alicent Hightower (103 A.C. sixth moon)

Kingslanding

The last two years had been quiet for her. She had taken care of the old king for the last three years, but the past year had been slow. She could do little but read and tell stories to the king. It wasn't without purpose; she had helped her father become the Hand of the King, the second most powerful position in the realm. She still hoped she could marry one of the three princes of the realm.

The crown prince had a wife who had given him only one daughter and had suffered several miscarriages. Daemon was in a marriage that both wife and husband despised. Then there was Aemon, the Winter Prince of the North and rider of Balerion, who was a diligent and temperate prince. He was also a close friend, and it pained her to know he was already betrothed to Lady Velaryon. She wouldn't mind marrying the handsome young prince, who was only three years her junior. There was that possibility, and her father had urged her to write to him and maybe even seduce him so that the prince might choose to marry her instead of Laena. However, she knew Aemon wouldn't do that. She had seen the way he looked at Laena during the tournament. There was something between the two.

Now she was quite lonely, with only the servants from the old king for company, as her two friends had left since the Great Council. Rhaenyra was a sweet girl six years her junior and a great friend. Aemon was one as well, but she had developed a crush on him later in their friendship. So seeing him leave was harder than Rhaenyra's departure.

Her thoughts wandered as she walked to the king's chambers, where two Kingsguard were waiting. "I'm expected, Sers," she said, and they both nodded and opened the door.

"Your Grace, I'm here. We were supposed to continue reading about the First Dornish War. Is that still a good proposition, or would you like me to read something else?" she questioned as she walked into the chamber.

When she heard no reply, she walked over to his bed and checked if he was sleeping. But his eyes were open and had a glassy look in them. "Your grace?" she asked and leaned over to check his breathing. Nothing. She gasped then, realizing that King Jaehaerys, First of His Name, King of Andals, Rhoynar, and the First Men, had passed away.

"Sers, please come in; it is urgent," she said, her voice shaky. "My lady, is everything all right?" Ser Raym Redwyne asked. "No, I think the king has gone to the Father, Ser," she answered. "Your grace!" Raym said as he shook the king. "It's true then, the king is dead. Long live King Viserys," he said, his voice hoarse with grief.

"Summon the Small Council and inform the Hand. The Prince of Dragonstone must be informed," Raym said to Ser Rickard Throne. "My lady, it's best if you join so you can relay the details to your father, the Hand."

(Three moons later)

The Dragonpit was a massive structure where some of the dragons of the royal family were housed. The people waited intently for their king to arrive. He would come to his brown she-dragon, whom he had called Gon-gon or something, she wasn't sure.

Daemon Targaryen (103 A.C.)

Kingslanding

The great plot had finally worked, and he was now the heir. His brother would finally have to annul his marriage, something the old king would never have allowed. He planned to sire a son on his niece, ultimately giving birth to a true Valyrian. However, for now, he had to wait until the girl was of age. Then there was the matter of Lady Laena Velaryon, also a prospect, but she was a waste, on his younger brother Aemon.

He waited alongside the Hand of the King, Ser Otto Hightower, a 39-year-old man who had risen to the position of Hand due to his comely daughter. The Hightowers had always been a persistent presence, constantly seeking proximity to the throne. They had previously aligned with Maegor the Cruel and had even tried to use the Faith to overthrow the Targaryens, or so he suspected. They held power as the center of faith and knowledge in the world and would always strive to be near the seat of power.

So when the Hand's daughter began to seek his company, he was more than willing to entertain her advances. Though she was just fourteen namedays old, she was comely for her age, and for now, he thought it suitable to entertain the young maiden. Perhaps plucking the young maids, maidenhead. He thought with a smirk on his face.

Daemon had endured much over the last twenty-three years—his mother's death, the birth of the two Stark brats who had bonded with dragons, and his father's preference for the boy over him. The dutiful Aemon, the Northern Prince, was a thorn in his side.

At least the Stark brat wasn't coming to the coronation, or so he had claimed. Viserys always doted on the boy. His brother had even suggested marrying Rhaenyra to the brat, which had left Daemon grunting in disdain. The half-breed Stark being betrothed to a true Valyrian like himself? Unthinkable. Though even Aemma was only half an Arryn, she looked nothing like an Arryn; she was a true Valyrian by looks alone. The Stark brats, on the other hand, were too wolf-like for his tastes.

His thoughts were interrupted by the roar of Goynogar. His brother and his good-sister were arriving for their coronation. As they landed in the center, his brother dismounted his dragon and helped Aemma down for the dragon. They all the people gathered at Kingslanding, and knelt before their new king, even Rhaenys, who stood with her children and Rhaenyra as part of the royal family.

"Rise," Viserys commanded, his voice unusually stern. Daemon couldn't help but smirk, finding his brother's demeanor less than joyful.

"Brother," his brother greeted him with an embrace before moving on to greet Rhaenys and Rhaenyra.

"Cousin, daughter," Viserys addressed them before kissing his daughter on the brow.

Viserys then knelt before the High Septon, a fat old man, and another Hightower. The High Septon recited the words of the Faith of the Seven and anointed him with holy oils. Daemon suppressed a snort as he watched the religious ceremony.

Finally, He walked over to receive the crown of the old king, a golden crown adorned with the sigils of all the great houses of the Seven Kingdoms. He then addressed the gathered masses. As he placed the crown on his brother's head.

"All hail His Grace Viserys Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Rhoynar, the Andals, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm," he proclaimed his brother as king to the realm.

Notes : Thanks for the read