Braavos: 298 AC: 1 Week Later:
Varys
Varys pulled the hood of his cloak tighter around his face as the sea spray from the Narrow Sea kissed his cheeks. The salty wind mingled with the scent of mystery and secrets—he felt strangely at home.
The ship slid into the shadow of the Titan of Braavos, that massive, weather-beaten sentinel standing watch over the city. His cold and lifeless eyes gazed down upon the vessel as if judging each soul aboard. Varys observed the harbormaster fussing with his ledger, coins exchanging hands, whispers concealed behind practiced smiles. It was a dance he knew well.
The journey here had taken much longer than he had anticipated, as his ship had to take numerous detours and diversions due to unsafe weather and rough seas. Alas, he arrived ready to do what needed to be done to bring his King further resources to ensure his coming campaign in Westeros was a successful one.
His ship pulled slowly into the harbor and he watched as his men tied the ship to the dock with heavy and thick ropes, ensuring it wouldn't sail away whilst no one was aboard. He disembarked with the grace of a cat, his steps making almost no sound on the wooden docks. The labyrinthine canals of Braavos stretched out before him, bathed in the dim, early light. Gondolas skimmed through the mist, their oars slicing through the water like silent whispers.
He found the sight quite beautiful in a way as he began to walk to the Iron Bank. The streets were crowded with early morning shopgoers and men and women alike selling whatever produce they had available to whoever was passing by. Such is the way of the Free Cities, Varys mused, his careful eyes scanning every detail as he walked by.
As he walked, he couldn't help but shake the small feeling of unease that he was being watched by someone or something. He frequently turned his attention to the surrounding rooftops and he watched over his shoulder. He saw nothing but it did nothing to calm the growing feeling of unease that dwelled in his stomach. Turning another corner through the winding streets of Braavos, the House of Black and White loomed ahead, its stark, imposing facade both mesmerizing and foreboding. The two-faced doors—one black, one white—stared down at him, a silent testament to the mysteries contained within.
The scent of the city shifted as he approached, a hint of incense mingling with the brackish canal water. Varys's pace slowed, his keen eyes sweeping the entrance where many had entered but few had returned. The Faceless Men, with their veils of secrecy and death, were not to be trifled with.
He paused for a brief moment, almost as if paying silent homage to the revered assassins. In the quietude, he could almost sense the unseen eyes watching him from within the House. It was a place of shadows, much like himself, where secrets and whispers held power.
Continuing on, the Spider wrapped his cloak tighter against the chill, the House of Black and White receding behind him. He wasn't here to hire any assassins, not today at least. However, he could perhaps find a use for them in the future should his King demand it.
After a few more minutes of walking, he finally arrived. The Iron Bank of Braavos stood before him. The imposing structure, with its high, marble columns and wrought iron gates, stood as a testament to its power and influence. Here, wealth and power intermingled, determining the fate of kingdoms.
As he approached, the subtle clang of the gates opening echoed in the crisp morning air. Varys moved with deliberate ease, his keen eyes taking in every detail. The guards, clad in fine armor, nodded respectfully but kept their gazes sharp. Inside, the air was cool and heavy with the scent of polished wood and parchment.
The grand hall of the Iron Bank stretched before him, its high ceilings adorned with intricate frescoes depicting the history and glory of Braavos. Rows of clerks and bankers worked diligently, their quills scratching away on endless ledgers. Wealth flowed through these halls like blood through veins, giving life to empires. He had sent a message ahead of time for Tycho Nestoris to meet him here and standing gleefully before him was that very man.
"Lord Varys." Tycho bowed, an unnerving smile appearing on his face. Varys smiled back at the tall thin man, whose dark eyes watched every movement the Spider made.
"Tycho, a pleasure to finally meet you in such a fascinating place." Varys nodded as he walked toward Tycho.
"Oh, I received your message and I would not want to miss such a wonderful proposition for the world," Tycho smirked. "Come, we can talk in one of our offices."
Varys only nodded and followed Tycho through the halls of the Iron Bank. There were no pictures of art or history down here, he noticed. The walls were barren with only intricate patterns of gold carved into black stone present. This is where the serious discussions happened, far from the beautiful facade outside.
"This way, my friend." Tycho beckoned, his hand gesturing to an open door and empty room.
Varys entered and found a very large man waiting for him. The man would put Robert to shame in terms of size as he sat in his own special seat that was three times the size of any normal seat. The man smiled gleefully at Varys as he entered but did not stand up, partly due to his weight. Varys noticed that contrary to most Braavosi, the man wore heavy robes of dark brown and grey, and around his neck dangled a large key.
"Lord Varys, I take it?" The man bellowed, his voice booming around the barren room where only a desk and three chairs were present.
"I am, my Lord." Varys politely smiled.
"Ah, good, good, please sit." The man gestured.
Varys happily sat down before the enormous man, as Tycho too took his seat beside him. "Now, my friend Tycho here has told me all about your proposition and the message you sent him. I must say we are very interested in pursuing such a venture with you and your...King."
"I am glad to hear that, my Lord." Varys nodded.
"Now, being the Master of Whisperers of King Robert's court, I presume you know all of the day-to-day politics of such a place."
"I do, my Lord."
"Good. Now, tell me why Robert has not begun to pay back his debts to the Iron Bank. The amount of...how much was it, Tycho?"
"One million, two hundred and forty-two thousand gold dragons. With more being sent for a tournament for the King's name-day."
"There, now why is he so reluctant to pay us back what we consider a vast sum of gold."
"To simply state it, he cannot. He presumes he has no enemies left and being King of Westeros, he presumes he is untouchable by the likes of you so his debt is simply an inconvenience rather than a pressing issue."
"I see." The large man stated, taking a deep breath in and out. "Well, let us make it a pressing issue for him. You propose we back this Aemon of the House Targaryen?"
"I do."
"Interesting. A King's spymaster plotting against him to ensure another rises in his place. It seems commonplace for men of your ilk to engage in such frivolities, swapping one King for the next."
"I assure you, my Lord, Aemon Targaryen is no ordinary King."
"Yes, we have heard all the stories. A boy who escapes the blades of Robert Baratheon with the help of Ser Arthur Dayne. A boy who has spent most of his life in exile, sheltered by the strangely protective Illyrio Mopatis and his shadowy friend. A boy who we now hear is also a dragon rider."
"Quite the tale."
"Quite the tale, indeed, Lord Varys." The large man smirked, glancing at Tycho. "We most certainly could offer financial backing to this would be King, but we need certain assurances, from him in person."
"That would be...inconvenient to say the least. I have no way of knowing where he is currently. Dragons can fly much faster than birds, you see. What assurances would you be seeking?"
"That is most unfortunate, but we would seek to ensure our debt is paid in full should he take the crown, plus a percentage of whatever we gave him to secure the throne. Should things take a tragic turn for the worse and this Aemon Targaryen falls in his pursuit for the throne, The Iron Banks' good name will not be sullied by him, for we are only lenders and bankers."
"I understand, my Lord, your name will be as clean as it always is."
"Good, but we would still need to meet with Aemon Targaryen in person, to get the measure of him and to ensure he is worth us sinking our gold into yet another King."
"I assure you, my Lord, Aemon is the only way you will get the money you have sunk into Westeros back."
"That remains to be seen, Lord Varys. Write to him and get a message to him by any means, and tell him to meet us. We can go from there." The large man decided, his voice from and holding no room for any rebuke from Varys.
"Of course, my Lord, I will see to it." Varys nodded as he and Tycho both stood up and walked from the room.
"Not what you were hoping for, I take it?" Tycho said solemnly, as they walked back through the halls fo the Iron Bank.
"There is progress to be made. I just have to somehow get Aemon here."
As they approached the exit, a sudden shadow fell across the floor, causing both men to glance upwards. Through the towering archway, they saw a sight that made even the unflappable Tycho pause in awe. High above them, soaring through the morning sky, was a dragon of magnificent proportions.
For a moment, the entire city seemed to hold its breath, captivated by the majestic sight of the dragon and its rider. Varys' eyes narrowed ever so slightly, as the sight of the large black dragon above. Varys had never seen such a thing and he drew comparisons in his mind to Balerion the Black Dread. Beside him, Tycho allowed himself a small smile, unable to contain the wonder of seeing such a marvelous creature.
As the dragon and its rider disappeared into the horizon, the spell broke, and the city returned to its usual hum of activity. Varys and Tycho exchanged a meaningful glance. The King has arrived.
Aemon Targaryen
As Aemon Targaryen and Arthur soared above Braavos on Vaedar, the dragon's immense wings cast a majestic shadow over the city below. The bustling streets and intricate canals seemed like a miniature model from their vantage point, the hum of daily life reduced to a distant murmur.
Vaedar's scales shimmered in the sunlight, catching the eye of every Braavosi who dared to look up. The sight of a dragon flying overhead must have reminded there Braavosi of their long and arduous history with the dragon lords of Valyria, except this time, Aemon was not here to enslave them. Aemon's grey eyes looked for a place to land in the myriad of islands and canals that composed Braavos.
Out of the hundreds of islands, he found one that was partially empty, having only recent and half-built constructions present on it. Aemon gave Vaedar the order to land and so he did, his massive wings billowing grass and water through the air as if it were mere dust. His claws sank heavily into the soft marshland beneath him before Aemon and Arthur climbed down, happy to be off dragon back for the first time in a while, and to feel solid ground beneath them once more.
"Ipradagon se rest, Vaedar, īlon jāhor sagon kesīr syt mirri jēda." Aemon commanded Vaedar, his hand lingering on the dragon's black scales before he took to the sky once more, his massive frame heading for the mountains that circled Braavos.
Aemon turned to Arthur, who was stretching every limb he had. "Are we ready?" He asked toward the Sword of the Morning.
"We are." Arthur heaved as he shook off an arm, wincing slightly as he did so. "You don't think they'll send soldiers? We did just arrive on the back of a dragon."
"We'll see, Arthur." Aemon nodded, as they both began to traverse the maze of streets and canals that composed Braavos. The city bustled with life, merchants calling out their wares, and the canals teeming with gondolas. The scent of exotic spices and sea air filled their senses as they navigated through the winding alleys. Aemon led the way, his eyes sharp and focused, while Arthur walked beside him, scanning their surroundings with equal vigilance.
They passed by the grand markets and towering statues, the architecture of Braavos both awe-inspiring and intimidating. Every corner held a new discovery, every shadow a potential threat. Aemon and Arthur knew that in this city, one had to tread carefully.
"There, Aemon, that is what we're looking for." Arthur pointed.
Aemon looked and saw what could only be the Iron Bank of Braavos. Its grand columns and ornate details stood as a testament to the institution's power and wealth. The Iron Bank was more than a financial institution—it was a beacon of influence that reached far beyond the borders of Braavos. A point that Aemon knew all too well.
As they approached the Iron Bank, Aemon could make out the presence of two figures standing under the grand archway that composed the entrance of the bank. One tall and thin, the other bald and fat. Aemon felt a sense of unease as he looked at the bald man, and was startled when Arthur grabbed his arm.
"That is Varys." He stated, his eyes narrowing.
"The same Varys from King's Landing? Why is he here?" Aemon questioned.
"I presume the same reason we are."
"What about the other one?"
"Him, I do not know. Perhaps, a representative of the bank."
Aemon only nodded in response and they both began to walk closer. Aemon steadied himself for what would be a first-time meeting with the elusive Spider that had helped him so much these past years.
"Your Grace." Varys smiled, as he bowed his head low and respectfully.
"Lord Varys, I am pleased to see you." Aemon smiled before turning his gaze to the man beside Varys. "Lord..?
"Not a Lord, Your Grace, I am Tycho Nestoris, representative of the Iron Bank of Braavos." The man nodded.
"A pleasure, regardless, Tycho. Allow me to introduce, Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning."
"Your name is known the world over, Ser Arthur." Tycho grinned, as he shook Arthur's hand before turning his gaze back to Aemon. "It is fortuitous that you are here, Your Grace, we were just discussing you in fact."
"Oh, you were?"
"Yes, we were discussing funding for your future campaigns in Westeros, but we should talk more inside, come, I will take you to the official Keyholder that we were talking to previously," Tycho said as he began to walk ahead of all three men.
Aemon and Arthur quickly followed him into the Iron Bank, whereas Varys lingered behind, his eyes scanning the surrounding buildings before he too entered the Iron Bank.
As Aemon stepped into the grand hall of the Iron Bank, he was immediately struck by the contrast between its austere exterior and the opulent interior. The vast, open space was bathed in a soft, golden light that filtered through intricately designed stained glass windows. Each pane depicted scenes of Braavos's storied past, casting colorful patterns on the marble floor below.
Tycho continued leading them deeper into the Iron Bank until they came across a large and almost barren room. As Aemon peered inside, he saw a very large man, much bigger than Illyrio in Aemon's eyes.
"Master Bessaro?" Tycho called from the doorway. "Aemon of the House Targaryen is here to see you."
"Already?" Bessaro bellowed, his voice full of shock and surprise. "Send him in right away."
Tycho gently led Aemon in, his hand softly on his back. Aemon noticed how Arthur tightly gripped a dagger as he did so, seemingly ready to kill him should he lay his hand any more firmly on his King.
"Master Bessaro?" Aemon asked as he sat on the offered seat.
"Yes, that is me, boy, a pleasure." Bessaro chuckled heartily, his chin bouncing as he did so. "Now, your friend, Lord Varys, has already petitioned us to back you financially and we would be mummers if we said we were not interested in such a proposition."
"Good, then let us get to it."
"We have some conditions of course. Robert Baratheon has not paid his debts in years now, which I am sure you are very aware of."
"Of course."
"So, we will back you so long as you return the debt to its fullest plus a percentage of whatever sum we agree to give you in financial backing."
"That seems fair."
"Good, now tell me, Aemon Targaryen, before we settle this account, we need to know how much support you truly have, for we have all heard the stories of you and your dragon."
"Dragons"
"Hm? What do you mean?"
"Dragons. There are four of them, each ridden by its own rider."
"Four of...very well, as preposterous as that sounds, I will take you at your word."
"There's nothing preposterous about it, Master Bessaro, I have seen the dragon he rode here on," Tycho interjected. "A huge black mass, like the dread Balerion of old."
"I see, well this certainly changes things." Bessaro choked out, taking a deep breath. "Do you have anything in terms of alliances? Anyone supporting your claim, aside from Lord Varys here."
"I am currently betrothed to Margaery of the House Tyrell, ensuring their support. My brother, Viserys, is to be married to Princess Arianne of Dorne. Also, the Lords of the Narrow Sea under House Velaryon back my claim."
"Very good, very good indeed." Bessaro nodded. "I have faith that with our support and the support of those who back your claim, we will see our money returned in short order once you take the throne."
"I assure you, that should you help me take the throne, I will return the debt that the Usurper owes," Aemon assured, his voice commanding and authoritative.
"Very good, very good indeed." Bessaro smiled. "Let us agree to a fee then. What sum did you have in mind?"
"Around three hundred thousand gold dragons should cover everything I plan to do with the gold." Aemon decided.
"Very well, I was expecting a much larger number but with the backing of the Tyrells, I can imagine gold is not an enormous concern."
"It is a large enough concern for me to seek you out." Aemon smiled.
"Indeed. Well then, our business here is concluded. I look forward to working with you in the future. Tycho, please escort our friends out."
The grand hall of the Iron Bank resonated with an air of finality as Tycho Nestoris led Aemon, Arthur, and Varys toward the imposing doors. The agreement had been sealed, and the Iron Bank's support firmly pledged to Aemon's claim to the throne. Tycho's expression remained inscrutable, his demeanor a mask of professional courtesy.
Aemon walked with a newfound confidence, his mind already racing ahead to the implications of their success. Arthur, ever vigilant, kept a watchful eye on their surroundings, while Varys moved with his usual grace, a slight smile playing on his lips as he considered the intricate web of alliances now at their disposal.
As they approached the exit, the soft, golden light of the Braavosi morning spilled into the hall, casting long shadows on the polished marble floor. Tycho paused briefly, turning to face them with a nod of acknowledgment.
"The Iron Bank stands behind you, Aemon Targaryen. May your endeavors be fruitful and your reign just," Tycho stated, his voice calm and measured.
"Thank you, Tycho, the Iron Bank will have its due, I promise you." Aemon nodded, as he shook Tycho's offered hand.
"Of that, I have no doubt," Tycho said as he walked back inside the Iron Bank, the heavy doors closing behind him.
Aemon then turned his attention to Varys, who was smiling broadly. "Lord Varys."
"Your Grace." Varys nodded.
"I apologize that this is the first time we have met, but I am grateful for your support over the years."
"Circumstances have dictated that this is how we meet, Your Grace, but I am thankful for your gratitude."
"Of course, Lord Varys, without you we-"
"Shush, Your Grace." Varys suddenly said, his finger pressing to his lips.
Aemon looked at him confused, as did Arthur, the Sword of the Morning glancing around at his surroundings, his senses suddenly aware. "What is it?" Aemon asked, his eyes darting about Varys' features.
"Do you not see them, Your Grace," Varys replied, his voice low and foreboding.
"Who?"
"Them," Varys smirked, nodding toward two dark-cloaked men standing on the periphery of the crowded street, their shadowed eyes solely on the three of them.
"Assassins?" Arthur asked, his hand firmly gripped around the hilt of the dagger he wore on his belt.
"Spies. If they were assassins, they would have struck by now, not lingered and watched as spies do. No, these men must have followed me. Probably sent by Jon Arryn or worse, Littlefinger." Varys sighed, the disappointment clear in his voice.
"Littlefinger?" Aemon asked, his hand resting on the hilt of Dark Sister.
"Petyr Baelish, Your Grace. A grasper from a minor house with an unusual talent for making friends in high places. He has spies and informants everywhere, but I have done my best to not let them enter Essos. " Varys explained as the two shrouded men began to walk away, their figures disappearing into the sea of people that surrounded the street.
"I'm not letting them leave here alive." Aemon spat. "Who knows what they could report back to the Usurper?"
"Indeed, Your Grace." Varys bowed. "I will take my leave."
"You will be safe?"
"Do not worry about me, Your Grace, we will see each other again," Varys assured, slinking back into the crowd around them as if he had never been there.
Aemon nodded and quickly he and Arthur began walking briskly down the street toward where their perceived spies were. Aemon looked around for anyone wearing a dark cloak in this city of color and light until he saw two men walking much faster than anyone else. Aemon beckoned Arthur to follow him, and the two of them followed in the footsteps of their prey.
Aemon looked on as one of the men turned around and took notice of their following. Soon enough, the men burst into a full sprint, eager to escape with their knowledge and the secrets they have learned.
"Fuck!" Aemon yelled as he too began to sprint. Behind him, Arthur caught up and soon enough both men were running through the bustling streets of the town. The clatter of hooves and the murmur of traders filled the air, but their focus was solely on the two figures darting ahead, weaving through the crowd with desperate urgency.
The chase intensified as Aemon and Arthur maneuvered through the maze of alleyways, their senses heightened by the thrill of the pursuit. The sun climbed higher, casting sharp shadows that flickered and danced with their every move. Ahead, the spies pushed through a market stall, scattering fruits and vegetables in their wake. The startled vendor shouted in protest, but the chaos only fueled Aemon and Arthur's determination. They leaped over the fallen produce, their eyes locked on their targets.
One of the spies glanced back, his face pale with fear. He stumbled, and in that moment of hesitation, Arthur lunged forward, tackling him to the ground. The spy struggled, but Arthur's grip was unyielding. Arthur punched the man hard in the face, causing blood to spill freely from his nose and his conscious to leave him. He held him tightly to the ground as Aemon continued the pursuit, his heart pounding in his chest. The second spy was fast, but Aemon's training had prepared him for this. With a burst of speed, he closed the distance and tackled the spy to the cobblestone ground.
"Yield!" Aemon commanded, his voice firm and authoritative. The man beneath him struggled and by now a small crowd had begun to form around the both of them. "Fucking yield!" Aemon yelled, his voice full of fury.
Aemon could see the man reach for something in his cloak and before he knew it, a dagger was brandished, as the crowd around them gasped and fled. Aemon suddenly felt the blade cut his arm, causing him to stand up and take a few steps back. Aemon was seething with rag, as he watched the man get to his feet, the blade in his hand dripping with the blood of the dragon.
A sharp pain seared through his arm from where the dagger's edge cut into his flesh. Aemon hissed in pain, as he held a finger to the deep gash that was now present on his arm. The spy looked at him, his eyes wide with fear and adrenaline, as if he could not believe what he had done.
"St-stay back, boy or I'll cut you again." The spy stammered as he held the dagger out toward Aemon.
"You'll cut me again?" Aemon laughed, unsheathing Dark Sister in anger for the first time in his life. Suddenly, Arthur appeared behind him, Dawn unsheathed and ready to spill blood once more. The two men stood side by side until Arthur noticed Aemon's arm bleeding.
"Aemon, your arm!" Arthur exclaimed, his deep blue eyes scanning Aemon for any more injuries.
"It's fine, Arthur." Aemon sighed, as he took a step closer to the shaking spy. "Yield or die."
"You think I'll betray my master so easily?" the spy spat, his eyes blazing with defiance. "I would rather die than give you what you seek. Do your worst, but you'll get nothing from me!"
The spy suddenly lunged at Aemon, his intent to kill clear. He was quick but Arthur was quicker, and with one single strike, the man's arm hit the floor beneath a pool of blood. The spy took a step back, his screams echoing in the air, causing the birds from the rooftops to fly away in fear, as he dropped to his knees, clutching the fleshy stump of what remained of his arm.
Aemon took another step forward and plunged Dark Sister deep into the man's chest, choking whatever life remained in him and silencing his screams forever. Aemon withdrew the blade and wiped it clean on the man's cloak.
"Your first?" Arthur asked, sheathing Dawn on his back.
"The first." Aemon breathed, as he too sheathed his blade.
"What are we going to do with his body?"
"Leave it. Let the guards deal with him, they can give him the burial he doesn't deserve."
Aemon only nodded in response before he and Arthur turned and walked away. It wasn't long before Arthur led him to the other psy he had incapacitated. Aemon looked over him, seeing the bloody mess that was his face and nose.
"We can question him, Aemon, and find out who sent him or what he was truly here for," Arthur said, as he grabbed the man's waist and threw him over his shoulder with a heavy wheeze.
"Where though?" Aemon asked, looking at the buildings around them.
"An inn or tavern. Anywhere, and once we find one, I need to have a look at that wound."
"It's nothing, don't worry."
"The smallest of wounds can fester and lead to you losing your arm, Aemon, now come. I won't hear any arguing about it."
Aemon smiled as Arthur led the way. Although Aemon was his King, Arthur felt more like a father to him than anything else and it was in these moments he felt it truly in his heart. It wasn't long before they sighted an inn. The sign above read 'The Water Dancer' and Arthur decided it was a good enough place for an interrogation.
They pushed through the crowd, heading towards the inn's modest entrance. The wooden sign creaked gently in the breeze, and the scent of roasted meat wafted from inside. As they entered, the innkeeper looked up from behind the counter, his eyes widening at the sight of the unconscious spy.
"Welcome, sirs," the innkeeper said cautiously. "How may I help you?"
"We need a private room," Aemon said firmly, sliding a coin across the counter. "No questions asked."
The innkeeper's gaze flicked between the two men and the spy before he nodded slowly. "I do not want any killing in my establishment, am I clear?"
"Of course, now, show me where the rooms are."
"Right this way, Ser."
The Innkeeper led them down a narrow hallway to a secluded room at the back of the inn. The room was dimly lit, with sturdy wooden furniture and thick curtains that could be drawn to ensure privacy. Arthur carefully laid the unconscious spy onto a chair, securing him with rope to prevent any sudden escape attempts.
"We'll also need a basin of water and some cloth if you have some," Arthur ordered, as he tossed the innkeeper another coin.
"Of course, Ser, thank you."
As the innkeeper left them alone, Aemon drew the curtains and lit a candle, casting a warm glow over the room. He examined the spy's wounds, ensuring he wouldn't bleed out before they could get any information from him.
"I only punched him in the face, Aemon, he won't die." Arthur chuckled as he drew another chair out from a table. "Take your garments off and sit down, Aemon."
Aemon sighed and set the candle down on the table. He unbuckled the belt that held Dark Sister and set it down, resting against the wall. He removed his leather armor and undershirt, only wincing slightly as he did so. He then sat down and allowed Arthur to look at his wound.
"See, it's not so bad," Aemon smirked, looking at the cut.
"I've seen worse, but we need to clean it." Arthur sighed,
As Aemon and Arthur settled into the dimly lit room, the door creaked open, and the innkeeper stepped in, carrying a basin of water and a few clean cloths. His eyes flickered with curiosity, but he maintained a respectful silence.
"Here." He said, setting the basin and cloths down on the table beside them.
"Thank you." Arthur reassuringly smiled.
The innkeeper nodded, backing out of the room with a final glance at the unconscious spy and the two determined men. As the door closed behind him, Aemon moved to the table, dipping a cloth into the cool water.
"What are you going to ask him? Aemon asked, a slight hiss present in his voice as he cleaned the wound.
"Who sent him and why he sent him." Arthur bluntly replied as he tore some of the fresh cloth in half.
"What if he lies to us?"
"He won't."
Arthur took the wet cloth from Aemon and began to help him clean the wound before he tightly tied another dry cloth around it.
"We'll have to have a healer look at it when we get to Pentos." Arthur decided.
"Fine, Arthur." Aemon appreciatively smiled. "Thank you."
"Only my duty, Your Grace." Arthur smiled as he looked at Aemon's wrist and saw the green and gold favor he wore.
"You still have it?"
"Hm? Oh, yes."
"You seemed infatuated with her, even after having only just met her,"
"Is that a bad thing?"
"Not necessarily, she seems a sweet girl, but I'd be wary of them, Aemon."
"This isn't the first time you have said this."
"And it won't be the last. There are things you need to learn, Aemon, especially when it comes to marriage. You're young and the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, and whilst Margaery may make a good wife and you may come to love one another one day, she-"
"You don't think she loves me now?" Aemon asked, interrupting Arthur.
"Now?" Arthur playfully smirked. "I'm sure she likes you, but love? Don't be so naive, Aemon. They've been planning for something like this for a long time and she is well groomed for her role."
"So am I being played as a fool?"
"Not yet, no," Arthur sighed, "I have my own prejudices against the Tyrell's so I may not have the most balanced opinion, but be wary of them, Aemon. They will seek to control you through her."
"But, I like her." Aemon sighed, his voice full of defeat.
"That's fine, I'm not telling you to hate her just be more careful around her and more guarded with your feelings. Take things slower and see how she responds."
"I understand." Aemon nodded. "I just wish things were simple."
"We all do, but that is politics for you. Everyone has an ulterior motive, unfortunately."
"Do you have any ulterior motives, Arthur?" Aemon playfully smirked, as he stood up and began to dress himself once more.
"Aside from making sure his Grace doesn't get himself killed or fall in love with the first girl that smiles at him, I don't think so." Arthur chuckled.
Before any more words could be shared between the two of them, the groaning sounds of the spy stirring from his sleep interrupted them.
Arthur quickly stood in front of him, grabbing his chin firmly with his hand. The spy's eyes startled open, fear immediately present within his pools of brown.
"Who sent you?" Arthur immediately asked, his voice stern and commanding.
"I...I..." The spy stammered.
"Tell me who and I'll make this easy for you."
"I...cannot say, he will kill me."
"And you think I won't?" Arthur scoffed, unsheathing the dagger from his belt and holding it against the man's eye.
"Please, Ser, have mercy..." The spy cried.
"I have none for the enemies of my King, now tell me what I want to know!" Arthur yelled, driving the dagger into the leg of the spy.
"Fuck!" The spy cried, the tears now flowing freely from his eyes down his bloodied cheeks.
Aemon watched on in disbelief. He knew all of this was necessary, but to see how Arthur could change from fatherly figure to professional killer bewildered him.
"Alright...alright...I'll tell you..." The spy sniffed, his breathing harsh and quick. "Baelish...it was Petyr Baelish who sent us."
"Why did he send you?" Arthur asked to no answer. "Answer me!"
Arthur twisted the dagger that was still in the spy's leg. His screams soon filled the room as the blood from his leg spouted onto the floor.
"Follow the Eunuch...see what he is doing...report back, that is all!" The spy cried. "I swear it, Ser!"
Aemon watched as Arthur studied the man before he removed the cloak from his shaking body. Underneath, Aemon could see a litany of blades strapped across his chest as well as black chainmail armor.
"So many knives," Aemon stated, his arms folding across his chest as he spoke. "I don't believe him,"
"Neither do I, Your Grace." Arthur nodded before slapping the spy hard across the face. "Do you take me for a fucking fool, hm?"
"N-no...I don't, Ser." The spy stammered.
"Then tell me the truth. Why are you here?"
"He told us to kill him if we had the chance...we would've had you two not met with him."
"Why?"
"I don't fucking know, do I! He just paid us...please, Ser, you have to believe me."
"Most likely to get him out of his way." Aemon deduced. "No easier way to get rid of a rival than whilst he's away from home."
"Hm." Arthur grunted.
"I've told you everything I know, now please...let me go." The spy pleaded.
"That depends," Aemon interjected. "Do you know who we are?"
"No...no, I swear it, I've never seen your like before."
"Hm. What do you think, Arthur?"
"I believe him." Arthur sighed as he stood up, grabbed the water basin, and set it firmly on the table. "What will you tell, Baelish?"
"Nothing, Ser...I-I-I won't even return to him, I promise, I swear it by the Old Gods and the new." The spy pleaded once more.
"I wish I could believe you," Arthur sighed before firmly grasping the man by his chainmail shirt and dragging him to the table where the water rested.
"What are you? No...Please, Ser, no!" The spy's voice soon became muffled as Aemon watched on in shock as Arthur began to drown him in the basin.
Arthur pressed the spy's face firmly into the water as if he were a sponge. After what felt like hours, Aemon saw that the spy's struggling body soon became limp and his life escaped him.
"I'm sorry you had to see that, Your Grace." Arthur apologized, as he removed the man's face from the blooded water.
"That was...brutal, Arthur."
"I know, but it had to be done. I cannot risk your safety by having him scurry back to Petyr Baelish."
Aemon only sighed and rubbed his eyes. "What about his body?"
"I'll carry him out as if he were unconscious, and we can discard his body somewhere discreet." Arthur decided. "Redress yourself, Aemon, and don't forget your sword."
Aemon nodded and pulled his leather armor back over his body, only wincing slightly in pain as he pushed his arms through the black sleeves. As he began to tighten Dark Sister around his waist, he watched as Arthur slung the lifeless body of the spy over his shoulder. This experience had somewhat opened his eyes to the lengths Arthur was willing to go to to ensure his safety. It was a harsh truth, but one that solidified his resolve.
As they heaved the lifeless spy from the inn's dimly lit room, Aemon glanced at Arthur. The flickering lantern light cast eerie shadows on his guardian's face, making his expression unreadable. They maneuvered the body down the narrow corridor, careful to avoid any creaking floorboards that might betray their actions to the other patrons.
The innkeeper, a small man with a perpetual frown etched on his face, eyed them suspiciously as they passed. "He is not dead, is he?" He asked, his voice a low rumble. "I heard lots of screaming."
Arthur offered a curt nod, his grip on the spy's body never faltering. "He's just unconscious," he assured the innkeeper smoothly. "We'll be leaving now, regardless. Thank you for your help."
The innkeeper only grunted in response and turned his back, happy to see the two men leaving. Arthur and Aemon quickly made their way through the door and down the narrow streets of Braavos. They found a spot behind a nearby building, hidden from the main street and the prying eyes of any passersby. The dim light from a distant lamppost cast long shadows, adding an eerie quality to the scene.
Arthur, ever the professional, ensured that the body's positioning would suggest unconsciousness rather than death. They laid the spy down gently as if placing him into a deep sleep. Aemon's hands trembled slightly as he adjusted the cloak over the spy's lifeless form, his mind slowly coming to terms with everything that had just unfolded.
Arthur stepped back, surveying their work with a critical eye. Satisfied, he gave a curt nod. "This will have to do," he murmured, his voice low and steady. "Let us leave before anyone sees us."
Together, they turned and slipped back into the crowds that lined the streets, their footsteps silent against the cobblestones beneath them. As they walked, Aemon turned to face Arthur, his mind ever present on what they had just endured together. "We need to ensure this doesn't happen again, Arthur."
"I wish it were that easy, Your Grace, but we have no way of getting anywhere near King's Landing without a full-scale attack."
"I beg to differ," Aemon smirked, his voice full of determination. "Do you remember that tournament Olenna mentioned?"
"I do." Arthur nodded, as they turned another street corner. "I know what you're thinking and it is a terrible idea."
"Humor me, Arthur. Nobody knows what I look like aside from our allies and we could use the tournament as a way to get close to those that have hunted us for years."
"This just seems like an excuse for you to go to a tournament..."
"It's not, I swear." Aemon chuckled, as they neared the clearing where they originally landed on Vaedar. "Think of it. We get rid of Baelish, and our war will become much easier. If what Varys says is true and his spies are everywhere, then I'd feel much safer knowing he was dead."
"I'm not fond of the idea, but you know we can hire our own assassins. We are quite literally in Braavos."
"No. This is personal for me. I think it's time we send a message to Robert Baratheon." Aemon assured, his voice commanding and resolute.
"Hm," Arthur grunted. "I think this is a discussion for all of us when we get back to Pentos."
The clearing where they had first landed on Vaedar was bathed in the gentle light of the setting sun. The trees around them stood tall and silent, their leaves rustling softly in the breeze. Aemon and Arthur stood side by side, their eyes looking to the surrounding mountains.
"Vaedar, māzigon!" Aemon yelled to the heavens.
High above the peaks, a dark silhouette emerged against the twilight sky. With wings spanning wide and scales glistening in the fading light, Vaedar soared down from the mountains. The majestic dragon cut through the air with grace and power, descending steadily towards the clearing where Aemon and Arthur awaited. The dragon's sharp eyes locked onto the pair, recognizing his bonded companion. With a final, powerful beat of his wings, Vaedar landed before them, the ground trembling beneath his massive weight.
"Kirimvose, uēpa raqiros." Aemon smiled before he ran his hand across the leathery black scales of Vaedar.
The dragon rumbled in response as Aemon and Arthur climbed upon his back and settled themselves in for a long flight home. With a simple Valyrian command, Vaedar took the skies once more, leaving behind Braavos. Aemon took one last look at the receding city behind him, thankful to be leaving it and the eventful day behind.
Highgarden: 298 AC: The Same Day:
Margaery Tyrell
"Is everything ready, Margaery?" Her mother, Alerie called from the hallway.
"Yes, Mother," Margaery called back, checking herself in the looking glass one more time before.
The whole day her handmaidens and everyone in her family had been running around as if they were headless chickens, due to this being the day they were leaving for Robert's name-day tournament. In truth, Margaery was excited to see the capital, and perhaps come to understand it if she was to be Queen one day. Ever since Aemon's visit, her mind often ran wild with the possibilities of what she could accomplish when she became Queen, at the side of her King. If everything went according to plan, of course.
"We're already late, Marge, can we please speed up?." Alerie smiled, as she came into her chambers. "You look lovely, now come, your grandmother is already waiting for us at the wheelhouse."
"Yes, Mother, I'm coming," Margaery smirked as she left her chambers, giving her handmaidens one more appreciative smile before leaving.
Margaery Tyrell stepped out of her bedchamber, her mother Alerie close by her side. The stone corridors of Highgarden felt familiar and comforting, yet today, they carried a sense of urgency and purpose. Sunlight streamed through the tall, arched windows, casting intricate patterns on the floor as the two women made their way toward the wheelhouse.
In the courtyard, the wheelhouse awaited, its polished exterior gleaming in the sunlight. The horses were already harnessed, ready to embark on the journey to King's Landing. Standing beside the wheelhouse was Olenna Tyrell, the formidable matriarch of their family. Her sharp eyes and commanding presence left no room for doubt about who truly held power within House Tyrell.
As Margaery and Alerie reached the wheelhouse, Olenna's gaze softened momentarily, a rare show of affection. "It's about time," she remarked, her voice tinged with a mix of impatience and fondness. "We have much to discuss on our way to the capital."
Margaery looked around at the gathering of guards and men before her and took note of some absences. "Where are my brothers? Are they not coming?" She asked, a slight hint of disappointment lingering in her voice.
"Willas will remain here to oversee the running of Highgarden whilst we are away," Olenna explained. "He was complaining about his leg the other day and so he has chosen not to travel."
"Oh...I see." Margaery said, the disappointment clear in her voice. "What of Garlan and Loras?"
"They have rode ahead with your father, now please get in the wheelhouse, Margaery." Olenna smiled softly before she entered the wheelhouse.
Margaery and Alerie stepped gracefully into the wheelhouse, where Olenna Tyrell awaited them with her usual air of authority. The interior was opulently decorated, befitting the status of House Tyrell. Plush cushions and rich tapestries adorned the space, offering comfort for the long journey ahead.
Margaery took her seat opposite Olenna, her mother Alerie beside her. As she made herself comfortable, the wheelhouse began moving for the long journey to King's Landing. Margaery felt every bump and knock on the road as they marked the beginning of her journey.
"First things first, Margaery, we must remember to keep up appearances whilst we are there." Olenna began, her tone stern and clear. "Mingle with the Prince, make him smile, laugh, whatever you need to do to ensure everything is kept above board."
"I understand, Grandmother, I will not do anything to jeopardize our position," Margaery assured.
"I hope so. This is a very precarious position your betrothed has put us in."
"You accepted his offer with glee, Grandmother."
"You wish I hadn't?"
"No, of course not."
"Good," Olenna smirked. "Should everything go to plan, then we could establish a royal dynasty that could last a thousand years."
Margaery hardly took note of her grandmother's words and instead turned her head to the window. As Olenna and Alerie discussed their plans for King's Landing, Margaery's mind drifted. The landscape of Highgarden rolled past in a blur of green fields and blooming flowers, but Margaery's thoughts were far away. She wondered about Aemon, the bond they shared despite the distance. What was he doing now? Was he safe? The uncertainty tugged at her heart, a gentle ache that she couldn't ignore.
Her whole world depended on this boy she had only met once. A boy who was unheard of until a week ago. Her feelings for him whilst pleasant were terribly mixed. He was mysterious and dangerous, handsome and polite, all the qualities to make lesser girls swoon and spread their legs for him. Margaery was not so easily pleased and her grandmother had taught her well to ensure she wasn't, but yet she felt this longing feeling in her stomach when she thought of him.
"How can I have fallen for someone so easily?" She thought, as her fingers traced the edge of the window frame absentmindedly, the cool glass a contrast to the warmth of her thoughts. She imagined Aemon in his own world, perhaps facing challenges of his own. The connection between them was not as strong as she wished, but yet she said a silent prayer for his well-being.
She silently hoped that he felt the same for her and that he didn't see her as just a way to ensure his ascension to the throne. Regardless, she had to put her family before her own personal feelings. Whether he loved her or not, she would still be the Queen, which was enough in her family's eyes.
Pentos: 298 AC: 4 Days Later:
Aemon Targaryen
Aemon and Arthur flew over the sprawling cityscape, their destination in sight. Perched on the back of Vaedar, the mighty dragon's wings beat powerfully, each stroke carrying them closer to Illyrio's manse. The setting sun painted the sky with hues of orange and purple, casting a warm glow over their journey. Aemon quickly guided Vaedar to the enormous courtyard that dominated the center of the manse, his orders carried on the wind in the tongue of Valryian.
Vaedar's descent was smooth and controlled, the dragon's instincts honed to perfection. They landed gracefully in the spacious courtyard, the ground vibrating slightly under Vaedar's massive weight. Aemon and Arthur dismounted with practiced ease, their boots hitting the cobblestone with a firm thud. Aemon could feel his legs weak and frail under his weight from days of not walking. His grey eyes were weary and tired from a lack of sleep. He had been hard-pressed to reach Pentos, as had Vaedar, the dragon seemingly weary from the effort he had put in.
"Go and rest, Vaedar." Aemon breathed, using the common language instead of Valryian. "I will call you when I need you."
Vaedar seemingly understood and before any more words could be spoken, he took to the air once more in search of food and rest. Aemon turned to Arthur, the knight disheveled and tired from their journey.
"Let us see the others, and we can discuss my plan." Aemon asserted.
"Of course, Your Grace." Arthur nodded, his deep blue eyes weary as they looked upon his King.
Together, they stepped into the opulent halls of Illyrio's manse, smelling the warmth and comfort of a place so familiar. However, before they could go and look for their friends and family, they were soon greeted by their familiar faces searching them out themselves.
"Aemon!" Rhaella called from the end of the hallway, leading a gathering of familiar faces.
"Grandmother," Aemon weakly smiled as he walked towards them.
Aemon quickly fell into Rhaella's loving embrace, her lips planting soft kisses on his head as she held him close. "You have been gone for so long," Rhaella smirked as her violet eyes looked into his.
"I had things to see to, Grandmother, but I am happy to be home once again." Aemon grinned.
Behind Rhaella stood the expectant faces of Viserys and Daenerys as well as all of their knights. Even Illyrio was here, having taken a break from his midafternoon meal to see the young King.
"You must tell us of the Reach, Aemon." Daenerys playfully smiled, as she held her arms out. Aemon quickly fell into them, feeling the warmth of his sister's love and the familiarity that came with it. "You're unharmed?" She asked as she looked him up and down once she released him.
"Almost...I will need to see a healer if we can find one." Aemon nodded, his eyes looking to Illyrio.
"Do not worry, Your Grace, I have my own personal healer I can spare for your malady." Illryio offered, his crooked teeth showing as he spoke. "I can go fetch her." Illryio nodded, as he turned and walked away, his flesh wobbling all the while.
"Thank you, Magister," Aemon called after him before his gaze turned back to Daenerys.
"A healer? What for?" Daenerys gasped. "Are you hurt?"
"No...no, it's nothing...just a cut on my arm." Aemon sighed, nodding down to the torn fabric on his sleeve.
"How did you get cut? Was Arthur not with you?"
"He was and it was not his fault...we chased down some spies and they were armed. They didn't live long enough to regret it." Aemon assured, sparing his family the more gruesome details of his encounter with Petyr Baelish's men. "Which brings me to my next point...I need everyone in the great hall once I see the healer...there are things we need to discuss."
"Like what?" Daenerys asked.
"I'll call for you all when I'm ready," Aemon called, as he pushed passed the greeting party and down the corridor to where Illryio had departed. Behind him, Daenerys followed, her concern for her brother overwhelming her.
Arthur Dayne
Arthur watched on with tired eyes as Aemon walked away, his weary legs sluggishly carrying his weight as he turned the corner. The Sword of the morning rubbed his eyes, his own tiredness beginning to overcome him as everyone's gaze turned to him, expecting answers.
"Ser Jaime, go with them, ensure their safety." Arthur sighed, as Jaime nodded and turned around, causing after Daenerys once more.
"What happened, Ser Arthur?" Viserys asked, taking note of the weathered and tired appearance of Arthur. "You look exhausted."
"I am. It was a long flight home and we hardly stopped for anything, such was the King's rush to make it here."
"Why did he rush?" Rhaella queried.
"He has a plan...for something...I'd rather he tell you all himself."
"What about Braavos?"
"The funds are secured, and the Iron Bank is willing to back us, thank the Gods." Arthur sighed, feeling the ache in his legs. "Come...I will tell you all around a table...I need to sit down."
Arthur, feeling the exhaustion from the long flight weighing heavily on him, led the group into the grand hall of Illyrio's manse. His legs ached from hours spent on Vaedar's back, and the comforting warmth of the lavish interior was a welcome relief.
"Please, everyone, take a seat," Arthur instructed, his voice carrying a note of weariness. Everyone quickly took a chair and sat down, as Arthur lowered himself into a cushioned seat, a groan of relief escaping his mouth as he did so. Beside him, Rhaella sat down, placing a reassuring hand on his. Around him, Viserys, Barristan, Richard, and Willem all watched with bated breath.
"I'm sure you all can not wait to hear of His Grace's and myself's adventures together." Arthur sarcastically chuckled.
"Was it bad?" Rhaella asked.
"No...not really, just exhausting, my Queen."
"How did Aemon manage to wound himself?" Viserys wondered, his feet resting on the table.
"It's a long tale, my Prince." Arthur sighed, lounging back into the chair.
Arthur did his best to recount the events of their time in Braavos. He spoke vividly of the Iron Bank and their support for their cause, much to the delight of everyone around the table. He also spoke of the spies sent by Petyr Baelish, and how Aemon killed his first man, much to the shock of Rhaella, whose hand clenched tightly around Arthur's own when he spoke of it. He finished his tale with the journey home, going to great lengths to explain how arduous it was for him and for Aemon.
Aemon Targaryen
Aemon sat topless on a hard wooden chair in the healer's chambers. Beside him, a healer by the name of Elys was methodically removing the makeshift bandages that encompassed Aemons upper arm. The young King winced slightly as the cloth was peeled from his skin, the dried blood causing the fabric to stick to his skin like melted toffee. Before him, sat an ever-watchful Daenerys, her violet eyes staring intensely at Aemon. Behind her stood Jaime, his gaze persistently on the healer.
"I cannot believe you got yourself cut, Aemon." Daenerys began, her voice displaying how annoyed she was. "You're lucky you were not killed."
"Dany, I'm fine. It's only a graze." Aemon smiled.
"Actually, Your Grace, the cut is quite deep. You're lucky you came here when you did, otherwise, this may have festered and begun to infect." Elys stated, the matter-of-factness in her voice left no room for doubt.
"Well, Arthur said it wasn't that bad."
"Arthur is not a healer, Your Grace," Jaime added.
"I told you to be careful, Aemon." Daenerys sighed, her violet eyes studying Aemon.
"I was careful. Besides, I couldn't just have the spies report back to whoever they wanted to."
"I suppose so." Daenerys relented. "How did you fare in the Reach?"
"It was good...I am now betrothed to Margaery Tyrell and they've agreed to support us in the war to come."
"Hm." Daenerys hummed, her eyes looking to the floor. "Is she...nice?"
"She is, Dany. I think you'd like her." Aemon winced, as Elys applied some white substance to his wound. "Gods, that burns."
"Firemilk, Your Grace." Elys smiled. "To clean the wound."
"You think I'd like her?" Daenerys asked.
"I think so. She's a sweet girl."
"Is she." Daenerys sadly smirked, as she stood up and walked to the end of the room. "I can't wait to meet her."
Aemon only softly smiled in response as he took note of Daenerys' obvious sarcasm. Soon, Elys sat by his side, hands ready with a sewing needle and thread. "Perhaps some milk of the poppy or dreamwine would help you with this, Your Grace."
"I can't. I'm exhausted as it is, and I need to address everyone once this is done." Aemon affirmed.
"Aemon, you can't be serious." Daenerys exasperated to no response.
"The pain will be...uncomfortable to say the least, Your Grace," Elys warned.
"Just get on with it," Aemon affirmed.
With a small cock of the head and a steady hand, Elys began to stitch up the wound. Aemon could feel the needle pierce his skin over and over, much to his discomfort, whilst Daenerys and Jaime watched on with desperate looks. Aemon tried his hardest to smother the pain but at times it was too much, as his hands trembled and groans began to croak from his voice.
After what felt like hours, Elys had finished, as she stood up and admired her work. "All done, Your Grace."
Aemon looked up at her through hazy eyes before he stood up on shaky legs. "Thank you, Elys."
"It's no bother, just make sure to see me if the throbbing fails to dissipate or if the wound begins to fester," Elys advised, as she put her surgical tools and medicines away.
Aemon began to pull his garments back over his toned body, struggling all the while. Daenerys could not watch her brother struggle and moved to help him pull his clothes on, a sad look drawn across her features as she took sight of how weary he looked up close.
"You look terrible." She tutted as she ran her thumbs down across his cheeks.
"Do I?" Aemon chuckled, his grey eyes meeting hers. "I was hard-pressed to get here."
As their eyes met, for the briefest of moments, Aemon could feel that warmth bubbling in his stomach. However, when he closed his eyes all he could see was Margaery and her brown eyes looming back, as her soft smile greeted him. Opening his eyes and stepping back, he shook his head and composed himself, before looking down at the green and gold favor he wore.
"Let us go, the others will be waiting." Aemon quickly said, dispelling the awkward silence.
"Of course..." Daenerys agreed, her voice soft and low.
As Daenerys and Aemon emerged from the healer's chambers, the soft glow of candlelight was replaced by the brighter, more direct illumination of the corridor outside. Jaime fell into step behind them, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
Daenerys glanced at Aemon, a fleeting look of concern crossing her features as she noticed the slight wince he tried to hide. "Are you sure you're alright?" she asked softly, her voice carrying a note of worry.
Aemon offered a reassuring smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'll be fine," he replied, his tone resolute. "We have more pressing matters to attend to."
As they walked through the winding corridors of the manse, the distant murmur of voices grew louder. The great hall awaited them, filled with loyal friends and advisors. With one last knowing glance to Danerys, Aemon pushed open the heavy doors of the great hall, their presence immediately welcomed by everyone, including Ser Bonifer Hasty and Jon Connington, both of whom Aemon deduced must have arrived after he had left for the healer.
"Thank you all for your patience." Aemon smiled as he slowly walked around the table. "I have a great many things to announce and discuss with you all."
"We're all eager to hear it, Aemon," Rhaella exclaimed. "Ser Arthur was just regaling us of your time in Braavos."
"He was, was he?" Aemon smirked, his voice almost a chuckle. "Good. I take it you all know who sent the spies after Varys then?"
"Petyr Baelish."
"Yes, Petyr Baelish." Aemon spat. "I plan to deal with him so it doesn't happen again."
"How, Your Grace?" Bonifer began. "He is in King's Landing, surrounded by everyone we call an enemy."
"The Usurper is having a name-day tournament in the coming moon. I plan to use that as a way to get close to him. Plus, it means I'll know he'll be there."
"Not a bad idea." Bonifer nodded. "Who will be going? Assassins? Faceless men?"
"I will be going," Aemon announced to disconcerted voices.
"Madness, Aemon..."
"Surely not..."
"Send your knights instead..."
"Enough." Aemon groaned, silencing the growing chorus, as he sat down heavily in a chair. "Not one of my enemies knows what I look like. All of you are instantly recognizable save for maybe Arthur, so I cannot send any of you nor am I willing to."
"Aemon, this is tantamount to suicide, please reconsider." Rhaella pleaded.
"This is the only way."
"At least take someone with you, Ser Arthur perhaps?"
Aemon looked at Arthur. His appearance had weathered over the years. Gone was the young and shining Sword of the Morning, now having been replaced by a man whose lines in his face are clear for all to see. His beard though not long, was rugged and showed signs of greying in the usual blackness. His hair was now just beneath his ears and was fluffy and unkempt.
"Maybe..." Aemon judged. "Perhaps it could work, but do not cut your hair at all for the next few weeks, Arthur."
"By your command, Your Grace." Arthur nodded.
"Good." Aemon sighed, his voice a mixture of appreciation and command, as a small silence settled over the gathering.
Aemon looked at everyone, his grey eyes narrowing as he looked at the complexion of nervous and expectant faces looking back at him.
"I've secured the Reach to our cause." Aemon began, breaking the silence. "I am betrothed to Margaery Tyrell and in return, they have agreed to back me in the war for the throne."
"That's good, Aemon, let us hope she makes a good wife." Rhaella smiled. "I never thought I'd see the day you'd be married,"
"I never expected it, Grandmother."
"On the subject, Aemon," Viserys interjected. "I am to go to Dorne on the morrow to marry Arianne. You're all invited, obviously."
"Good, I look forward to it, brother." Aemon smiled. "Furthermore, I've secured the Iron Bank's backing. Three hundred thousand gold dragons will be sent to us in the coming week."
"What do you plan to do with this amount?" Rhaella asked her voice a blend of curiosity and anticipation.
"Aside from feeding soldiers and arming them? I think it's time we form the Kingsguard. The real Kingsguard, not whatever jumped up ingrates the Usurper has serving in his guard."
"You mean it, Your Grace?" Jaime asked, barely masking the excitement in his voice.
"I do, Ser Jaime. With the gold, I'll be able to make you all new suits of armor, and give you all white cloaks. No more will the finest knights in the world wear mismatched armor and worn fabrics."
Aemon's proclamation was met with enthusiastic cheers and claps, mostly from his knights. Soon, the noise died down and Aemon's eyes were set upon Barristan.
"Ser Barristan. You are the most experienced knight here and I couldn't think of anyone better to become the Lord Commander."
"I-I am honored, Your Grace. Thank you." Barristan chirped.
"Ser Willem, Ser Richard, I'd like to make you both members of the Kingsguard, if Ser Barristan feels you're both able."
Richard looked delighted, his face beaming around the room, whereas Willem looked more solemn and discontent.
"Is everything alright, Willem?" Aemon asked, his eyes studying Willem.
"I am honored, Your Grace, truly, but I am much past my prime and I fear I'm not skilled enough to wear the white cloak. I'm afraid I must decline."
"If that is how you feel, Willem, then so be it. Ser Richard, I'll take your oath once we have the armor made."
"Thank you, Your Grace." Richard nodded.
"That brings me to my final point. Ser Bonifer. You and your Holy Hundred have served faithfully and honorably for many years now, and I was hoping you'd like to make that into a more permanent arrangement."
"By the Father, I will never leave Queen Rhaella's side. I believed this arrangement was already permanent, Your Grace," Bonifer said, drawing approving looks from Rhaella.
"Very well." Aemon smiled, as he noted Bonifer's dedication to Rhaella. "If that is so, I was wondering if you'd be willing to form the Holy Hundred into a more elite force that represents House Targaryen."
"Perhaps...What did you have in mind."
"The Dragonguard. A guard solely dedicated to protecting my family and any others who are of import. The Kingsguard will still serve in its regular capacity, but they cannot be everywhere at once hence, where the Dragonguard comes in. I would ask you to be its commander."
"It's...ambitious to say the least, Your Grace, but I would be honored."
"Good, very good." Aemon yawned. "Let us put an end to this discussion, if there's nothing else."
"There is one more thing, brother," Viserys interrupted. "Daenerys and I made a short voyage to Driftmark. To ensure they are still loyal."
"And they are?"
"Yes, the construction of their fleet is well underway. Plus, I believe Daenerys is smitten with a man there."
"Viserys!" Daenerys exclaimed, her face turning a bright red much to Viserys' amusement.
Aemon only watched, his grey eyes flickering between them both. "Hm." He hummed. "I can't wait to meet him."
Aemon slowly stood up, feeling the ache in his bones as he did so. "If there's nothing else, then I will take my leave. I am exhausted."
Aemon walked a labored pace past everyone, his weariness evident to everyone in the room. Barristan and Jaime instinctively followed him, their hands resting gently on their King's back as they guided him from the room.
"Do you both know this man, Daenerys is...interested in?" Aemon asked to Barristan and Jaime, his voice calm, as they walked through the halls of Illyrio's manse together.
"Aurane Waters, Your Grace." Barristan simply replied.
"Waters? He is a bastard?"
"He is, Your Grace, but a fine man despite his birth."
"Ah, I care not for his birth, so long as he treats Daenerys with the respect she deserves."
"I'm sure he will, Your Grace."
Soon enough, the three of them arrived at Aemon's chambers. The young King pushed the door open with a heavy breath, as the smell of the wooden furniture within immediately filled his nostrils.
"Thank you, Sers." Aemon tiredly smiled, as he turned to face them.
"I will stand guard at your door, Your Grace." Barristan decided.
"Very well. Ser Jaime, before you go, please ensure Ser Arthur gets some rest before tomorrow. I'll tuck him into bed myself if he doesn't" Aemon laughed.
"Of course, Your Grace," Jaime nodded, before walking away at pace.
Aemon gave one last appreciative look to Barristan before closing his door. He immediately began to untie Dark Sister from his waist, before he laid it gently on the table that was present in the room. After he did so, he looked around and noticed the fireplace had already been lit and the light from the candles that dotted the stone walls danced with his shadow.
Removing his upper raiment, Aemon could feel the cold air immediately touch his scared flesh and the wind as it kissed his body. Standing in only his worn cloth trousers, he slowly moved and climbed into the bed. He could feel the soft silks encompassing him as he wrapped the covers around him. He closed his eyes but before he could sleep, a loud knock was heard at the door.
"For fuck's sake..." Aemon mumbled as he opened his eyes. "Enter!"
Barristan opened the door with an apologetic smile. "Lady Melisandre, Your Grace." He announced as Melisandre strolled in as if this was her chambers.
Aemon sat up in his bed, the silk covers falling to reveal his toned body, his eyes watching Melisandre walk about the room. "Lady Melisandre...I thought you might have been at the discussion we just had."
"I was busy, my Prince. My Lord has told me to seek you out." Melisandre seductively smiled.
"For what purpose?"
"He wishes to show you something. Come, sit beside me." Melisandre smiled, gesturing to the chair beside her in front of the roaring fire.
Aemon took a deep breath in and out before he climbed out of his bed. Walking towards Melisandre, he sat down beside her. Suddenly, her hand came to rest on his as she looked deep into his eyes. He could feel nothing but heat radiate off of her and within those pools of red, Aemon could make out nothing but devotion.
"The flames, my Prince, look to them." Melisandre smiled, as she turned her head.
Aemon looked intensely towards the hearth, where the flames flickered and crackled with an eerie intensity. The fire held a strange allure, and he found himself unable to look away, mesmerized by the chaotic dance of the tongues of flame.
As he stared deeper into the blaze, the fire seemed to warp and shift, taking on a life of its own. In the heart of the flames, Aemon beheld a vision that sent a chill down his spine. Figures began to materialize within the fire, their forms ghostly and otherworldly. Tall and gaunt, with eyes that glowed like icy stars, they marched with unearthly grace, their pale skin glistening like frost.
Aemon's breath caught in his throat as he watched the apparition. These beings were unlike anything he had ever seen, and a sense of foreboding settled upon him. He could feel an ancient and malevolent presence emanating from the vision, yet he could not tear his eyes away.
Though he did not know what these creatures were, the image of them burned itself into his memory. Aemon felt an instinctual dread as if the flames were whispering a warning from the depths of time. He knew that this vision was no mere trick of the fire, but a glimpse of something far more sinister.
"Did you see them?" Aemon asked, breathless, his eyes tearing away from the fire as the flames died down.
"I only see what my Lord shows me, Your Grace, each vision is different from the last, and not all that is shown comes to pass." Melsiandre cryptically stated.
"But did you see what I saw? Those...things."
"The Great Other."
"Who...What are they?"
"Death is his domain and dead are his soldiers. The war for the dawn is coming, my Prince, and you must be ready for when he comes."
"War? I have barely begun to fight the one here and now."
"These little wars are no more than a scuffle of children before what is to come. The one whose name may not be spoken is marshaling his power ... a power fell and evil and strong beyond measure. Soon comes the cold, and the night that never ends...Unless true men find the courage to fight it. Men whose hearts are fire. Men such as you."
Aemon took a deep swallow, as Melsiandre's words crashed upon him like waves on a cliff. "One thing at a time, my Lady. Let me reclaim my throne, then speak to me on matters pertaining to the dead and the war to come."
"It'll be here soon, my Prince, and I pray to R'hllor that you are ready for it. For the night is dark and full of terrors."
"Only children fear the dark."
"Hm." Melisandre hummed, a slight hint of amusement present in her voice. "This terror is much more real and close at hand than you think, Your Grace."
Aemon could feel his weariness beginning to overcome him, as Melisandre's eyes looked him up and down. "I...am sorry, my Lady, but I must ask you to leave. I fear my exhaustion is getting the better of me."
"Of course, my Prince." Melisandre smiled, as she stood up and walked toward the door. "If you ever need me, I will be here."
Aemon watched her walk from the room, the door slamming shut behind her. He did not know what to make of the visions she and her God had bestowed him, but they worried him terribly.
"One thing at a time, Aemon." Aemon mused, as he slowly stood up and walked to his bed.
At long last, Aemon's body, wearied by the day's toil and the unnerving visions from the fire, began to succumb to the weight of exhaustion. He made his way to the lavish bed that awaited him in the corner of the chamber. The mattress, plush and inviting, was adorned with rich fabrics and soft furs that promised a night of unparalleled comfort.
With a heavy sigh, Aemon allowed himself to collapse onto the bed, the tension in his muscles easing as he settled into the opulent embrace of the luxurious linens. His eyes, heavy with weariness, closed almost as soon as his head touched the pillow, which was filled with the finest down.
Sleep came swiftly, enveloping him in its soothing embrace. The flickering firelight cast gentle shadows upon his resting form, and the events of the day began to blur and fade into the recesses of his mind. For a few precious hours, Aemon found solace and respite from the burdens of his duty and the haunting vision of the Great Other.
In the quiet of the night, Aemon slept deeply, his breaths steady and calm, his dreams untroubled for now. He would rise again with the dawn, ready to face whatever challenges the morrow would bring. But for this fleeting moment, he was at peace.
A/N: Thanks for reading. I know this was an Aemon-heavy chapter but we're starting to get closer to the war for the throne. Many thanks for the reviews, they help me out a lot when I'm writing and help me understand where I'm going wrong and whatnot. Thanks again and much love x.