Aemon the Dragonwolf

by Fennial

Arthur Dayne has killed Ned Stark beneath the Tower of Joy. With one last promise to Lyanna Stark to look after her only son, how will the Sword of The Morning raise the last scion of House Targaryen to retake the Iron Throne and restore the house of the dragon.

30. The City of King's Landing

Dorne: 299 AC: The Next Day

Aemon Targaryen

Aemon drifted into a restless sleep, the darkness enveloped him, and his mind conjured vivid dreams. In the depths of his slumber, he found himself standing in the heart of Winterfell's godswood, the ancient weirwood tree towering above him with its blood-red leaves rustling softly in the breeze.

Before him stood his mother, Lyanna, her eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and pride. Her raven-black hair framed her face, and a gentle smile graced her lips. Beside her, Rhaegar stood tall and regal, his silver-gold hair shimmering in the moonlight. The bond between them was palpable, their love for Aemon evident in their gaze.

"Aemon," Lyanna's voice was soft, yet it carried a weight that resonated deep within him. She stood up and embraced him with a deep hug as she breathed in his hair.

"Mother." Aemon smiled before she released him. His grey eyes soon took the sight of his approaching father, who knelt down and hugged him just as deeply as his mother did.

"I'm happy to see you, son; both of us are," Rhaegar smirked, his violet eyes searching Aemon's. "We're happy to see you well and unharmed."

"Do you know?" Aemon asked, his soft voice full of happiness. "I killed him, the Usurper. I killed him for both of you."

Lyanna's grey eyes looked to the ground as she hid the deep sadness that was within her. "We know, son, of course we do, but-"

"But what?" Aemon asked, taking notice of the sad look his mother bore. "You're unhappy I did?"

Rhaegar softly shook his head. "Of course not, Aemon. You did what I could not, much to my shame. We only worry what it might do to you... the toll it may take upon you."

"I'm alright, father, I'm sure I am." Aemon softly smiled, attempting to put his father at ease. "I had thought you both may be... happier."

"We're happy for you, Aemon, of course. You won a great victory and are a step closer to claiming your birthright, but-" Lyanna spoke before Aemon cut her words off.

"You worry for me... I know everyone worries for me these days, it seems." Aemon sighed as Lyanna took his rough and calloused hands.

"Use these hands to build something great, Aemon, not just to kill and burn," Lyanna advised, her tone much softer than earlier. "I'd hate for you to become something you were never meant to be."

Aemon nodded, understanding the meaning behind his mother's words. "I will, mother, I swear it."

"Good, Aemon... now go, you still have unfinished work." Rhaegar smiled, his violet eyes glinting in the waning moonlight.

Aemon opened his eyes wide in disbelief. "Already?" He groaned. "We have only just begun to speak? I have so much to tell you."

Rhaegar and Lyanna's bodies began to become mist and fade away from Aemon's sight. He attempted to reach out and touch them but found that his hands only went through both of them.

"I'll see you both soon," he whispered, his tone soft yet full of sorrow. "I promise."

Aemon awoke with a start, his heart pounding against his ribcage as if it were a war drum. Sweat trickled down his temples, mingling with the vivid memories of his parents' ethereal voices still echoing in his mind. He took a moment to catch his breath, the air within his tent heavy with the scent of canvas and the lingering chill of night. The dawn's light, warm and golden, began to creep through the tent's flaps, casting long shadows and illuminating the path to a new day in the Dornish sands.

He could hear the muffled sounds of the camp coming to life outside—soldiers stirring, armor clinking, and the low murmur of strategizing. Aemon pushed himself up, the silken sheets tangling around his legs, and called out for his Dragonguard. Within moments, loyal sentinels appeared, bearing a basin of cool water, a cloth, and a plate of nourishing food.

"Thank you," Aemon murmured, taking the cloth and dipping it into the water to cleanse the remnants of sleep from his face. As he wiped away the traces of his dreams, he couldn't help but ponder if the dreams he had of his mother and father were real or not. As he dried his face, he looked at the Dragonguard who stood stoicly beside him and noticed it was the same man from the night before.

"Have you been on guard all night?" Aemon asked, his weary grey eyes intensly watching the man.

"I have, Your Grace." The man quickly replied. "It is my honor to do so."

Aemon absently smiled as he placed the cloth back into the basin. "Is the army on the move?" He questioned.

"Yes, Your Grace, most of it has begun to make its way to King's Landing."

"Good... good. Has Ser Arthur gone with them?"

"He remains here, waiting for you, as does all of your Kingsguard."

"All of them? Who is leading the army?"

"Lord Jon Connington and Lord Randyll Tarly left in the early hours of the dawn."

"I see," Aemon sighed as he started to remove his creased, white linen shirt. The Dragonguard instinctively left the tent, allowing Aemon a moment of privacy. Reaching into a nearby chest, Aemon picked a black tunic, simple yet elegant in its austerity. Over the tunic, he added a black leather vest, sleek and unobtrusive, offering a measure of protection without the encumbrance of full armor.

His trousers, too, were black, their fabric tough and battle-worn but still resilient. He laced up his black boots, the leather soft from wear but steadfast, ready to carry him through the trials of the day. Once he finished putting on each piece of clothing, he fastened Dark Sister around his slim waist, the dark, swirling blade still dry with the blood of the Usurper.

As he stepped out of his tent, the rising sun cast long shadows across the camp, illuminating every surface and man caught under it. His eyes scanned the bustling camp. Amidst the organized chaos, he spotted a small group gathered around a modest fire in the shade. His Kingsguard—Ser Arthur, Ser Richard, Ser Barristan, and Ser Jaime—were engaged in light-hearted banter. Their armor was still grime-ridden, and their white cloaks still carried the dust from the previous day's fighting. However, the laughter and camaraderie among them were a brief respite from the war's harsh realities.

Arthur's laugh was a deep, resonant sound, while Richard's quick wit kept the conversation lively. Barristan, ever the seasoned knight, chuckled with a hint of nostalgia, perhaps reminiscing about battles fought and won. But amidst the joviality, Jaime's demeanor stood out. He sat quietly, offering only soft, sad smiles.

Aemon's heart ached for him. The recent death of Tywin Lannister cast a long shadow over Jaime's usually confident and carefree facade. Despite their complicated relationship and the resentment that often simmered between them, Tywin was still his father.

Aemon approached, his presence immediately drawing the attention of his Kingsguard. The laughter softened into respectful silence as they acknowledged their King.

"Good morning," Aemon greeted them, his voice steady. He glanced at Jaime, offering a moment of shared understanding and silent support. "I had thought some of you may have gone with the army."

"Lord Commander Barristan had us wait for you, Your Grace," Richard answered, his eyes meeting Aemon's for a moment.

"I see," Aemon sighed, turning his head toward the mouth of the pass. In the distance, he could see the mass of bodies and gore from the day's previous battle. Enourmous plumes of smoke rose from where groups and lines of men had been eviscerated by dragon fire, the smell of their charred flesh still lingering in the air.

"There's something I must do." Aemon decided after watching the smoke rise in the air for a moment. "Can one of you fetch some horses?"

Arthur, ever the dutiful knight, nodded and quickly made his way inside the camp. The other Kingsguards exchanged glances but remained silent, their faces showing a mixture of concern and curiosity.

Minutes later, Arthur returned with the horses, their coats gleaming in the morning light. Aemon mounted his steed, the black leather reins fitting comfortably in his hands. His Kingsguard followed suit, their eyes fixated on Aemon.

"Do you still remember how to ride, Aemon?" Arthur said softly as he rode next to him.

"I do somewhat, Arthur." Aemon smiled before they went on their way into the field of the dead.

As they rode through the blood-soaked field of dead and burnt bodies, the air grew heavier with the scent of charred flesh and the echoes of past battles. Aemon's heart ached with each fallen Martell and Tyrell warrior they passed, but he pressed on, determined to find what he was looking for.

They rode deeper into the mass grave, and the smell became so awful that each man used whatever garment they could to cover their mouth and nose in an attempt to stop the smell. However, Aemon carried on until he saw what he was looking for.

In the distance, he could see a white cloak billowing in the gentle wind, a sign he was in the right place. As he gestured for his Kingsguard to follow, their faces soon hardened yet piqued with interest as they looked upon what Aemon had led them to.

Aemon's eyes burned with a mix of rage and satisfaction as he surveyed the bodies before him. Robert's lifeless form lay headless, a grim testament to Aemon's wrath. The Kingsguard, who had once stood loyal to the Usurper, were now strewn around him, their deaths marking the brutality of the conflict. Each blow Aemon delivered was fueled by a deep-seated hatred, years in the making.

Among the fallen, Jon Arryn's body stood out, his once-proud armor now a testament to the ferocity of the battle. The sight of Jon, covered in dried blood and dust, stirred no sorrow in Aemon. Instead, it solidified his resolve. Jon, like Robert, had been a thorn in his side since the day he was born.

Aemon dismounted his horse and made his way toward Robert's corpse. He could see the flies lingering and picking at the flesh at the stump of his neck. Above them, vultures circled like omens of death, waiting for Aemon and his party to vacate the corpses.

However, Aemon ignored all of it and began to look around for what he came to this grim scene for. He couldn't ignore the lingering thoughts in his head, however, that if all the death and destruction he had caused in this one battle was truly necessary. Yet, he pushed it to the back of his mind and steeled himself to continue the morbid task at hand.

"What are you looking for, Aemon?" Barristan asked, his voice muffled and his eyes following the young King.

"His crown. I need it for a later date." Aemon replied as he searched aimlessly around the dust and bodies.

His Kingsguard reluctantly helped him pick through the corpses until Aemon came to a realisation. "It must've been knocked off somewhere when I landed with Vaedar."

Finally, a glint of gold caught his eye. He knelt down, his fingers gently sifting through the dust until he uncovered the twisted metal of the crown. The once-proud emblem of Robert's reign was now tarnished and marred by battle, yet it retained its significance.

"Such an ugly thing..." Aemon sighed as he looked upon it.

"Have you found it, Aemon?" Arthur called from behind, his tone showing hints of disgust as he stepped over another corpse.

"I have it," Aemon chirped as he raised it high in the air, its dulled colors still glinting lightly in the sunlight.

"Good, now we can get out of this... mess before we catch something we won't recover from." Richard sighed as he walked toward his horse.

With the grim task behind them, Aemon and his Kingsguard mounted their horses and began the journey back to the camp. The sun had risen higher, casting stark shadows and bathing the battlefield in a harsh light. Each step of their horses stirred the dust and ash, a silent testament to the destruction his dragon could cause.

As they neared the edge of the camp, Rhaella and Bonifer came into view, each of them exchanging softly spoken words with one another. Aemon guided his horse forward, his gaze meeting Rhaella's concerned eyes.

"Where have you been, Aemon?" Rhaella asked as Aemon climbed down from his horse.

"This, Grandmother." Aemon quickly replied, holding the crown out for all to see.

"Please tell me you don't intend to wear it."

"What? No, of course not." Aemon chuckled. "I need it for when we get to King's Landing."

"How do you mean?"

"I'm going to give it to whoever still defends the city and ask them if they wish to meet the same fate as him." Aemon decided, his tone resolute before he glanced at Bonifer. "Were you two discussing something before I came here?"

"The prisoners, Your Grace, there's nearly a few thousand of them, mostly Lannister forces," Bonifer explained. "We can't feed them all, nor can we spare half of our army to guard them day and night. We need to do something with them."

"We could kill them all, send a message." Richard shrugged, drawing concerned looks and narrowed eyes from everyone. "Only a suggestion."

"I think we've sent enough messages, Richard." Aemon sighed before glancing at the enormous camp behind Bonifer. Even now, he could see some prisoners on the edges of tents, on their knees with their hands bound.

"Strip them of their arms and armor and let them go home to their families." Aemon continued. "Except those belonging to any house. Gather those in a group, I want to speak to them."

Bonifer nodded and quickly set about doing his King's bidding. As Aemon watched him go, his gaze soon turned to the surrounding mountains as a deafening roar came from their innards. Aemon smiled as he knew Vaedar was awake and near, the great midnight dragon having rested after the vicious battle he had taken part in.

"What do you want to speak to them about?" Rhaella asked, her violet eyes searching for answers in Aemon's own.

"You'll see, grandmother, and before you ask, no, I'm not going to kill them." Aemon amusingly sighed as he and his Kingsguard walked off into the camp.

The next few hours Aemon spent in his tent resting his still weary bones whilst Bonifer went about his orders. He sat alone in his tent, the canvas walls dimly illuminated by the flickering light of an oil lantern. He lay back on his bedroll, eyes closed but mind racing with thoughts of the previous day's battle. He could still hear the distant cries of men burning and screaming for help of any kind, and he could still see the images of blood and gore spilled over the Dornish sands. Yet, outside, he could hear the quiet murmur of his Kingsguard as they waited patiently for him to emerge once his orders were complete. A reminder that the images in his head are just that: images.

After a few more moments, Bonifer entered the tent quietly, his expression serious. "My King, the soldiers have been released as you commanded. They're on their way back to their villages and homes, grateful for their freedom."

Aemon opened his eyes and nodded slowly. "Thank you, Bonifer. And the men of the houses?"

"I have them rounded up as you requested, gathered in the clearing just outside the camp. They await your word," Bonifer replied.

Rising from his bedroll, Aemon adjusted his tunic and fastened his sword belt. "Good. It's time I spoke with them." His voice held a note of determination that hinted at the weight of the task before him.

As they stepped out of the tent, the humid Dornish air greeted them, carrying with it the scent of ash and the distant crackle of campfires. Aemon could see the group of men waiting with uncertain faces. They stood in stark contrast to the recently freed soldiers who had already disappeared into the distance, seeking solace in their homes.

Aemon approached the gathered men, his stride purposeful. The murmur of voices hushed as he reached the center of their massed figures, all eyes fixed on him. These were men of noble blood, warriors who had fought for their houses, and now they stood as prisoners of war. Behind him, his Kingsguard stood with regal authority, their eyes watching every man with heightened alert. Despite their grimy appearance, every man in the rounded-up group knew these knights were the some of the most dangerous men in the Seven Kingdoms.

As Aemon stood in the middle of them for a moment, he watched the expressions of everyone who was gathered. He noticed that most were fearful of him, yet some watched with quiet disgust and anger glinting in their eyes. "My Lords," Aemon began, his tone confident yet cold. "I'm sure you're all wondering why I've had you gathered here."

He paused, letting his words sink in before he spoke once more. "As I'm sure you've seen, I've let your men return to their families and homes, for they only follow orders and lead simple lives... unlike all of you."

Aemon could see a slight shift of discomfort throughout the crowd as they listened to him, which caused his surrounding Kingsguard to grip the hilts of their swords more tightly. "I'm a reasonable man, and I'm sure all of you are reasonable men." Aemon continued. "When I take the throne, I will need the strength and wisdom of all our houses to rebuild this kingdom. I extend my hand to you in peace and cooperation, for the future of our land depends on unity and shared purpose."

He paused, ensuring that his words were fully grasped. "But let me be clear. Do not mistake my generosity for weakness. My offer of alliance is not born out of necessity but out of a desire to spare our people further suffering and strife."

The men before him shifted, relief and apprehension evident in their expressions. Aemon continued, his tone unyielding, "We have all seen the horrors of war, and we know the cost it exacts. I offer you a chance to build a future where our children can grow without the shadow of conflict looming over them."

He stepped closer, eyes locking onto those of the men who represented the most powerful houses. "If you stand with me, we can create a legacy of peace and prosperity. But if you challenge my rule, know that I will defend my crown and my people with all the might at my disposal."

At that moment, a deafening roar reverberated through the mountains, shaking the very ground beneath their feet. Vaedar, the mighty dragon, let out a roar that echoed across the landscape, a living example of the power that Aemon commanded. The gathered men flinched, their faces a mix of awe and fear as they recoiled at the sound, whereas Aemon wickedly smiled, his eyes watching everyone with great interest.

The silence around him was deafening, but he continued his speech once more. "Return to your lands," he commanded, "without fear of reprisal. Know that you have my word, and the word of a Targaryen is as unyielding as dragon fire." His wicked smile softened, but the glint of power in his eyes remained unwavering.

The lords exchanged bewildered glances, their confusion palpable. They had expected threats or ultimatums, not this sudden show of clemency. As the weight of Aemon's words settled in, they began to shuffle out of the camp, their steps cautious and hesitant. The Kingsguard, resplendent in their gleaming armor, stood sentinel around Aemon, their watchful eyes following the departing figures. The lords' relief was tempered by the silent, omnipresent reminder of Aemon's power.

As the last of the lords disappeared into the distance, the camp fell silent. Aemon's gaze lingered on the horizon, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips as he turned to face his surrounding knights. "Now that's over, let us make for King's Landing and end this fucking war." He sighed as he walked past his Kingsguard.

Aemon's knights followed in his footsteps with unwavering loyalty, each of them emboldened by the marvelous display of diplomacy displayed by their King. As they walked, Aemon's head turned to the mountain where the loud roar came from, and perched above them all, Vaedar sat like an angel of death itself, his red eyes forever gazing on the retreating figures of the defeated Lords.

With a commanding gesture, Aemon summoned Vaedar from his lofty perch. The dragon responded with a thunderous flapping of wings, sending gusts of wind sweeping through the camp. The ground trembled as Vaedar descended, his enormous form casting an imposing shadow over the area. The sound of his landing was a deafening crash, and the earth seemed to groan under the weight of his massive claws.

Aemon approached the mighty dragon with a sense of ownership and awe, his eyes reflecting the fire that blazed within Vaedar. He soon turned to face his Kingsguard, their faces stoic and stern. "Ser Richard, fetch my Grandmother for me please." He softly asked before he began to patiently wait.

Ser Richard, ever-vigilant and loyal, bowed slightly before hurrying off to carry out Aemon's command. As they waited, Arthur watched Aemon with a humorous gaze. "I didn't think you would let them all go." He smiled.

Aemon looked at him with a confused glare. "Why wouldn't I? I need peace if I am to rule this land."

"I would have suggested ransoming them back to their houses." Arthur half shrugged. "Begin to pay off the debt you're undoubtedly about to take on."

Aemon softly smiled as he glanced at the floor before reaching Arthur's eyes. "Oh, I have plans for all of that. Those Lords haven't gotten off that easily."

Arthur amusingly smiled as Richard returned with Rhaella. Behind her, Bonifer followed like an ever-loyal companion. "Your Grace, Queen Rhaella." Richard nodded as he took his place back at Aemon's side.

"Grandmother." Aemon smiled, his eyes meeting hers. "As you can see, I did not kill them all."

Rhaella softly smiled, finding the humor in her grandson's words. "I can see that, Aemon, but that's not why you called me here, is it?" She sighed, her eyes lingering on Vaedar for a moment.

"No." Aemon's gaze hardened with resolve as he looked upon his grandmother. "We are going to King's Landing," he continued, his voice carrying the weight of destiny. "To finish the war and restore order to the realm. It is time for the Targaryens to reclaim our throne and bring peace to the land."

Rhaella nodded, her eyes reflecting a blend of pride and determination. "You have the strength and the fire, Aemon. Let us get to it then, shall we?"

Aemon gave his Kingsguard the orders to begin the long march to King's Landing. As they departed, he could see the remaining soldiers of the camp begin to move frantically and pack up their arms and armor as the Kingsguard shouted orders and gave commands. Rhaella soon departed too, with Bonifer following closely behind, leaving only Aemon and Arthur alone with Vaedar, who watched both men with expectant eyes.

"Shall we go, Arthur?" Aemon asked, a slight smirk present on his face.

"Whenever you're ready, Aemon." Arthur nodded.

With practiced ease, they climbed onto Vaedar's back, the dragon's powerful muscles shifting beneath them. Vaedar let out a low growl, his wings spreading wide, casting a shadow over the camp. The ground trembled as he took off, a rush of wind swirling around them. The world below became a blur of colors and shapes as they soared higher, the sky opening up before them in a vast expanse of freedom.

Arthur's voice, steady and composed, reached Aemon's ears over the roar of the wind. "To King's Landing, and to victory," he said, his words a promise of loyalty and determination.

Aemon nodded, his grip firm on Vaedar's reins. "To King's Landing," he echoed, his eyes fixed on their destination. The dragon's powerful wings beat rhythmically, carrying them ever closer to the heart of the realm, where their fate awaited.

Highgarden: 299 AC: The Next Day:

The soft rays of dawn filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow over Margaery's chambers. She stirred beneath the silken sheets, slowly awakening to the gentle sounds of birdsong and the scent of blooming flowers that permeated the air of Highgarden. Stretching languidly, she pushed herself up, her eyes still heavy with sleep.

The quiet rustle of fabric drew her attention to the door, where her grandmother, Lady Olenna, stood with an air of purposeful urgency. In her hand, she clutched a piece of parchment, the seal broken and the edges slightly crumpled. Olenna's expression was inscrutable, but Margaery could sense the weight of the news she bore.

"Grandmother?" Margaery's voice was a soft query, concern tinging her words as she sat up fully, the sheets pooling around her waist.

Olenna stepped forward, her eyes locking onto Margaery's as she held out the parchment. "News from the Prince's Pass," she said, her tone measured and calm. "Aemon has won a decisive battle. Robert Baratheon is dead."

Margaery's heart skipped a beat, her mind racing to grasp the full implications of Olenna's words. Relief and shock mingled within her, the emotions flickering across her delicate features. She reached for the parchment with trembling hands, her eyes scanning the contents as if to confirm the truth for herself.

"The news pleases you?" Oleanna asked, a singular eyebrow rising high.

"It does, Grandmother... have you heard anything from Aemon himself?" Margaery asked, her thoughts filled with images of his face.

"From him? No, I'm afraid, my dear, but I am sure he is hale and well." Olenna reassured, noticing the disappointed look that dawned over Margaery's features. "Get up, sweet, we've a long day ahead."

As Margaery climbed out of bed and began her day, her thoughts were consumed by Aemon's recent victory at the Prince's Pass. She couldn't help but feel a surge of pride and anticipation, knowing that their future together was becoming ever more certain. The news of Robert's defeat lingered in her mind, and she continuously wondered how Ameon managed to do it. She knew of Robert's renown as a warrior and how legendary of a battlefield commander he was, yet she knew all of that paled in comparison to the dragons Aemon and his family had at their command.

She moved through Highgarden's lush gardens, the vibrant colors and fragrant blooms a stark contrast to the turmoil of the world beyond. Margaery found solace in the familiar sights and sounds, her fingers gently brushing the petals of a blooming rose as she walked. Yet, even amidst the beauty of her surroundings, her thoughts continuously drifted back to Aemon and the path that lay ahead.

As the sun climbed higher in the sky, Margaery made her way to the courtyard, where the clinking of swords and the shouts of sparring soldiers filled the air. Her eyes scanned the scene, searching for a familiar face among the throng of warriors. It was then that she spotted her brother, Loras, standing at the edge of the courtyard.

Though still bearing the marks of his recent injuries, Loras was resolute, his expression a mix of determination and frustration. He swung his practice sword with deliberate precision, each movement a testament to his enduring spirit. Margaery approached him, her heart aching at the sight of his struggles.

"Loras," she called softly, drawing his attention. He paused, lowering his sword as he turned to face her. A flicker of relief and warmth crossed his face at the sight of his sister.

"Margaery," he greeted, his voice tinged with exhaustion but also affection. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"I wanted to check on you," she replied, her eyes filled with concern. "How are you feeling?"

"My bruises are almost healed, but the maester tells me I won't be fully healed for another few weeks."

"Good, I'm glad to see you recovering so quickly." Margaery smiled before a moment of silence came between them. Loras noticed his sister's absentmindedness and looked at her with growing concern.

"Is everything all right, Margaery? You look leagues away." He asked, his tone slightly amused.

"Oh, it's nothing. I was just thinking on the news I received some moments ago this morn," Margaery answered.

"And?"

"Aemon won a decisive battle at the Prince's Pass, slaying Robert in the process."

"Ah, I already knew... grandmother told me." Loras smiled, his eyes catching Margaery's for a moment. "You know she has something planned for you?"

"She does? She never told me." Margaery frowned.

Loras offered Margaery a reassuring smile. "You should head to her solar," he said, his voice holding a note of anticipation. "I believe it's quite important."

Margaery's curiosity was piqued, and she gave Loras a grateful nod. "Thank you, Loras. Take care of yourself," she replied, her eyes betraying the slightly bemused feeling she had.

As she made her way through the familiar halls of Highgarden, Margaery's thoughts raced with possibilities. Olenna's plans were always shrewd and well-calculated, and Margaery couldn't help but wonder what her grandmother had in store this time. The soft glow of the afternoon sun filtered through the windows, casting a warm light on the stone walls adorned with tapestries and intricate carvings.

Reaching Olenna's solar, Margaery gently knocked on the door before entering. The room was filled with the scent of fresh herbs and the sight of vibrant flowers arranged in delicate vases. Olenna sat at a small table, her piercing eyes lifting to meet Margaery's as she entered.

"Ah, Margaery," Olenna greeted her with a hint of a smile. "Come, sit with me. We have much to discuss."

Margaery complied and sat down, her eyes watching Olenna's every move. "Is this something so important that you couldn't tell me this morn?"

Olenna's eyes were sharp with intent as she addressed Margaery, her tone leaving no room for doubt. "We are going to King's Landing," she stated, the words crisp and clear. "Our presence is needed there, and we must be prepared to act swiftly."

Margaery's brow furrowed with concern. "But Grandmother, the city hasn't even fallen yet. We are not great warriors or soldiers, so why would we venture into such uncertainty?"

"I have my reasons, my dear, so please do not doubt me."

"But, would it not be dangerous?" Margaery questioned. "Half the country is at war."

"Nonsense, Margaery. We will be well protected." Olenna's expression softened, a knowing glint in her eyes. "Moreover, my dear, I believe it will be beneficial for you to see Aemon," she said, her tone gentle yet firm. "His victory at the Prince's Pass has been a triumph, but it is important for both of you to stand united in the eyes of the realm. Also, if what I have heard is true, then he will need you now more than ever."

Margaery's eyes narrowed at her Grandmother's words. "What do you mean? What have you heard?"

"The battle was... less than forgiving, let us say." Olenna sadly smiled. "I'm sure Aemon can regail you about it when you see him."

Margaery's thoughts turned to Aemon, her heart quickening at the idea of reuniting with him. She hadn't seen him since before the battle, and the thought of being by his side once more filled her with a mix of anticipation, yet she worried for him. "Is he hurt?" She asked, her tone betraying her inner emotions.

Olenna's eyes remained steady, a veil of calm masking any deeper emotions. "Aemon is unharmed, physically," she replied, choosing her words with care. "The battle was indeed fierce, and Vaedar's fire wrought devastation upon our enemies. Such events can leave their mark in ways that are not visible."

Margaery's eyes narrowed for a moment as she began to understand what her grandmother was telling her. "I see now." She sighed, her eyes drooping for a moment. "If you think it prudent to travel, we shall."

A faint smile played on Olenna's lips, a mixture of pride and relief. "Good. We leave at dawn."

Margaery's mind began to wander, the forthcoming travel to King's Landing heavy on her thoughts. The city, once a place of familiarity and strategic play, was now shrouded in the chaos of siege. Memories of grand halls and bustling marketplaces were replaced with images of walls under attack and streets echoing with the sounds of conflict.

Yet, amidst the turmoil, her thoughts lingered on Aemon. The memory of their last meeting, filled with shared promises and whispered vows, warmed her heart. Aemon's presence had always been a source of strength and comfort for her. The knowledge that she would soon see him, even under such dire circumstances, brought a spark of hope and resolve.

King's Landing: 299 AC: The Next Day:

Viserys Targaryen

Viserys clung to the reins of Clouddiver, the great dragon's wings slicing through the damp, misty air as they soared above Blackwater Bay. Below, the once-thriving waters were now a graveyard of wrecked ships and burnt-out wooden husks, remnants of his sister Daenerys's fierce dragon. The rain drizzled persistently, adding a cold, wet blanket to the already grim scene.

Through the thick fog, Viserys's keen eyes spotted the imposing figures of the Velaryon fleet, their ships forming an unyielding blockade. Nothing would enter or leave the bay without their notice. The sight of the fleet, steadfast and impenetrable, filled him with a sense of grim satisfaction.

As Clouddiver descended, Viserys prepared for the landing. The dragon's powerful muscles coiled and released, propelling them downward with a grace that belied its immense size. Viserys could see the majority of the Velaryon fleet anchored by a small shore, their ships swaying and buckling with the waves as they crashed against their hulls. On the shore itself, a makeshift camp appeared before him, their colors blue and silver, the banner of the seahorse flying proudly in the air.

As they neared the ground, Viserys leaped from Clouddiver's back, landing with a practiced ease on the muddy, rain-soaked earth. He strode forward, his gaze scanning the area until he spotted his friend Aurane standing near the makeshift command tent. The ever-present mist swirled around them, casting an ethereal veil over the scene. A faint smile tugged at the corners of Viserys's mouth as he noticed Daenerys, her silver hair gleaming even in the dull light, engaged in a flirtatious conversation with Aurane.

Amused, Viserys approached, his steps quiet but purposeful. As he drew nearer, he could hear Daenerys's laughter, a melodic sound that cut through the dreary atmosphere. Aurane, ever the charming rogue, responded with a playful grin, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Enjoying yourselves, I see," Viserys called out, his voice carrying a hint of teasing.

Daenerys turned, her expression lighting up as she saw her brother. "Viserys! What are you doing here?" she asked, her tone light yet filled with genuine relief.

Aurane clasped Viserys's shoulder in greeting, a broad smile on his face. "Good to see you, my friend. Your sister here was just telling me about her latest escapades."

Viserys chuckled, shaking his head. "I can only imagine." He looked at Daenerys, admiration and affection evident in his gaze. "Aemon sent me. He wanted to ensure you were all right."

Daenerys let out a frustrated sigh. "He does know I can handle myself, and I don't need to have someone checking up on me."

"We're at war, sweet sister. You understand his concerns, surely. Besides, we were to be coming this way regardless."

Daenerys hummed lightly in agreement, her eyes rolling, before speaking once more. "He is well?"

Viserys' arms folded as his lilac eyes glanced from his sister to Aurane. "More than that, we won a decisive battle against Robert and his forces. The Usurper now lies dead along with any who followed him."

Daenerys's eyes widened upon hearing the news, as did Aurane's. "For true? How did he-"

"He slew him in the heat of battle, I believe, along with his entire guard." Viserys interrupted, his tone hinting at the proudness he felt within for Aemon. "Our army is on the way as we speak to bring this to an end once and for all."

Viserys moved to the edge of the tent, the canvas flaps rustling with the wind and the persistent drizzle. He watched as the rain fell in steady streams, cascading down in silvery curtains. The enormous expanse of Blackwater Bay stretched out before him, vast and murky. The wreckages of ships jutted out from the water like skeletal remains, a stark testament to the devastation that had unfolded. Each charred hull and splintered mast was a reminder of the fierce battle and the relentless fire his sister commanded.

As he stood there, absorbing the somber scene, Viserys spoke without turning. "Have we allowed anything through the blockade?" His voice carried a note of authority, tinged with an underlying concern.

Aurane stepped forward, his expression resolute. "Nothing has slipped past us. The blockade remains secure. Not a single ship has made it out."

Viserys smirked slightly as he turned to face Daenerys. "Good, good... is there a reason the majority of your fleet is anchored, Aurane?"

"The weather makes for difficult sailing, Viserys. I can only risk a few ships at a time to ensure the blockade holds firm." Aurane answered, his tone professional and authoritative."

"Ah, I see..." Viserys sighed before his gaze caught sight of a still-burning husk. "I take it Frostfyre did his work well?"

Daenerys solemnly nodded at her brother, her eyes lingering with the memory of battle and blood. "Of course he did." She answered, her tone soft yet unforgiving. "We burned them all."

Viserys nodded, a sense of pride swelling within him. He turned to Daenerys, his eyes reflecting both admiration and gratitude. "You've done well, Daenerys. Your efforts here have made all the difference. I'm proud of you."

For a fleeting moment, Daenerys felt like a little girl again, standing in the shadows of her older brother, Viserys. His words of pride warmed her heart, a sensation so rare in their tumultuous lives. The fierce warrior and determined leader melted away, leaving behind the girl who had always sought her brother's approval.

Gathering herself, she straightened her posture, her resolve returning as the rain continued to fall. "Aurane helped too, Viserys." She softly spoke, her violet eyes glinting in the soft candlelight.

"You flatter me, Princess." Aurane smiled, his eyes meeting hers for a second before his gaze turned to the expectant brother who stood before him. "You should have seen her, Viserys, raining fire down on ship and man alike... it was wonderous."

Viserys let out a small smile before his features hardened once more. "I'm well aware of the majesty of dragon fire, Aurane." He sighed, his mind filled with images of the men he burned, which was in no way as glorious as Aurane made out. "Did we lose much?"

"We're still counting, but so far, we have only lost three ships. The royal fleet lost much more and have retreated back to port." Aurane replied as he unfolded a map on the table that depicted the bay and King's Landing, his rough fingers pointing and tracing lines. "Once their flagship was torn asunder, they fell back to here."

Viserys's eyes studied the map and where Aurane's fingers pointed. "And they refuse to come out?" He asked, his tone laced with genuine curiosity.

"Any commander worth his stones would understand wood doesn't mix well with fire." Aurane chuckled before his features became stoic once more. "No, I imagine they would have given up on fighting us at sea entirely. We haven't seen any movement from the docks in a few days now, so I guess they would have taken to defending the city from land instead."

"I don't think that'll go well for them either." Viserys sighed, a small curl of silver hair falling across his face as he did so. "Do we know who commands the defense?"

"I'm unsure, Viserys. One of the Baratheon brothers perhaps, if they have not gone with Robert to Dorne."

Viserys let out a deep breath. "It matters not; the city will fall regardless," Viserys said, his tone resolute. "I just hope we don't have to burn it to make it so."

Daenerys placed a reassuring hand on Viserys's arm, her eyes meeting his. "It won't come to that; I'm sure of it."

Aurane nodded in agreement, his expression thoughtful. "Aemon's forces are strong, and our blockade is effective. If we can find a way to breach their defenses and bring the Baratheons to the negotiating table, we might avoid a devastating battle."

Viserys felt a flicker of hope amidst the weight of his concerns. "We'll do everything in our power to ensure that. Our goal is to secure the throne and bring peace to the realm, not to destroy it."

Together, they stood united in their resolve, ready to face the challenges ahead with both strength and compassion. The rain might fall, and the mist might swirl, but their bond and shared purpose shone brightly, a beacon of hope in the storm.

Stannis Baratheon

Stannis stood at the high window of the Tower of the Hand, his gaze fixed on the ominous silhouette of the dragon gliding over Blackwater Bay. The winds carried the distant, haunting cries of the beast as it circled the waters, a living symbol of the despair that gnawed at his heart. His fists clenched tightly, knuckles white with frustration, as he sensed the fragile hope slipping away with each pass of the dragon's wings.

Behind him, the ever-pompous Janos Slynt took a step forward, his voice breaking the suffocating silence. "The Gold Cloaks are ready to defend the city, my lord," he announced, his tone brimming with an overconfidence that felt misplaced in the face of the looming threat. The words rang hollow, a desperate grasp at courage in a world rapidly unraveling.

"Can you stand against a dragon, Janos?" Stannis sighed, his eyes still on the bay.

Stannis could hear the slight quiver in Janos' tone as he spoke. "We will stand regardless, my lord." He boasted, failing to mask the doubt within.

Before Stannis could respond, the chamber door creaked open, and the enigmatic Varys glided into the room with his usual air of unspoken secrets. His eyes, ever watchful, met Stannis's with a grave intensity. "I bring news from Dorne," Varys began, his voice a whisper against the storm brewing outside. "Robert has been defeated, along with Tywin and anyone else who marched with him. Both men are dead, and their armies have been shattered. Aemon Targaryen marches towards King's Landing as we speak."

The weight of Varys' words hung heavily in the air, a cruel confirmation of the dark tide that threatened to engulf them all. The room seemed to shrink around Stannis, the walls pressing in with the force of his despair. Aemon Targaryen's approach signaled more than just an advancing army—it was the shadow of an ancient fire, a relentless force that sought to reclaim a throne built on blood and ambition.

"I suppose it's to be all of our heads then..." Stannis said, his hand rubbing his eyes. "Does this one ride a dragon, too?"

"He does, my lord. One as black as night and as unforgiving as death." Varys responded, his words causing a look of worry to dawn across the features of Janos.

Stannis hummed in quiet resignation as he turned to face both men. "Send word to the Queen that the King and her father are fallen, Lord Varys." He sighed, his eyes meeting Varys' own. "Perhaps we can get her and her children out of the city before this Aemon Targaryen arrives. I dare not imagine what he would do to them."

Varys solemnly nodded. "I'm sure he'll be reasonable. No man wishes for children to be harmed, especially those of royal decent." He added.

Stannis let a haughty laugh, one that was not filled with any humor. "After what Tywin did to his own family, I find it hard to believe he'll be so forgiving to us. No, begin to prepare them to leave for Casterly Rock before this would-be king arrives."

Varys only solemnly nodded in response before leaving the room and Stannis to his despair. As Stannis watched him go, he turned back to face the window, his eyes fixated on the dragon in the distant mist. He knew he must do his duty and defend this city, but to what end, he did not know.

Varys

The dim light of the torches cast dancing shadows upon the polished stone walls as Varys moved through the narrow corridors of the Red Keep. His every step was soundless, the flowing silk of his robes trailing behind him like whispered secrets. The news he bore was as heavy as it was exhilarating—Robert Baratheon was dead, slain by Aemon. Tywin Lannister had fallen as well; his death in battle shattering the Lannister grip on power. Chaos was unfurling, and Varys, ever the spider, was at the web's heart.

He arrived at the queen's chambers. Outside, Arys Oakheart stood, his gaze yards away as Varys approached. "Ser Arys." The spider nodded, his tone indifferent.

Arys seemed to be pulled from whatever daydream he was in. "Lord Varys..." He replied, clearing his throat. "You come bearing word from Dorne?"

"Very perceptive, Ser," Varys smirked. "I do indeed, however, I believe the Queen should be privy to it first."

Arys slowly nodded, and with a polite knock and a murmured request for entry, the doors creaked open to reveal Cersei, her emerald eyes sharp and wary even in the refuge of her private quarters. Two of her children played quietly in the corner, oblivious to the storm brewing beyond the Keep's walls. In contrast, Joffrey stood on the balcony of her chambers, his eyes much like Stannis', fixated on the dragon that glided gracefully over the bay.

My queen," Varys began, his voice smooth and placating, "I bring news most grave. King Robert has... fallen, taken by the hand of Aemon. And your father, Lord Tywin, is no more."

Cersei stiffened, her face a mask of controlled fury and shock. "What treachery is this?" she hissed, her gaze darting to her children. The lioness, protective and calculating, was already weighing her next move. "My father has never lost a battle, I refuse to believe he has now."

"I'm afraid he has, my Queen." Varys inclined his head, his expression somber. "Aemon Targaryen marches upon the city. Stannis has tasked me with preparing you and the royal heirs to leave King's Landing before his forces arrive."

Her laughter was bitter and cold. "Flee? Do you take me for a coward, Lord Varys? My children are the blood of kings. We do not run."

The spider hesitated, his usual confidence wavering. He could feel the web tightening around him. To succeed in his mission for Stannis would be to ensure the survival of Robert's heirs—a potential threat to Aemon's claim. Yet the sight of the children, innocent and unaware of the deadly game surrounding them, stirred something faint and unwelcome within him.

"My queen," he said carefully, "Aemon will show no mercy. To stay is to risk the lives of your children. For their sake, I urge you to reconsider."

It was then that Joffrey turned from the balcony, his eyes glinting with quiet rage. "My father is dead?" He asked, his voice laced with venom.

Cersei turned to her son, her features very much indifferent to the death of Robert. "He is, Joff," she began, softly taking her son's hand. "This means you are to be king, hm?"

Joffrey snatched his hand from his mother's, ignoring her words. He walked before Varys, his eyes full of fury. ""He was the king. He was my father! No one kills a Baratheon and lives!"

The boy's young face twisted into a sneer as he turned and strode toward the great oaken table. The dagger at his side clattered as he unsheathed it with a sharp pull, holding it up as if imagining it already buried in the heart of his enemy.

"I'll kill him," Joffrey snarled, his voice rising with each word. "Aemon Targaryen will beg for mercy when he kneels before me. I'll take his head and have it sent to every lord as a warning!"

Cersei stepped forward, her voice measured yet laced with a mother's urgency. "Joffrey, listen to me. This is not the time for reckless talk."

But Joffrey spun around to face her, his eyes blazing. "Reckless?" he spat. "You think I'm afraid of him? I'm a Baratheon—I am the king now! And I swear to you, Mother, I'll have vengeance. Aemon will die for this."

The dagger trembled in his grip as though his rage alone animated it. Cersei, her lips pressed into a thin line, regarded her son carefully. "You are the king," she said, her voice firm but tempered. "And a king does not act out of fury. You will lead with strength and strategy. Do not let your enemies see you as a boy blinded by rage."

Joffrey glared at her, but her words took root, tempering his outward outburst. He thrust the dagger back into its sheath with a resolute click, turning back toward the balcony overlooking the bay.

"They may have a dragon, but I am a stag, and I am the fury." He continued, his anger on full display. "Aemon Targaryen thinks to take what is mine? He'll find I'm no craven. I'll spill his blood myself."

Varys stood in the shadowed corner of the chamber, his hands folded neatly within the voluminous sleeves of his robes. His expression was one of polite detachment as Joffrey, red-faced and bristling with anger, strode back and forth across the room and to the balcony, the dagger he bore coming and going in his hand, each time catching flashes of light with each dramatic gesture.

Varys's gaze shifted briefly, landing on the door where Ser Arys Oakheart stood, ever-vigilant in his pristine white armor. The Kingsguard's features—handsome, sharp, and undeniably noble—seemed to mirror the very boy-king who ranted so furiously within the room. It was a likeness too striking to ignore, and in that moment, the Spider's mind turned, weaving its quiet suspicions into the greater tapestry of his thoughts.

Joffrey's anger, Varys reflected, was as hollow as the blade he brandished. It was the fury of a child pretending at kingship, fueled more by wounded pride than strategic thought. The boy's threats were nothing but sound and fury, destined to achieve little but his own ruin. Still, for all his disinterest, the Spider could not fully dismiss the gnawing pang of unease. What he was doing would be against Aemon's wishes, yet he could not bear the thought of these innocent children being brought before the dragons.

My lord," Varys said smoothly, his voice cutting through Joffrey's tirade like a gentle whisper, "forgive me, but I must implore you and your family to leave the city before it is too late."

Joffrey whirled to face him, his lips curled in a sneer. "You cower like a woman, eunuch," he snapped. "I am the king! Why should I flee my own city?"

Varys did not flinch at the insult, his mask of civility unshaken. "Your Grace," he said, inclining his head in deference, "it is not cowardice to value one's life—nor the lives of those you hold dear. Aemon marches with purpose, and he will not spare those who stand in his way. To retreat now is to ensure the survival of your house and your claim."

Cersei, who had been silent until now, cast a sharp look at Varys, her eyes narrowing. "What claim do you mean, Lord Varys? My son is the rightful king."

"Of course, my queen," Varys said with a faint, unreadable smile. "And it is for that very reason I urge caution. The realm needs stability, not another act of defiance that may see us all undone."

Joffrey's hand tightened on the hilt of his dagger, but for a moment, his bravado faltered. His youthful features hardened into a mask of determination, though Varys could see the cracks beneath—the boy uncertain, the lion's roar diminished to a growl.

As the tension in the room thickened, Varys allowed himself a brief glance toward Ser Arys Oakheart once more. The resemblance lingered in his mind like a half-forgotten melody, a secret yet to be spoken. It was not his place to reveal such truths, not yet. But the knowledge simmered, another thread in the web he spun, waiting for the right moment to be plucked. If what he thought was true, Joffrey was no king at all. Just a bastard in masquerade

"My answer is no." Cersei's voice was sharp, final. She sat poised on her throne-like chair, her emerald eyes glittering with defiance. "A lion does not flee from battle."

Beside her, Joffrey leaned forward with a sneer on his lips. "Why should we run?" he added, his tone filled with scorn. "Let this so-called Aemon come. I'll put his head on a spike above the gates myself."

Varys, standing a few paces before them, bowed his head slightly, his face the picture of polite neutrality. Inside, however, a tide of frustration and concern churned. He had given them the truth: Aemon Targaryen was coming, and the city was all but lost. Yet here they were, the queen and her son, clinging stubbornly to pride and pretense.

"As you wish, Your Grace," Varys murmured, his tone as smooth as silk. He straightened, his dark eyes flickering toward the corner of the room where Myrcella and Tommen sat quietly. The young girl was brushing her brother's hair, humming softly as if the world beyond these walls did not tremble on the brink of ruin. They were so young, so blissfully unaware of the storm about to crash down upon them.

For the first time in years, Varys felt the faint pang of regret. He had long since hardened himself to the sacrifices necessary in the game of thrones, but the innocence of these two children gave him pause. Whatever their bloodline, they bore no responsibility for the sins of their parents nor the chaos that now engulfed the realm.

He allowed himself one final glance at them, his expression unreadable but heavy with unspoken thoughts. Then he turned, his robes whispering softly as he left the chamber. As he left, he gave a knowing glance at Arys, the Kingsguard watching him with curious eyes as he closed the door.

"Lord Varys," He called, his tone nervous as Varys turned and approached. "I heard the conversation... tell me it is not true."

"I'm afraid the Prince and Her Grace adamantly refuse to leave the Red Keep in search of refuge," Varys said softly. It was then that Varys uncovered the certain truth as Arys's eyes softened, and his bottom lip began to quiver.

"You're sure? You tried everything to convince them?" He asked, taking the tone of a worried father.

"I did, I'm afraid, Ser." Varys softly smiled, inwardly gleeful he uncovered the truth. "They are willing to defend the city to the last."

Arys solemnly nodded, understanding the words Varys spoke. "I see..."

Varys gave one final nod toward the distraught Kingsguard as he began his walk back to Stannis to deliver the unfortunate news.

The walk back to the Tower of the Hand was a quiet one, the echoes of his steps swallowed by the castle's cold stone halls. When he entered the chamber where Stannis awaited, the grim-faced man turned to him immediately, his eyes alight with expectation.

"Well?" Stannis demanded, his voice like the crack of a whip.

Varys spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. "They refuse to leave, my lord. The queen and the prince believe they can hold the city."

Stannis's expression darkened, his jaw tightening with restrained fury. "Fools," he muttered, pacing the room like a caged lion. "Do they not see what's coming? This city will burn, and they'll burn with it."

The Spider said nothing, his gaze fixed on the floor. He had done his part and delivered the message. What would come next was out of his hands. Yet, as Stannis's anger filled the room, Varys could not help but think again of the children—the only truly innocent players in this deadly game. It was then that a thought occurred to him.

"Perhaps, my lord, we could parley with Aemon and save the city along with those who live here." He suggested.

"And what of us, hm?" Stannis snapped. "Aemon will skin us alive."

"Our duty is to the people, not ourselves, my lord."

Stannis's jaw tightened. "Your point?"

"My point, my lord, is that there is still a chance to avoid further bloodshed," Varys said, his tone measured and deliberate. "Aemon will soon be at our gates. Let us meet with him, not as adversaries, but as men seeking a way forward."

Stannis' icy gaze dropped to the floor as the energy to fight left him. For a moment, the cold, hard exterior of Stannis faded away as he allowed the reality to engulf him. This was an enemy he could neither outlast nor outwit, and deep down, he knew it.

"Your reasons are sound, Lord Varys, I know, but if we give up so easily-

"Then Aemon will see us as reasonable men, I'm sure of it. We both had no part in what occurred during the rebellion. We both know it, and so does he."

Stannis let out a heavy breath, laden with defeat. "Very well. When this dragon lord arrives, we will surrender the city. May the Gods have mercy on us."

Varys opened his mouth to reply, but before he could utter a word, the doors to the chamber burst open with a resounding crash. Joffrey strode in, his youthful arrogance bleeding into every step, his golden hair glinting in the dim candlelight. "I forbid it," he declared, his voice grating with entitlement. "As your king, I order you to hold your ground. We will not kneel to dragons or any other monsters."

Stannis's eyes narrowed, the veins in his temple pulsing visibly. He took a step toward the boy, his rage simmering just beneath the surface. "You are a child, Joffrey, and not yet corronated. I have fought wars and bled for this realm before you even drew breath. Do not presume to order me."

Joffrey's face flushed crimson, his fists clenching at his sides. But before he could retort, Stannis turned abruptly back to the window. He jabbed a finger outward, toward the bay, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "Look there, both of you. See the skies above the bay."

Reluctantly, Joffrey and Varys stepped closer to the window, their eyes drawn to the scene unfolding outside. Against the darkening horizon, two massive dragons swooped and soared, their scales catching the dying light in hues of gold and sky blue. Their roars echoed like distant thunder, each flap of their wings stirring the waters below into violent ripples.

Stannis' voice was grim, each word laden with foreboding. "Tell me, Joffrey. Will your bravado and your imaginary crown hold against them? Shall we rely on your orders to save the city when fire rains from the heavens?"

Joffrey's mouth opened, but no sound came out. He stared, transfixed, as the dragons descended lower, their eyes glowing like molten coals. Varys, ever composed, folded his hands and let out a quiet sigh, as if to acknowledge the inevitability of the coming storm.

"The city cannot stand against a dragon, let alone two of them." Stannis sighed, his tone calming somewhat. "I have offered you a way out, and refuse me at every turn, boy."

"I am no boy! I am the-"

"Enough!" Stannis yelled, cutting off Joffrey's blatherings. "This city will surrender whether you like it or not, boy."

Joffrey stood his ground, his chin raised defiantly. "I am not a boy, and I speak with the authority of House Baratheon. The city will not fall while I draw breath." He took a bold step forward, meeting Stannis's glare with unwavering resolve. "I do not fear dragons, nor do I fear pretenders to the throne."

Varys shifted uncomfortably, his gaze flickering between the two Baratheons like a man caught in the eye of a storm. He opened his mouth to interject, but Stannis silenced him with a sharp wave of his hand.

"Fine..." Stannis relented much to Varys's surprise. "If you wish to burn, so be it."

Joffrey clenched his jaw and turned away from the window, his pride unyielding. "Let them come," he spat, his voice hard. "We are Baratheons. And Baratheons do not bow."

For a moment, Stannis said nothing, his expression unreadable. Then he turned to Varys. "It seems the boy has made his decision," he said, his voice cold. "May the gods have mercy on us all."

Cersei Lannister

Cersei paced her chambers like a lioness in a cage, her fury palpable in the air. Her golden hair was disheveled, her emerald eyes ablaze with disbelief and rage. She hurled a goblet against the wall, the sound of shattering glass cutting through the heavy silence. As soon as Varys left her chambers, the news of her father's death dawned on her heavily.

"My father? Dead? By the hand of that Targaryen brat?" Her voice rose, trembling with a mix of grief and indignation. "It is a lie. A jest! Tywin Lannister does not fall to a boy!" She turned toward the window, her fists clenched, her pride refusing to yield to the weight of the news.

In the far corner of the room, Myrcella and Tommen sat huddled together on a velvet settee, their small faces pale with fear. Tommen clung to his sister, his fingers gripping hers tightly, while Myrcella's wide eyes followed their mother's every movement, her trembling hand stroking Tommen's hair in a futile effort to comfort them both.

Outside the chamber door, Ser Arys Oakheart lingered in the shadows, his heart pounding. Not for Cersei—for she was a queen he had pledged to serve, nothing more—but for the two small children cowering inside. His children. Flesh and blood he could never claim openly but loved fiercely nonetheless. His grip on his sword tightened, his knuckles white as he forced himself to step inside.

"Your Grace," he said, his voice steady but urgent. He bowed slightly before letting the door close behind him. "You must leave the city. Aemon's forces are advancing, and with dragons at his command—"

Cersei whirled to face him, her eyes narrowing dangerously. "Leave? Flee like a frightened rabbit? Is that what you would have me do, Ser Arys?" Her tone dripped with disdain. "I am a lioness of House Lannister. My children are lions. We do not run."

Arys's jaw clenched as he fought to keep his composure. "Your Grace, this is not about pride. The city will fall. It is no longer a question of if, but when. You must think of Myrcella and Tommen—"

"Do not lecture me about my children!" Cersei snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut. "I have sacrificed everything for them. Do you think I will abandon their birthright now?"

Arys stepped closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. His eyes flicked to the children, then back to Cersei. "Their birthright will mean nothing if they are dead. Do you want them to suffer the fate of a city under siege? To see flames consume the Red Keep, to hear the cries of the dying? Think not of yourself, but of them."

Cersei hesitated, her gaze faltering as it lingered on her children. For a moment, her mask of defiance slipped, and something akin to fear flickered in her eyes. But then, as quickly as it had appeared, the vulnerability vanished. She straightened her spine and turned back to the window.

"If Aemon thinks he can take what is mine, let him come," she said coldly, her voice steady once more. "I will not give him the satisfaction of seeing me cower."

Arys stared at her, a storm of frustration and helplessness churning within him. He wanted to shout, to shake sense into her, but he knew it would be futile. Instead, he turned toward the children, his heart aching as he saw the fear etched onto their faces.

"I pray you reconsider," he said quietly, his words meant more for them than for her. Then, with a heavy heart, he left the room, vowing silently that he would do whatever it took to protect his children—whether Cersei willed it or not.

---

King's Landing: 299 AC: 2 Weeks Later:

Aemon Targaryen

The merciless moon outside waxed its silver light over the endless camp, filled with soldiers and knights alike, each preparing for the presumed battle to come. Only a few leagues away was the city of King's Landing, where, dominating the skyline, the Red Keep stood, shrouded in darkness save for some light trickling through the distant windows.

Aemon stood in the center of it all in his command tent, surrounded by his Kingsguard and advisors. Before him, on the heavy oak table, a map of the city rested, it's lines and gates having been annotated many times with crossed-out ideas and ink marks. However, his eyes were focused on the parchment in his hand as a tired sigh escaped his lips.

"Varys tells me they adamantly refuse to surrender despite Stannis wanting to." He told everyone present, his hand throwing the parchment down on the table with no care. "I have four dragons outside of their gates. Why won't they surrender?" He sighed, his eyes glancing around the table.

"They know you won't use them, Aemon," Jon said, his tone soft.

"Even without the dragons, my army engulfs the city. I have blockaded every way in and out, and yet they refuse to surrender."

"It's that boy-king, Joffrey." Randyll Tarly added, his voice scornful. "He doesn't have the sense to surrender."

Aemon let out a shallow laugh as he picked up another scroll bearing the seal of The Eunuch. "Varys sends me note after note, each bearing the same message." Aemon sighed as he broke the seal and began to read.

The message was much different this time, and as Aemon read on, his eyes grew wide at the news it bore. "Joffrey is no true son nor heir of Robert..." He said aloud.

Jaime immediately stood up from his chair, a look of concern etched across his face. "What?" He growled as he peered over Aemon's shoulder to read the parchment for himself.

"Bastards, apprantley." Aemon shrugged, handing the parchment to Jaime. The young lion read it with earnest, mouthing each word and syllable as he did so.

"Arys Oakheart?" Jaime questioned, placing the parchment on the table once he finished reading. "I remember him. He was only sworn in a few weeks before I left for Essos."

"Seems as though he is the father of your sister's children, according to Varys." Aemon sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Not that it'll help us now."

Arthur's eyes studied Aemon before speaking. "How so? If Joffrey is a bastard, then Stannis would refuse to defend his city for him."

"It's not that simple, Arthur," Aemon said, meeting Arthur's gaze. "He would think we've created a malicious lie to increase our odds of success." After some more moments, Aemon's frustration grew as he began to pace in the dim light of the command tent. A roar echoed from outside, a reminder of the dragons that flew over the city thanks to Viserys and Daenerys' efforts. Aemon had hoped their presence would simply scare them into surrender, yet the sounds of their mighty roars only served to frustrate Aemon more.

"We have them surrounded!" Aemon's voice echoed in the tent as he addressed Jon Connington and his Kingsguard, Arthur and Jaime. "Yet still, they defy us. What leverage does this boy think he holds?"

Jon Connington's jaw tightened, his eyes shifting to the map. "He's a petulant child, clinging to his 'throne' out of sheer arrogance. Stannis is the true threat—if he falls, Joffrey will have no choice but to bend the knee."

Arthur, ever stoic, nodded. "The people will turn on him once they realize the dragons won't back down. Especially with Daenerys and Viserys making their presence known."

Aemon sighed, the weight of command pressing on his shoulders. He was interrupted by the sudden appearance of one of his Dragonguard at the entrance of the tent, his face a mask of urgency. "My king, Lady Margaery and Lady Olenna have arrived."

Aemon's heart skipped a beat. "What did you say? Margaery... here? In the middle of this chaos?"

"Yes, my king," the Dragonguard confirmed. "They await your presence outside."

Aemon's mind raced. His love for her ran deep, yet the thought of her so close to the dangers of the siege filled him with dread. With a nod to his Kingsguard, he strode out of the tent, his heart heavy with concern.

Margaery stood with her grandmother, the formidable Lady Olenna, their expressions a blend of determination and worry. Aemon approached, his gaze locking with Margaery's.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, unable to mask his anxiety.

Margaery softly smiled. "I had thought you'd be more happy to see me." She chuckled, her hands taking his as he approached.

Aemon stared at Margaery and Olenna as MagaerMs soft hands filled his own, his eyes widening in a mix of disbelief and concern. "This is no place for either of you," he insisted, his voice firm. "The dangers here are beyond what you should be exposed to."

Olenna's lips curled into a wry smile. "Do not underestimate me, young man. I am no stranger to warfare and its cruelties." Her gaze sharpened as she surveyed the surroundings. "Now, let us discuss matters where we will not be overheard. Inside the command tent."

Aemon could hardly believe what he was hearing. He shook his head, the weight of responsibility and the unexpected turn of events pressing down on him. "Very well," he said finally, his tone resigned but respectful. He motioned for them to follow, holding open the tent flap as they entered the command tent together.

Inside, the atmosphere was charged with tension and anticipation. Jon Connington, Arthur, Randyll Tarly, and Jaime all looked up, surprise evident on their faces as they took in the sight of the Tyrell women. Aemon closed the flap behind them, turning to face Olenna.

"Lady Margaery and Lady Olenna, my lords." Aemon sighed as he took his position at the head of the table.

Olenna sat down, a heavy breath leaving her as she did so, whereas Margaery took a seat beside Aemon, placing a hand on his as he leaned pressed against the table. Aemon allowed a soft smile to form at the corner of his lips as his grey eyes met hers.

"I see you've made good use of our army, Aemon." Olenna smiled, her eyes looking over the map. "Winning a battle against Robert is much to be proud of."

Aemon softly nodded. "I cannot take much credit..." He said, his mind being painted once more with the visions of men burning and bleeding. "My commanders such as Lord Tarly did their part admirably."

"You still did well, Aemon." Margaery chimed in, her voice soft and sweet.

Aemon smirked at her, but before he could respond, the tent flap rustled, and Oberyn Martell strode in, sweat beading on his brow. He had been leading a daring scouting mission along the walls of King's Landing under the cover of night. His dark eyes flickered with amusement as he noticed the unexpected company.

"I wasn't expecting to be in the presence of such esteemed ladies," Oberyn said, offering a charming smile. "Lady Olenna, Lady Margaery, it is an honor."

Olenna arched an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by the flamboyant Prince of Dorne. "We were just discussing the siege, Oberyn. What news do you bring?"

Oberyn's expression turned serious as he faced Aemon. "The walls are heavily fortified, but their morale is faltering. The sight of your dragons has struck fear into their hearts. However, Joffrey remains stubborn. He is bolstering his defenses, anticipating a full assault."

Aemon nodded, absorbing the information. "Thank you, Oberyn. Your efforts are invaluable."

Oberyn's gaze shifted to Margaery, his smile returning. "And what brings you to the front lines, my lady?"

Margaery met his gaze with equal determination. "I am here to support my betrothed and ensure our future together."

"So it seems." Oberyn smiled, wiping the sweat from his brow before turning to Aemon with determined eyes. "Do we have a means of attack?"

Aemon's gaze shifted to the map once more, lingering on all the gates. "Using the dragons is not possible, so we're going to have to do this the old way, I'm afraid."

The people advisors around the table nodded solemnly, understanding fully that many would die in this siege. Randyll Tarly suddenly stood up, his fingers pointing to the map and his eyes bright with ideas.

"They don't have enough men to cover every gate effectively," He began, his tone confident. "We can overwhelm whichever gate we choose with our numbers alone, and with the siege equipment we've built, we can pummel them into dust."

Aemon shook his head, his eyes looking at the city center itself. "I'd rather not use catapults if we can help it." He sighed, his eyes looking to the drawing of the Red Keep. "Prepare your men for the siege, Lord Randyll. When that boy wakes up tomorrow, he'll see my word is serious."

Randyll quickly nodded and left the command tent, eager to begin the siege. However, Aemon looked at the fiery Jon Connington and spoke to him quietly. "Get word to Stannis, tell him I want to meet him and give him one last chance to surrender."

Jon raised an eyebrow, his features ever curious. "You're sure of this, Aemon?" He asked.

"I am." Aemon sighed, "I'd rather not have to kill my men to take this city, nor would I want the people to see me as some bloodthirsty conqueror. Have him meet me in the morn."

Jon nodded and left the tent with haste to do his duty, leaving Aemon and his two Kingsguard alone with Margaery and Olenna, each of them giving the young king expectant glances.

"You think violence can be avoided?" Olenna asked, her tone inquisitive.

"I hope it can, but if that Joffrey is as stubborn as his supposed father, then I don't think it can be helped." Aemon regretfully said before he felt the weariness in his eyes and feet. "This day has been long and arduous, I fear I must retire. You both have sleeping quarters?" He asked, his eyes darting between Margaery and Olenna.

Olenna nodded, her eyes watching both Aemon and Margaery. "We have brought our own tents and guards, you need not worry about us."

Aemon nodded, but he could feel Margaery's eyes linger on him, as if suggesting something without saying it. "Our quarters are most adequate, Aemon," she began, a hint of mischief dancing in her eyes. "However, I was wondering if, given our betrothal, I might be allowed to stay in your quarters tonight."

The suggestion hung in the air, breaking the decorum expected in such settings. Olenna's eyes narrowed slightly, but after a moment of contemplation, she relented with a nod.

"Very well, Margaery," Olenna said, her voice firm yet understanding. "If it pleases you and His Grace, I see no reason to object."

Aemon could feel the heat rise to his cheeks as Arthur and Jaime, who had been listening intently, exchanged mischievous glances. Arthur's smirk and Jaime's raised eyebrows were not lost on him.

"Thank you, Lady Olenna," Aemon replied, his tone composed despite the situation. "Lady Margaery, I would be honored to have you in my quarters."

Aemon soon took Margaery's hand with a gentle grasp, leading her through the bustling war camp. The glow of campfires illuminated the faces of soldiers as they prepared for the night, their murmurs blending with the distant sounds of the battlefield. His Kingsguard, ever-vigilant, followed closely, their presence a silent testament to their unwavering loyalty.

Navigating between rows of tents and makeshift shelters, Aemon kept Margaery close, shielding her from the chaos around them. The flickering torchlight cast dancing shadows on the weathered faces of the men, a stark contrast to the turmoil within his heart. Arthur and Jaime exchanged knowing glances, their eyes twinkling with mischief as they watched their king lead his betrothed.

Once they reached his quarters, a relatively quieter space amidst the camp, Aemon opened the flap and guided Margaery inside. The interior, though modest, offered a semblance of privacy and respite. The soft rustle of the tent walls provided a comforting backdrop.

Margaery, ever perceptive, could see the strain on Aemon's face, the weight of his recent actions etched into his features. She gently touched his arm, her voice soft yet probing, "How was the battle against Robert, Aemon?"

Aemon took a deep breath, his gaze drifting to the ground as if seeking solace in the darkness. "We were victorious," he began, his voice steady but carrying an underlying strain. "Robert's forces were... overwhelmed."

Despite his words, Margaery could sense the conflict within him. His shoulders sagged slightly, and the hollow echo of duty fulfilled resonated in his tone.

"I did what had to be done," Aemon continued, his voice quieter now. "The flames... they consumed so many. It was the only way to break their will."

She stepped closer, her hand finding his, offering silent support. The touch seemed to steady him, though his eyes remained clouded with the horrors he had witnessed. "You did what was necessary for the realm, Aemon," she whispered, her tone gentle yet firm. "But that doesn't mean it was easy."

Aemon nodded, his expression weary. "No, it wasn't," he admitted, his voice tinged with quiet defeat. "Thousands of lives... gone because of me. Their screams still haunt me."

Margaery squeezed his hand, her eyes full of empathy. "You carry the weight of a king, Aemon. But you don't have to bear it alone."

Aemon let out a shallow laugh, unable to shake the visions that haunted him. Soon, they both lay down on the soft bed within his tent, the sounds of the bustling camp fading into the background. Margaery's fingers gently played with Aemon's dark curls, offering a soothing touch as their conversation continued.

"You've been through so much," she murmured, her voice tender. "Yet, you carry the weight of it all with such strength."

Aemon sighed, his eyes closing as he felt the warmth of her touch. "Sometimes, it feels like too much," he admitted. "But knowing you're here with me... it eases the burden."

Margaery smiled softly, her fingers tracing the lines of his face. "We'll face it together," she whispered. "You're not alone, Aemon. I'll always be by your side."

In that quiet moment, the weight of their world seemed to lift, if only for a brief respite. Wrapped in each other's embrace, the horrors of the battlefield and the burdens of their titles faded into the distance. The warmth of their connection brought a fragile peace to their hearts.

As the night deepened, their breaths synchronized, the rhythm of their hearts beating as one. The flickering candlelight cast a soft glow over them, illuminating the intimacy of their bond. Gradually, sleep claimed them both, their dreams interwoven with hopes for a brighter future.

Outside the tent, the camp remained vigilant, the ever-watchful Kingsguard standing sentinel. But within the tent, Aemon and Margaery found solace in each other's arms, a moment of tranquility amidst the storm of war.

Aemon was roused from his slumber by the insistent voice of Jon Connington. The urgency in Jon's tone cut through the remnants of sleep as he delivered the news. "Your Grace, Stannis is prepared to meet you outside the gates of King's Landing to discuss terms."

Aemon nodded, slipping from the warmth of the bed and dressing with practiced efficiency. He turned to Margaery, who lay peacefully beside him, and leaned down to press a tender kiss to her forehead. "I must go," he whispered. "I will return soon."

She smiled sleepily, her fingers brushing against his cheek. "Be safe, Aemon."

With a final glance, Aemon stepped out of his quarters, and his Kingsguard—Arthur and Jaime—fell into step beside him. The camp was already bustling with activity, the weight of the impending meeting hanging in the air.

Aemon and his Kingsguard mounted the horses that had been brought to them, the beasts snorting and pawing at the ground in anticipation. The air was thick with the scent of battle and the promise of confrontation. With a determined nod, Aemon urged his mount forward, the Kingsguard following closely behind.

As they rode through the camp, soldiers paused in their duties to watch their king and his loyal protectors make their way toward the gates. The tension was palpable, every eye trained on the small procession.

The gates of King's Landing loomed ahead, and beyond them, Stannis awaited. With a resolute heart, Aemon spurred his horse forward, the rhythmic thud of hooves echoing through the still morning air. The sun was beginning to rise, casting a golden hue over the battlements and the assembled troops.

As they approached the meeting point, the Kingsguard formed a protective circle around Aemon. Stannis stood with his own retinue, a stoic expression on his face. The two leaders locked eyes, the weight of the moment heavy between them. Beside Stannis, Aemon could see a sneering and smug Joffrey Baratheon, whose emerald gaze pierced through Aemon like a knife.

Around them, Aemon's army stood ready and waiting, their eyes fixed on the two leaders. The soldiers, armed and armored, held their breath, knowing that the outcome of this conversation could decide the fate of King's Landing.

"Lord Stannis," Aemon respectfully nodded.

"Aemon Targaryen," Stannis replied, his eyes darting from one silvered Kingsguard to the next.

"Let us speak truly. As you can see, I have your city surrounded and ready to be sieged on my command."

"Indeed, you do."

"I will be honest, I do not wish to do so. Save yourselves and your men from the carnage that awaits you and surrender. I promise you a fair and just resolution."

Above the tense meeting between Aemon and Stannis, two dragons soared into the sky, their majestic forms casting shadows over the assembled armies and walls of the city. The leathery wings beat the air with powerful strokes, and the dragons' roars echoed through the camp, a reminder of the Targaryen might.

Stannis's gaze was drawn upwards, his expression momentarily faltering at the sight of the fearsome creatures. The presence of the dragons added an undeniable weight to the already heavy atmosphere, a tangible symbol of the power Aemon commanded.

Aemon, his eyes still locked on Stannis, noticed the flicker of hesitation in his rival's eyes. With a steady voice, he continued, "Stannis, the dragons are a testament to the strength of House Targaryen. But I seek peace, not further destruction."

Stannis's attention returned to Aemon, the resolve in his eyes hardening once more. The dragons' presence had not intimidated him completely, but the sight had clearly given him pause once more.

As the tension between Aemon and Stannis hung in the air, Joffrey couldn't resist chiming in. His voice, dripping with disdain, cut through the quiet like a blade. "You're nothing, Aemon! Just a pretender! You'll never be a true king!"

Aemon's eyes narrowed, a flicker of anger igniting within him. Without a word, he reached into his satchel and pulled out the twisted, broken crown that had once belonged to Robert. With a swift, forceful motion, he threw it at Joffrey. The young prince caught it and sadly looked at it, a physical reminder of his father.

"Do you want to share the same fate as your father, Joffrey?" Aemon's voice was cold and commanding, his gaze piercing. "The choice is yours."

Joffrey's face turned red with anger, his eyes blazing with fury. "You think you're so high and mighty, Aemon!" he spat, his voice trembling with rage. "You're nothing but a usurper!"

emon's expression remained stoic, his gaze unwavering. He glanced at Stannis, whose frustration was evident in the tightening of his jaw and the clenching of his fists. The tension between them was palpable, the air thick with unspoken words.

Stannis finally spoke, his voice a low growl. "Enough, Joffrey. This is not the time for petty insults." His eyes bore into Aemon, the weight of the realm resting on their interaction. "Aemon, I came here to discuss terms, not to listen to the prattle of a petulant child."

Aemon nodded, acknowledging Stannis's words. "I agree. The fate of Westeros hangs in the balance. We must focus on finding a resolution that spares our people further suffering."

Despite his anger, Joffrey's voice cut through once more. "You're weak, Stannis! Siding with this traitor will only bring ruin! You should be fighting, not talking!"

Aemon's patience wore thin, but he maintained his composure. "Joffrey, your hatred blinds you. This war has already claimed too many lives. We seek peace, not further bloodshed."

Stannis took a deep breath, the weight of his decision evident on his features. His gaze locked with Aemon's, the resolve in his eyes softening slightly as he considered the offer. The tension in the air was palpable, every soldier watching with bated breath.

"I take it you want me to bend the knee?" Stannis eventually said, his eyes narrowing.

"Very well," Stannis finally said, his voice steady but weary. "I will surrender the city on the condition that I am allowed to go home to Storm's End, along with my fleet and men."

Aemon nodded, his expression one of relief and solemnity. "You have my word, Stannis. You and your men will be allowed to leave the city unharmed and return to your homes."

The tension in the air seemed to dissipate, a sense of cautious hope filling the space between the two leaders. Aemon extended his hand, a gesture of goodwill and finality. Stannis hesitated for a moment, then grasped Aemon's hand firmly, sealing the agreement.

With the pact made, Aemon turned to his army, his voice strong and clear. "The city is ours. Stannis Baratheon has surrendered, and his men will be allowed to return to their homes in peace. We have secured a future for Westeros without further bloodshed."

However, Joffrey grew even more infuriated and cursed Aemon's name again. Aemon turned with fury in his eyes and gave a nod to Arthur and Jaime, who stood ready by his side. "Now," he commanded, "take Joffrey."

In one swift motion, Arthur and Jaime moved to pull Joffrey from his horse. The surrounding guards, weary of Joffrey's cruelty and sensing the winds of change, did nothing to intervene. Joffrey's protests were silenced as he was dragged away, his self-assumed reign brought to an unceremonious end.

Stannis, watching the events unfold, felt a mixture of relief and vindication. He felt no sympathy for Joffrey, and whilst they are family, he cares little for the fate of the brat. The Baratheon name can and will live through him and his brother; he will assure it. Soon, he rode back into the city, passing by citizens who looked on with hope and uncertainty. His path was clear now, his duty fulfilled.

Aemon smiled as the sun began to cast its glow over the city as he rode back to his camp, basking all in its glory. The clatter of swords and shields grew quieter as his army lowered their weapons and began their retreat into the camp. Victory was theirs, and the air was filled with a sense of cautious celebration.

Arriving at his command tent, Aemon dismounted and handed his reins to a nearby squire. Inside the tent, Margaery awaited him, her eyes bright with anticipation and relief.

"Aemon," she greeted him, her voice a soothing balm after the chaos of the morning. "You've done it."

He smiled, the weight of the morning's events etched into his features. "For now, the city is ours. But the real work begins."

Their moment of quiet was interrupted by the distant roar of dragons. Aemon stepped outside, and soon enough, the great beasts descended, their massive wings stirring the air and sending ripples through the camp. Viserys and Daenerys dismounted gracefully, their presence commanding attention.

"Aemon," Daenerys called as she approached, her silver hair gleaming in the twilight. "The city is secure?"

Aemon nodded. "Joffrey has been captured. The people will see justice done."

Viserys stepped forward, his gaze sharp and calculating. "And what of Stannis? Will he be a problem?"

"Stannis has retreated home," Aemon replied. "For now, he is no threat. We must focus on securing our position and bringing stability to the realm."

Margaery joined them, her expression thoughtful. "The smallfolk will need reassurance. They must see that we bring peace and prosperity, not just more bloodshed."

Daenerys's eyes narrowed as she took sight of the girl before her. "And who is this one, Aemon?" She asked, her voice laced with intrigue.

"Margaery, meet Daenerys Targaryen," he said, his voice carrying a tone of respect. "Daenerys, this is Margaery Tyrell, my betrothed."

Daenerys extended her hand, her gaze steady and assessing. "Lady Margaery, it's a pleasure."

Margaery took Daenerys' hand, her smile genuine. "The pleasure is mine, Daenerys. I've heard much about you and your dragons from your brother."

Daenerys softly smiled in reply, yet Aemon could not tell if it was a true one or not. However, his thoughts were soon interrupted by Viserys's questions. "What of the prince and his family?"

Aemon glanced between all of them until he beckoned them all inside the tent. As they all flooded in, Aemon took his place at the head of the table, whereas Margaerys stood by his side, her eyes looking him up and down.

Aemon took a deep breath, ready to reveal a secret that had long been whispered in the shadows. "The truth is, Joffrey and his siblings are not Robert Baratheon's children. They are the product of Cersei's relationship with a Kingsguard by the name of Arys Oakheart. They are bastards, and they have no legitimate claim to the throne."

The tent fell silent as the weight of Aemon's words settled over them. Viserys was the first to speak, his voice low and thoughtful. "Interesting, but how do we go about revealing such a thing?"

"I'm not sure, brother." Aemon sighed. "First, I believe we should have them arrested, and once that is done and the throne is consolidated, we can bring the truth to light."

Daenerys looked at Aemon incredulously before she spoke. "You mean to arrest two small children?"

"I mean to ensure they cannot escape and grow up to raise an army to challenge my rule on the false belief they are legitimate, sister." Aemon sharply replied. "In my eyes, they are innocent, and in time, we will decide on what to do with them."

Daenerys relented with an exasperated sigh that escaped her mouth. However, Aemon gave one final order for her. "Go to Aurane and tell him it's over and to stand his fleet down." He asked, his tone commanding.

With a nod, Daenerys turned to leave, but not before sharing a brief, reassuring glance with Aemon. "I'll return when as soon as I can." She said before leaving the tent. Soon enough, the sounds of beating wings and a roaring dragon were heard in the distance as Daenerys, once more, made her way to the Blackwater.

"Come, let us go and secure our throne." Aemon eventually said, his eyes darting between Margaery and Viserys.

Together, they stepped out of the command tent, the cool morning air providing a brief respite from the intense decisions Aemon had been rolling around in his mind. As he took a moment to collect his thoughts, Arthur and Jaime approached him, their expressions serious but confident.

"Joffrey is secured by your Dragonguard," Arthur reported, his voice steady. "He won't be causing any more trouble."

Aemon nodded, relief washing over him. "Well done. We need to ensure he remains under strict guard. The realm must see that justice will be served."

Just then, Jon Connington and Randyll Tarly arrived, their presence signaling the next phase of their plan. Jon, ever the loyal and strategic mind, greeted Aemon with a firm handshake. "Aemon, the time has come. The gates of King's Landing await."

Randyll Tarly, with formidable and disciplined features, added, "Our forces are ready. Let's show the realm what true leadership looks like."

With a sense of purpose, Jon, Randyll, Arthur, and Jaime mounted their horses. Viserys mounted his own, yet before Aemon could follow suit, Margaery looked at him with expectant eyes.

"Aemon," she said softly, "let me ride with you. Together, we'll show the people that we stand united."

Aemon nodded, appreciating her resolve. He helped Margaery mount the horse, guiding her to sit slightly offside but securely behind him. As she settled in, she wrapped her arms around his waist, finding a sense of support and comfort within.

The gates of King's Landing loomed ahead, mighty yet thick and rich with history. As Aemon and his party approached, he could hear the sounds of mass clinking armor and hooves as a portion of his army followed him in. The guards stood wary but wide-eyed with attention, fixated on the silvered glory of Aemon's Kingsguard and the mighty army he commanded.

The guards exchanged uneasy glances, their hands hovering near their weapons. One of the guards, a seasoned veteran, stepped forward, his voice cautious but respectful.

"Who goes there?" he called out, his gaze fixed on Aemon.

Aemon held his head high, his voice steady and authoritative. "I am Aemon Targaryen, and I come to bring justice and peace to this city. Stand aside and let us pass."

The guard hesitated, glancing at his companions before nodding slowly. "Very well, my lord. You may pass."

As the gates creaked open, Aemon and his companions rode through, the guards' eyes following them with a mix of awe and apprehension. The procession made its way into the heart of the city, the citizens of King's Landing emerging from their homes to witness the historic moment.

---

A/N: Thanks for reading. I struggled a lot with what to do with Stannis, as I feel as though he may have defended the city out of a sense of duty if it wasn't for the dragons, but I like to think he's a pragmatic man and would see he had no chance of winning. I also questioned myself a lot if he would have died defending a dickhead like Joffrey. He might've done it, but idk. In the end, I think I went with the most plausible option, but feel free to disagree. Again, thanks for reading and for all the reviews, favorites, and follows. Hope you all have a great day, and I adore you all x