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.

31. The Weight of the Crown

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

Aemon Targaryen

The golden sun cast its morning rays over the procession as they rode along the cobbled streets of King's Landing. People peered and gawked from every corner to catch sight of the man who had cast down Robert and the crown to restore the house of the dragon. Aemon could hear the quiet murmurs from the gathering crowds about his appearance and how he looked nothing like a Targaryen. It wasn't until Viserys appeared from the back of the procession that he could hear audible gasps and swoons come from the crowd when they looked upon his silver hair and carved features.

Aemon let out an amused sigh as he gently placed his hand on Margaery's. "It seems they like him."

"Jealous, Aemon?" She playfully chuckled, squeezing his hand.

"No, they can have him if they want, but they'll be disappointed to find he's already wed." He laughed as they rode along.

Behind them, the Kingsguard followed with disciplined precision. Arthur, his armor glinting in the sunlight, rode with a regal confidence, every inch the knight of legend. Jaime, golden hair catching the sun, kept pace, his expression unreadable yet focused. Randyll and Jon Connington brought up the rear, both men radiating authority and strength.

The procession moved steadily, the horses' hooves echoing off the stone walls as the morning sun painted the scene in vibrant hues. Faces turned, whispers spread, and the air buzzed with anticipation. It was a moment thick with meaning, as the dawn of a new era seemed to unfold under the watchful eyes of the gods and the people of King's Landing. They soon turned a corner, and there before them, the dominant image of the Red Keep bore down before them, and sat upon Aegon's High Hill.

Aemon smiled as he looked upon it. He could feel a stirring feeling of butterflies and anticipation as they approached the preliminary gate that guarded the path toward the keep itself. However, it soon disappeared. When he looked up at the gate, he saw men donned in Lannister armor staring back at him, crossbows and blades at the ready, their eyes fixed on the approaching entourage. Aemon could feel Margaery tense up behind him, the fear being caught in her breath.

Arthur and Jaime, ever-vigilant, immediately rode forward to shield Aemon. Arthur's sword glinted dangerously in the sunlight, his gaze unwavering. Jaime, with fluid grace, brandished his sword, the etched dragon emblazoned on his armor catching the light. Jaime instantly removed his helm to reveal his golden locks and intense emerald eyes that glanced at every armed man before them.

"Hold your fire!" He yelled, his voice echoing around the silent and mournful stones of the gates. "I am Jaime Lannister, and I order you to lower your weapons."

One man stepped forward, his face almost masked by the signature Lannister helm he wore. "Ser Jaime?" He began, his tone respectful. "We have orders from the queen to not allow anyone through and to kill any who try."

"Are you blind, man?" Jaime asked, doing his best to hide the tension in his voice. "The war is over. Whatever orders the queen gave you and your men do not matter anymore."

"Ser Jaime, I'm sorry but-"

The man's words were cut short by the sounds of the marching army that had followed Aemon through the gates. His eyes grew wide as he looked upon the masses of approaching Tyrell and Martell soldiers, each of them hardened and worn by weeks of fighting, drilling, and marching. They stopped in unison as they looked upon the handful of soldiers that guarded the gate, their eyes scanning each and every man, waiting for the order to begin killing in Aemon's name once more.

"I give you my word, the only men dying today will be yourselves," Jaime warned, his arrogant tone shining through.

The guard shook his head, recognizing the odds that were stacked against him. He soon turned his head to the top of the gate and yelled, his voice clear. "Let them through..."

Jaime gave a thankful nod as the guard turned to look at him, sheathing his sword. "The queen will not be pleased with this."

Jaime let out a soft laugh before his features became serious once more. "She will not be queen for much longer. Now, go home." He ordered as he placed his helmet back on and beckoned Aemon to follow him.

As the gates creaked open, the sunlight poured through, illuminating the path ahead. Aemon followed his Kingsguard through, their presence a shield of honor and strength around him. The procession moved steadily, the rhythm of horse hooves and armored footsteps a symphony of determination. Behind Aemon, his army followed with disciplined precision. The sight was imposing, a testament to their loyalty and the cause they championed. As they made their way up the path toward the Red Keep, Aemon's gaze swept over the scene before him.

Groups of Lannister soldiers lined the path, their faces a mix of fear, uncertainty, and resignation. One by one, they threw down their arms, the metallic clatter echoing through the courtyard. The sight of Aemon's approach and the formidable force behind him was enough to break their resolve. Aemon felt a surge of resolve as he continued forward, his presence a beacon of change. The sun's rays cast a golden hue over the scene, highlighting the contrast between the fallen arms and the steadfast march of his loyal followers. The Red Keep loomed closer, its walls a symbol of the power that was now within reach.

As they rode past the stables, Aemon could see stablemasters tending frightened horses, their eyes wide with fear from the dragons that had been flying over their heads the past few days. He gave a solemn nod to them all as they gazed upon him, and he received respectful nods in return as they watched him walk by. Soon enough, they arrived at another gate, but this time, it opened with no challenge, the guards at the bottom of the imposing stone towers throwing their arms down the same way their comrades had done previously.

As Aemon reached the imposing gates of the Red Keep itself, he felt a sense of gravity settle over him. The ancient stone walls loomed high above, casting long shadows in the morning sunlight. The massive gates, intricately carved with the sigils of old, stood as a testament to the power and history contained within.

Arthur and Jaime dismounted first, their presence a shield of honor and vigilance. Aemon followed, his movements deliberate and measured. Margaery, ever graceful, descended beside him, her eyes scanning the scene with quiet determination.

The path leading up to the gate was lined with Lannister soldiers, their expressions a mix of apprehension and respect. The sight of Aemon and his formidable entourage had already inspired many to lay down their arms and simply flee the scene, but those who remained stood ready, their loyalty to the Queen evident.

As Aemon approached the gate, the air seemed to be still. The sound of his footsteps echoed against the stone, as they synchronized with Margaery's beside him. The sun's rays cast a golden hue over the scene, illuminating the faces of those who watched in anticipation.

With a nod from Aemon, Jaime stepped forward once more, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "Open the gates," he commanded, his tone firm yet calm.

The silence was deafening as men with spears and swords stood unmoving. Aemon could feel that something was about to go wrong, and he turned to Margaery with apprehension in his eyes. "Go with Lord Randyll, he'll keep you safe." He ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Randyll, hearing Aemon's command, took Margaery's hand and led her into the mass of Tyrell and Martell soldiers that now stood outside the gate. Aemon watched her make her way to safety as he withdrew Dark Sister from its sheath, his eyes narrowed on every Lannister guard that would dare deny him at this final pass. Jaime and Arthur did the same, their blades glinting in the morning light like streaks of lighting, as they took their place at Aemon's side.

Jon Connington, ever-vigilant, recognized the need for strategic preparation. "Soldiers, make ready!" he barked, his voice carrying over the assembled soldiers. "Form up!"

The soldiers moved with practiced efficiency, their movements synchronized as they prepared for the impending battle. The clatter of armor and the steady thud of boots against stone filled the air, a prelude to the conflict that was about to erupt. Suddenly, Aemon stepped forward, his eyes on every man who stood as a foe before him.

"I am Aemon Targaryen, rightful heir to the Iron Throne," he declared, his voice carrying over the assembled soldiers. "I come not as a conqueror but as the rightful ruler of these lands. Lay down your arms and surrender, for there is no need for further bloodshed."

The guards hesitated, their loyalty to Cersei warring with the undeniable authority in Aemon's words. The sun's rays illuminated his figure, casting a golden glow that seemed almost otherworldly.

"You stand before a force that outnumbers you," Aemon continued, his gaze unwavering. "Your loyalty to the Queen is commendable, but this is a fight you cannot win. Spare yourselves and your families the grief of needless death. Surrender now, and you will be treated with honor."

The guards exchanged uncertain glances, the weight of their decision pressing heavily upon them. Slowly, another guard stepped forward, his eyes weary and the lines on his face heavy. "You speak with truth and conviction, Aemon. We will lay down our arms in the hope that you keep your word."

With that, the guards began to lower their weapons, the metallic clatter a stark contrast to the tension that had filled the air moments before. Aemon nodded in acknowledgment, a sense of relief mingling with his determination.

"Thank you," he said, his voice sincere. "You have made the right choice."

The last gates to the Red Keep stood open before him, the path now clear. With his Kingsguard and army behind him, Aemon took a deep breath and stepped forward and through the gates. Margaery soon rejoined his side, and with a sincere smile shared between them both, they gazed up at the magnificent pink and red stones of the Red Keep.

"Marvellous," Aemon chirped, his eyes taking in every detail. His eyes soon caught sight of the enormous door that led into the Red Keep itself, and with Arthur and Jaime leading, Aemon followed them in.

The hallways of the Red Keep were eerily silent, the faint flicker of torchlight casting long shadows across the cold stone walls. Aemon's boots echoed with a deliberate rhythm as he made his way toward the throne room. Each step carried purpose, the weight of his presence undeniable, even in the absence of an audience.

The grand doors of the throne room stood ajar, revealing a vast emptiness within. The Iron Throne loomed at the far end, its jagged steel twisting upward like the talons of a dragon. Yet it was not the throne that first caught Aemon's eye—it was the lone figure standing in the dim light, his robes a web of rich fabrics that whispered with every subtle movement.

Varys.

The Spider inclined his head, his expression as unreadable as always, though there was a faint glimmer in his eyes—a mixture of calculation and, perhaps, something akin to faith. He stepped forward, his hands clasped serenely before him, and his voice, soft yet resonant, broke the silence.

"Aemon."

"Lord Varys," Aemon replied, a soft smirk appearing on his face as he took a place beside him, his eyes lingering on the throne. "There it is."

"Yes, so many have fought and died for such an... ugly thing."

Aemon only hummed in response as his eyes darted around the throne room. The proud yellow and black banners of the stag were still draped everywhere, as well as depictions and tapestries of hunts and battles, both things Robert was keen on.

However, Aemon's mind soon turned to more pressing matters as his eyes were set upon Varys once more. "Where is Cersei?" He asked.

"In her chambers, Aemon," Varys responded. "In the royal apartments."

Aemon nodded and turned his head to Margaery, who stood expectantly by his side. "Stay here with Lord Randyll and my brother whilst I deal with this."

Margaery softly smiled and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek. "Be safe, yes?" She sweetly spoke, receiving an understanding smile from Aemon in response.

Aemon soon beckoned Jon and Varys to lead the way to the royal apartments. Arthur and Jaime instinctively followed. The corridor leading to the royal apartments was cloaked in uneasy silence, save for the soft rustle of Varys's robes as he moved ahead, his steps precise and soundless, like the conspirator he was.

As they walked, Aemon could see the conflict etched across the features of Jaime as they approached the chambers of the soon-to-be-deposed queen.

"Aemon," he mumbled from Aemon's side. "I need a moment."

Aemon stopped and gave him his full attention. "What is it, Jaime?" He asked, his eyes searching the knight before him.

"My king," Jaime began, his voice firm but tinged with emotion. "Cersei... she may have sinned, schemed, and poisoned this realm, but she is still a mother, still my sister. Whatever justice you seek, I implore you—be merciful."

Aemon's shoulders sagged as he replied. "I never intended to take her head... not at this moment."

Aemon watched the relief exude from Jaime before he turned his gaze and body back to Varys, his crimson cloak sweeping behind him like the tail of a dragon. "Is there anyone else we should expect other than Cersei?" He asked, his tone demanding.

"The Kingsguard, Arys Oakheart, and Grand Maester Pycelle are still loyal to the queen. Both for different reasons, of course." Varys explained.

They carried their conversation on as they began their walk to the chambers once more. "Pycelle? I cannot say I have given him any thought." Aemon sighed. "You have an idea of what to do with him?"

"Behead him."

"What? Just like that?"

"He is loyal only to the Lannisters and will turn on you, given the chance," Varys explained. "He may play the part of a feeble old man, but he is anything but."

"Very well." Aemon nodded in agreement.

As Aemon and his party advanced, the muffled sound of fists banging against a door grew louder, breaking through the otherwise oppressive silence. Each step seemed to echo with increasing intensity, the weight of what lay ahead sinking into their hearts.

When they rounded the final corner, the scene before them was one of desperation. Ser Arys Oakheart, resplendent in his white cloak though visibly distraught, stood with his fists bloodied from pounding on the door. His voice, raw and trembling, called out, "Your Grace, please! Open the door! Let me protect you!"

But there was no reply from within.

Hearing the approaching footsteps, Arys froze and slowly turned. His face was streaked with tears, his eyes red from anguish and sleepless nights. He stepped away from the door, placing himself squarely between Aemon and the threshold as if it were a sacred duty. With a shaking hand, he drew his sword, the metal catching the faint torchlight.

"No closer," Arys said, his voice cracking. "I cannot let you harm her."

Arthur and Jaime both slowly withdrew their swords from their scabbards once more, their eyes alert and wide. However, Aemon raised a hand to still them. The Dragon did not yet roar; instead, Aemon regarded Arys with a cool, piercing gaze.

However, Varys stepped forward before Aemon could speak, his steps light and graceful. "Ser Arys, the queen is not in any danger we-"

"Not another word, you fucking traitor!" Arys seethed, his voice rising. "I should have fucking known."

"She is not in danger, Ser Arys," Aemon said evenly, his voice calm but unyielding. "Lay down your sword. This does not have to end in bloodshed."

Arys's eyes narrowed. "You do not understand, boy. In there are my-"

"Children, yes I know." Aemon interrupted. "I mean them no harm, I give you my word. I know they are innocent in all of this."

But Arys shook his head violently, his anguish giving way to fury. "Your word? What worth is the word of a man who marches with swords drawn to this door? I will not gamble their lives on your promises!"

With a cry born of desperation, Arys lunged forward, his blade glinting like lightning as it arced toward Aemon. The movement was wild but fast, and before Aemon could fully react, the sword bit into his arm, cutting through his cloak and drawing blood. Aemon staggered back, his expression more shocked than pained as crimson seeped through the fabric.

Arthur Dayne moved instantly, a blur of silver as Dawn sang through the air. The legendary blade intercepted Arys's next strike with ease, their swords meeting in a clash that echoed down the corridor. Arys, tears streaming freely now, fought with the fury of a cornered animal, but Arthur's precision was unmatched.

In a matter of moments, it was over. Arys faltered, his strikes growing weaker under Arthur's calculated defense. With one swift, final movement, Dawn found its mark, cutting through Arys's defenses and piercing his chest. The Kingsguard stumbled back, his sword slipping from his fingers as he fell to his knees, blood blossoming across his pristine white cloak.

Arys's gaze, clouded and unfocused, turned to Aemon one last time. His lips moved, but no sound emerged. Then, slowly, he crumpled to the cold stone floor, motionless.

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the ragged breathing of those who had just borne witness. Arthur knelt beside Aemon, inspecting the wound on his arm with a grim expression. Aemon shook his head and gestured toward the door.

"I'm fine, Arthur, just break down that fucking door." He spat, rising to his feet. He gave a solemn glance toward the cold and still corpse of Arys. "Fucking fool."

Together, Jaime and Arthur began to attack the door with all their strength. Meanwhile, Jon tore a piece of his cloak and tightly wrapped it around Aemon's now bleeding arm. He winced slightly but assured a concerned Jon it was nothing to worry about.

With another thundering kick from Arthur, splinters were sent flying, and the door buckled, its resistance crumbling like the last bastion of a broken fortress. What remained of the door creaked open fully, the weight of its collapse still echoing in the quiet chamber. Aemon, Arthur, Jaime, Jon, Viserys, and Varys stepped cautiously inside, their boots crunching on scattered fragments of broken wood. The air was thick with an acrid, metallic scent—poison mixed with wine and despair.

Their eyes fell immediately upon the figure slumped in a chair by the hearth. Cersei Lannister, her once-vivid green eyes now dull and lifeless, her lips stained with the remnants of the poison that had claimed her. A golden goblet rested loosely in her hand, its contents spilled onto the floor in a dark crimson stain. Her head tilted to one side, her beauty cold and unnervingly serene in death.

But it was not just Cersei that struck the group silent. On the ground beside her lay two smaller forms—her children, Tommen and Myrcella. They were pale, their fragile frames trembling as their shallow breaths came in ragged gasps. Their young faces were contorted in pain, and their hands weakly reached for one another.

Aemon's stomach churned at the sight. He had seen death many times, but this... this was something else. A mixture of tragedy and cruelty, a family shattered by choices, vengeance, and fear. He froze for a heartbeat, and then a roar of urgency erupted from him, cutting through the heavy stillness of the room.

"Maester! Someone bring a maester, now!" Aemon's voice thundered down the corridor, commanding immediate action. His bloodied arm was forgotten as he surged forward, kneeling beside the children. His hands hovered over them, unsure of how to help without causing more harm. He quickly grabbed Tommen's cheek, his eyes searching the young oh boy's own. "Stay with me, Tommen, for the love of the Gods..."

Aemon turned with fury in his eyes as he saw none had moved to fetch a maester. "Find a fucking maester! Now!" He barked as he lifted Tommen's head on his knee in an attempt to keep his airway clear.

"Where is Pycelle, Varys?" Jon quickly asked, his nerves showing through.

"In his chambers, my lord," Varys replied, his eyes never leaving the writhing children before him.

Aemon tilted the young prince's head back.

As Aemon tilted the young prince's head back, with one hand, he gently pressed on Tommen's stomach, hoping to induce vomiting and expel whatever poison lingered inside."Myrcella," he called out, his voice breaking as he glanced at the girl. She too was in dire straits, her body convulsing in rhythm with her brother's.

As he worked, a sense of helplessness crept over him. He was no healer, and this was a fight he was woefully unprepared for. But the urgency of the moment left no room for hesitation. He had to act swiftly, with whatever means he had at his disposal.

The chamber was filled with the sounds of their suffering, a grim symphony that would haunt Aemon for the rest of his days. He knew he had to focus, to push aside the horror of the scene and fight for the lives of the children before him.

"For fuck sake, Arthur, help her." Aemon spat as a stunned Sword of the Morning attempted to replicate what Aemon was doing with Tommen. "Keep their throats clear, help them breathe."

As Aemon continued his desperate attempts to save Tommen and Myrcella, Jon soon returned, his face a mixture of despair and worry. Jon Connington sprinted in, his face a mask of determination. Behind him, shuffling with an air of self-importance, was Grand Maester Pycelle.

"Out of the way, out of the way!" Pycelle barked, waving his hands dismissively. Aemon reluctantly stepped back, his eyes filled with both hope and suspicion. Pycelle knelt beside Tommen, his aged fingers moving with surprising speed as he assessed the boy's condition.

"I have seen this type of poisoning before," Pycelle muttered, more to himself than anyone else. He reached into his voluminous robes, producing a small vial filled with a shimmering liquid. "This should counteract the poison."

With a steadiness that belied his years, Pycelle carefully administered the antidote to Tommen, then quickly moved to do the same for Myrcella. The room was thick with tension as everyone held their breath, waiting for the antidote to take effect. Moments passed that felt like hours, but finally, the color began to return to Tommen and Myrcella's faces. Their breathing steadied, and the painful contortions eased. A collective sigh of relief swept through the room.

However, Jaime's eyes never left the sight of his deceased sister, as if he was blissfully unaware of the horror that swept around him. Aemon stood up, allowing Tommen's head to rest on the floor as his breathing steadied. As he did so, his furious grey eyes took in the sight of Grand Maester Pycelle, and he saw nothing but a smug, self-satisfied man who knew more than he appeared to be letting on.

"You!" Aemon spat, his voice trembling with barely contained fury. "Did you give Cersei the poison?"

Pycelle caught off guard, recoiled slightly but quickly composed himself. His eyes narrowed, and he drew himself up, his age and infirmity no longer masking the cunning beneath.

"How dare you accuse me of such treachery?" Pycelle's voice was a mix of indignation and weariness. "I am a healer, not a murderer."

Aemon took a step closer, his fists clenched at his sides. "You conveniently arrived with the antidote. How do we know you weren't the one who administered the poison in the first place?"

"I would never harm the-"

"Varys!" Aemon interrupted, his eyes looking at the spider. "Every maester has a stock of poisons and remedies, do they not?"

"They do, Aemon," Varys answered.

Aemon turned his furious gaze back to the trembling man before him. "Jon, take this fool to wherever the cells are until I can get to the bottom of this farce."

Jon quickly nodded and took a struggling Pycelle from the room and down to where he knew the cells were. As they left, Aemon turned his attention to Jaime, who stood unmoving over his sister's body. Aemon walked beside him, his eyes taking in every detail of Cersei's now peaceful beauty. "I am so sorry, Jaime." Aemon softly said, placing a hand on the lion's shoulder.

Jaime's gaze flickered to Aemon, his eyes filled with a mixture of sorrow and anger. "She was my sister," he whispered, his voice breaking. "My twin. How could she do this?"

"I can't imagine the pain you're feeling right now. But you need to stay strong for Tommen and Myrcella. They'll need you now more than ever."

Jaime took a deep, shuddering breath, his shoulders trembling. Slowly, he nodded, the resolve returning to his eyes. "You're right," he said, his voice steadier. "For Tommen and Myrcella."

Aemon softly smiled as he turned to face Arthur and Viserys, both men looking shocked and distraught by what they had witnessed. "Take them down to the maester's chambers..." He began before his gaze soon turned to Jon. "Jon, find any healer in this city and bring them to where Tommen and Myrcella are staying. I don't want that sunken grey cunt anywhere near them."

Jon nodded and quickly left the room with Viserys and Arthur trailing behind, their arms bundled with the recovering figures of Cersei's children. A moment of silence dawned over both Aemon and Jaime as Aemon rubbed his eyes with wearyness. "Come, Jaime, it serves us no good remaining here." Aemon eventually said, breaking the silence.

Aemon and Jaime walked side by side as Varys followed, their footsteps echoing through the cold, stone corridors of the Red Keep. The weight of recent events hung heavily on their shoulders, casting long shadows as they approached the throne room. The flickering torches along the walls did little to chase away the darkness that clung to their hearts.

As they entered the grand hall, Margaery and Randyll were already waiting. Margaery's keen eyes immediately took in the strain etched on both men's faces. Her gaze softened with concern, her poise unwavering despite the tension in the air.

"Aemon, Jaime," Margaery said, her voice a soothing balm in the midst of turmoil. "I could hear yelling from the distant hallways. What has happened?"

Jaime's jaw tightened, but it was Aemon who spoke, his voice low and weary. "Cersei is dead. Poisoned. As were her children, but they fared better than their mother."

Margaery audibly gasped, and Randyll drew a grim look about his features. "Who could do such a thing?" Margaery asked, her tone worried and concerned until her eyes suddenly turned to Jaime. "Ser Jaime, your sister, I-"

"It's alright, my lady," Jaime quickly replied, donning his helmet to hide his saddened features.

Aemon rubbed his eyes once more as he glanced around the throne room, attempting to come to terms with all that had happened. "I do not have words..." He mumbled, his voice almost breaking.

Margaery, sensing his inner turmoil, stepped forward with a quiet grace. She gently wrapped her arms around Aemon's neck, pulling him into a comforting embrace. Her touch was soft, yet it conveyed a strength that offered solace amidst the storm.

"Aemon," she whispered, her breath warm against his ear. "You have been so strong for everyone. It's okay to let yourself feel the pain, to mourn what has been lost."

Aemon closed his eyes, allowing himself to lean into her embrace. The warmth of her arms and the gentle murmur of her voice provided a sanctuary from the darkness that threatened to overwhelm him. He took a deep breath, feeling the tension in his body begin to ease.

The heavy doors of the throne room creaked open, and all eyes turned toward the newcomers. Olenna Tyrell entered with an air of authority, her sharp gaze assessing the room. Beside her was Rhaella, her presence having been missed the last few moments.

Their presence was flanked by Barristan and Richard, both exuding Aemon's power without him being there. Each of the women assessed the scene before them in only a way a mother could, their sharp eyes taking in every detail.

Rhaella's eyes immediately found Aemon, and without hesitation, she moved to wrap her arms around her grandson. The embrace was tender, a silent promise of comfort and support amidst the chaos. "Aemon," she whispered, her voice filled with love and reassurance. "You left camp without us." She softly chuckled.

Aemon let out a heavy sigh, blowing part of her silver hair as she did so. "I'm sorry, grandmother..."

As Rhaella let go of Aemon, she held him by his shoulders and studied his features for a singular moment. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Something...awful has happened...Cersei is dead, poisoned, as were her children, but they may recover yet."

Rhaella gasped, her violet eyes widening. "Who would do something so terrible?"

Aemon only shook his head as his eyes glanced downward, unable to come to terms with the harrowing scenes that replayed in his mind.

Suddenly, following some way behind, Ser Bonifer marched in, his expression resolute. Aemon's black-armored Dragonguard followed their steps in perfect unison, carrying the three-headed dragon banner of House Targaryen high. It was then Rhaella noticed Aemon's bloodstained arm as she suddenly grabbed it, causing her grandson to wince slightly.

"What happened to you?" She interrogated, her tone serious.

"There was still a Kingsguard left...outside the queen's chambers. He caught me off guard." Aemon explained, "Arthur cut him down, however."

Rhaella shook her head before she turned to face a determined Ser Bonifer, who stood behind her, awaiting her command. "Ser Bonifer, have your men secure the keep. I want every room checked and anyone you find brought here to the throne room. I don't want any more surprises."

Bonifer nodded and quickly gave the order for his men to move out and do as their queen bid. His orders were soon followed by the metallic sounds of armor clinking and weapons being unsheathed. As they rushed past Aemon, he gave his grandmother an appreciative look, understanding she was only doing what he may have done himself.

"Where is your brother?" She asked, her violet eyes watching the Dragonguard move past them.

"He's in the maester's chambers with the children."

Rhaella nodded, her lips pressing into a determined line. As she turned and swept from the hall, the sound of her footsteps echoed like the drumbeat of an army as she made her way to where she knew the maester's chambers were, leaving the throne room with all the grace and decorum she could manage at that moment.

"Come let us get that cut seen too." Margaery smiled, her voice low and soft.

She then gently cupped his hand in her own, her eyes meeting his as she did so. Aemon looked down at their joined hands, his gaze lingering on the contrast of her delicate touch against his calloused hand. It was a simple gesture, yet it spoke volumes—a promise of understanding, of kindness, of unwavering support in a world too often harsh.

Blackwater Bay: 299 AC: The Same Day:

Daenerys Targaryen

The sea stretched out endlessly, a tapestry of deep blue and silver that rippled beneath the pale morning light. Daenerys stood at the ship's prow, her hands resting lightly on the polished wood of the rail. The cool wind played with her silver hair, carrying with it the distant creak of sails and the rhythmic crash of waves against the hull.

Her violet eyes followed the procession of Stannis' fleet in the distance, the ships cutting through the water with a grim determination. There was no joy in watching them sail away, no sense of victory in being allowed to leave. Only the lingering weight of uncertainty pressed upon her chest.

Lost in thought, she barely heard the soft footsteps approaching from behind. A warm arm draped gently around her shoulders, drawing her from her reverie. She turned slightly, finding Aurane Velaryon at her side, his golden hair catching the light like a halo. His expression was unreadable, but his touch was steady, grounding her amidst the turbulence of her thoughts.

"They're finally fading from view," he murmured, his voice low and smooth, meant only for her ears. "Perhaps now, you'll allow yourself a moment of peace."

Daenerys let out a quiet breath, her gaze shifting back to the horizon. "Peace feels fragile, Aurane," she replied. "I cannot help but feel as though we've let them get off too easily."

Aurane let out a small laugh, his pale green eyes meeting hers for a moment. "Perhaps, though I don't think they'll be wreckless enough to rise up for some time. Not with the dragons."

For the first time in hours, Daenerys allowed herself the faintest of smiles. The wind carried it away as swiftly as it had come, but for that brief moment, it softened the edges of her turmoil. It was then she glanced up to the sky, her eyes catching the sight of the four dragons her family commanded, a living symbol of the power they now wielded.

"Do you feel as though we've won?" She asked, her tone soft.

Aurane hesitated, his golden hair glinting as the morning light flickered over his features. He studied her for a moment before replying, his voice steady. "For now, yes," he said. "If anyone can claim victory from all of this, it is House Targaryen."

Her eyes searched his, looking for reassurance, for truth. She wanted to believe him, to share his confidence, but doubt lingered at the edges of her thoughts. "It doesn't feel like a victory," she admitted softly. "Not yet."

Aurane's hand moved hesitantly before coming to rest lightly on her shoulder, his touch warm against the cool morning air. "Then let's make it one," he said. "Together."

The words hung in the air, a bridge over the unspoken tension between them. Daenerys turned to face him fully, her breath catching as her resolve wavered. Slowly, cautiously, she leaned in, her lips brushing his with a tenderness that carried both hesitation and hope.

Aurane returned the kiss, his hand lifting to cradle her cheek, his touch steady and sure. In that fleeting moment, the burdens of the world seemed to dissolve, leaving only the quiet connection between two souls seeking solace in each other. The sea whispered around them, bearing witness to the fragile but hopeful bond forged under the morning sun.

As their lips parted, Daenerys drew back just slightly, her breath mingling with his as the cool night air wrapped around them. Her hand lingered on the rail, fingers curling tightly around the wood as if to ground herself. The warmth of Aurane's touch still lingered on her cheek, his steady presence both comforting and disarming.

Aurane's voice broke the silence, soft yet charged with emotion. "I've waited for this," he confessed, his pale green eyes searching her violet own. "For this moment."

Daenerys softly smiled in response, feeling that there is no words that were needed; rather, she would savor the moment that now passed between them.

Aurane pulled back from Daenerys, his hand still lingering on hers for a moment longer before he stepped away. His expression, though touched with a quiet warmth, shifted into one of command as he turned to the deck. The morning's peace was fleeting, and there was work to be done.

"Raise the sails!" Aurane called, his voice carrying an authority that cut through the morning air. "Signal the rest of the fleet—we dock at King's Landing. I want every ship ready to follow the tide."

The sailors snapped into action, ropes tightened, sails unfurled, and the steady rhythm of work brought the ship alive. Flags were raised, their bright colors catching the soft morning light as signals were sent to the accompanying fleet. Slowly, the other ships stirred from their idle formations, coming to life like a great beast awakening.

Daenerys watched him with quiet admiration as he moved across the deck, issuing orders with the ease of someone born to the sea. He caught her gaze briefly, a small nod of acknowledgment passing between them. It was then that Daenerys noticed what Aurane had; the Baratheon fleet had left the bay and was now on its way to Storm's End, thanks to Aemon's promises.

As she watched the ship begin to move toward the docks, her thoughts turned to her beloved brother. She imagined he was already making himself very comfortable on the Iron Throne.

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

Arthur Dayne

Arthur stood by the tall windows of the Red Keep, the sprawling city of King's Landing stretching out below him. From where he stood, the streets looked miraculously calm, evidence of the peaceful way Aemon had taken the city. Now, silence had settled like a heavy shroud, broken only by the low murmurs of voices in the chamber behind him.

The makeshift council sat around a wide oak table, their faces tense, their words cautious. Aemon occupied the seat at the head, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as he scanned each and every face. Their discussions had been tense and heated as they argued on about their plans for the future of the realm and what to do about Joffrey.

Behind Aemon, Barristan and Richard stood, their faces stoic and stern as they listened on. However, Jaime stood off to the side, his features dejected and uninterested in what was going on for the moment. Arthur felt terribly sorry for him, as losing your sister and father in the span of a week would break even the strongest of men.

Viserys leaned forward, his pale hair catching the light. "We need to move the boy, Joffrey, into the Red Keep. Letting him linger in that camp is a mistake. If we are to prove his illegitimacy and deny his claim to the throne, he must be in our custody, under our watch."

"And how do you propose we prove he has no claim to the throne?" Rhaella's voice was measured, her tone suggesting the wisdom of years. "Without Arys or Cersei to confirm his parentage, the truth will be difficult to establish."

"Difficult, but not impossible," Varys interjected, his voice smooth as silk. "The people crave a narrative, my lords and ladies, not cold facts. Whispers of the boy's parentage have long circulated. If we were to persuade a few credible voices—a septon, perhaps, or a former courtier—to speak out, the people might see what they already suspect."

Olenna Tyrell arched an eyebrow. "Ah, yes. A tapestry of lies to cover a single thread of truth. How very... Spider-like of you."

Margaery intervened gracefully. "Grandmother, perhaps this is less about lies and more about shaping the narrative. The smallfolk want to believe in something better. If we show them a king they can trust, they will rally to Aemon's side."

Randyll Tarly, ever skeptical, snorted. "You would stake the realm's future on rumors and lies?"

"Rumors can be powerful weapons, Lord Tarly," Varys replied smoothly. "And in this case, they are close enough to the truth. The people will see what they wish to see. That is the nature of power."

Jon Connington nodded. "The Tyrell girl is right. Stability is the key. But we must tread carefully. Even a whisper of treachery will weaken our position."

Aemon considered this in silence, his hand resting on the table. Arthur watched him closely, noting the subtle shift in his posture—the weight of the figurative crown settling heavier by the moment.

Before the debate could continue, the chamber doors swung open with a flourish, and Oberyn Martell strode in, his expression a mix of irritation and charm. "Apologies for my tardiness," he drawled. "I've been busy babysitting the little pretender back in the camp. A more unpleasant task, I cannot imagine." He flung himself into a vacant chair, his customary flair undiminished despite his annoyance.

Arthur, standing vigil behind Aemon with the other Kingsguard, exchanged a glance with Barristan Selmy. Oberyn's dramatic entrances were no surprise, but his timing was impeccable, as always.

Aemon rose, his presence commanding silence in the room. "We've wasted enough time. Joffrey will be moved under guard to the Red Keep. Jaime, Barristan, Richard, you'll see to it. As for the council positions, they will be settled by day's end."

The Young King's words hung in the air, a clear reminder of his authority. Before the council could disperse, Ser Bonifer entered, his expression serious. He bowed. "Your Grace, we've rounded up everyone remaining in the Keep and placed them in the throne room. Most are handmaidens and servants, but Janos Slynt is among them. He believes he still commands the City Watch."

Aemon leaned back in his chair, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Does he now?" His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it—a quiet authority that silenced the room. He rose to his feet, his Kingsguard moving with him. "Let us see what he has to say for himself. The throne room awaits."

The march to the throne room was solemn, the weight of the moment pressing on Aemon and his council. The Red Keep, though surrendered without a fight, still bore the echoes of its former rulers. Its corridors seemed heavier, and darker, as though they resisted their new masters. Arthur walked just behind Aemon, his white cloak brushing against the cold stone floor. Whereas, Barristan, Jaime, and Richard separated and made their way from the keep to follow through with their king's command.

Aemon Targaryen

The council followed closely—Viserys, impatient as ever; Rhaella, with her calm and deliberate steps; Margaery and Olenna, their expressions unreadable; Randyll Tarly, stone-faced; Jon Connington, purposeful; and Oberyn, whose casual gait belied the sharp mind behind his keen eyes. Only Varys seemed unbothered by the gravity of the march, his slippered steps gliding as though he owned the very stones beneath him.

As they entered the throne room, the sight before them was pitiful. A handful of servants and handmaidens huddled together, their faces pale with fear. Janos Slynt stood apart from them, struggling in the grip of two Dragonguards, his face red and chest puffed out in a desperate display of confidence, though the sweat on his brow betrayed his unease. The vastness of the chamber made them seem even smaller, as though the throne itself diminished their significance.

Aemon ascended the steps to the Iron Throne but did not sit. He stood before it, his cloak billowing slightly as he turned his gaze to those gathered below. His voice, steady and measured, cut through the oppressive silence. "I imagine you're all wondering why you're here."

A plethora of solemn nods came from the assembled mass before him as his eyes studied each sunken face. Some of the women were already in tears, perhaps already resigned to their fate yet some looked up at him with a glint in their eyes, perhaps hopeful for the change Aemon brought with him.

"This is outrageous!" Slynt barked, interrupting Aemon with a voice trembling. "I am the commander of the City Watch! You have no right to treat me like this."

Aemon's gaze settled on him, calm and cold. "The commander of the City Watch serves the throne. The throne now belongs to me. Your rights are what I grant you, Slynt."

The room tensed as the former commander faltered, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. Aemon's eyes swept over the servants, his voice carrying a quiet authority. "You all served the woman who called herself queen. Some of you served her lies. I need names, truths, and proof. Who among you knows of her schemes? Of her children?"

A frail voice broke the silence. "My lord..." An elderly servant stepped forward, her hands shaking. "I... I only did what I was told. I swear it. But I overheard things."

Aemon nodded, his expression giving nothing away. "Then speak. What did you overhear?"

The woman hesitated, glancing at the others. Finally, she whispered, "She... she spoke often with Ser Arys Oakheart. They were close, too close. I saw them disappear into her chambers many nights."

Murmurs rippled through the room. Slynt snarled, "Baseless gossip! You cannot take the word of a servant over—"

"Enough," Aemon interrupted, his voice slicing through the noise like a blade. He turned back to the woman. "What else?"

The servant swallowed hard. "Her son, Joffrey... well we always had suspicions, though... no one would speak them aloud... but the resemblance between them was... uncanny, my lord."

Aemon's grey eyes flickered with understanding. He turned his attention to the others. "And the rest of you? What do you know? Speak now, or you'll answer for your silence."

The room buzzed with unease as more servants began to step forward, each offering fragments of the puzzle. Janos Slynt squirmed in his captors' grasp, his bluster now replaced with visible fear. "You've no proof!" he spat. "You're making a mistake!"

Aemon took a slow step toward him, his presence dominating the space. "The only mistake would be allowing you to leave this room alive if you have anything to hide."

"You think you're a king?" Slynt spat, his voice ringing across the chamber. "You're no king. You're nothing but a bastard—Rhaegar's and Lyanna's spawn. A dragon-blooded whelp born out of wedlock!"

The room seemed to gasp as one, the servants shrinking back as though Slynt's words might invite fire and death. Aemon didn't flinch. His violet eyes locked onto Slynt's, unblinking, unyielding.

"You have no claim," Slynt continued, emboldened by his own defiance. "A Targaryen mongrel, a mistake! The people will never follow you. They'll spit on your name. You're no king, just a dragon spawn grasping at swords and ashes."

From the shadows near the edge of the dais, Viserys stirred. He had been watching in silence, his pale hair catching the dim light like molten silver. At Slynt's words, his expression shifted—lips curling into a faint, disdainful smile. With the grace of a predator, he stepped forward, his movements unhurried yet deliberate, closing the distance between himself and the struggling former commander.

The metallic scrape of Viserys's boots on the stone floor drew Slynt's attention, and his bravado faltered. "What—what is this?" Slynt stammered, his eyes darting between the two Targaryens.

Aemon smiled sadistically. "I will have your tongue for that."

Slynt hesitated, his bluster faltering under the intensity of Viserys's gaze. But the man's hubris would not let him stop. "You're both mad—mad like all your kind! Rhaegar's line deserves nothing but—"

The words were cut off in a blur of motion. Viserys moved swiftly, drawing the ornate longsword at his hip with practiced ease. His blade sang through the air, slicing through Slynt's neck before anyone had time to react. For a moment, it was as if time stood still. Slynt's head toppled from his shoulders, his expression frozen in shock. Blood sprayed in a crimson arc as his body crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

The silence was absolute, broken only by the faint clink of Viserys's sword as he flicked the blood from its edge. He sheathed it with a deliberate motion, his gaze sweeping over the gathered servants, daring any of them to speak.

"You'll forgive my interruption, brother," Viserys said, turning to Aemon with a faint smile as if he had merely swatted a fly. "But he was getting tiresome."

Aemon's expression remained unreadable. He stepped toward the fallen body, his black armor gleaming ominously in the light. "Justice," he said, his voice cold and resolute, "is swift in my court. Let Slynt's fate serve as a lesson to all: treachery and slander will not be tolerated."

The servants huddled together, fear etched into their faces. The Dragonguard moved swiftly, dragging Slynt's body from the room without ceremony. The blood pooling on the floor seemed to glisten like molten steel, a stark reminder of the price of insolence.

"Have those that know of Cersei's treachery brought to the small council chamber. The rest can go about their duty." Aemon eventually said to the surrounding Dragonguard, his eyes lingering on the crimson pool that stood where Janos once did.

The servants who had come forward with knowledge of Cersei's affair were rounded up quickly. Two members of the Dragonguard flanked each of them, their armored footsteps echoing through the halls of the Red Keep. Aemon led the procession, his expression unreadable, while Viserys walked a step behind him, his mood light and careless. The Iron Throne might as well have been a world away as the group made their way to the small council chamber.

Rhaella moved swiftly to fall in step beside her. Her face was a mix of anger and disappointment, emotions she rarely directed so openly at either of them. She barely waited to begin, her voice firm but kept low enough not to carry to the servants behind them.

"Have you both lost your senses?" she hissed. "Killing Janos Slynt like that, in front of the entire court? It was impulsive, reckless, and wholly unnecessary. What kind of message do you think that sends?"

Viserys, still wiping a faint spot of blood from the cuff of his sleeve, smirked. "It sends a simple message: speak treason and lose your head. I'd say it was rather effective, Mother."

Rhaella stopped abruptly, forcing both Aemon and Viserys to halt as well. The Dragonguard and their charges hesitated a respectful distance behind them, the tension palpable.

"You think this is a game, Viserys?" Rhaella's voice was sharp now, her violet eyes blazing. "Every act you take reflects on Aemon as king. The lords of the realm are watching his every move, waiting for a sign of weakness—or madness. Do you wish to give them reason to doubt him so soon?"

Viserys opened his mouth to retort, but Aemon cut him off. "Grandmother," he said quietly, his tone calm but firm. "I made my decision the moment Slynt spoke. His words were poison, and the court needed to see that such venom would not be tolerated."

Rhaella turned her gaze to him, her expression softening only slightly. "I taught you to be strong, Aemon, not ruthless. Power without restraint is a wildfire—it consumes everything in its path, even those who wield it." She glanced at Viserys pointedly before stepping back. "Remember that, both of you."

With that, she moved to the front of the group, her posture stiff as she led the way to the small council chamber. Aemon stood still for a moment, his gaze fixed ahead, his jaw tight.

"She worries too much," Viserys muttered, his smirk fading.

"And yet, she's right more often than not," Aemon replied, his voice low. Without another word, he resumed walking, his brother falling into step behind him.

The procession carried on moving through the shadowy halls of the Red Keep, the weight of what had just occurred in the throne room still hanging thick in the air, as Aemon walked with measured steps and a distant expression. It wasn't long before Margaery moved gracefully by his side, her hands clasped lightly in front of her.

Aemon glanced at her, his gaze softening as he broke the silence. "I'm sorry you had to see that," he said quietly, his voice heavy with guilt. "That's not how I wanted to start our reign."

Margaery turned her head toward him, her expression calm but tinged with concern. "You don't need to apologize," she replied, her voice warm but firm. "I understand why it had to be done. He was a threat—not just to you, but to all you're trying to build."

Aemon sighed, his shoulders dropping slightly as he walked. "Still, I hate that it had to happen in front of so many people. In front of you."

She reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against the cold steel of his gauntlet. "Aemon," she said softly, "I knew what I was accepting when I agreed to marry you. This life isn't easy, but I didn't choose it because I thought it would be. I chose it because I believe in you. I believe in us."

He looked down at her, the corners of his lips tugging upward in the faintest of smiles. "I don't deserve you," he murmured.

She smiled back, her eyes bright. "You'll just have to spend the rest of your life proving yourself wrong, then."

Behind them, Viserys let out a low, exaggerated groan. "Gods, if you two get any more saccharine, I think I might retch," he said, his voice laced with mockery.

Aemon shot him a sharp look over his shoulder. "Keep walking, Viserys," he said curtly.

"Oh, I am, dear brother," Viserys replied with a smirk, making a show of casually wiping his blade. "But don't let me interrupt your little love story. It's charming, really."

Ahead of them, Rhaella turned her head slightly, her disapproval evident as her eyes flicked between her sons. She said nothing for the moment but clearly stored her thoughts for later. The group pressed on toward the small council chamber, the tension and emotions of the moment weighing on all of them.

The group reached the council chamber, its heavy wooden doors creaking open. The councilors filed in first: Varys, his silken robes rustling softly; Jon Connington, his steps purposeful and steady; Randyll Tarly, his expression as hard as ever; and Olenna Tyrell, her sharp gaze assessing the room even as she took her seat.

The servants were led to a corner of the chamber, their faces pale but their postures slightly more relaxed as the weight of Aemon's earlier assurance sank in. Aemon stood at the head of the table, his hands resting on its polished surface as he addressed the room.

"You are here," he began, his voice steady and clear, "to witness the truth. The realm has been fractured by lies. Her son Joffrey was not the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. I have decided we will have a trial. This trial will prove his bastardy and cement the legitimacy of my claim. Your role is not to accuse or condemn but to speak what you know, without fear or embellishment. The truth will be your shield, as it will be mine."

The servants nodded hesitantly, glancing at one another. Varys folded his hands gracefully, his voice as smooth as silk. "A trail, Your Grace?"

"Your lies and schemes will only get us so far. This will cement a more robust outcome."

Varys nodded acceptingly before he spoke, "If I may, might I suggest calling Grand Maester Pycelle to the trial as well? While his past loyalties are questionable, his reputation as Grand Maester lends weight to his words. The realm would find his testimony difficult to dismiss."

Aemon considered this, his gaze thoughtful. "You think Pycelle will speak the truth?"

Varys allowed himself a faint smile. "Pycelle is a man who understands survival, Your Grace. With the right persuasion, he will see that aligning himself with your truth is in his best interest."

Randyll Tarly's voice, rough and authoritative, cut in. "If Pycelle is to be summoned, I'll see to it myself. He's served the Lannisters too long to come willingly, but he'll answer to the authority of the king."

Aemon nodded. "Very well. Bring him here, alive and unharmed. Take Ser Arthur with you."

Randyll Tarly

The steady, measured clink of steel-plated boots against the cold stone of the Red Keep's dungeons echoed down the narrow passageways. Randyll Tarly strode ahead, his fur-lined cloak swaying with each determined step, his hand resting on the pommel of Heartsbane. His face, lined from years of battle and burden, was as grim as the shadowy torches lighting the path. Beside him, Ser Arthur marched, his armored frame reflecting the dim, flickering light. His expression, though quieter, bore the same unyielding resolve.

Behind them, dragged in rough iron chains, Grand Maester Pycelle shuffled awkwardly, his robes trailing through the dirt and muck of the cells. The once-lofty figure now seemed small, a frail wretch with fear etched deep into every furrow of his wrinkled face. His constant muttering—half-pleas, half-indignant sputters—fell on deaf ears.

"I have served the realm faithfully... I-I only sought to aid the Queen's sorrow—" Pycelle began again, his words trembling like a nervous leaf in the wind.

"Enough," Randyll snapped, his voice sharp as the blade at his side. He slowed his pace just enough to throw a cold, steel gaze over his shoulder. "You will answer for your part in this, Maester. Save your breath for the trial; if the gods are just, you'll need every shred of it."

Pycelle cowered, his head sinking between his hunched shoulders. He did not speak again, cowed by the weight of Tarly's authority.

The party reached a heavy iron door guarded by two Dragonguards who straightened upon seeing them approach. Randyll barked an order, and the guards hastily unbolted the door, their eyes darting briefly to Pycelle as if wondering what terrible offense had dragged the Grand Maester to such a lowly state. The door groaned open, revealing the dimly lit corridor beyond that would lead them to Aemon.

"You believe he'll speak?" Ser Arthur asked, his voice low, cautious. He walked in step with Randyll now, casting a wary glance at Pycelle's hunched figure.

"He'll speak," Randyll replied curtly, his tone brooking no argument. "Whether out of fear for his life or in the hope of redemption, it matters not. Aemon will ensure his words carry weight. The realm needs truth, and truth we shall give them."

As they ascended further from the cells, the air grew warmer, dispersing the smell of mildew and despair. Randyll's thoughts simmered as they walked the stone steps—Cersei's folly in using such a transparent scheme to claim martyrdom, Joffrey's venomous tirades, and the layers of lies that wove their dynasty's fragile claim to power. If this trial succeeded—if the truth about Joffrey's illegitimacy could be laid bare before the realm—it would strike a blow that no golden lion's roar could drown out.

It wasn't long before they arrived at the heavy oak doors of the small council chamber. Inside, Randyll could hear the muttering of discussions and plans being laid bare, yet he could not hear Aemon's voice within it all. Pushing the doors open, Randyll's presence bearing the disgraced Grand Maester silenced the room quickly as every pair of eyes were set upon him. His own gaze was immediately drawn to Aemon, who sat poised at the head of the table, his black hair framing his serious features.

"My lords, my ladies, I bring you Grand Maester Pycelle," Randyll announced as he threw the old man to the ground, his chains chiming and scratching against the stone as he did so.

Aemon inclined his head and stood up, his crimson cloak swaying as he did so. Randyll watched as the young man stood before Pycelle, his grey eyes taking in every detail of his frail and crumpled frame before he spoke with a cold yet firm voice. "There are a few things I need from you, Pycelle."

Pycelle, ever eager to serve, spoke up with a tinge of hope etched into his voice. "I-I-I live to serve, my lord... please, tell me, how I can help you." He stammered, his eyes never leaving Aemon.

"Enough of your mewling," Olenna interrupted sharply, her tone dripping with disdain. "We've no patience for your attempts at self-preservation. Tell us what you know."

Pycelle glanced angrily at the old matriarch of the Tyrell family, his eyes showing the inner hatred he held for them all. "I—I provided the Queen with a tincture," he stammered. "She came to me in despair, speaking of her suffering. She begged me—"

"We know this already," Jon Connington said, his voice as hard as iron. "We're not here to discuss Cersei's despair. Speak to what matters: the boy who wished to sit on the Iron Throne. Is Joffrey Baratheon the trueborn son of Robert Baratheon?"

The room seemed to hold its breath as Pycelle hesitated. His eyes flit to Aemon, whose steady gaze bore into him, offering no escape. Finally, Pycelle exhaled a shuddering sigh, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

"He is not," Pycelle whispered. "Joffrey... Joffrey is the son of Arys Oakheart and Cersei Lannister."

Aemon softly smiled upon hearing the words. "You would agree to speak the words in a trial?" He asked.

"I cannot, House Lannister -"

"House Lannister does not hold sway anymore, old man." Aemon spat, taking a step closer to Pycelle and coming within inches of his face. "You provided the means for two children to nearly be killed by a sadistic mother. Were I not merciful, I could cleave the meat from your bones and feed what remains to my dragon. Yet you are not bleeding, for I am nothing if not merciful. Speak the words in a trail. Prove before the Realm that Joffrey is what you say he is, and I will consider waiving your previous...disgrace."

Pycelle faltered as whatever remained of his will broke and disintegrated under the weight of Aemon's grey stare. "I-I will..." He sighed, resigned and defeated.

"Good. I will ensure you have more... comfortable accommodation until I call for you." Aemon said, his gaze turning to the Dragonguard that stood by the door, watching him with every ounce of respect that they could muster. "Find him a comfortable cell, ensure he is well fed and looked after."

The Dragonguards nodded before they hooked Pycelle from under his arms and carried him from the small council chamber. Randyll watched as they left before the heavy doors closed behind them, courtesy of Ser Arthur.

Aemon Targaryen

Aemon threw himself into a nearby chair once the doors were closed and he began to rub his eyes, already feeling the headache forming behind them. Once he opened his eyes, he could see the strange mix of disappointment and curiosity staring back at him from the faces of his temporary council.

"What?" He asked, looking toward Rhaella.

"You're considering pardoning him for nearly killing two children?" She asked, her tone disdainful for the man she spoke of.

"No," Aemon sighed, much to the relief of nearly everyone in the room. "I need him on my side. If I throw him in a black cell like I want to, he'll just grow to resent me. After the trial, his time will come."

"And when will this trail be taking place, Your Grace?" Varys asked, leaning forward in his chair.

"In the next few moons. That should give us enough time to consolidate our power and begin to make a start on the ruling."

The council around Aemon all nodded in agreement as he collected his thoughts. "Firstly, we need to send ravens to every corner of the Realm telling them that the Usurper has been felled, and house Targaryen has reclaimed its ancient seat." He began, his voice dripping with confidence. "My coronation will have to be before the trail, as will our wedding." He said, his eyes glancing at Margaery.

Viserys, shifting uncomfortably in his chair, frowned. "Why wait? Crown yourself now, brother. Make them all see that you're king—by right and by conquest. Everything else can come after."

Olenna turned her sharp gaze on him, lips curling into a faint smirk. "Yes, because rushing into things has worked so well for others in your family's history."

Viserys bristled but didn't respond, his hand twitching against the table.

"I need the realm to be here to see it." Aemon sighed, rising from his chair. "When you send the ravens, tell them the trueborn son of Lyanna and Rhaegar has come." He smiled, walking from the room.

"And where are you going, Aemon?" Rhaella called after him.

"To check on Tommen and Myrcella." He called back.

Aemon strode from the chamber with purpose, his garments still bearing the faint splotches of blood from his arm. The flickering torchlight in the corridors reflected off his black hair as he moved, his mind weighed down by the responsibilities of kingship.

Behind him, light footsteps echoed in the narrow hall. "Aemon," Margaery called softly, her voice breaking the stillness. He turned, slowing his stride as she caught up to him. Her gown swayed elegantly with each step, though her expression held none of her usual practiced charm. Instead, there was genuine concern in her eyes.

"You're going to see the children?" she asked, though it was less a question and more a knowing statement.

Aemon nodded. "Myrcella and Tommen deserve to be looked after, especially now." He said as they walked together to the chambers.

Margaery fell into step beside him, her hands folded neatly in front of her. "They're lucky to have someone who cares for them the way you do," she said, her tone warm but serious. "Not all rulers would bother with the welfare of children who could be seen as threats to their power."

"They are no threat to me," Aemon replied firmly. "They are innocents—caught in the storm of others' ambitions. I won't let them suffer for crimes they didn't commit."

Margaery tilted her head, studying him as they walked. "And yet, your kindness will be seen as a weakness by some. Others might view your care for them as a dangerous attachment."

Aemon glanced at her, his eyes unwavering. "Let them think what they will. Strength isn't found in cruelty—it's in doing what's right, even when it's difficult."

They reached the chamber where Myrcella and Tommen were recovering. The door was guarded by two soldiers, who stepped aside with a bow. Aemon pushed the heavy wooden door open and stepped inside, Margaery following close behind.

The room was warm, a fire crackling softly in the hearth. Myrcella lay on the bed, her face pale but peaceful, while Tommen sat beside her in a chair, his small hands clutching a blanket. They both looked up as Aemon entered, their eyes wide and uncertain.

"Hello?" Tommen asked, his voice frail and soft. "I don't know who you are, Ser."

Margaery stepped forward, her presence as soothing as the fire's glow. She knelt beside Tommen, brushing a hand gently against his arm. "This is Aemon," she said softly. "The new king. He's the one who saved you and your sister."

Tommen's brows knitted together, his young mind trying to piece it all together. "The king?" he echoed, glancing nervously at Aemon. "You're a Targaryen?"

Aemon approached slowly, his expression steady but kind. He knelt down to Tommen's eye level, his grey gaze meeting the boy's. "I am," Aemon said, his voice calm and even. "And you must be Tommen. I've heard much about you."

Tommen blinked, his small fingers relaxing slightly around the blanket. "You… you saved us?"

Aemon nodded, his voice steady but warm. "I did. And I'll make sure no one hurts you or your sister again."

Tommen stared at him for a moment, his young face a mix of curiosity and uncertainty. "You're not like the stories," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "They said Targaryens were… scary."

Margaery chuckled softly, placing a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder. "Not all stories are true, Tommen," she said gently. "Aemon is here to protect you, not to hurt you."

Tommen cast another nervous glance at Aemon. "But if you want to be king, that means you'll have to kill us, do you not?"

Aemon shook his head in disbelief. "What? No, of course not, Tommen. By the Gods, who told you that?"

"My mother," Tommen explained, "I heard her tell Joffrey that to become king, the one before him must die. They tell me in my lessons that my father became king because he killed the current king and his heirs. I thought you may do the same to us."

Aemon sadly smiled, his eyes attempting to hide the pity he had for the boy before him. "No... I won't have to do that."

"Thank you," Tommen softly whispered, yet the nervousness hadn't entirely left his eyes. "What of my brother?"

"What do you think I should do, Tommen?" Aemon asked, at last, his tone neither cold nor warm but heavy with meaning.

"Well..." Tommen began, "He…he scares me," he admitted, his voice cracking. "He always has. And he'll never stop hurting people. I can't…I can't have him here, not while I'm trying to get better."

Aemon slowly nodded as he listened to the young boy's words. He could almost feel the wheels in his head turning as more ideas came to his mind. "I could keep him away forever if you'd like." He eventually said.

"You...you could?"

"Yes, if that's what you want."

Tommen eagerly nodded and the faintest hint of a smile appeared on his face.

Aemon inclined his head slightly, a gesture of quiet respect. "Rest now, Tommen. Your strength will return, and with it, the clarity to shape the world you wish to see."

Margaery pressed a gentle kiss to Tommen's forehead before rising, her movements graceful yet purposeful. Aemon followed, his footfalls barely audible as they crossed the chamber. The door closed softly behind them, leaving Tommen alone with his thoughts and the quiet crackle of the hearth.

As they left, Margaery turned to her betrothed, her doe eyes glinting in the candlelight. "What are you thinking, Aemon?"

"We could send Joffrey away rather than kill him." Aemon smiled, his eyes alight. "It'll make me look better than Robert ever did if I can keep Cersei's children alive."

"But, he'll always challenge be a living challenge to your rule."

"Not after the trail..."

"Even with a trail, there will be those who will still prop him up."

"Then they will burn faster than they can rebel." Aemon sighed. "I understand your concerns, but it'll be better this way."

"And what of Myrcella and Tommen?"

"I can take the boy as a squire and give him a better upbringing than Cersei ever could. You could take Myrcella as a handmaiden."

"Take her as a handmaiden?"

"The girl is a bastard, Margaery. This'll be the best chance she has of having a decent life."

"Very well, Aemon. I'll do it."

Aemon smiled and placed a soft kiss on her cheek. "Come, let us go back to the small council chamber."

Aemon and Margaery walked side by side down the dimly lit corridor, the stone walls cool even as the torches flickered warmly. They hadn't spoken much since making their way to the small council chamber, each lost in their own thoughts.

The sound of a commotion ahead drew their attention, and they quickened their pace. As they rounded the corner, the scene unfolded before them.

Joffrey was thrashing like a wild animal, his arms jerking against Jaime and Richard's firm grip. His face was flushed with fury, and his shouts echoed off the walls. Barristan followed behind, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, his expression calm but watchful.

"Let me go!" Joffrey screamed, his voice cracking. "You'll all pay for this! I'm the king!"

Jaime rolled his eyes as he tightened his grip on Joffrey's arm. "You're making this harder than it has to be, Joffrey. Stop fighting."

Joffrey turned his wild gaze toward Aemon and Margaery as they approached. "I'll have you flayed for this! Do you hear me? Flayed!"

Joffrey's focus soon snapped to Margaery, and his sneer deepened. "And you," he spat, his tone laced with malice. "Do you think I don't know what you're up to, you whore? You and your precious little grandmother, always whispering, always plotting. You'll pay for this—both of you! When I get out of this, I'll make sure you regret the day you ever crossed me!"

Jaime let out a groan of frustration. "Gods, does he ever stop talking?" he muttered to Richard, who gave him a wry smirk.

Barristan finally stepped forward, his voice cutting through the chaos with quiet authority. "That's enough, keep moving."

Joffrey struggled again, screaming curses that devolved into unintelligible rage as he was dragged past Aemon and Margaery. The two stood silently, watching as the boy's shrieks echoed down the stone corridor, growing fainter with each step.

Margaery turned to Aemon, her expression softening. "Do you think there's any hope for him?" she asked quietly.

"No, not really. Maybe sending him away will do him some good." Aemon sighed before he took Margaery's hand and led her toward the small council chamber.

Aemon and Margaery walked side by side through the halls of the Red Keep, the muffled sounds of the castle's daily continued bustle filtering through the stone walls. As they reached the doors of the small council chamber, Aemon pushed them open with a steady hand, allowing Margaery to step through first. The council members already seated turned their heads toward the new arrivals, their conversations quieting as the two entered and moved to take their places at the table.

"Tommen and Myrcella?" Rhaella asked.

"Are recovering well," Aemon replied, his eyes darting to a frantically writing Varys and Jon Connington. He could see that stacks of parchment lay before them as they finished with one piece and began anew on another. "You're preparing the parchments?"

"To every corner of the Realm, Aemon. From The Wall to the Arbor." Jon smiled, his eyes glinting in the soft candlelight. "By the end of the next week, the Realm will know the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna has come and claimed his birthright."

Aemon allowed a small smirk to appear at the corner of his lips as he listened to Jon's soppy words as if he were a bard. However, Aemon's mind soon turned to a more pressing matter. "We will need a new Commander of the City Watch before the Realm arrives." He sighed as he took a labored seat.

"I'm sure Viserys could do it," Rhaella suggested, her voice genuine.

Viserys scoffed, his eyes rolling. "Mother, surely you don't intend to exile me to the streets, ordering about those gold-plated ruffians? I was born for greater things than policing drunkards and thieves. Besides, I wish to be bound for Dorne once all this is done."

Aemon hummed in amusement as his grey eyes met Viserys's own. "If you wish to be back with your dear wife so soon, I'm sure I can find another who could take the position of Commander of the City Watch."

Viserys rolled his eyes once more before allowing a small groan to escape his lips. However, it was Aemon who spoke before Viserys could himself. "Lord Varys, I trust you to find a suitable replacement for the late Janos Slynt."

Varys glanced up from his parchment and gave a quick nod to his king before he returned to writing. Aemon then stepped closer to the desk as his gaze flicked to the stack of parchment bearing the seals of great houses, their words carefully crafted to speak to their pride, their ambition, or their fear. Then, almost as an afterthought, he said, "Do not forget to write to Illyrio."

Varys nodded, yet his eyes betrayed his inner curiosity. "So soon, my king?"

Aemon's lips curved into a faint smile, though his eyes remained cool. "He was instrumental in shaping what I have become. He kept me alive when the world had forgotten I even existed. It is only fitting that he sees the fruits of the seeds he sowed."

Varys inclined his head once more, returning to the parchment. "Very well, Your Grace. I shall send him a letter personally, inviting him to witness the dawn of your reign."

It wasn't until a few moments later that Varys spoke once more, his tone much more soft. "This is for Lord Robb Stark, my king." The Spider eventually said as he looked up from the fresh piece of parchment he was scribbling on. "Would you like me to put anything in particular in this message considering your... ties to the North?"

Aemon paused, his gaze fixed on the parchment before him. His jaw tightened slightly, a flicker of old wounds surfacing in his expression. "You think sentiment will sway them?" he asked, though his tone lacked the usual steel.

Varys' lips curved into a faint smile. "I think, my lord, that House Stark values honor above all, but they do not ignore the call of the heart. A reminder that their blood flows in your veins, that Lyanna Stark was not merely a name but your mother... it could be the seed of trust we need."

Aemon exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair. "Lyanna Stark," he murmured, the name tasting both bitter and sweet. He looked up, meeting Varys' steady gaze. "You're right. If anyone understands the weight of family, it is the Starks. They deserve more than just formalities—they deserve honesty."

Varys inclined his head slightly. "Then let us pen words that carry both strength and sincerity. Words, my lord, that only you can give."

Aemon nodded, reaching for the quill. For the first time in years, he allowed himself to write not as a ruler but as a son.

Winterfell: 299 AC: 1 Week Later:

Benjen Stark

The fire danced in the hearth, casting long shadows across the stone walls of Winterfell's hall. Benjen Stark sat near its warmth, his expression thoughtful as the crackle of flames filled the quiet chamber. The northern winds howled faintly outside, but it was the sound of footsteps that caught his attention. He turned as Robb entered, carrying a scroll sealed with a crimson dragon pressed into black wax.

"A raven from King's Landing," Robb announced, extending the letter. His tone carried the weight of curiosity—and caution.

"I take it Robert has finished with his excursion into Dorne." Benjen sighed as he took the scroll from his nephew.

Benjen's brows furrowed as he took the scroll, his thumb brushing over the Targaryen seal. The emblem alone stirred a maelstrom of thoughts. He had heard whispers over the years, tales of a prince who had risen from shadow and flame. They spoke of dragons reborn and a banner that had not flown since Robert's Rebellion. And they spoke of a name that lingered like a ghost: Aemon Targaryen. A prince claiming descent from Rhaegar Targaryen and... Lyanna Stark.

Breaking the seal, Benjen unfurled the parchment. His eyes scanned the elegant script, taking in the news with an expression that grew heavier with each word. "Robert Baratheon is dead," he said finally, his voice quiet but firm. "The Iron Throne has passed to one calling himself Aemon Targaryen—a man who claims to be the son of Rhaegar and my sister, Lyanna."

Benjen stared at the letter resting on the table before him. Robert Baratheon was dead. It was the kind of news that should have stirred something in him—shock, anger, perhaps even relief. Instead, he felt... nothing. The absence of emotion troubled him more than the news itself.

His fingers traced absent patterns on the armrest of his chair as his thoughts drifted back to the days of the rebellion. Robert's name had once loomed large—a warrior, a king, the man who had upended a dynasty. But to Benjen, Robert had always been a contradiction. A man who could shout love and vengeance with the same breath he used to woo a tavern maid.

The truth gnawed at the edges of his mind. Perhaps he didn't mourn Robert because, deep down, he had never forgiven him. Robert had claimed to love Lyanna, and spoken of her as though she were a goddess carved from ice and fire. Yet even as he proclaimed his intent to wed her, his hands had wandered, his bed warmed by countless others. How could such a man have been worthy of his sister?

Robb's eyes widened, his mouth opening as though to speak, but no words came. He stepped closer, peering over Benjen's shoulder as the older Stark continued reading. The letter was both a declaration and an invitation. It spoke of Robert's passing and Aemon's ascension, of bonds of blood and the hope for peace. It invited both Robb and Benjen to King's Landing for the coronation—and a private audience with the new king.

"Is it true?" Robb asked, his voice tinged with disbelief. "Could he truly be… of Stark blood?"

Benjen didn't answer at first. He set the parchment aside and leaned back in his chair, staring into the fire. The flames seemed to blur as memories surfaced—memories of Lyanna, her laughter echoing through Winterfell's halls, her defiance, her light. He had heard the rumors, of course, of dragons soaring through the skies once more, of a Targaryen prince with fire in his veins. But to see it written, to feel the weight of it...

"I've heard the tales," Benjen murmured finally, his voice distant. "They say he commands dragons. That his armies grow with each passing day. But more than that… they say he speaks of his mother, with a fondness that no pretender could feign. If this man is who he claims to be, then he carries her name—and her legacy."

Robb hesitated, then asked, "Will you go?"

Benjen turned his gaze from the fire to his nephew, his expression unreadable. "If he is truly her son, then he is blood. And if he would wear the crown, then the North must know the measure of the man who claims to be her heir."

Robb shifted his weight, his jaw tight as he considered his uncle's words. "The North remembers," he said finally, the Stark words carrying more weight now than ever. "But the question is—does he? Aemon Targaryen may claim Stark blood, but he was raised far from these lands. Does he understand what it means to be of the North? What it means to carry her name?"

Benjen looked at his nephew, noting the sharpness in his tone. "You're cautious, as you should be. Lyanna… was a Stark through and through, but her choices bound her to the Targaryens. Whatever came of that union is as much hers as it is theirs. If this Aemon is her son, then he is of the North, whether he remembers or not."

Robb folded his arms, pacing slightly. "And if it's a ploy? The Targaryens have played politics before—they are not known for mercy. Dragons or not, how do we know he will treat us as kin and not as pawns?"

Benjen's gaze flickered back to the letter. He leaned forward, fingers brushing the parchment. "His words… they don't feel hollow. The letter speaks of more than blood; it speaks of understanding. He has lived a life of shadows, of dragons and conquest, yes—but he wrote of her, Robb. Not as a symbol or a legend. He wrote of her as… his mother."

Robb stopped pacing, looking at his uncle. There was something raw in Benjen's expression, a vulnerability the younger Stark wasn't accustomed to seeing. "You believe him, then?" Robb asked.

Benjen nodded slowly, though his face remained solemn. "I believe there is truth in these words. But truth and intent are not the same. That is why we must go—to see for ourselves the measure of this man, and whether he carries Lyanna's heart as well as her name."

Robb sighed, running a hand through his auburn hair. "And if he does not?"

Benjen's eyes met his nephew's, steady and unyielding. "Then we will do what Starks have always done. We will stand for our family, for the North, and for honor. Even if it means standing against him."

Casterly Rock: 299 AC: 1 Week Later:

Tyrion Lannister

Tyrion Lannister sat alone in the solar of Casterly Rock, a goblet of wine balanced precariously in his hand. The raven's scroll lay open on the table before him, its contents stark and unyielding. His mismatched eyes flickered over the words once more, not because he hadn't understood them the first time, but because he needed the sharp edges to cut through the haze of disbelief.

Cersei is dead. His sister, his tormentor, his twin in venom if not in soul. He let out a dry laugh, the sound brittle in the empty room. "So the mighty lioness has fallen," he murmured to himself, raising the goblet in a mock toast. "Let the realm tremble—or rejoice."

He set the wine down, his expression hardening. Her death left a void in the political web she had spun so meticulously. But beyond that? There was no love lost between them. Her cruelty had been as constant as the tides, and yet… she had been his sister. And that thought lingered, bitter as an unripe fruit.

As for Tywin… Tyrion's lip curled. His father's death had been a wound once, though not one of grief. Tyrion had no tears left for the man who had sought to break him from the moment of his birth. If anything, the silence that followed Tywin's passing had been a relief—a world where Tyrion no longer had to strain under the shadow of impossible expectations.

The letter sat discarded on the table, its contents swimming in Tyrion's mind like wine poured into water. He took another sip, savoring the sharp bite as his thoughts settled on the news of Robert Baratheon's death. It wasn't news to him—not truly. The remnants of his father's army had come limping back to Casterly Rock weeks before, their armor battered, their banners torn, their faces hollow with defeat. The story of Robert's fall had traveled with them, whispered like a ghost that had risen from the ashes of battle.

Robert's end was a whisper in Tyrion's thoughts now, dismissed as easily as the man himself had dismissed the realm he once ruled. Tyrion's hand curled tightly around his goblet, not with grief but with indifference. The drunken king who had squandered his crown and his legacy, who had fought to keep dragons from rising only to leave the Iron Throne in the hands of one who claimed to command them. Robert Baratheon had been a fool, and Tyrion had no time for fools.

It was his father's death that might have demanded a moment's reflection, but Tyrion found himself reluctant even to entertain the thought. Tywin Lannister had been many things—brilliant, ruthless, a master manipulator—but he had never been a father to him, not truly. Tyrion had buried what little love he might have once felt for the man long before the bolt that took Tywin's life had ever been loosed.

Instead, his thoughts wandered to Jaime. His brother. His confidant. His only source of warmth in a house that had been colder than the walls of Winterfell. Jaime had been missing from Tyrion's life for too long, separated by war and betrayal, by loyalty to a friend Tyrion had never been able to follow. And now, the letter. An invitation to King's Landing, to the coronation of Aemon Targaryen—the dragon prince who claimed the throne—and a chance to reunite with Jaime. Perhaps it was for that reason alone that Tyrion found himself contemplating the journey.

Tyrion reached for the goblet again, cradling it in his hands as though it could steady his thoughts. He could still see his brother's face as clearly as if he were standing in the room—a face weathered by battle and guilt, but always familiar. Jaime, the golden child, the only Lannister who had shown him kindness in a house of wolves. How long had it been since they last stood side by side? Since they last shared a drink, or a joke, or one of those rare moments when the world felt a little less heavy?

The wine swirled in his goblet, a reflection of his thoughts. "Well," he muttered, a sardonic grin tugging at his lips. "A Targaryen on the throne, dragons in the skies, and the Lannisters summoned to bend the knee—or burn. What a splendid time to be alive."

---

A/N: Hope you enjoyed reading. I hate writing politics and such, as I find it frustratingly tedious, but it may be a lot of that for a few chapters until I can get to where I need to be. It does give me a chance to explore these relationships a lot more though, so I am looking forward to that and I hope I got some of the reactions of the characters correct upon hearing Robert was dead. Plus, Cersei did nearly kill Tommen when Stannis attacked King's Landing, so I wouldn't put it past her to kill her own children out of fear of something terrible happening to them as had befallen Rhaenys and Aegon. Was a heart-wrenching thing to write, ngl. Anyway, many thanks again and I adore you all x