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.

32. The Dragon's Coronation

King's Landing: 299 AC: 1 Moon Later:

Aemon Targaryen

The full moon cast its majestic glow over the Red Keep, bathing the pink stones in hues of white and silver. Aemon stood alone on the balcony in his chambers, looking up toward the moon, his grey eyes taking in every detail in every crater. Beneath him, he could see the silver glow shimmer on the waves of the bay as ships made their last callings for the night.

He could feel the soft ocean breeze as his creased white shirt lay unbuttoned, exposing some of his pale skin to the elements. The soft breeze also filtered through his curly black hair, allowing some of it to sway with the wind. Yet, despite the outward calm of the evening, his thoughts gave him insurmountable turmoil. These last few nights, his dreams had been haunted by the harrowing visions of the men he had killed and burned. Even now, he could see their ash-drawn and bloodied faces, he could hear their screams of agony and cries to the heavens as the flames took them.

As Aemon watched the ships put their lights out, he pushed the harrowing thoughts to the back of his mind and began to focus on more recent events, in an attempt to silence the lingering nightmares. The small council had now been decided, thanks to Illyrio's arrival with Willem and Melisandre in tow. Aemon made the fat Magister his Master of Coin, keeping his word. It was a small price to pay considering the amount of support he had given Aemon whilst he had grown up, when he could have so quickly given him up to Robert.

His appointment did cause some grumblings from his other newly appointed councilors, none more so than Randyll Tarly, his new Master of Laws. He spoke of him being a foreigner, unfit to have a seat on the small council, however, Aemon quickly quietened his bleatings, citing his great upbringing courtesy of Illyrio as the reason for his appointment. Furthermore, Illyrio's dear friend, Varys, retained his position as Master of Whispers as Aemon could find no reason to replace him, considering the help he had given him during his rise to power.

In addition to Varys, Aurane had been appointed Master of Ships, owing to his experience commanding ships, and upon taking the position, he allowed Monford to return home and resume his role of governing Driftmark. Finally, his family had taken up advisory roles alongside Olenna Tyrell and Oberyn Martell. They had no official position, but Aemon felt as though their advice had been invaluable thus far. The only positions that remained vacant were Hand of the King and Grand Maester.

Aemon had been racking his brain for the best part of the last moon before deciding on who could serve him as his Hand. He initially wished it to be Arthur, but the Sword of the Morning quickly discarded such an offer. Aemon knew he would never forsake his vows, nor did Aemon truly believe he had any taste for the mundanity of ruling. The only person Aemon could rightfully consider was Jon Connington.

As Aemon leaned against the balcony, his grey eyes watched the gentle silhouettes of the ships below move on the dark water. Yet, despite the beauty of the serene scene, the thoughts and dreams that plagued him soon returned. The banners of the stag, lion, falcon, and fish all burned with an eerie glow and as he closed his eyes he could see the burned and charred bodies that propped them up from beneath their charred wooden poles.

"Aemon," came a soft voice behind him, breaking his trance.

He turned sharply, startled to see Margaery standing there, her loose gown flowing with the gentle night breeze. She had a radiance, even in the dark, that seemed to soothe the world around her. She stepped closer, concern etched across her face.

"I could hear you screaming in your sleep," she admitted, her voice gentle but tinged with sadness. "From my chambers."

Aemon looked past her for a moment, toward the doorway where Arthur stood sentry. The knight averted his gaze but gave a slight nod of acknowledgment. It was clear he had allowed her entry against the usual decorum. Aemon sighed, knowing Arthur's loyalty extended beyond mere duty—it came from care for him as a man.

Margaery moved closer, her warm fingers brushing against his hand where it clutched the stone railing. "The same dreams as before?" she asked, her voice like the soft rustle of leaves in the wind.

Aemon slowly nodded before taking a deep breath, his eyes looking into hers, searching for any moment of peace. "It's nothing, Margaery, I promise." He eventually said, his voice weary.

"But you're not yourself. Tell me, what's tormenting you?"

Aemon hesitated, his jaw clenching as he grappled with his words. "It's the dreams," he said finally, his tone heavy. "I see them. The men who burned, the fire swallowing them whole. It wasn't meant to be like this."

Margaery's hand rested gently on his arm, her touch grounding him. "War never leaves any of us unscarred," she said. "But that doesn't mean you have to bear this alone."

He shook his head. "I don't know how to let it go," he admitted. "Every time I close my eyes, it's there. Always there."

"You don't need to let it go," Margaery said, her voice firm but kind. "You need to share the weight. If not with me, then with someone who can help you carry it. But I want to be there for you, Aemon. Let me."

Her words struck a chord he had buried deep within himself. He felt his throat tighten, and his jaw clench, but still, he said nothing. She reached up, cupping his cheek with a tenderness that broke past his defenses.

"You need to let someone in," she murmured, her thumb brushing across his skin. "Let me in."

Aemon closed his eyes, leaning ever so slightly into her touch. It was a rare moment of surrender, the weight of his turmoil easing, if only for a heartbeat. She pulled him into an embrace then, her arms wrapping around him as if shielding him from his own thoughts.

"Come," she said softly, pulling back to look at him. There was a faint smile playing on her lips, reassuring and warm. "Let's not waste the night to sorrow. I will stay with you if you'll have me."

Aemon hesitated but then nodded, a flicker of gratitude in his weary eyes. "I would have you by my side always, Margaery," he replied, his voice low yet earnest.

And so, as the moon continued its silent vigil over the Red Keep, the two retreated into the quiet of his chambers. Aemon, though still burdened, felt the faintest glimmer of solace in her presence—a light in his darkest hour.

Arthur Dayne

Arthur stood vigil outside Aemon's chambers, the morning light painting the corridor with a soft, golden hue. His armor, embossed with the proud sigil of House Targaryen, gleamed faintly as the sunlight kissed the silver detailing. Each breath he took felt cool and crisp, carrying with it the faint, comforting scents of the early hour. He kept his posture straight, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. Though the night had been still, he had been attuned to every sound, ever watchful. When he heard the faint shift of movement from within, he knew his king would emerge soon.

The door creaked open, and Aemon stepped out into the light. There was a weariness about him, the kind that spoke of battles fought within rather than on any battlefield. Yet his expression was calmer, his steps more measured. He looked, if not entirely unburdened, rested.

As Aemon stepped out from his chambers, the morning light highlighted the details of his attire. He wore a midnight black tunic embroidered with subtle silver threads, the dragon sigil of House Targaryen faintly glinting over his chest. The fabric was rich, but not ostentatious, a practical balance between his royal status and the weariness of the night before. Over this, a black leather belt cinched at his waist, adorned with an intricate silver buckle shaped like a dragon's head. There, on his back, a heavy cloak was draped, its purpose clear to all those who knew what the day entailed.

Arthur's sharp senses caught the faint trace of Margaery's floral fragrance clinging to Aemon, an unspoken reminder of her presence. He allowed himself a small, knowing smile. A bond forged in trust and care, he thought, was something even a king needed.

"Good morning, Your Grace," Arthur said, inclining his head respectfully. There was no judgment in his smile, only warmth and understanding. Though he would never voice his thoughts aloud, he was quietly reassured to see that Aemon had not faced the night's turmoil alone.

Aemom gave Arthur a soft smile, his eyes still half-shut. "Arthur... I see you allowed Lady Margaery into my quarters." He said, his eyes glancing back into his chambers.

He glanced inside, his gaze naturally drifting toward the grand bed in the center of the room. There, amidst the rumpled blankets, Margaery lay asleep. Her hair fanned out across the pillows, golden strands catching the gentle sunlight. Her expression was peaceful, her breaths steady and calm—such a stark contrast to the turmoil Arthur knew had plagued Aemon the night before.

Arthur's eyes softened at the sight. He lingered just a moment, taking in the rare semblance of tranquility his king had found. With a subtle nod to Aemon, he stepped back, pulling the door closed with the quiet precision of a man long accustomed to discretion.

"You were screaming again," Arthur said as the door shut, his tone stoic yet hiding none of the concern he felt for his king.

"Apparently so."

"Aemon, if you're struggling with something... you need to talk to us about it. It serves no one well if you're pained with nightmares."

"I know, Arthur... thankfully, Margaery has... certain skills when it comes to soothing what ails me." Aemon sighed as he rubbed his eyes. "Come, we can talk more later once we eat."

Arthur and Aemon walked side by side through the stone corridors of the Red Keep, the soft clink of Arthur's armor filling the silence between them. The air carried the faint aroma of roasted meats and freshly baked bread, wafting from the great hall ahead.

Upon entering, the table was already laden with a spread befitting a king. Aemon sat down to a simple but hearty breakfast of honey-glazed ham, slices of crusty brown bread still warm from the oven, and soft cheese paired with fresh figs. There was a steaming bowl of oat porridge drizzled with cream and spiced with cinnamon, alongside goblets of rich red wine to wash it all down. Arthur, ever modest, selected only a portion of salted fish and bread, eating with quiet efficiency while remaining alert to his surroundings.

As they settled into the meal, Aemon's gaze drifted toward the far end of the hall. There, Jon Connington stood by a narrow window, deep in conversation with the unmistakable figure of Varys. The Spider's soft murmur seemed to contrast with Jon's deliberate, forthright tone, though the exchange was far from heated.

When Jon noticed Aemon's entrance, his face lit with a rare smile. He gestured for Aemon to join him, and Aemon rose from his seat, leaving his half-eaten meal behind. Arthur followed closely, his ever-watchful presence a constant reassurance.

"Aemon," Jon said warmly, clasping him by the shoulder as he approached. "Sit with me. I have news that cannot wait."

Aemon lowered himself into the chair across from Jon, his curiosity piqued. Varys inclined his head in a silent greeting, but it was Jon who leaned forward, his voice low yet steady.

"Benjen Stark and young Robb arrived in the night," Jon began. "They've been most eager to meet you, considering your parentage."

Aemon frowned slightly, his mind already turning to the weighty responsibilities ahead. "I had hoped for more time to prepare," he admitted, his voice quiet.

Jon's expression softened. "You will rise to the occasion, Aemon. They wouldn't have come all this way unless they had faith in you."

"Hm." Aemon hummed, his eyes glancing between Varys and Jon. "Are they the last to arrive?" He asked, casting his mind to the recent weeks of petty and high lords alike, arriving for his coming coronation. He could still see them all now, prostrating themselves before him as if Aemon had forgotten their past misdeeds in doing nothing whilst his family was slaughtered and their birthright stolen.

"They are, Aemon," Varys answered. "With the arrival of the Starks, the realm has set its eyes more keenly upon you. Their presence here solidifies the strength of the North at your back. All the necessary preparations are in place, and, if it pleases you, we may begin your coronation on the morrow."

Aemon straightened his back upon hearing Varys' words, the weight of the coming days beginning to settle upon his shoulders. "Very well, let us begin on the morrow. Where are the Starks being kept?"

Jon straightened in his seat, folding his hands before him. "They're being accommodated in the guest chambers of the East Wing," he replied. "I made certain their arrival was handled discreetly. They've traveled far, but they're ready to speak with you whenever you deem fit."

Aemon nodded, absorbing the information. "Good," he said softly, though his mind was already turning over the impending conversation. "I'll see them after we've finished here. There's much to discuss."

Arthur, standing close by, gave a slight inclination of his head. "Shall I send word to the Starks to prepare for an audience, Your Grace?" he asked, his voice calm and measured.

"Yes," Aemon replied, his gaze distant as though already preparing himself for the weight of the meeting. "Let them know I'll see them soon."

Benjen Stark

The morning sunlight filtered through the narrow windows of Benjen Stark's chambers, casting long slants of light over the rough-hewn furniture and travel-worn belongings. Benjen sat on the edge of the bed, lacing his boots with a quiet efficiency born of countless early mornings. Robb stood by the window, gazing out at the bustling courtyard below, his youthful energy barely contained. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his excitement palpable.

The knock on the door was firm but measured. Benjen's head snapped up, his brow furrowing instinctively. Before he could bid the visitor enter, the door swung open, revealing a figure clad in shining armor that caught the light like a polished mirror. Arthur Dayne stepped inside, his presence commanding but restrained, the hilt of Dawn visible over his shoulder.

"The king requests your presence in the throne room," Arthur said simply, his tone devoid of unnecessary flourish.

Benjen's jaw tightened ever so slightly, the ghost of an old wound flickering in his steel-grey eyes. He rose to his feet, sparing only a curt nod. Robb, however, stared at Arthur with wide eyes, a grin creeping across his face.

"You're Ser Arthur Dayne," Robb said, barely able to keep the awe out of his voice. "The Sword of the Morning. My Uncle used to tell me stories about you."

Arthur inclined his head slightly, his expression as unreadable as the polished silver of his armor. "And I am sure he told them well," he replied, his tone polite but distant.

"Robb," Benjen interrupted, his voice firm, a quiet authority that immediately sobered the young Stark. "Enough." He placed a steadying hand on his nephew's shoulder. "Let's not keep the king waiting."

The walk to the throne room was silent, though Robb stole glances at Arthur as they went, his admiration barely hidden. Benjen, however, kept his gaze forward, his thoughts lingering on the man behind him—the man who had ended Eddard Stark's life years ago. The name "Sword of the Morning" sat heavy in his mind, a blade he could not dull.

When they arrived, the doors to the throne room were pulled open, revealing the grand chamber within. Benjen's breath caught for a moment, though he was careful not to show it. Dragon skulls, black as midnight, adorned the walls, their gaping maws frozen in silent roars. The banners of House Targaryen hung proudly from every pillar, their red dragons seemingly alive as they danced on fields of black silk. The morning light streaming through high windows gave the room an otherworldly glow.

At the center of it all, a young dark-haired boy stood before the Iron Throne, his back to them. He stared up at the chair forged of a thousand swords, its jagged, uneven silhouette looming over the room like a specter. Benjen himself could not fathom why so many felt the need to fight and die over such an ugly thing, yet he could not deny it had a certain allure.

As they stepped further inside, Benjen's sharp eyes caught the figures standing at attention along the edges of the room. Four knights of the Kingsguard, their silvered armor almost blinding in the light, stood as still as statues. Two had their helms removed, revealing familiar faces. Arthur Dayne, now stepping aside to join their number, and the legendary Barristan Selmy, whose presence alone spoke volumes of the king's chosen protectors.

Aemon turned at the sound of their approach, his expression calm yet unreadable. "Benjen," he said, his voice measured. "Robb. Thank you for coming."

As Aemon turned to greet them, the full weight of his appearance struck Benjen like a physical blow. It was as though a ghost from his past stood before him, a memory made flesh. Those storm-grey eyes, intense and unyielding, were unmistakably hers—Lyanna's. And the way his black hair framed his face, unruly yet elegant, evoked a resemblance so close it was almost haunting.

Benjen's breath faltered for a moment, his composure slipping before he could rein it back. The years had softened the pain of losing his sister, but now, staring at Aemon, it was as if he were back in Winterfell, seeing her stand defiantly in the courtyard, a wild spirit untamed by the world.

He cleared his throat, forcing himself to focus on the man before him—the king, not the shadow of his sister. Yet, no amount of titles or decorum could erase the uncanny connection, and as Aemon spoke, his voice steady and assured, Benjen swore he could hear the faintest echo of Lyanna's defiance in his tone.

"Your Grace," Benjen nodded, calming himself upon seeing Aemon's resemblance to his long-dead sister.

"Your Grace," Robb respectfully bowed, his eyes lingering on the young man before him.

Aemon's gaze softened as he looked at Benjen and Robb, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. The weight of the Iron Throne behind him seemed momentarily lighter as he spoke.

"It brings me great happiness to finally meet the northern side of my family," he said, his tone warm yet steady. "The stories I've heard of Winterfell and the Starks—they've been a part of me my entire life, even from afar. I've long wished for this moment."

He paused, his grey eyes lingering on Benjen, then Robb, as though trying to connect the shared history written in their faces. "Blood ties us in ways even distance cannot sever. Seeing you both here reminds me that I am not just a king, but a man of two worlds. The fire of the dragon, and the strength of the wolf." His smile deepened slightly, genuine and full of quiet emotion.

Aemon took one more measured look at Benjen and Robb before speaking once more. "Come, I would ask that you both walk with me."

Benjen and Robb both nodded and followed Aemon from the throne room. The halls of the Red Keep stretched wide and imposing before them, their shadows long as the sunlight spilled through narrow windows and danced across the stone floors. Aemon walked with measured steps, his dark cloak trailing behind him. To his left, Benjen Stark kept pace, his expression contemplative yet alert. On his other side, Robb followed, his youthful energy tempered by the grandeur around him. Behind them, Aemon's Kingsguard moved silently, their silvered armor gleaming like molten moonlight.

As they passed under the vaulted arches adorned with dragon engravings, Aemon broke the silence. His voice was steady, but there was a rare warmth beneath the formality. "My grandmother, Rhaella, resides here once more," he began, his words deliberate. "She is a living testament to resilience, after everything she endured under my grandfather. Her strength… it's unlike anything I've ever known. And Viserys—" Aemon paused, a faint smile pulling at his lips, though there was a shadow behind it. "He has his own burdens to bear, as we all do, but being back here... It's different for him than it is for me."

"I have heard tales of a Princess Daenerys as well, Your Grace," Robb interjected, his tone curious.

Aemon let out a soft laugh. "You have? I'm not surprised. She is a fierce woman, but not so much different from myself. We grew up together, and I consider her to be my sister more than an aunt or anything of the sort."

He looked to Benjen and Robb, his grey eyes thoughtful. "I spent much of my life far from all this," he said, gesturing subtly to the imposing architecture around them. "Essos was my home for so long. Its cities, its customs—they shaped me. I learned to adapt and survive in lands where the Targaryen name is only a memory, not a legacy. We lived in exile, and every day was a lesson in humility. There were no thrones there, no dragons—only what we could make of ourselves."

Robb listened intently, his young face alight with curiosity. "What was it like, growing up there?" he asked, his voice eager but respectful.

Aemon's expression softened. "It was… different. Beautiful in its own way, but harsh. I spent most of my years in Pentos, harbored by a Magister who sought to reinstall my family where we belonged."

Benjen slightly recoiled upon hearing of a Magister who harbored this Targaryen exile, his mind turning to what ill-gains such a man could seek for doing such a favor. "He has a name?" He asked, hiding the mistrust in his voice.

"Illyrio. Without him, I doubt any of this would have been possible. He brought dragon eggs to my grandmother many years ago and paid for out of his own pocket for my upbringing without a second thought." Aemon explained.

Benjen softly nodded, still feeling the lingering mistrust of what such a man could want. As they continued their walk, Benjen glanced over at Aemon, his expression pensive. After a moment, he broke the silence, his tone steady but laced with curiosity. "Those dragons I saw this morning," he said, his voice measured. "They're yours, aren't they?"

Aemon gave a faint nod, his grey eyes momentarily lighting with the pride and weight that came with such a statement. "One of them, yes. The other three belong to my family. Vaedar is mine own, and by far the largest of them all."

Benjen raised a brow, still grappling with the sheer reality of it. "It's a sight few of us ever thought we'd see again. Dragons flying above the city—it felt like something out of a tale, not the world we live in now." He hesitated for a moment, then added, "How do you... command them?"

Aemon gave a small, almost knowing smile. "Command is not the right word," he said thoughtfully. "They do not follow orders like a soldier might. Dragons are creatures of their own will, their own fire. They bond to us not because they are subservient, but because they recognize something in us—a kinship. It's about trust, respect, and, yes, some instinctual connection that runs deeper than words."

Robb, who had been listening with wide eyes, couldn't hold back his awe. "I've always heard the stories of Dragonriders," he said, his voice brimming with excitement. "But I never imagined I'd meet one—or that they'd still roam the skies."

Aemon glanced at Robb, his expression softening. "The stories don't capture what it means to ride one," he said. "To feel the wind and the fire, to see the world from above, it's as humbling as it is terrifying. But it's a bond unlike any other, and it's a reminder of what it means to carry the Targaryen name. A name that the Usurper all but wiped out."

Benjen's mind drifted to the raven he received a moon ago, bearing the news of Robert's death. "How did you kill Robert?" he asked, his eyes fixed on Aemon.

Aemon slowed his steps, glancing at Benjen briefly, his expression unreadable. He didn't answer, not immediately. Instead, he turned and pushed open a heavy wooden door, leading them into the small council chamber. The room was dimly lit, the sunlight filtering through narrow windows, casting long shadows over the polished table and the high-backed chairs.

He moved to the head of the table, resting his hands on its edge as he finally spoke. "Robert Baratheon," Aemon began his tone calm but edged with something colder. "The Demon of the Trident. The man whose name was whispered in fear, whose strength was said to be unmatched. My whole life, I heard stories of him, of his hammer, his rage, his victories. I expected a monster."

He paused, his grey eyes meeting Benjen's. "But when the time came, he was no monster. He was a man. A small, fat, pink man who had long since lost the fire that made him a legend. He fell from his horse when I landed with my dragon, and when he hit the ground, it was as though the fight left him entirely. He didn't rise with fury or defiance. He didn't roar like the warrior I'd been told of. He gave up."

Aemon's voice grew quieter, though no less sharp. "I beheaded him. It wasn't a duel of equals, nor was it a moment of glory. It was an execution, plain and simple. I avenged my father in the moment."

The room fell silent, the weight of Aemon's words settling over them. Benjen's expression was unreadable, though his jaw tightened slightly. Robb, standing beside him, looked uneasy, his youthful admiration for tales of battle clashing with the stark reality of Aemon's account.

Aemon straightened, his gaze steady. "War strips away the myths we tell ourselves," he said. "It reveals the truth of men—of their strength, their weakness, their humanity. Robert Baratheon was no different."

Aemon turned from the window, his grey eyes fixed on Benjen with a contemplative intensity. The small council chamber seemed to hold its breath, the silence between them dense with unspoken thoughts.

"Tell me," Aemon began, his voice calm but probing. "Is it true that Robert loved my mother once? Did he truly care for her, or was it… something else entirely? I've heard the stories, but stories can be lies wrapped in sentiment."

Benjen's gaze faltered for a moment, his brow furrowing as he considered his answer. "He loved her," Benjen said finally, his voice measured but carrying a flicker of old pain. "Or he thought he did. But Robert's love was… possessive. He spoke of her as though she were a prize to be won, a beautiful thing to be admired. He saw Lyanna as something untouchable, almost otherworldly. But he never truly knew her—not the way someone who loves should. Not the way I did."

Aemon's expression didn't shift, though his eyes seemed to darken slightly. "And what of her? My mother," he said, his tone softer now, almost hesitant. "What was she really like? Not the legend people speak of, not the girl Robert claimed as his, but Lyanna Stark—my mother."

Benjen sighed, running a hand through his dark hair as he spoke. "Lyanna was a force of nature," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "She was fierce, stubborn, and braver than most men I've known. But she was also kind, in her own way. She had a warmth that wasn't always easy to see, but it was there, burning quietly beneath all that fire. She fought for what she believed in, even when the world stood against her."

Aemon nodded slowly, his gaze falling to the floor as he processed Benjen's words. "I've spoken to her," he said quietly, his voice almost a whisper. "In my dreams. Or at least, I think I have. She comes to me—her face blurred, her voice faint. She feels close, but just out of reach. For weeks now, though, the dreams have faded, fleeting moments slipping away before I can hold onto them. I feel as if I'm losing her all over again, though I never truly had her to begin with."

Benjen's expression softened, and for a moment, his usual stoicism faltered. "Dreams can be strange things," he said gently. "Perhaps it's her, perhaps it's your heart trying to fill a void. But know this, Aemon. Lyanna would not leave you. She loved fiercely, and though she's gone, that love remains. It's in you, in the blood that courses through your veins."

Aemon met Benjen's gaze, his shoulders straightening slightly as he absorbed the reassurance. However, Benjen's gaze darkened as he leaned slightly against the council table, the weight of years past hanging visibly on his shoulders. His voice, when he finally spoke, was steady, yet tinged with the sorrow of old wounds.

"Robert's Rebellion," he began, his tone laced with bitterness, "it claimed too many lives, on both sides of the war. Fathers, brothers, sons—it didn't matter where you stood, the cost was the same: blood and grief. It tore through families, through entire houses, leaving scars that even time cannot heal."

He hesitated, his eyes drifting briefly to the floor before he lifted them to meet Aemon's. "Even my brother," he said, his voice quieter now, though no less steady. "Eddard. He was one of the countless lives lost to that rebellion."

Benjen's gaze shifted, settling on the figure standing silently nearby. Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, stood in his gleaming silvered armor, his face impassive but not unfeeling. For a moment, the tension in the room felt almost tangible, the shared history pressing down on all of them.

"It was you, wasn't it?" Benjen said, his voice directed at Arthur, though it lacked outright malice. It was a simple statement of fact, stripped of the heat of accusation. "At the Tower of Joy. You killed him."

Arthur's expression didn't waver, though there was a subtle weight to the way he straightened his posture. "I did," he said quietly, his voice calm but tinged with the gravity of his confession. "It was a duel, one that neither of us wished for but could not avoid. Eddard Stark was an honorable man, and he fought bravely. I gave him a dignified burial, deserving of the man such as he was."

"Your brother, Eddard," Aemon interjected, his voice measured, "was Robert's closest friend. A bond forged through years of trust and loyalty, I've been told. But on that day, at the Tower of Joy, I've often wondered... would he have killed me, had Arthur not stood in his way?"

Benjen blinked at Aemon, the notion striking him as so absurd that, for a moment, he was speechless. Then, a low chuckle escaped him, and before long, he was laughing outright. The sound filled the chamber, unexpected in its sincerity. He shook his head, brushing a hand across his jaw before replying.

"You clearly didn't know Ned, Your Grace," Benjen said, a smile tugging at his lips. "Kill you? Eddard wouldn't have done that, no matter the circumstances. He was a man of principle, maybe to a fault. Even if the rebellion had driven Robert mad with a vengeance, Ned would have held his ground and chosen honor over violence. That's who he was."

Aemon's lips twitched faintly in response, though his expression remained thoughtful. "Perhaps I misunderstood the man he was," he admitted, his voice calm. "But on a battlefield, amidst chaos and fire, even the most honorable man can act against his nature."

Benjen's laughter softened, though his expression carried traces of quiet pride. "Not Ned," he said firmly. "His loyalty to Robert was unwavering, yes, but he wouldn't have taken another man's life unjustly—even yours. He'd have found another way."

Arthur, standing nearby, inclined his head slightly, his voice steady as he spoke for the first time in the exchange. "Your brother fought with conviction, Benjen. I saw it firsthand. But his blade was guided by his principles, not hatred or rage. What happened that day was not his doing, nor would it have been." His tone carried no defensiveness, only an acknowledgment of the truth.

Benjen's gaze flicked toward Arthur briefly, his expression unreadable, before he looked back to Aemon. "Ned's death was a tragedy, as was much of that rebellion. But remember this, Your Grace—he was a man who fought for what he believed in, and he carried the honor of the Starks until the very end."

Aemon nodded slowly, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. "Perhaps I misjudged his intentions," he said quietly. He then took a steadying breath, his gaze moving between Benjen and Robb as he spoke, his tone calm but resolute. "Tomorrow marks the beginning of a new chapter," he said. "My coronation will take place at dawn, and with it, the weight of this throne will finally rest fully upon my shoulders."

His grey eyes settled on Benjen, then Robb, and his voice softened slightly. "I wanted you both to be here for this—to stand with me, as family. The realm sees a Targaryen king, but I am as much a Stark as I am a dragon. It is my blood, my history, and my strength. And I want the world to see that strength, united."

Benjen crossed his arms, his sharp eyes appraising Aemon. "So it begins," he said, nodding slowly. "The weight of that throne is heavier than most can imagine. You'll have to carry it, Aemon—and not just for yourself. For your family, for the realm."

Robb shifted on his feet, his youthful eagerness bubbling to the surface despite the solemn tone of the conversation. "We'll be with you," he said quickly. "The North will stand by you, Your Grace. The Starks always keep their word."

Aemon allowed himself a faint smile. "Thank you, Robb," he said simply, before looking back at Benjen. "This is a beginning, not an end. The realm needs unity, and I'll do what I can to ensure that. But having you here it means something to me. You're my family, the blood of the wolf flows in my veins as much as the fire of the dragon. That bond strengthens me."

Benjen's features softened, and he nodded again. "We'll see this through together."

The tension in the room seemed to ease slightly as the three of them stood there, the bond of family binding them amidst the weight of their shared history and the unknown future. Outside, the city bustled with life, the world turning, even as the dawn of a new era approached.

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

Aemon Targaryen

The golden light of dawn filtered into the chamber, igniting an aura of majesty as Aemon stood before the two crowns. The murmurs of the gathered crowd outside, swelling in King's Landing's streets, rose and fell like the rhythm of a great living being. By his side stood Margaery, her serene smile the calm before the storm of the day ahead. Her presence lent warmth to the room, her rose-colored gown rippling like the petals of her house's sigil, adorned with threads of gold that caught the light.

The crown destined for Aemon sat upon a velvet cloth of deepest crimson. It was heavy yet regal in its simplicity, forged of dark, beaten gold, reminiscent of the ancient days when Targaryens were conquerors. The circlet's band was unadorned by jewels, its only decoration the rising and falling ridges of dragon wings, elegantly carved, that encircled the crown like a protective embrace. On the brow, a singular, fierce dragon head extended, its open mouth forming the peak of the crown—a silent reminder of both House Targaryen's power and its responsibilities.

Beside it, Margaery's crown awaited her own coronation. A thing of delicate beauty, it was crafted of pale gold and graced with subtle ridges to echo the curves of her betrothed. Rather than dragon wings, it bore intricate carvings of intertwining roses, their petals soft and natural in design. Nestled within some of the blossoms were small pearls, shimmering faintly like dew kissed by sunlight. Her crown spoke of elegance and grace, an echo of her charm that had won the hearts of nobles and smallfolk alike.

Aemon's eyes flickered from the crowns to his family gathered around. Margaery, poised and radiant, tilted her head as she regarded her own crown. "It is beautiful," she said with a voice as soft as a summer breeze, her delicate fingers brushing just above the roses.

"It's not meant to be subtle," Aemon replied, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "It's meant to remind people what a king stands for."

"Strength, I'd say," Viserys muttered, stepping back and crossing his arms. "And maybe a touch of intimidation."

Margaery let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "Perhaps that's exactly what the realm needs," she said, her voice light but steady. "A crown that commands respect."

Rhaella approached the table, her gown swishing softly as she moved. Her fingers hovered just above Margaery's crown. "Yours is beautiful," she said, turning to her future daughter-in-law. "Elegant, but strong. It suits you."

Margaery dipped her head slightly, her smile warm. "Thank you, Your Grace. I think so too."

Daenerys, standing slightly apart, studied the crowns with a thoughtful expression. "I like the wings on yours, Aemon," she said quietly. "They look like they could lift it off your head and carry it away. It's... poetic, in a way."

Aemon raised an eyebrow, amused. "Poetic?"

"Yes," Daenerys replied, glancing up at him with a small smile. "Dreams of flight and all that."

Margaery reached out, her fingers brushing Aemon's arm gently. "They'll take the crowns soon," she said softly, her voice just for him. "But they don't make the king or queen. We do that ourselves."

Aemon nodded, his gaze lingering on the crowns one last time before he turned his eyes to the servants who brought them before him. "Take them away, please."

The servants quickly nodded and moved with haste to wrap the crowns in the crimson velvet they sat upon. They gave a respectful bow to Aemon and his family before they left, closing the heavy door behind them. As soon as they left, Aemon let out a deep breath as he moved to stand at a nearby window, his grey eyes on the sprawling city below him.

His gaze then wandered to the distant waters of Blackwater Bay, where ships floated like specks on a glimmering blue canvas. For a brief moment, the world outside seemed so vast, so endless, and yet it all converged here, in this city, on this day. His thoughts drifted to the hours ahead, the ceremonies, the oaths, and the faces of those who would watch him claim his crown and his bride.

"It's time to eat something before we begin," Margaery said gently, her voice cutting through the charged silence.

Aemon turned his gaze to his wife-to-be before beckoning his family to follow him. As soon as he opened the door, his eyes caught sight of the waiting Kingsguard. Their armor was polished to a mirror-like sheen, each plate reflecting the light in glimmers of silver and white. Their armet helms, engraved with subtle designs of dragons and flames, concealed their faces entirely, lending them an almost ethereal air. They were statuesque in their stillness, the embodiment of duty and vigilance.

Without a word, they fell into step behind him as he moved to join his family. Together, they descended the winding stone steps of the Red Keep, the air heavy with the unspoken knowledge of what lay ahead. But at this moment, the aroma of warm bread and roasted meats began to waft up from the hall below.

The grand hall was alive with the clatter of silverware and the faint hum of conversation as Aemon and his family entered, their footsteps echoing against the stone floor. The long table was set for the morning meal, its polished surface gleaming under the light of high-placed torches. Already seated were his councilors, a collection of men whose faces reflected the varying hues of loyalty, ambition, and practicality.

Varys was the first to notice their arrival, his smooth head gleaming in the flickering light as he inclined his head in greeting. The master of whispers wore his usual enigmatic smile, his hands folded neatly before him. Beside him sat Jon Connington, stern and composed, his silvered hair cropped close. He gave Aemon a sharp nod, his armor creaking faintly as he moved. Randyll Tarly sat further down, his expression as rigid as the man himself, his plate sparse but tidy, as though even his meals adhered to a strict order. Aurane Waters, ever the charming presence, leaned back in his chair with easy confidence, his eyes immediately upon Daenerys.

At the far end of the table, Illyrio Mopatis sat in conspicuous comfort. His plate was laden with food—roasted meats, golden-brown pastries, fruits of every color, and more besides. The sheer abundance of it was almost comical when compared to the modest portions in front of everyone else. Illyrio seemed utterly unfazed, lifting a chunk of bread dripping with honey to his lips, his rings catching the light as he gestured amiably to the servants for more.

Aemon caught sight and felt a flicker of amusement before brushing it aside. His steps slowed as he approached the head of the table, where a seat awaited him. His family followed, each one taking their places—Margaery to his right, her grace and poise a steady presence; Rhaella beside her, radiating quiet dignity; Viserys sitting further down, still adjusting his cuffs; and Daenerys opposite, her violet eyes flicking across the room, absorbing every detail.

As Aemon's gaze drifted across the hall, his attention was caught by a lively exchange at a smaller table tucked to one side. Oberyn Martell and Olenna Tyrell sat together, their contrasting presences somehow blending in perfect harmony. Oberyn, his Dornish flair evident even in the way he leaned back in his chair, gestured animatedly as he spoke, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. Olenna, sharp and commanding as ever, had a wry smile on her lips, her keen eyes fixed on the Martell prince as she offered a retort that left him chuckling in delight.

As Aemon lowered himself into his chair, he allowed his gaze to sweep the table once more before Jon caught his eyeline.

"A big day today, Your Grace." Jon cheerfully exclaimed, "A new crown and a new queen. The realm will have much to celebrate before the sun sets."

Aemon paused, his eyes meeting Jon's, steady and composed as ever, but unable to suppress the faint tug of amusement at his councillor's enthusiasm. From beside him, Margaery shifted suddenly, her gaze snapping to his. Her wide eyes gave her away completely—shock, blooming fresh and vibrant across her face. But there was no trace of dismay in her expression—quite the opposite. It was the kind of astonished joy that seemed to light from within.

"Married?" she echoed softly, her voice carrying just enough weight to turn a few heads.

Aemon turned toward her fully now, his lips curving into a small, reassuring smile. "Today, yes," he said, keeping his voice low, intimate, meant only for her. "I wanted it to be a surprise, and for that, I hope you'll forgive me. But know this, Margaery—it will be a day worthy of you."

Her wide eyes lingered on him for a moment longer before they softened into something almost luminous. Her lips curled into a smile—not her practiced courtly one, but a genuine, heartfelt expression that carried a warmth he felt radiate through the air.

"I didn't expect this," she admitted, her voice carrying just the faintest tremble, "but I'm hardly disappointed."

Aemon chuckled softly, his hand finding hers and resting gently atop it. "It'll be fine, I promise, once we speak to the High Septon when we're finished eating, everything will be made clear."

Margaery leaned back, her initial shock having transformed into a quiet excitement. "Very well, Aemon." She playfully sighed, her smile infectious.

Aemon leaned back slightly in his chair, his gaze drifting once more to the smaller table where Olenna Tyrell and Oberyn Martell continued their lively conversation. The glint of amusement in their expressions, the way Oberyn gestured with an almost theatrical flair, and Olenna's quick, cutting retorts brought a rare lightness to the otherwise stately hall. Deciding it was worth the interruption, he turned to his councilors briefly.

"Excuse me," Aemon said with a nod, his voice calm but decisive.

The murmurs at the table didn't cease, but he felt the collective gaze of his family and councilors follow him as he rose. He smoothed his tunic briefly and strode toward the other table, his Kingsguard moving to adjust their positions but keeping a respectful distance.

Olenna noticed him first, her sharp gaze cutting through the air like a blade. "Ah, here comes the young king," she said dryly, though her lips curled into the faintest smirk. "Have you come to scold us for stealing all the attention?"

Oberyn chuckled, his golden-brown eyes glinting with mischief. "Or perhaps to join us in mocking the pomp of the day? I promise we've been kind. Mostly."

Aemon allowed himself a small smile as he stepped up to them. "Hardly that," he replied smoothly. "I simply couldn't resist the chance to witness the legendary wit of the Queen of Thorns and the Red Viper firsthand. It seems my expectations weren't misplaced."

Oberyn raised his goblet in acknowledgment, his grin widening. "You flatter us, Your Grace. But I imagine you've come for more than idle compliments?"

Olenna leaned back slightly, her eyes narrowing in curiosity. "Out with it then, boy. We're all ears, though I warn you, I don't have much patience for sweet talk. Leave that to your lovely bride."

Aemon inclined his head, his expression poised but warm. "No sweet talk, I promise. I merely wish to thank you both for being here today and for your support. It's a day that will mark the start of much, and your presence doesn't go unnoticed."

Olenna sniffed, though there was a glimmer of approval in her sharp eyes. "Well, at least you're polite. That'll serve you well enough, provided you learn to be ruthless when needed."

"And when needed," Oberyn added smoothly, raising his goblet once more, "you know where to find those of us who appreciate a bit of… creative ruthlessness."

Aemon nodded, taking their words in stride before quickly changing the subject. "I hope both your families have found the Capital comfortable."

Olenna let out a small laugh. "With the smell of shit wafting through the air every day, I'd hardly say it was comfortable, but your accommodation has been most adequate, Aemon."

A small smirk appeared on Aemon's face as he listened to her. He could hardly deny her claims, as even now the smell slightly penetrated the stone walls of the Red Keep. "It is something I hope to address during my reign." He sighed, his smirk still lingering

"Let us hope you do, otherwise I might insist my granddaughter stays at Highgarden." Olenna smiled before she cast her eyes toward Aemon's silvered Kingsguard. "Very impressive armor."

Aemon glanced over his shoulder. "Yes, marvelous, aren't they?"

Olenna smiled, her eyes still fixated on the silvered Kingsguard. "Depleted."

Aemon raised an eyebrow. "Depleted?"

"Yes... only four men standing in their polished armor, faces hidden behind helms—they're impressive, I'll admit, but they hardly look more than glorified sentinels, stationed to glower at doorways."

Aemon began to scowl, his eyes narrowing. "They're some of the finest men I know, Olenna."

"Yes, everyone has heard of them all by now... fine men with countless tales written about them. I'm not denying any of that," she added with a slight wave of her hand. "The armor, the vows, the reputation—those things are no small matter. But four is hardly enough to guard a king, especially one who is marrying my granddaughter."

Aemon rolled his eyes as he began to understand what Olenna was getting at. "What are you suggesting, Olenna?"

Her words hung in the air for a moment before she leaned forward slightly, her expression shifting from casual critique to subtle persuasion. "So why not add a Tyrell to their ranks? My grandson Loras, for instance. He's well-trained, skilled, and carries the same prestige your Kingsguard holds dear."

Aemon considered her words before he glanced at his Kingsguard. "Ser Barristan, remove your helm and come here if you would."

Barristan responded immediately, his polished armor glinting faintly as he stepped forward. His movements were precise and disciplined, as one might expect of the renowned knight. With both hands, he lifted the engraved armet helm from his head, revealing his weathered face. It was a visage lined with the marks of experience and wisdom, yet carrying the unyielding pride of a man who is serving a king he believes in.

Aemon waited until Barristan reached him before gesturing toward Olenna Tyrell. "Lady Olenna had some thoughts on the Kingsguard and its prestige," he explained, his tone measured but carrying the faintest hint of amusement. "I believe your insights could lend something valuable to this conversation."

Olenna regarded Barristan with her sharp, appraising gaze, her lips curling into the faintest smirk. "Ah, Ser Barristan Selmy," she said, her voice cutting through the air with authority. "A living legend, aren't you? Tell me, knight, do you think your ranks are depleted?"

Barristan glanced briefly at Aemon, then back to Olenna. "The Kingsguard's numbers may be small, my lady, but their loyalty and skill are unmatched. It's not the quantity that defines us—it's the quality of the men who wear the white cloak."

Olenna's smirk deepened, her sharp eyes glinting with something like admiration. "Well said, Ser Barristan. Though I still think the king would benefit from a Tyrell among you."

"I take it you mean Loras Tyrell, my lady?"

"Of course, Ser." Olenna sighed, her eyes rolling ever so slightly as she leaned forward. "Willas's mind is too sharp for all of that and Garlan is otherwise occupied with the Tyrell army. No, Loras is the one you want."

Aemon watched as Barristan nodded, taking her words to heart. Aemon allowed himself a small smile, watching as the veteran knight and the Queen of Thorns exchanged their words. He turned to Barristan. "Thank you, Ser Barristan. I trust you'll consider all options carefully when the time comes."

Barristan inclined his head respectfully before stepping back to his post, his helm still tucked under his arm. Olenna leaned back in her chair, clearly satisfied with the exchange, while Aemon returned to his own seat.

The doors to the hall creaked open, and the soft padding of hurried footsteps echoed against the stone floor. Tommen entered, Aemon's young squire, his cheeks slightly flushed from the brisk pace he had kept. In his arms, he carried Dark Sister, the ancient Valyrian steel blade of House Targaryen, its dark, rippling metal gleaming faintly in the light of the grand hall.

The sight of him drew a few curious glances, though the boy kept his focus solely on Aemon. With careful steps, he approached the head of the table where his king sat, his small frame dwarfed by the grandeur of the room. As he neared, he stopped and bowed his head respectfully before holding the sword out with both hands.

"Your Grace," Tommen said, his voice steady despite his youth. "Dark Sister, you left it in your chambers."

Aemon nodded, rising from his seat with a calm yet commanding presence. He reached out, taking the blade from Tommen with ease, the weight of the weapon familiar and natural in his hand.

Tommen, ever dutiful, straightened and added quickly, "The High Septon is here for you, Your Grace. He awaits your presence."

Aemon exchanged a brief glance with Margaery, her smile warm and steadying before he turned his attention back to Tommen. "Thank you, Tommen," he said, his tone firm but kind. "You've done well. Return to your duties."

Tommen nodded eagerly, a faint smile creeping onto his face as he bowed once more and stepped back, disappearing through the doors as quickly as he had entered. Aemon turned to the rest of the hall, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of Dark Sister as the significance of the moment settled over him.

The time had come. With a final, steadying breath, he prepared to meet the High Septon and face the day's trials ahead. He fastened Dark Sister around his waist and gave a thoughtful glance toward Margaery.

"It's time," he said gently, his voice carrying just enough weight to draw her full attention. "The High Septon is here, and I'd like you to come with me."

Margaery blinked, her initial surprise shifting into a quiet resolve, the corners of her lips curving into a small, steady smile. "Of course," she replied, her tone light but unwavering. "I wouldn't want to miss a moment of today."

Aemon offered her a hand as they both rose from their seats. Around them, the conversations in the hall continued, a low hum of voices layered beneath the flicker of torches on the stone walls. His family and council watched their movements quietly, each member acutely aware of the significance of what was to come.

With Margaery by his side, Aemon moved toward the door where his Kingsguard stood waiting, their gleaming armor catching the light as they straightened at their king's approach. Together, they stepped out into the corridor, their footsteps echoing softly as they made their way toward the High Septon. The halls of the Red Keep stretched out before them and Aemon could feel Margaery's intense gaze burning into him from his side.

"So," she began, her voice casual but laced with an edge, "are surprises something I should get used to with you?"

Aemon smirked, his grey eyes sparkling with amusement. "I thought you'd appreciate the drama," he said lightly, as though her annoyance were no more troublesome than a gust of wind.

"Drama?" she repeated, stopping in her tracks. She turned to him, hands resting elegantly on her hips. "You kept it from me that we're to be married today—during the coronation, no less. That's not drama; that's sheer recklessness."

He paused, letting out a breath that carried the faintest hint of a chuckle. "It wasn't entirely my decision, Margaery,"

Margaery shot him an accusing look, her eyes narrowing. "And whose idea was it?"

"Mostly Jon," he admitted, running a hand through his dark hair. "He's been pushing the idea for weeks. Unity, symbolism, the works. You know how he gets."

"Unity is fine," she shot back, resuming her stride down the corridor, her golden skirts swaying gently, "but would a little warning have hurt?"

"I suppose not," he said, matching her pace. "Although you seem to be handling the news rather gracefully."

"Gracefulness is hardly the point," she muttered, though her composure remained impeccable. "This isn't just another feast or meeting with some lord. It's our lives, Aemon. And I should have been consulted."

"I'll make it up to you," he offered, the teasing edge returning to his tone. "Dinner in the gardens, perhaps? Wine from Dorne?"

She glanced at him, unimpressed. "How generous of you. Shall I add a crown to sweeten the deal?"

That earned a proper laugh from him, short but genuine. "You're sharper than any blade in the armory."

"And don't you forget it," she said, her irritation softening, though she was far from ready to forgive him entirely.

As they approached the grand chamber where the High Septon awaited, the weight of the day seemed to settle between them. Aemon hesitated before they reached the doors, turning slightly toward her. "Margaery," he said, his tone quieter now, "I know this isn't how you'd have planned it. But I meant what I said earlier, I will make it worthy of you."

She looked at him, studying his face for a moment before replying. "You'll have to try harder than dinner," she said simply, stepping forward as two Dragonguards opened the heavy doors.

With no further words, they entered the chamber together, a portrait of royal harmony despite the undercurrent of unresolved tension between them. The grand doors to the throne room closed behind them, the sound reverberating through the cavernous space. Aemon and Margaery entered side by side, their footsteps purposeful yet measured as they crossed the marble floor. Sunlight streamed in through the high windows, illuminating the gilded banners that adorned the walls and casting long shadows that seemed to stretch toward the Iron Throne itself.

Ahead of them, standing almost comically out of place amidst the regal splendor, was the High Septon. A man of considerable girth and an even greater appetite for ceremony, he stood by the throne with his hands folded over his ample stomach. His robes, richly embroidered and draped with chains of gold and silver, seemed to strain slightly under his considerable bulk.

"The fat one," Margaery muttered softly under her breath, her lips barely moving. Her tone carried a mixture of amusement and disbelief. Aemon caught the words and stifled a chuckle, his grey eyes twinkling with mirth as he glanced sideways at her.

The High Septon, oblivious to the murmured commentary, straightened his posture, or at least attempted to, upon seeing them approach. His expression was one of forced solemnity, though the beads of sweat glistening on his brow betrayed his discomfort under the heat of the room and, perhaps, the enormity of the occasion.

"Your Grace," the man greeted, his voice deep but wheezy as he inclined his head toward Aemon. He turned to Margaery with a similar gesture. "And my lady-to-be-queen. The realm rejoices at your union on this most blessed of days."

Aemon's lips curved into a polite smile, though he couldn't quite suppress the flicker of amusement that lingered there. "Thank you, High Septon. It is indeed a… memorable day."

"Indeed, indeed!" the High Septon exclaimed, clasping his hands together. The motion sent his many rings glinting in the sunlight, each one a testament to his fondness for excess. "I have prepared the prayers and blessings as discussed. The ceremony will be a grand testament to the gods' favor upon your reign." The High Septon then went into a long and arduous tirade about the coming ceremony, explaining every explicit detail to the young king and queen-to-be.

As the High Septon continued his long-winded explanation of the ceremonies to come, the massive doors at the far end of the throne room swung open, revealing two attendants carrying ornate cushions. Upon these cushions rested the crowns that Aemon and Margaery had seen earlier. The sunlight that filtered through the windows seemed to glint like soft rays of fire off of them as they approached.

The High Septon, now fully upright and glowing with pride as if he himself had forged the crowns, gestured expansively toward the approaching attendants. "Ah! The symbols of your divine union and sovereign rule!" he declared, his voice echoing in the vast chamber. His rings clinked as he spread his hands toward the crowns, practically salivating at them both.

"I take it you both will meet me at the sept?" The High Septon added, his eyes never leaving the crown.

Aemon slowly nodded. "There are a few things to finish with here... once done, we will make our way there."

The High Septon let out a soft hum as his fat hands and fingers took hold of Aemon's crown, his lips wet and curved into an almost wicked smile. "The gods themselves shall bear witness to these sacred objects as they are anointed in their holy light at the Great Sept," the High Septon proclaimed with far too much flair. "A most blessed union, one that will unify the realm and fortify the faith of the people."

Aemon's lips quirked into a subtle smile, the corners of his mouth betraying his thoughts. "Let's hope the gods appreciate fine craftsmanship," he remarked lightly, earning a fleeting, amused glance from Margaery.

The High Septon, either oblivious or choosing to ignore the comment, turned his attention to the guards stationed nearby. "Prepare the procession! The crowns must be transported to the Great Sept without delay."

The guards the priest brought with him stepped forward to flank the High Septon, who, despite his excessive gravity, gripped Aemon's crown with great care. As he lumbered toward the exit, followed by the attendants carrying Margaery's circlet, Aemon leaned closer to her.

"Perhaps we should carry them ourselves next time," he said under his breath, the faint humor in his tone softening the weight of the moment.

Margaery tilted her head slightly toward him, her voice quiet but sharp with dry wit. "It would save us the theatrics, at least."

Aemon smiled and turned his back on the fleeting procession, Margaery doing the same as she fell into step beside him. The air around them seemed heavier now, charged with the weight of what lay ahead. Margaery's hand rested lightly on Aemon's arm, her touch steady and reassuring, though the faintest trace of anticipation lingered in her smile.

Aemon glanced at her briefly, finding comfort in her calm presence. "This is it," he murmured, his voice low yet resolute. "The day the realm has waited for."

Margaery tilted her head slightly, her gaze warm as she looked at him. "It will be a day they never forget," she replied, her voice carrying quiet confidence.

They reached the entrance to the dining hall, the faint hum of conversation within carrying through the heavy doors. Aemon paused for a moment, his hand resting lightly on the doorframe, before pushing the doors open with a quiet but deliberate motion.

Inside, his family and councilors looked up from their conversations, their gazes shifting to the king and his betrothed. The room seemed to be still as Aemon stepped forward, his presence commanding the attention of all those gathered.

"It is time," Aemon announced, his voice calm but firm as it carried across the hall. "The High Septon awaits us in the Great Sept of Baelor. The wedding and coronation will begin shortly."

Margaery stood tall beside him, her radiant smile lighting the room as she looked toward her future family. The flicker of surprise in some faces quickly gave way to anticipation and readiness, the importance of the moment sinking in for all present.

Rhaella rose first, her movements graceful and stately as she approached them. "Then let us not keep the realm waiting," she said, her voice steady, though there was a glimmer of pride in her gaze.

The others began to rise as well—Viserys smoothing the folds of his doublet, Daenerys adjusting the soft lavender of her gown, and the councillors murmuring softly amongst themselves as they prepared to depart. The Kingsguard, still stationed silently at the edges of the room, straightened as one, awaiting their king's command.

With a small nod to Margaery, Aemon turned toward the door once more. Together, they led their family and court out of the hall, the sound of footsteps filling the corridors as they made their way toward the beginning of a new chapter in the realm's history.

As Aemon and Margaery led the group out of the dining hall, the sound of boots and soft steps echoed in the corridors. The atmosphere was light, despite the significance of the upcoming ceremonies. However, Viserys soon caught up and began to walk alongside Aemon, a familiar smirk tugging at his lips.

"You look tense, brother," Viserys said, his tone light but teasing. "Relax. It's your wedding day, not an execution."

Aemon cast a glance at him, his expression calm but dry. "Some might say the two aren't so different."

"Oh, come now," Viserys replied, a glimmer of mischief in his lilac eyes. "You're about to be crowned king and married to one of the most beautiful women in Westeros. If you can't manage to smile today, there's no hope for you."

Margaery chuckled softly, looking between the two brothers. "I think he's just saving his energy for the crowds later," she said, her tone warm. "A proper kingly demeanor and all that."

Viserys scoffed. "Kingly demeanor? Please. If it were me, I'd already be practicing my wave and graciously accepting all the praise."

From a few steps ahead, Rhaella turned slightly, her voice firm but affectionate. "Viserys, leave your brother be. I'd like at least part of this day to pass without your usual commentary."

Daenerys, walking just beside her mother, smiled faintly and added, "If he stays quiet too long, he might burst."

That earned a quiet laugh from Aemon as they reached the stables, where the wheelhouses were being prepared. The polished wood of the carriages gleamed in the morning sunlight, and the horses, adorned in fine bridles, stomped impatiently as stable hands moved to ready the procession.

Viserys slowed his steps and leaned closer to Aemon, lowering his voice but keeping the playful edge. "Just remember," he said with a grin, "if it all becomes too much, Braavos is always an option."

Aemon shook his head, a small smile breaking through his otherwise composed demeanor. "Thank you, Viserys. Your confidence in me is inspiring."

With that, he turned to help Margaery step into their wheelhouse. She placed her hand lightly in his, offering him a reassuring smile as she settled inside. The rest of the family began boarding their own carriages, their movements brisk but calm. The Kingsguard took their positions, their gleaming armor catching the sunlight as they prepared to escort the royal family through the bustling streets of King's Landing.

As the wheelhouse door closed behind Aemon and Margaery, the noise of the Red Keep faded slightly, leaving them in a moment of stillness before the grandeur of the day unfolded fully. Aemon glanced at her, his hand resting lightly on Dark Sister's hilt.

"Ready?" he asked, his tone steady but kind.

Margaery met his gaze, her smile unwavering. "With you? Always."

The wheelhouses rolled steadily through the streets of King's Landing, their polished wood catching the sunlight as it climbed higher in the sky. The air vibrated with the energy of the crowd—cheers, chants, and applause rose in a deafening wave that seemed to ripple through the city. "Fire and Blood!" some cried, while others shouted Aemon's name, their voices blending into a thunderous celebration.

Above the procession, the massive forms of dragons glided across the sky, their shadows falling briefly over the jubilant crowds. The creatures roared, their calls echoing off the stone walls of the city, adding to the electrifying atmosphere. Whenever one swooped lower, the people erupted into louder cheers, some kneeling in awe, others throwing flower petals upward as if offering tribute.

The streets were adorned for the occasion, a dazzling display of color and pride. Black and red dragon banners hung from every balcony and pole, their fabric rippling in the breeze. The sigil of House Targaryen was painted on walls and etched into shields, a clear proclamation of loyalty. Alongside them, the golden rose banners of House Tyrell fluttered in unison, a vibrant green and gold accent to the otherwise fiery decor. Together, the banners symbolized a union the realm had not seen before.

Guards in Tyrell green and gold stood along the streets, their ranks disciplined and their polished armor gleaming in the sun. They held spears tipped with shining steel, their presence a reminder of the alliance being forged that day. Among the crowd, smallfolk waved strips of black, red, and green cloth, their makeshift flags catching the sunlight as flower petals rained down from balconies above.

The smell of roasted meats, fresh flowers, and the salt of the bay mingled in the air, creating an intoxicating blend that matched the sensory overload of the moment. Children perched on shoulders waved and cheered, their wide eyes fixed on the wheelhouses and the dragons above, while merchants called out offers of sweets, trinkets, and wine to mark the occasion.

Inside his wheelhouse, Aemon glanced out the window, his expression calm but thoughtful as he took in the overwhelming sight. The city he would soon call his own felt alive, beating with a unified energy. Margaery sat beside him, her soft smile unwavering as she too watched the streets, the cheers outside seeming to embolden her.

Aemon leaned back slightly, letting out a quiet breath. "You think they cheered this loudly for the usurper?" he said, his tone casual but edged with thought.

Margaery turned her head to look at him, her brows raising slightly in surprise before she smiled. "Maybe," she said lightly. "But does it matter? Today, they're cheering for you."

He looked at her, his violet eyes thoughtful. "They cheer for what they're told to cheer for. A king, a crown, a wedding—it's all just symbols to them."

Margaery reached out, resting her hand gently on his arm. "Maybe the symbols start it," she said softly. "But it's the king that gives them meaning. They cheer for you because they believe in you, Aemon. And you'll give them every reason to keep believing."

Aemon held her gaze for a moment before nodding, a small, almost imperceptible smile pulling at the corner of his lips. He turned his attention back to the window, watching as one of the dragons roared overhead, sending the crowd into a fresh frenzy of cheers and shouts.

Soon enough, the wheelhouses came to a halt outside the Great Sept of Baelor, its towering spires reaching toward the sky, gilded in the sunlight. The massive stone stairs leading up to the sept were lined with the Dragonguard in their suffocating black armor, their midnight cloaks swaying gently in the breeze. The steps themselves were adorned with petals of roses and dragon's bane, scattered as if nature itself were paying homage to the day's significance.

At the very top of the stairs stood the High Septon, his ornate robes shimmering with gold and silver embroidery, each thread catching the light. His face was serene, an expression of measured composure that seemed to radiate both holiness and authority. He held his staff lightly, its carved head resembling the Seven-Pointed Star.

As the doors to Aemon's wheelhouse opened, the sounds of cheering began to fade, replaced by an almost reverent quiet, as though the crowd sensed the importance of what was about to unfold. Aemon stepped out first, his posture tall and composed, Dark Sister hanging lightly at his side. Margaery followed, the sunlight catching on the gold accents of her gown as she descended gracefully onto the paved square.

She paused for a moment, her gaze fixed on the High Septon above them, before glancing at Aemon with a small, reassuring smile. "He looks smaller from down here."

Aemon let out a hearty chuckle. "I suppose he does," He playfully sighed, his grey eyes resting on the man at the top of the stairs.

Without hesitation, she began to ascend the stairs, her movements elegant yet purposeful. Her gown seemed to float with each step, the fabric swaying gently as she approached the man who would preside over their union and his coronation. Aemon quickly followed her as did his family and councillors.

The High Septon turned his gaze to both of them as they reached the top, his serene expression softening slightly. Margaery offered him a warm smile, her head dipping in a respectful bow. Aemon himself softly nodded, his eyes lingering on the jewels the Septon wore.

"Your Grace," the High Septon began, bowing his head lightly to Aemon before addressing Margaery with equal reverence. "And my lady. All is ready for the ceremonies within. Most of the lords of the realm have already taken their places inside the sept. The Seven themselves bear witness to the great union and coronation we are about to conduct."

Aemon inclined his head, his voice steady but respectful. "Thank you, High Septon. How shall we proceed?"

The High Septon gestured toward the wide doors behind him, his voice calm yet commanding as he explained. "Inside, the royal family will take their places closest to the altar. Your mother, Your Grace, and Princess Daenerys will stand to the left, while Prince Viserys will stand to your right. The queen's family, House Tyrell, will take their places along the opposite aisle. As for the... Dragonguard, they will remain stationed at the entrances and along the interior walls, maintaining their vigilance."

He turned slightly, his gaze softening as he looked toward Margaery. "My lady, you will stand with me as we begin, and I will guide you through the vows. The crown awaits on the altar alongside the symbols of the Seven, and both will be blessed in the sight of gods and men."

Margaery nodded, her expression poised yet warm as she responded. "Thank you, High Septon. It is an honor to stand before the gods on this day."

The High Septon returned her smile with the faintest nod before turning to Aemon again. "Once the ceremony begins, Your Grace, you will be called forward to kneel before the altar, where the crown will be placed upon your head. The vows will follow, binding both your rule and this union in the eyes of the Seven."

Aemon's gaze swept briefly across his family and his Dragonguard lining the stairs, a silent acknowledgment of the moment's gravity. "We are ready," he said simply, his tone firm.

The High Septon stepped aside, gesturing toward the wide-open doors of the Sept. "Then let us not delay. The Seven await."

With a glance at Margaery, Aemon offered her his arm, and together they began to ascend the final steps to the sept's grand entrance, their family and court following close behind.

The grand doors of the Great Sept of Baelor opened with a deep, resonant creak, revealing the stunning interior bathed in golden light from the massive stained-glass windows. The images of the Seven—Father, Mother, Warrior, Maiden, Crone, Smith, and Stranger—cast colorful reflections on the polished marble floors, creating an ethereal glow throughout the space. The sept was filled with lords, ladies, and courtiers from every corner of Westeros, their murmurs quieting to an expectant hush as Aemon and Margaery entered.

Aemon's family and the Tyrells followed behind, each taking their places in the designated areas as instructed by the High Septon. Aemon walked with measured steps, Dark Sister hanging at his side, his face composed but resolute. Margaery, by his side, moved with elegance, her gown flowing behind her as if she were already a queen.

The High Septon stood waiting at the altar, Aemon's crown resting on a velvet cushion before him, alongside the ceremonial items of the Seven. As Aemon approached, the High Septon gestured for him to kneel, his voice resonating through the silent sept.

"Before gods and men, we crown a new king," the High Septon intoned. His hands were steady as he lifted the crown, its beaten gold catching the light. With deliberate care, he placed it upon Aemon's brow. "Aemon of House Targaryen, first of your name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Protector of the Realm."

The hall erupted into cheers, a thunderous sound that reverberated through the sept. Aemon rose, the weight of the crown both literal and symbolic, and turned to face the gathered lords and ladies. Their applause was a deafening wave of loyalty and celebration.

The High Septon then turned his attention to Margaery, offering her a kind smile as he gestured for her to stand beside Aemon. "Today, we unite houses, faiths, and realms in a bond blessed by the Seven. Lady Margaery Tyrell, do you come to join your house to the crown, and to stand as queen in service of the realm?"

"I do," Margaery replied, her voice clear and steady.

The High Septon motioned for Aemon to take Margaery's hands in his, their fingers interlocking as the vows were spoken. Words of loyalty, partnership, and sacrifice echoed through the sept, a binding promise made in the sight of gods and men.

With the final vow uttered, Aemon removed his cloak that bore the sigil of House Targaryen upon it. Its silver and gold thread seemed to glint gracefully in the light, whereas the crimson of the dragon seemed to dance as the cloak billowed, making it look as if it were alive. He wrapped it around Margaery's exposed shoulders as she gave him a soft smile, her doe eyes dancing with joy in the light.

The High Septon then stepped forward once more, lifting the lighter, delicate queen's crown from its place. He placed it gently upon Margaery's head, a symbol of her new station. "Margaery of House Tyrell, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men," he declared.

The cheers rose again, filling the sept with a jubilant energy that swept through every corner. Aemon turned to Margaery, offering her a small, warm smile. As his hands still held Margaery's, he gazed into her eyes, his expression composed yet softened by the warmth he found there.

"You may seal your union, Your Grace," the High Septon intoned, stepping back slightly as the gathered lords and ladies leaned forward in anticipation.

Without hesitation, Aemon tilted his head toward Margaery, his grip on her hands steady. She lifted her face to meet him, her radiant smile lingering as he leaned in and pressed his lips to hers. The kiss was not long, but it was heartfelt, witnessed by gods and men alike.

The crowd erupted into cheers once more, their voices filling the grand sept and spilling out into the streets beyond. Flower petals rained down from above, a blessing cast from balconies high in the sept's towering arches. The dragons roared above, their cries piercing the heavens as if heralding the moment in a language only they could speak.

As Aemon pulled back, Margaery's smile widened, her cheeks faintly flushed. She gave his hands a slight squeeze, a silent reassurance that they stood together in this new chapter. Turning together to face the crowd, they stepped forward, the king and queen united in the eyes of both gods and the realm. The lords and ladies rose to their feet, their applause echoing through the hallowed halls as Aemon and Margaery embraced the future laid before them.

---

The great hall was alive with celebration, the night deepening as the candles burned lower and the air grew heavier with the scent of spiced wine and roasted meats. Aemon sat at the high table, his goblet in hand, the warmth of the wine loosening his usual composure. Yet, even in his half-drunken state, his grey eyes remained somewhat sharp, scanning the room as scenes of revelry played out before him.

Down at one end of the hall, Viserys was locked in a fierce arm-wrestling contest with Oberyn Martell. The table beneath them creaked ominously, and coins exchanged hands as wagers were made. Arianne Martell, her dark hair cascading over one shoulder, leaned close to Viserys, cheering her husband on with fiery encouragement. "You've got him! Show him the strength of a dragon!" she exclaimed, her laughter cutting through the noise. Opposite her, Elaria Sand clapped for Oberyn, her grin wide and mischievous as she leaned into him. "Don't let him win, love. Not in front of everyone!"

Aemon's gaze shifted to another corner of the hall where Daenerys sat with Aurane Waters. The young lord leaned close, his lips moving as he whispered something softly in her ear. Whatever he said drew a deep blush to her cheeks, her fingers tightening slightly around his hand. She looked down briefly, her smile shy yet unmistakably pleased. It was a quiet moment amidst the louder revelry, one that made Aemon's lips curl faintly in amusement.

Further along, Robb and Benjen Stark were deep in conversation with Jon Connington and Randyll Tarly. The Northerners, with their steady, grounded presence, seemed an unlikely pairing with the stern and methodical Connington and the rigid, unyielding Tarly. Yet their heads were close, their expressions serious as they exchanged words that Aemon could only guess were of strategy and alliances. Even amidst a feast, it seemed, some matters couldn't be put aside.

Nearby, Olenna Tyrell sat with Varys and Illyrio Mopatis, their faces unreadable but clearly engrossed in a tense discussion. Aemon could guess the topic without hearing their words: money, trade, and the logistics that underpinned power. Their quiet, sharp exchanges stood out in the midst of the feast's chaos, a reminder of the calculating minds that shaped the realm's future.

Beside him, Margaery laughed brightly, her mirth spilling over as she leaned into her mother's shoulder while her father gestured animatedly, recounting some tale that had both women in stitches. Next to Mace, Loras and Garlan joined in with the japes as they mostly made light-hearted fun of one another and their over-embellished father. Though Aemon held Margaery's hand, her focus was elsewhere, caught up in the family warmth she so easily radiated. He didn't mind—her happiness was enough for him, even if he sat somewhat apart from it.

His eyes moved again, settling this time on his mother, Rhaella, who sat not far away. She was in conversation with Bonifer Hasty, the reserved knight's usually somber demeanor softened by a genuine smile as Rhaella said something that made him chuckle. It was a rare sight and one that brought a quiet satisfaction to Aemon's chest.

Finally, his attention was drawn to Jaime Lannister, seated with his brother Tyrion. Jaime's golden hair gleamed faintly in the candlelight as he leaned toward Tyrion, whose animated gestures and sharp wit seemed to dominate their exchange. Aemon noted the faint smile tugging at Jaime's lips—a rare and genuine expression as he reconnected with the brother he hadn't seen in years.

Aemon turned his attention back to Margaery, lifting her hand to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to it. She turned briefly to smile at him, her laughter still lingering in her voice, before returning to her conversation. Aemon set his goblet down and rose to his feet, his crown glinting faintly in the firelight.

"I'll be back," he said quietly to Margaery, who nodded, her hand briefly brushing his arm in acknowledgment. Arthur and Barristan, who stood behind him, moved to follow as he descended from the high table, their white cloaks trailing behind them. Ser Richard remained behind, a silent sentinel beside the queen.

The great hall seemed to shift slightly as Aemon moved through the crowd, the presence of the Dragonguard stationed at intervals along the walls a quiet but unwavering reminder of the authority he carried. Around him, the feast roared on, but his focus was on the Lannister brothers ahead.

Aemon moved through the lively feast, his steps heavier than usual. Tyrion turned first, glancing up with a curious tilt of his head, his sharp eyes taking in the approaching king.

Jaime straightened, offering a subtle nod. "Your Grace."

Aemon nodded in return, letting his gaze settle on Tyrion. "Lord Tyrion, it seems this is the first time we've had the chance to meet."

Tyrion gave a small, theatrical bow of his head, his tone wry. "Indeed, it is, Your Grace. And may I just say, what an extraordinary feat it must be to plan a wedding, a coronation, and the downfall of the Lannisters all at once. You're a man of many talents."

Aemon took a seat across from them, his expression calm. "I imagine the tales of my hand in your family's downfall grow with every telling," he said lightly, taking a sip of his wine. "Though Oberyn Martell played a far greater role in your father's end."

Tyrion shrugged, leaning back slightly in his chair. "True enough. Oberyn may have wielded the blade, but it was you who brought my father to his knees in the first place." He paused, his voice softening slightly. "That said, I can't say I'm particularly aggrieved about it. Tywin Lannister may have been my father, but I never considered him much of a parent. And my sister…" He trailed off, swirling the wine in his goblet. "Well, let's just say I'm not shedding any tears for her either."

Jaime's jaw tightened, and he shot his brother a warning look. "Tyrion."

"You know, Jaime," he started, his tone light but edged with meaning, "Father never wanted me to take over Casterly Rock. I was the last resort, the option he was forced into when you left for Essos and pledged yourself to Aemon."

Jaime's expression tightened, his golden brows furrowing. "He wanted the Rock to stay in the family. That's what mattered to him."

Tyrion chuckled softly, swirling the wine in his goblet. "Oh, don't be naive. He wanted the Rock to stay in *his* image—his legacy. And when you were gone, he didn't have much of a choice, did he? He wasn't grooming me out of love or admiration, Jaime. He long thought of me as dead, in his own way. I was the only option left."

Jaime looked away for a moment, his jaw set as he absorbed his brother's words. "That's not fair," he muttered, though his voice lacked conviction.

"It's not about fairness," Tyrion replied, the faint smirk fading as his tone grew quieter. "He hated me. We both know that. But I could live with that as I had done all my life. What I couldn't live with was the fact that he thought you were as good as dead. I thought him a cold-hearted bastard when I realized, and I wanted to cut his heart out and see if it was made of old hard gold, as all the smallfolk say. Yet, I did nothing."

Tyrion raised an eyebrow at Jaime but offered no further explanation, a faint smirk playing on his lips. Aemon's gaze flicked between them, reading the tension before continuing.

"Your father was a formidable man," Aemon said carefully. "But his ambition drove him to stand against me, and he paid the price for it. As for Cersei… her choices were her own, and they led her to where she stood."

Tyrion raised his goblet in a mock toast. "Fairly said, Your Grace. But speaking of Lannisters, what of my nephew, Joffrey? I hear he's not exactly enjoying the comforts of the Red Keep these days. What do you plan to do with him?"

Aemon set his goblet down, his expression firm but measured. "Joffrey is no true son of Robert Baratheon. He is a bastard born of Cersei and a... former Kingsguard, Arys Oakheart, I believe his name was. The realm must see the truth, and he will face a trial to prove he has no claim to the throne. Once that truth is known, I'll have him sent away."

Tyrion tilted his head, studying Aemon closely. "And what does 'sent away' mean, exactly? You don't plan to… do away with him, I assume?"

Aemon shook his head. "No. He's a boy who has been shaped by circumstances beyond his control. I won't kill him, but he cannot remain here. His presence in King's Landing would only sow unrest."

Tyrion leaned forward slightly, his tone thoughtful. "If I may, Your Grace, why not send him to Casterly Rock? It's far from the capital, far from the throne, and under my care, perhaps he might find a chance to be better than he is."

Jaime, who had been silent for some time, finally spoke, his voice quieter but resolute. "If Joffrey is sent to the Rock, maybe he can change. He's still just a boy."

Aemon considered Tyrion's suggestion, his grey eyes steady. "You'd take responsibility for him?"

Tyrion smiled faintly, the edges of his wit softening. "I've survived worse company, Your Grace. Perhaps the Rock will provide him a place to learn, away from the throne and its temptations."

Jaime, his annoyance still lingering, finally spoke, his voice quieter but pointed. "If Joffrey is sent to Casterly Rock, perhaps it isn't too late for him to change."

Aemon nodded, rising to his feet with a faint smile. "It's worth considering. I'll give it thought once the trial has concluded." He rose from his seat then, offering the brothers a faint smile before turning to leave. "Thank you, Lord Tyrion, Ser Jaime."

As Aemon returned to the high table, Arthur and Barristan fell into step behind him, the noise of the feast rising once again to fill the hall. As he approached, he could feel Margaery's gaze upon him before she excused herself and came to meet him in the middle of the hall, Ser Richard following her.

"Aemon," she smiled as she stood before him, taking his rough hands in her own. "What did the Lannister want?"

"Oh, he wanted to know what I planned to do with Joffrey." He replied, his gaze meeting hers. "He thinks I should send him to Casterly Rock."

"And you trust him?"

"No more than I trust the Baratheons, but he seems a decent man. So long as Joffrey is out of King's Landing, I care not where he ends up."

"That's a very cavalier attitude to all of this...perhaps, you could send him Horn Hill. Lord Tarly will make a man of him."

"I need Lord Tarly here, Margaery, as you know." Aemon sighed, the weariness in his eyes becoming apparent to him. "We can speak more about this on the morrow. For now, perhaps it's time we leave them all to the feast and make our own memories."

"Oh?" she replied, her tone teasing but warm. "And what would you suggest, Your Grace?"

Aemon's smile widened, his gaze lingering on her as he leaned in just a fraction closer. "I suggest we retire," he said, his voice dipping into something softer, more intimate. "It is, after all, our first night as husband and wife. Surely the realm can spare us for a few hours."

Margaery laughed softly, her cheeks faintly flushed, though whether from the wine or his words, it was hard to tell. "You're half-drunk," she said, though there was no reproach in her tone—only affection.

"Half-drunk," Aemon agreed, his grin turning roguish. "But entirely serious."

She studied him for a moment, her smile lingering before she gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "Very well, my king," she said, her voice light but carrying a hint of mischief. "Let's leave them to their revelry."

Aemon seductively smiled, his grey eyes sparkling with excitement, before he led her from the hall. The hall barely noticed their departure amidst the revelry, though a few knowing smiles followed them as they slipped away. His Kingsguard followed, each of them sharing knowing glances behind their armets.

The halls of the Red Keep were quieter at this late hour, the distant sounds of the feast fading into an echo as Aemon and Margaery walked side by side. Aemon's steps were steady, though the warmth of the wine lingered in his movements, making them just slightly more relaxed than his usual composed stride. His grey eyes flickered toward Margaery, her soft laughter still playing in his ears from earlier at the high table.

They moved slowly, savoring the quiet moment away from the noise and grandeur of the festivities. The light from the torches lining the walls cast long, warm shadows across the stone floors.

As they passed a wide window overlooking King's Landing, Aemon paused, drawing Margaery gently toward him to admire the view. The city stretched out before them, the dim lights of the streets sparkling like stars below. The faint roar of dragons overhead reminded them of the power that dwelled within their family and their reign.

Aemon turned his gaze to Margaery, his voice soft yet tinged with a teasing warmth. "Shall we make this a night worth remembering, my queen?" he said, the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

Margaery chuckled, tilting her head to meet his gaze. "You seem very sure of yourself," she replied, her tone playful. "Though I suppose it is our duty to mark the start of this union properly."

Aemon laughed softly, leaning in just enough to whisper, "And properly, I intend to."

With that, they resumed their walk, their footsteps echoing faintly through the empty halls as they continued toward their chambers. The Dragonguard stood vigil along the corridors, their black armor gleaming in the light, but their presence felt distant to the two young lovers who were now infatuated with one another.

When they reached the heavy, ornate doors leading to their chambers, Aemon paused briefly, his hand resting on the handle. He turned to Margaery, his voice quieter now but full of affection. "Are you sure? We don't have to-"

"Shush, Aemon." Margaery smiled, her finger silencing his lips. "I want to."

Aemon turned to his three Kingsguard, each of them watching him with amused glances. "You can go about your business or whatever you need to do." He smiled, clearing his throat.

"We'll be nearby, just in case." Barristan nodded, "Enjoy your night, Your Graces." He said, beckoning his two sworn brothers to follow him. Aemon watched as they made their way down the hall, their metallic footsteps stopping just a few doors down from Aemon's own.

With that, the doors opened, and the world outside faded entirely as they stepped into the privacy of their chambers. As the door closed behind the star-crossed lovers, Aemon smiled to see his chambers already warm and comfortable, as a roaring fire was already burning. Candles also dominated the room, illuminating the soft silks of his tempting bed.

He leaned against the door as he took the sight in before Margaery turned to him, a seductive smile playing on her soft lips. He took in the sight of her as she slowly walked toward him, each step deliberate. The gentle candlelight highlighted each beautiful feature she possessed, and Aemon could not help but be impressed.

"You look like the Maiden herself." He whispered as she came within inches of his face.

Margaery didn't answer with words. Instead, she leaned in, her lips brushing his in a kiss that was both tender and deliberate. Aemon's hand found her waist, steadying her as the weight of the day seemed to melt away in that single, quiet moment. She pulled away and removed the crown from his head, placing it on a nearby chest of drawers.

"You won't be needing this," she murmured as her hands soon found his chest, her gentle fingers tracing down the black thread that composed his tunic.

Aemon pulled her in for another heartfelt kiss, this time opening his mouth to allow her tongue to explore it. Their tongues danced together in a fight for dominance as her delicate hands ran up his chest and found their way to the black curls atop his head. After a few more moments, Aemon pulled away from their kiss, his gaze meeting hers with lust within his eyes.

Margaery smiled as she undid the belt that held Darl Sister against his waist, the revered blade dropping to the floor as she finished. She soon led him by the hand toward the bed, their soft footfalls echoing around the large chamber. She sat gracefully on the edge of the bed as Aemon knelt before her, a faint smile tugging at the edge of his lips.

Taking her foot gently in his hands, he began to unfasten her shoes, removing them one by one. Margaery tilted her head slightly, her eyes meeting his with a soft, knowing warmth as he placed her gilded shoes to the side with care.

Aemon looked up at her, his gaze lingering, the faint haze of wine adding a touch of vulnerability to his usual composure. "Your Grace," he murmured teasingly, "it seems even the queen deserves a moment of indulgence."

Margaery chuckled softly, her hand brushing his lightly as she replied, "I think the king-"

Aemon cut her words off with his mouth as he pushed her down toward the bed slowly. Their tongues danced together once more as Margaery's hands began to unbutton Aemon's tunic, revealing the pale skin that hid beneath before Aemon removed it altogether, his toned torso flickering in the swaying candlelight.

Margaery stared at him for a moment, taking in the sight before her. Without a second thought, she wrapped her arms around his neck, "Come to me, my dragon," she whispered, as she kissed him once more.

Aemon failed to linger on her lips, however, and began to place soft kisses on the side of her neck, eliciting gentle moans from her mouth. He could taste the scented soaps she used when she bathed, whereas his nose was filled with the scent of lavender, one of her favorite scents to wear. His lips found their way down her neck and to the center of her chest, his hands unbuttoning the golden-rosed waistcoat she wore atop her adorned gown. It fell gently around her sides, spreading like the wings of an eagle as Aemon began to unlace what remained in the way of what he sought, his lips still finding their way down his wife's chest.

Soon enough, the gown fell away like the morning rain on cold glass as Aemon pulled what remained from her, revealing Margaery's soft and delicate breasts. Aemon gave pause so he could marvel upon what he saw, and within his own trousers, he could feel his sex rising with every second he took her in. "You look amazing," he whispered, a small smile appearing at the corner of his lips.

Margaery smirked in return, her hands running across his pale chest and around his neck in a gentle motion. She pulled him closer, willing him to continue kissing her neck and her now exposed breasts. As his tongue found its way around her chest and on her stiffened nipples, she felt pinned down and helpless, and a little breathless beneath his bulk. Her thoughts were soon dismissed, however, when Aemon began to place gentle bites on the most sensitive areas of her chest.

Moans of pleasure began to fill the confines of the young king's chambers, as sudden ecstasy bounced off the decorated walls. Aemon smiled as he listened, a clear sign that what he was doing was correct and pleasurable. It wasn't long before she almost instinctively began to reach down and unfasten his trousers, revealing the white underclothes that were hidden there. Aemon stopped kissing her chest, allowing her to fully strip him of whatever small clothes remained, tearing him down to his most vulnerable.

For a moment, she took the sight in, watching as his cock twitched gently up and down with excitement and wonder. Yet as she looked up, she could see a question playing on his mind as he looked at her, his grey eyes sparkling yet curious. "Is everything alright, Aemon?" She asked, her tone calming.

Aemon embarrassingly smiled, his eyes glancing at the soft pillows beside her. "I have never... done anything like this before." He admitted, his voice cracking slightly.

Margaery softly smiled, running a finger down from the tip of his length to the base, his features wincing slightly at the sensitivity of it all. "I can... show you what to do... if you'd like."

Aemon slowly nodded, his eyes meeting hers for an intimate moment before she gestured for him to get off the top of her. Aemon quickly complied and, with wide puppy eyes, watched her stand up. Her dress still clung to her waist as she did so before she turned to her husband, a small smirk playing on her lips. "Are you just going to watch me, or are you going to help me get out of this thing?" She asked, her voice amused.

Aemon never said a word and stood up himself, eager to do as he was bid. He first unfastened the ties that clung to her waist before he watched with quiet anticipation as the dress fell to her feet with a soft thud on the stone floor. She turned to face him, her eyes meeting his as she stood in her small clothes, her small yet delicate breasts still exposed to the cold night air that lingered in the king's chamber.

Her arms wrapped around his neck once more as she tenderly kissed him. She could feel his member prodding gently against her stomach, leaving small glistening marks of lust upon it. "Now," she whispered, her voice full of affection, "get rid of what remains."

Aemon glanced downwards at what remained. The white silk of the final undergarment loomed back at him like a great enemy he was bound to vanquish. Yet, as he looked, he could see a small patch of wetness already formed, staining the white silk with a splotch of grey. Aemon, with the memory of some of the more embarrassing lessons from his grandmother growing up, knew what this meant. Excitement. With a deft motion, he removed the undergarment, revealing her wet and hot sex.

Smiling, she took him by the hand and led him to the edge of the bed once more. They sat down together, their hands still intertwined as they looked upon one another with equal measures of lust and desire. Without another word, Aemon pushed her down on the bed with a gentle kiss to her mouth. He climbed on top of her, feeling her soft skin against his hardened own before he began to run his lips and tongue down her neck and chest once more.

However, he went much further down this time, his curiosity piqued. Within seconds, his face was only a few inches from her wetness, and with untamable wonder, his tongue soon began to taste what was spread before him. Margaery herself was not entirely sure what he was doing or where he had learnt such a thing from, but she found it hard to complain as the only moans that escaped her lips were ones of ecstasy.

Her hands ran through his black curls as her moans grew louder in the chamber, her voice echoing off the walls that surrounded them once more. After a few moments, Aemon stopped and looked up at her, his lips wet and his eyes intense. She looked at him almost disapprovingly for stopping, as he obviously did not know enough to continue what made her feel so much pleasure. "You wish to know what to do next?" She asked, her voice soft.

"I have an...idea of what to do," Aemon smirked, grabbing his throbbing length with one hand and giving it a gentle stroke.

"You just have to... put it in, so to say," Margaery whispered as she grabbed his cock and aimed it for where she knew he needed to put it.

Slowly, but surely, Aemon guided his cock into the inviting warmth of her sex. Soon enough, the heat enveloped him, and before he knew it, he could feel the tightness of her insides pulsating around his excitement. The young king could see his wife wince as he entered, her eyes narrowing tightly as her lip trembled. A small moan escaped her mouth, yet he knew not if it was one of pleasure or pain.

"I can... stop... if it hurts." He breathed, his eyes watching her face contort and crumple ever so slightly.

She breathlessly smiled. "No... It's normal, Aemon... just keep doing what you're doing."

Aemon complied and began with gentle thrusts in and out, his eyes watching Margaery the whole while for any signs of unbearable discomfort. He could feel her tightness enclose around him as her hands gently grasped the silk sheets of their bed. Even he found it slightly uncomfortable until suddenly the discomfort disappeared, Margaery yelping as soon as it did.

Aemon stopped immediately, thinking he had done something wrong and hurt her in some way. "Is... are you alright?" He breathed, his tone concerned.

"I'm fine, Aemon, it's normal... it'll be easier now." She replied, her eyes willing him on.

Once again, Aemon began to thrust in and out, quickening his pace as he did so. He could feel her beginning to expand around his cock, almost as if she was molding herself fit his moderate size. His breaths became shorter as he rested his hand on her stomach, her own hand meeting his as their fingers interlocked, their gazes shared with eyes that were filled with lust for one another. Her brown hair fell across her face and cascaded down her shoulders, as her legs wrapped around his waist, keeping him where he was for better or for worse.

All of a sudden, the young dragon could feel a release of excitement building, and with one final push, he finished deep inside of her, their yells of ecstasy echoing off the chamber walls around them. He collapsed into her as her arms came around him, embracing him as only a lover could. Their skin glistened with youthful sweat and lust in the soft candlelight as they lay there, still, save for the heavy breathing they shared.

Her soft fingers traced his warm back for a moment as his breathing calmed. For the moment, the world around them melted away as if nothing else mattered; no thrones, dragons, or wars seemed to matter except for them and the peace they shared in that dimly lit chamber. Aemon soon leant up, the soft mattress shifting slightly under his weight, his grey eyes meeting Margaery's

"I've never... felt that before." He admitted, his voice weary. He glanced downward at his now soft penis, remnants of his own excretion and Margaery's blood lingering on it. "I'm sorry if I hurt you."

Margaery gently smiled as she ran a finger across the base of his stomach. "It's fine, Aemon, what happened is normal, surely you know that."

Aemon nodded, his memory recalling the ladies' maidenheads and how important it was to the lords of the realm. "I know," He sighed, his exhaustion evident.

Margaery moved her legs that had wrapped around his waist and stood up from the bed. She walked to wear a soft cloth that rested next to a basin, and after dipping it in some water, she cleaned away what remained near her still-glistening sex. She turned a threw the cloth at Aemon, watching as he cleaned his most sensitive areas before she walked back and climbed back into the bed next to him, the silk and fur covers wrapping around both of them as she moved closer to her husband.

Aemon glanced sideways at Margaery, his arms wrapping around her as he pulled her close. Her hair, usually so meticulously arranged, now fell loosely over her shoulders, and for once, she looked less like the poised queen and more like someone simply in need of rest.

"You handled today well," Aemon said, his voice soft, the usual teasing edge absent. "The realm is fortunate to have you."

Margaery's lips curved into a faint smile as her eyes glanced upward at him. "It seems I've little choice but to handle what comes my way," she replied, her tone lighter than her words. "Though I'm beginning to suspect you enjoy testing my limits."

Aemon chuckled, shaking his head slightly. "Not intentionally. But I do admire how you rise to every occasion. Even when the day involves marriage, a coronation, and the High Septon's endless speeches."

Margaery let out a small laugh, shaking her head. "If that's the worst of what we'll deal with, we might survive this reign after all."

"Surviving today feels like its own victory," Aemon replied with a faint smile.

For a moment, they lay in silence, the room bathed in the faint glow of the dying fire. Then Margaery turned her head slightly, her voice quiet but filled with conviction. "Today was a beginning, Aemon. A messy, unexpected one, but a beginning nonetheless."

He looked at her, the corners of his mouth lifting in a faint smile. "We'll make it work," he said simply, his voice steady.

She nodded, her eyes already beginning to close. "We'd better."

And with that, the two of them let the exhaustion take over, their minds too weary to dwell on anything but the promise of rest and the battles yet to come.

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A/N: Thanks for reading yet again, it means a lot. Sincerest apologies for the sex scene lol, but I have a lot of things planned that stem from this point, so I felt it was necessary. I was gonna put a warning in there, but I rated this mature for a reason, I'm afraid. Again, many thanks for reading, and I hope to have another chapter out this time next week. I adore you all x