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The Following 16 Chapters are available for Patrons.
Chapter 65 (A Dragon of House Targaryen), Chapter 66 (A Threat or Salvation), Chapter 67 (Cannibal, The Wild Dragon), Chapter 68 (Daenerys, The Dragon Princess), Chapter 69 (A Golden Flower), Chapter 70 (Tears of Direwolves), Chapter 71 (A Stark Without A Direwolf), Chapter 72 (A Princess's Night), Chapter 73 (A Direwolf's Blood), Chapter 74 (Morning and Rhaenys), Chapter 75 (A Song of Dragons), Chapter 76 (Leaving Harrenhal), Chapter 77 (The Horn of Winter), Chapter 78 (An Innocent Boy), Chapter 79 (The Faith of The Seven), and Chapter 80 (A Dance in The Sky) are already available for Patrons.
As the first rays of the sun kissed the horizon, Aemon stepped onto the training ground at Harrenhal, ready to hone his skills. With his sword in hand, he commenced his daily routine of practicing his moves against his straw-filled opponent, repeating the four motions of a stab, a swing, sidestep to the right, and then another swing in an almost mechanical fashion.
The sound of metal against straw echoed through the courtyard as Aemon's swift and precise movements seemed to blend into the already bustling atmosphere of the castle, which had just recently begun springing back to life. The warm breeze of the early morning rejuvenated him, and with each swing and thrust, he felt his muscles loosen, and his mind sharpen.
He had gotten used to waking up early a long time ago; in Winterfell, he always woke up early to either work or take something from the kitchen when no one was looking; when he used to live with the free folk, there everyone would wake early in the morning to hunt food for breakfast. Yet, in all those years, he had not subjected his body to the strain of recent days.
It had been a fortnight since their arrival in Harrenhal; the jousting would be today; Knights and lords from all over the Seven Kingdoms had gathered to witness this grand spectacle and compete for glory and honor. The bustling energy of the castle was infectious, from the clanging of armor to the neighing of horses, as everyone eagerly prepared for the day's events. With the promise of fierce competition and the chance to witness legendary feats of strength and skill, the jousting tournament was sure to be a highlight of their stay in Harrenhal.
His heart was beating so hard that he could feel it pounding in his throat, and he wasn't sure how to feel about today. Despite the uncertainty, Aemon knew that he was as prepared as he could be.
As he delivered another forceful strike and thrust toward the wooden training target, the sound of wood and straw colliding echoed throughout the place. With every powerful swing, small puffs of straw exploded from every corner of the bag that was tightly tied around the sturdy wooden post. Despite the physical exertion, the young warrior's movements were becoming increasingly fluid and precise. However, as he continued to channel his rage into each movement, his steps began to reflect the intensity of his emotions.
With beads of sweat trickling down his forehead, Aemon picked up his training sword for the umpteenth time, determined to perfect his swings. He swung the sword with such force that it almost knocked him off balance, but to his dismay, the second swing pushed too far, causing him to lose his footing.
Frustrated, he attempted to thrust the sword forward, but it missed its mark and left him feeling disheartened. Gathering his wits, he tried to reposition himself to the right and swing once more, hoping to hit the training dummy dead on this time. As he swung, the weapon felt heavy in his hand, and the force caused it to shake violently, ultimately launching it out of his grip and sending it flying across the place.
"Seven Hells!" Aemon exclaimed with exhaustion, falling lazily onto the ground.
As he stood there, panting and sweating profusely, the hard, cold stone beneath his feet provided a welcome respite from the crushing heat that had built up in his body. It was a feeling he was all too familiar with - the result of exerting himself to the limit in training, fighting the straw dummy with all his might. And as he leaned against the cool stone, catching his breath and wiping the sweat from his brow.
As Aemon rose from the dusty ground, his muscles aching from the grueling training session, he reached out to retrieve his wooden training sword, feeling the rough texture of the handle under his calloused fingers. Suddenly, his ears perked up to the sound of rustling leaves coming from the lush foliage surrounding the grand courtyard, causing him to tense up in anticipation.
Had the men-at-arms already come to the practice? 'No, it's still far too early for that.'' he thought. Yet his question was soon answered by the small clump of dark hair peeking out from behind a set of boxes.
"I suppose you think you're being sneaky, don't you?" Aemon said with yet another sigh.
Arya reacted quickly; he had to give her that, at least. But scurrying back behind the boxes did little to hide her from Aemon; in truth, he might not have even noticed his sister if it weren't for her shadow and Nymeria standing a meter away from Arya. After a long moment of silence, Arya stepped out.
"Are you mad again?" Arya's question pierced through the silence as she walked closer to him, her faithful direwolf Nymeria following closely behind her. The girl offered a small piece of meat to her direwolf, who devoured it in a single second before affectionately licking Arya's hand, eliciting a playful giggle from the young girl.
"Why would I be mad?" As he spoke these words, he picked up the wooden practice sword and slowly approached his little sister.
The air was tense as Arya poked her head out from behind the makeshift training dummy, her bright grey eyes reminiscent of her father's.
"Because the dummy's bleeding faster than a pig with its throat cut," she retorted, a slight grin tugging at the corners of her mouth as she braced herself for Aemon's response.
"Very observant," Aemon commented with a raised eyebrow, impressed by his sister's keen attention to detail.
"I suppose Robb taught you that line?" he inquired, curious about the source of her newfound knowledge.
To his surprise, she shook her head and revealed, "No, a butcher's boy told me about it. Apparently, pigs tend to bleed faster because they possess larger veins in comparison to other animals."
The peculiar information took aback Aemon, but he couldn't help but appreciate his sister's inquisitive nature. He pondered why she would be interested in such a topic but decided to put that thought aside for the moment, settling himself comfortably on the front row of boxes.
Arya eventually found a spot beside Aemon.
"Now, why are you up so early?" Arya, who was lost in her thoughts, absentmindedly started playing with a knife that Val had given her, twirling it between her fingers.
She paused momentarily, glancing at Aemon, and replied, "I could ask you the same, but I prefer to enjoy the quiet moments before the sun rises." She then shifted her focus to Nymeria, who was lying beside her, basking in the warmth of the morning sun. Arya gently stroked Nymeria's neck, feeling the soft fur beneath her fingertips, and smiled as the wolf purred contentedly.
"That's not important, bis sister. Is there something bothering you?" Aemon asked protectively; Arya went quiet. Despite her initial reluctance to speak up, Arya couldn't help but fiddle with the small knife in her hands, twirling it around her fingers absentmindedly. As she did so, she looked around at the grass beneath her toes, feeling the gentle tickle of the blades as they brushed against her skin.
"Well, the jousting will start within an hour, and after breaking our fast, f-father said, he spoke to us as if he was going somewhere." Arya's voice cracked the more she spoke; Aemon put his arm around her shoulder, bringing her closer to him as tears rolled down her cheeks.
"J-Jon, our father will never leave us. Things will always stay like they are now. Right?" Arya finished, leaning against Jon's shoulder; Jon's eyes, brimming with guilt, averted from her gaze as though he was avoiding a volcanic eruption. He felt woefully inadequate, lost for words to soothe her anguish. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't find the right combination of words to ease her pain. He knew that any words that came out of his mouth would be nothing more than hollow falsehoods, devoid of meaning and unable to provide the comfort she needed.
His hand slowly moved towards her hair as if it had a mind of its own. As his fingers reached the top of her hair, he playfully ruffled it, causing Arya to let out a joyful giggle that echoed throughout the place. Her laughter was infectious, and he couldn't help but smile at the sound of it. Her face lit up with joy once again, and he couldn't help but feel grateful for the simple gesture of ruffling her hair.
"I don't know the future, Arya. None of us can predict the future, but what I do know is that you will always be my sister. Through thick and thin, through the good times and the bad, I will stick by your side and be there for you whenever you need me, no matter how much things may change."As Jon spoke, Arya couldn't help but feel a sense of comfort and reassurance wash over her. She wiped away the tears that had been streaming down her face and looked at her brother with gratitude in her heart.
"Thank you, Jon," she whispered, her voice choked with emotion, "I don't know what I would do without you."Without another word, Arya threw herself at Jon with all the force of an arrow, wrapping her arms around him in a tight embrace.
"Jon, you're even better than Robb." Jon chuckled, a warm smile spreading across his face as he ruffled her hair. It used to bother Arya when he did that, but now she found comfort in the familiar gesture. As they embraced, Nymeria ambled over and licked her face affectionately, sensing her owner's need for comfort.
Jon couldn't help but grin mischievously as Arya pulled away from the hug before giggling at his words. "Don't let him hear you," he japed, his voice low and playful.
Arya rolled her eyes at him, but there was a hint of amusement twinkling in her own. "You sound just like father," Arya commented, the words causing a pang of sadness to rip through Jon's chest.
Silence fell over them, but it wasn't an awkward one. It was a comfortable silence, one that spoke of the deep bond between them. As Arya petted Nymeria, Jon couldn't help but feel grateful for this moment.
"Who will you crown as Queen of Love and Beauty?" Arya suddenly asked sheepishly, her voice hushed and hesitant, her eyes fixed on the ground as she nervously rolled a small rock back and forth with the tip of her boot; Jon arched an eyebrow in surprise, his thoughts drifting to Sansa, who he had expected to be the one to ask such a question. But as he looked upon Arya's face, he could see a glint of mischief in her eyes.
With a small smile, Jon decided to play along, his own mischievous streak coming to the surface. "Well, let's see," he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "I think I would have to give it to Theon."Arya let out a small giggle, shaking her head in amusement. "But what about the ladies? Who would you choose for them?"
"Why?" Jon asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm, the words echoing through the empty courtyard as he stood there with arms crossed, waiting for an answer that didn't seem to come. Arya's silence seemed only to fuel his amusement as he grew a playful smirk on his face, the corners of his lips turning up in a mischievous grin, his deep grey eyes sparkling with mischief.
Finally, unable to contain his curiosity any longer, he broke the silence with another question, "Do you want to be the Queen of Love and Beauty?" a mischievous glint sparkled in his eye. The teasing tone of his voice caused a sudden rush of warmth to flood Arya's cheeks, igniting a deep red blush that spread across her face like wildfire before she quickly glared at him. Her reaction only seemed to amuse Jon further, and he erupted into a fit of laughter.
"Stupid, Stupid, Stupid," Arya said, still blushing, while slapping Jon's shoulder as Jon laughed even more at his little sister's antics; after a good minute of laughter and Arya slapping his shoulder, Aemon calmed himself.
"Why not? I think you would look like a proper Lady with the crown in your head," Jon japed; Arya glared at him furiously, the same way she does whenever Theon opens his mouth and says anything.
"I will burn that crown right in front of everyone." Arya threatened with an intense gaze, Jon burst out laughing, he could already imagine her doing that, and he knew she would actually do it and wouldn't care in the slightest how that would make her and House Stark look.
"Just jokes, Arya. I will crown someone else," Jon said with a smile, his voice laced with a hint of playfulness as he rubbed his shoulder with a bright smile, trying to ease the tension that had built up between them. Despite his efforts, Arya still looked like she wanted to murder him, her cheeks flushing with anger and embarrassment. Jon knew he had pushed her a little too far this time, but he couldn't help himself.
To his relief, Arya looked at him and exhaled, the tension in her body easing as she sat down beside him. For a moment, they sat there in silence, neither of them knowing what to say.
"How are things with you and Val?" Arya asked, hoping to change the silly topic, looking at the pointy end of her knife; despite looking at her blade, Aemon knew she was paying attention to him.
She's carrying my child, Jon thought with a bright smile. He knew he would soon become a father, a part of him felt a little anxious about it, but the bigger part couldn't wait to see his child's eyes looking back at him, and he prayed to the old gods that Val would live.
"Good. Me and Val love each other. I like her fierce personality; she's not some fragile lady that can be broken easily; her eyes remind me of honey and clear blue ocean, the way she handles herself, and the way she smiles-" "Ohh, brother. I simply asked how you were with Val. I didn't ask for her entire personality." Arya interrupted with a giggle; Aemon rolled his eyes playfully before looking away from her.
A mischievous grin spread across Arya's face as she sheathed her dagger and turned to face Jon with a playful twinkle in her eyes. "Has my brother fallen in love?" she asked teasingly, her voice laced with amusement and curiosity.
Jon's expression remained deadpan as he spoke, "She's my wife," he said, his tone flat and matter-of-fact.
Arya burst out laughing, the sound through the courtyard as she playfully slapped Jon's shoulder. "Well, I never knew she had you wrapped around her fingers," she said, still giggling.
"I hate you," Aemon murmured, looking away from her, avoiding her at all costs. After she stopped laughing, she sneaked her hand around his.
"Hey, I'm just teasing. I don't see anything wrong with loving your wife, and don't worry, if she does something, tell your little sister, and she will fix the problem." Arya said teasingly, kissing his cheek and making Aemon turn to look at her.
"Oh, what would you do?" Aemon asked with a raised brow.
"You don't want to know, Jon," Arya answered with a little smirk, looking like a wolf who had just found her prey. Aemon wasn't sure if he liked her look, reminding him a little of Ygritte when she would find a good deer to kill.
Aemon was about to ask Arya if she would cheer for him during the Jousting when they heard footsteps approaching; Nymeria raised her head, looking at the newcomers warily.
Joffrey Tully very noticeably appeared into the courtyard from the entrance, his red linen robes shining amid the sun's peeking gaze. As he made his way toward the courtyard's center, the Hound, Sandor Clegane, followed closely behind him. Clad in his signature black steel armor and helmet, the Hound cut an imposing figure, his face obscured by the dark metal visor. The differences between the two were palpable, to say the least, and it seemed Joffrey at least knew the leverage he could pull just by the sight of Clegane at his beck and call. Aemon kept a calm look when he realized the annoying lord was heading right toward them.
"It's the useless cousin." Arya could feel her blood boiling with anger. Her teeth gritted together as she hissed through them, barely keeping her voice down to not draw attention from him. Her hand instinctively tightened around the pommel of her knife, ready to strike at any moment. Val had taught her how to throw a knife with precision, and as she watched the cousin's arms and legs move with every step, she knew she could hit him with ease.
Jon and Arya both stood up in unison, exchanging gazes with the two persons approaching them respectively. Joffrey smirked and slightly raised his head while the Hound remained still as the grim statue he was.
"Look at these two creatures, dog. Staying together like dogs caught in a trap. What brings you here so early in the morning?" Joffrey announced more than he spoke. Arya glared at them; she didn't care what others called her, but calling her brother any names was a death sentence. Aemon instinctively grabbed Arya's wrist, preventing her from committing a heinous act that she might later regret. Nymeria had taken notice, growling menacingly at Joffrey, causing him to flinch and take a step back in fear.
"Greetings, my lord, Ser Clegane. Me and my sister were preparing for the upcoming tourney. We decided to come early and not bother anyone later."
"I see. Good decision. We don't need your filth strolling around when Warriors like me start the day." He boasted, looking back at Clegane, who kept a neutral face. Aemon tightened his grip around Arya's wrist. She looked ready to kill him, and while Aemon would have nothing against it, it would still be kinslaying.
"It seems you were enjoying tearing up defenseless heaps of straw," Joffrey commented, looking at the dummy Aemon had torn apart a few minutes ago. A strange, sinister smile formed on his lips when he turned to look at Aemon and Arya. "I can relate, but I much rather enjoy when they can scream."
"Indeed," Aemon replied, with a mischievous glint in his eyes and a sly grin that spread across his face. The words that followed were spoken with a calm and low voice as he leaned in closer to Joffrey, causing him to take a step back.
"Playing games is always amusing, my lord, especially when the stakes are high, and the players are so eager to please," he said, relishing in the power dynamic of the situation. "But I must admit, there is something particularly enjoyable about making them beg for mercy, taking my time to fill them with hope before watching it fade away like blowing out a candle," Aemon continued, his tone almost too casual for the disturbing words he spoke. Joffrey gulped, feeling a chill run down his spine as he took another step back, almost tripping over Clegane's foot in his haste to put some distance between himself and Aemon.
Aemon noticed the way Sandor was eyeing him, but he ignored him. His eyes settled on Joffrey, whose face had gone pale.
Aemon expected Joffrey to say something, but instead, he shut his mouth tightly as if afraid of him; Aemon turned his attention to Ser Sandor, who was looking at him.
"Here to take revenge for your brother, Ser Sandor?" Aemon's voice was firm and unwavering, expecting Sandor to charge forward with his sword drawn. However, to his surprise, Sandor, a fierce fighter with a rough exterior, burst out laughing as if the idea of avenging his big brother's death was the funniest joke in all of Westeros. His laughter echoed through the courtyard.
"The only thing I regret is that I wasn't the one to stab his dark heart, you did it instead of me, and I'm not foolish enough to fight you. My brother might have been a monster, but he was tough. If you want, I can repay you with a chicken someday and a good beer," Sandor offered with a genuine voice, looking at Aemon with a tiny hint of respect.
"I might accept that chicken someday. Me and Arya need to go. Have a good day," Aemon said dismissively before grabbing Arya's wrist and both of them walking away, followed by Nymeria, who gave Joffrey one more warning look before following Arya.
Later
Aemon tightened the straps around his armor as the squires saddled his horse and readied his lance. The horns outside his tent blew away for the first bout of jousting. The crowds cheered as two knights charged toward one another, their lances aimed low and their shields raised high.
Putting on the last of his shoulder plates, Aemon called to the two. "Breastplate," he ordered, extending his arms, and the squires quickly put the front and back plates on his chest, tightening them on both sides simultaneously. He would have to remember what these boys looked like. They were good at their job, a skill rarely found in squires. His father told him they would help him.
"What are your names?" he asked them simply.
"Uther, Ser." the ashy blonde-haired one was the first to respond. A lanky little fellow, with dark brown eyes, without the sun to light them, almost looked pitch black.
"Luther, Ser." the other squire, with brighter red hair, responded afterward. Opposite to his ashen friend, he was much bulkier but also seemed to be a bit older.
"You two don't seem to be brothers. Cousins?" he lowered his hands as the two boys finished putting on the breastplate. Stretching around a bit, he tested the armor a bit for any loose placings—a perfect fit.
"No, Ser. My mum's a Frey." Uther responded. "He an Ornfast," he said, pointing to the red-haired Luther.
"Ornfast? I never heard of you. Where's your House from, boy?" Aemon continued questioning the boys, who stood beside one another in front of him now.
"Riverlands Ser." Uther cut in once again despite the person Aemon had put his attention on being the boy right next to him. Luther himself seemed to have no intention of answering, and Aemon quickly caught on to the two's dynamic. "He's from the Twins as well, Ser. His family became Castellans for the Freys after me da, Walder Frey, he once had one Ornfast girl as a mistress so- OW!" A punch quickly cut off Uther's little explanation on the shoulder from the older boy. "What was that for?!"
Another horn blew as the match from the current jousters finished. From the sound of the crowds, it seemed a favorite had won the match. It mattered little to Aemon.
Finally, he put on his gauntlets, buckled his sword to his belt, and put on his helmet. Fully armored now, his horse Winter neighed. The girl was undoubtedly as restless to get this over with as he was. She was a feisty horse.
Taking the lead of his horse in his hand, Aemon signaled the two boys to follow him. "Come on, wouldn't want to keep the people waiting." as soon as he said so, another pair of horns sounded off, and the hooves of two horsemen quickly became drowned out by the cheers and expectations of the crowd.
Standing at the edge of the jousting grounds, Aemon and his two squires watched the spectacle unfold in front of them. Some new Vale knight was up next, a bright and haughty-faced boy who looked to have just come out of his childhood years, with his shiny bright armor hanged a crescent white moon in a field of blue.
It was only once he had managed to get a better look at the boy's face did he recognize him as Jon Arryn's old squire. Aemon had heard that the king had knighted the boy in Jon's 80's name day, a kind sentiment, all things considered, but it was clear to anyone who knew the boy that he was not even fit for jousting, let alone an actual battle.
"Up next, Ser Hugh of The Vale!" the announcer spoke.
He turned to see Uther and Luther sharing a scowl, "Not a fan of the up-and-comer? Let me guess. You lost a bet against him at some point."
"Betting on Tourney jousts' Lord's work Ser," Uther responded, his brow still heavily furrowed and directed at the young Knight of the Vale.
"True enough, doesn't stop the squires from having their own little versions of it, does it?" he responded.
"Whoreson..." Luther said simply, nearly growling at the lad.
"And his opponent!" the announcer cut Aemon off from his thoughts. "Ser Sandor Clegane."
Both knights rode to their opposite ends in the field and were handed their lances and shields. Hugh bore a simple tourney shield, thick enough to take the brunt of a lance but light enough not to tire out his shoulders carrying it.
This match was over before it ever even began, yet still, the horns blared, the standards were raised, and the crowd cheered for the two knights who bravely galloped their horses in a quick motion to one another.
With one quick move, Sandor hit the other knight with his lance; the sound of metal clashing echoed throughout the arena as Sandor's lance hit the other knight's armor, causing him to lose his balance and fly off his horse. The crowd gasped in amazement as the poor knight soared through the air before crashing down onto the ground with a deafening thud. Sandor pulled his horse to a stop, turning to face the cheering crowd, triumphant in his victory.
Aemon barely paid attention; he would be next, wearing his helmet, which was a Faraam Helmet with the symbol of a three-headed dragon carved into it.
Rhaenys Targaryen
Rhaenys found herself seated on a plush cushion, flanked by the likes of Arianne, Daenerys, and Lady Margaery, eagerly anticipating the commencement of the jousting tournament. The atmosphere was electric, as the entire audience was abuzz with excitement, eagerly awaiting the spectacle that was about to unfold before them.
With the sun beating down upon them, the knights mounted their majestic horses, their shining armor glinting in the light. The sound of trumpets blared throughout the arena, announcing the start of the competition. As the knights charged toward each other, the crowd roared with delight, their cheers echoing throughout the arena.
Despite the thrill of the melee, it was the jousting tournament that had captured the hearts of the audience, their enthusiasm reaching fever pitch as they cheered on their favorite knights. Bets were being placed left and right, with everyone vying to predict which knight would emerge victorious and which lady would be crowned as the Queen of Love and Beauty.
Her mother had told her that she needed to get to know Lady Margaery since she was Aegon's betrothal. Her company was quite pleasant, but Rhaenys was too focused on the tourney to pay attention to her. Her mother would have told her that she shouldn't care who wins, either Aegon or Aemon. Rhaenys would be a liar if she said she wasn't praying for Aemon to be the Winner.
Uncle Oberyn was sitting beside Rhaegar, with a bottle of wine on his lap, already half empty; Beside Oberyn sat his paramour, the beautiful and enigmatic Ellaria Sand. Her dark hair was loose around her shoulders, and her eyes sparkled with mischief as she watched the two men converse. Oberyn's fingers intertwined with hers, and she leaned in to kiss him shamelessly. The knights nearby shifted uncomfortably, their eyes darting nervously between the trio.
The Royal Family cheered when Aegon dismounted someone from House Frey with the name 'Rhaegar' of all names; While the spectators were thrilled by the outcome, Ser Arthur couldn't help but groan loudly at the mention of the name.
"Now my life is fulfilled. I could see no greater honor than having a Frey named after me." Rhaegar japed, his voice dripping with sarcasm, much to Elia and Oberyn's amusement.
As Ser Loras dismounted a knight from the Vale with an effortless grace that left the crowd gasping in awe, Lady Margaery's cheers echoed louder than anyone else's, her admiration for her brother evident in her bright smile and enthusiastic applause. Rhaenys had to admit that Loras was good at riding a horse, but she had seen her brother ride a Horse, and no one was better than him, not even Aegon.
The Jousting Arena was abuzz with excitement as the following contestants were called to enter the field. The announcer's voice boomed through the stands, catching the attention of every spectator. "Next, The White Wolf, Jon Snow, against Ser Beric Dondarrion," he bellowed his words echoing across the arena. The crowd erupted into a deafening roar, each region cheering for their favored knight. The North was in a frenzy, chanting Jon Snow's name and waving their banners high. Meanwhile, the Southern Houses were just as passionate, fervently rooting for Ser Beric Dondarrion. The two riders entered the arena, their armor glistening in the sunlight as they prepared for the joust.
"Jon Snow has gained quite a reputation for a bastard. Do you think he can win the Jousting too?" Margaery questioned with a pretty smile on her flawless face; Rhaenys felt her blood boiling with anger, unable to tolerate the disrespect shown towards Aemon. Her urge to slap Margaery across the face grew stronger, but before she could act on it, Arianne Martell intervened, placing her hand on top of Rhaenys's, calming her down slightly.
"I heard from Lord Manderly himself. He was boasting about Jon being the best rider they had. Lord Beric is not really known for his talent on horse riding unless his horse is made out of fire." Daenerys answered passively, not giving anything away, much to Rhaella's delight. Those nearby chuckled in amusement at Daenerys's joke; everyone knew that Ser Beric followed the red god, something Lord Stannis had started practicing too
As the two knights rode towards each other, their lances pointed at one another; Rhaenys could feel her heart racing with anticipation. With a quick and nimble move, Aemon dismounted Lord Beric, sending him crashing to the ground along with his horse. For a moment, there was a collective gasp from the audience, fearing that Lord Beric might be seriously injured. Thankfully, much to the relief of everyone present, the horse didn't fall on top of Lord Beric, sparing him from any serious harm.
As the dust settled and the crowd erupted into cheers, Rhaenys couldn't help but feel a sense of awe and admiration for the sheer skill and bravery displayed by Aemon. The announcer's voice boomed across the stadium, declaring him the winner of that round and sending the crowd into a frenzy of cheers and applause. The Northern Lords, who had traveled from far and wide to witness the spectacle, were particularly vocal in their excitement, thrilled to see one of their own claim yet another victory for the North.
Rhaenys let out a huge sigh of relief, something Lady Margaery noticed but didn't comment on it; she simply watched the Jousting, hoping Aegon would win this, she knew it was a little silly, but Margaery wanted to be crowned as the Queen of Love and Beauty, she was to be Queen, this would give her an extra boost amongst the small folk.
Rhaegar, on the other hand, couldn't help but be mesmerized by the way his son was riding his horse. Every little move was identical to Lyanna, and he couldn't help but feel pride for him; his son was even better than Aegon when it came to horse riding; Rhaegar had no doubts that Aemon would win the jousting, and he briefly wondered who would be the lucky lady to become the Queen of Love and Beauty, he knew he would probably choose Val, but knowing her, she probably wouldn't care about flowers.
Aemon Targaryen - Later
With another blaring of the horns, the standards were raised again, and the announcer came forth to call the next match. "Facing off against the previous victor, Ser Loras Tyrell, of Highgarden..."
"... Jon Snow!"
With his armor fitted, his saddle strapped, and both his shield and lance handed over. Both of his newly found acquaintances gave their good luck to the bastard. "Tell me then, lads, how much of a chance do you think I have against that dandy prick?"
"On a scale... well, we've both bets against you, Ser," Uther responded.
"Good as odds as any, I say. Do me one thing, though, boys." the two squires perked up for a moment. "If I die, make sure to strangle the son of a bitch that does me so I can pummel him in whatever Hell I end up in."
"Will do, Ser," Luther spoke with as much confidence as a young squire could muster. If there was anyone that could do it, honestly, it was probably the bigger lad of the two.
Aemon rode into their position. Winter neighed, and the girl was getting impatient. She was a war horse first and foremost, but Aemon had long since taught her to be more patient when it came to these things. Though much more suited to actual battle, she eventually had gotten herself used to these kinds of events, acting in near-perfect unison with her rider. It was all Aemon could ever ask of the animal, in all honesty.
As Rhaenys was sitting with the rest of her family, her heart pounded with anxiety, and she nervously fidgeted with the hem of her dress about the upcoming fight until Arianne tapped her shoulder. "Don't worry, Rhae. The flower stands no chance against Aemon." Ari whispered, reassuring Rhaenys that everything would go smoothly.
Oberyn wondered why his niece was apparently concerned for the bastard, he had nothing against it, but the way Rhaenys seemed concerned wasn't natural; he wondered if perhaps the bastard had aimed higher than he deserved. If they had been in Dorne, he wouldn't care, but here, he knew his niece needed to be careful with who she sleeps with, especially with handsome young knights.
The moment the horns sounded off, they both kicked their spurs into motion, and the horses began galloping away, with Tyrell's horse gaining the upper hand in speed and momentum, it would seem. A simple trick that almost all knights knew but rarely used in effect. Frankly, it was seen as unsportsmanlike, but Aemon could not care less about the opinions of some pompous blue-bloods and their little definitions.
Their lances came closer and closer to each other's shields. Wait for the right moment, till the opening is there. Upon the halfway point where their lances met, Jon ducked under, sliding himself to the sides and avoiding Tyrell's lance. With as much strength as he could muster in his arms, he lunged forward, hitting the Knight of Flowers' shield dead on.
Usually, just the sheer speed of the impact was enough to take out most jousters. Must some have gotten so used to their tourney fighting that they knew of ways to brace themselves for the impact in such a way that it looked as if it did not even affect them? Just from looking at his riding style, Jon could see that the Tyrell boy was one such knight.
With a thunderous crack, his lance started to splinter and broke away, yet through it, all the crowd's cheers soon came to a silent halt, replaced with the realization that Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, had been defeated in his first tilt. With a loud thud, the knight's body hit the ground as he flew off his horse.
There seemed to be no other danger than that, however, as Tyrell quickly got back on his feet, if a bit dazed. When the victory was announced, it was clear that the crowd had no way of knowing how to react except for the Houses from The North; all of them cheered, especially Arya, who was clapping the most.
Catelyn felt her blood boiling as the bastard helped Lord Loras to stand up after defeating him; the bastard then started talking with Lord Loras as if they were the oldest of friends; Catelyn could see it, her breathing rapid, knowing the bastard was gaining new allies, this whole Tournament was an excellent way for him to gain allies. Catelyn closed her eyes, praying for her son if the bastard would one day try to get Winterfell.
With his head held high and his armor clanking as he walked, Aemon made his way back to his tent after his latest jousting match. As he made his way through the crowds of people, he heard the announcer's voice booming throughout the stadium once again, echoing across the grounds like thunder. "Next up, we have Ser Sandor Clegane, The Hound, facing off against none other than Prince Aegon Targaryen, the Young Dragon!" The audience erupted into cheers and applause at the mention of the crown prince of Westeros.
As Aegon rode onto the jousting arena, his imposing figure was clad in a suit of onyx-black armor that was adorned with dragon-like scales, which shimmered in the sun. The scales wrapped around his broad shoulders, extending across his sinewy arms and creating an intimidating presence.
The most striking feature of his breastplate was the intricate design of rubies, each one as large as a small rock, embedded in a precise pattern that sparkled with a fiery glow. The top of the helmet boasted a set of small yet intricately detailed dragon wings as if the prince was ready to take flight at a moment's notice. The rest of the helmet was fashioned to resemble the fearsome head of a dragon, complete with razor-sharp teeth and a gaping mouth that was ready to breathe fire at any moment. Aegon looked like a Targaryen from top to bottom.
Aegon's right hand held his lance high, ready to strike at his opponent with all his might. The audience watched in awe as he made his way to his place, cheers and applause ringing in his ears. Meanwhile, Ser Sandor, known as the Hound, put on his helmet that was designed to look like a dog with his mouth open, but his expression was one of boredom and indifference. It was clear that he was unimpressed with the grandeur of the event.
The air was filled with anticipation as the two knights prepared themselves for the joust, their armor glistening in the bright sunlight. The announcer's voice boomed across the arena, "Start!" The sound of the word echoed throughout the stands, causing the crowd to erupt into cheers and applause.
With that, the two knights kicked their horses into motion and charged toward each other; their lances pointed straight ahead. As they drew closer, the tension in the air was palpable, and the audience held their breath in anticipation.
The sound of the horses' hooves grew louder and louder until, finally, the two knights collided in the middle of the arena with a thunderous crash. The force of the impact was so great that Ser Sandor was thrown from his horse, landing heavily on the ground. The crowd gasped in shock, though their attention quickly turned to Prince Aegon, who had emerged victorious from the joust. With his lance held high in triumph, he raised his hand in victory, basking in the audience's adoration as they cheered and applauded his victory.
As the deafening cheers of the audience echoed throughout the arena, Prince Aegon, with his heart racing and adrenaline pumping, quickly dismounted his horse and let out a sharp exhale as he rubbed his sore shoulder, which was still throbbing from the impact of Sandor's lance that hit him before falling from his horse.
Despite the intense pain shooting through his body, the prince's mind was focused on one thing - victory. He knew he had to push through the pain and emerge victorious in this jousting tournament, not only to prove his worth as a warrior but also to win the hearts of the people who were eagerly watching him in the stands.
Aegon looked up at Margaery, sitting beside Rhaenys; looking back at him with a sweet smile, he took a deep breath, ignoring the burning pain in his shoulder. I will rest once I win this, Aegon thought with resolve, he knew his next and final opponent was his little brother, but Aegon couldn't think of anything else but his dream.
He had dreamed of winning this Tourney and showing everyone that he was a Worthy Prince, someone who could become a Good King in the Future.
As Aegon staggered towards his tent, the pain in his shoulder intensified with each step. The wound was bad. The maester, who had been following him, quickly caught up and ushered him into the tent. With a sense of urgency, the maester prepared a concoction of milk of the poppy to alleviate the pain and help Aegon rest. However, as he applied the medicine to Aegon's wound, the pain suddenly intensified, causing him to clench his teeth so hard that he almost bit his own tongue.
As Aegon looked at his wounded shoulder, he couldn't help but notice the angry shade of red that the skin had turned, a clear indicator of the inflammation that had set in, causing the area to swell up slightly. His eyes were transfixed on the injury, almost as if trying to will it back to health through the sheer force of his gaze, but he knew deep down that this was not a good sign. The searing pain that radiated through his body with every movement was a constant reminder of his mortality.
"Your grace, I would advise you to drop the Jousting. Your shoulder is bruised badly. You might easily break it if you get another hit," the old maester warned Aegon, the prince felt like laughing at the bitter irony, but Aegon stood up, ignoring the old maester's words.
"No. Only one more." Aegon said with resolve, looking at the Jousting Arena through the opening of his tent; wearing his armor once again with the help of his squires; Aegon mounted his trusty horse, Leonard.
With a gentle movement, Aegon extended his hand toward his trusted companion, the majestic horse. As he stroked the animal's head, he could feel the softness of the mane and the warmth of the skin. The horse nuzzled against him, expressing its gratitude for the affectionate gesture as if to say that it, too, was pleased to be in the company of such a devoted rider.
As Aegon sat atop his sturdy horse, he couldn't help but feel a sense of amusement as he watched Aemon leisurely stroll around the perimeter of the jousting arena, mounted on his majestic white steed. With a wry smile, Aegon leaned in towards his own trusty mount and whispered, "Good boy, see that idiot over there?" Pointing his finger in Aemon's direction.
"We are going to win, aren't we, buddy?" Aegon spoke softly to Leonard; the horse neighed gently before nodding his head as if agreeing with Aegon.
As Aegon sat atop his trusty steed, a broad grin spread across his face as he chuckled at the horse's playful nuzzling. He gently stroked the horse's neck, feeling the softness of his coat beneath his fingers, and the horse responded by affectionately licking his hand, much to Aegon's amusement. As he looked into the horse's big brown eyes, Aegon was struck by a sudden thought - he couldn't wait to reward this loyal companion with a big bucket of fresh apples once the Jousting was over.
As the last round of the tournament approached, Aegon's heart raced with anticipation. He felt the weight of his armor and the power of his horse beneath him. His squire handed him his lance. Aegon grasped it tightly with one hand, the other firmly gripping the reins of his horse. The announcer's voice boomed through the arena, signaling the start of the final round. "Start!" he shouted, and Aegon kicked his horse into a gallop, holding the lance high in a show of strength and determination.
The sun was blazing high in the sky as Aegon and Aemon positioned themselves at opposite ends of the field. The clatter of their horses' hooves echoed through the air as they spurred their steeds forward, their lances held high, their eyes locked on each other with determination.
Aegon's black stallion thundered across the ground, its powerful muscles rippling beneath his armored form, small rocks flying behind it as it charged forward with all its might. The wind whipped through Aegon's hair as he leaned low over his horse's neck, his eyes focused on his opponent, ready to engage in the ultimate test of skill and bravery.
As Aegon charged towards his brother, his heart was racing with adrenaline, his grip on his lance tightening with anticipation. The sound of hooves pounding against the earth filled his ears as he approached Aemon, who was also charging toward him with fierce determination.
The clash of their lances echoed through the arena as they collided, Aegon's lance striking out blindly in the heat of the moment. He could not tell where it hit his brother, but he knew that Aemon's lance had landed squarely in his chest, the force of it almost knocking him off his horse. Despite the pain and shock that coursed through him, Aegon remained steadfast, determined to prove himself in this jousting tournament and emerge victorious over his brother.
Despite the excruciating pain throbbing in his chest, Prince Aegon is determined to Win. With unwavering resolve, he spurred his trusty steed forward, galloping toward the end of the Arena. As he approached, his loyal squire hastened to his side, presenting him with a fresh lance to replace the one that had shattered in the previous joust.
With a grateful nod, Aegon grasped the weapon firmly and urged his mount forward once more, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on his brother, his greatest foe in this tourney. With the thundering of hooves echoing in his ears, Aegon charged toward his foe; his heart filled with a potent mix of determination, adrenaline, and perhaps a hint of trepidation.
With precision and determination, both of their lances crashed into each other's shoulders, causing a thunderous clash that echoed throughout the arena. Aegon, feeling confident in his abilities, initially didn't flinch. However, as the adrenaline slowly began to fade, he felt a jolt of excruciating pain shoot through his shoulder, causing him to wince in agony.
The pain continued to spread throughout his entire arm, causing an intense burning sensation that made it difficult to hold onto his reigns. Despite the pain, Aegon refused to give up and fought on, determined to win the tournament and prove himself.
Aegon's body was trembling with exhaustion as he tried to keep himself upright on his horse's back. His chest was heaving as he took deep breaths, trying to steady himself. With each inhale, he could feel the cool air filling his lungs and calming his racing heart.
His horse, sensing its rider's distress, began to move in a slow and steady rhythm as if to say, "I've got you, Aegon. I won't let you fall." The animal's gait was gentle and reassuring, and Aegon felt a sense of comfort wash over him. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face and the wind in his hair, and allowed himself to relax.
Aegon felt a sharp pain in his shoulder, and he bit down hard on his lower lip to prevent himself from screaming out in agony. He could feel his clothes becoming damp under his armor, and he realized with a sinking feeling that his shoulder was bleeding profusely.
Aegon patted his stallion affectionately on the neck and whispered, "Good boy!" The magnificent animal snorted in response, clearly pleased with the praise. But Aegon's attention quickly turned to the jousting as he rode over to his squire, deftly dismounting and reaching for another lance. Despite the dull ache in his left shoulder from the wound he had received in the previous round, Aegon was determined to continue the competition. This time, he relinquished his grip on the reins, allowing his trusty steed to guide him forward as he tightly gripped the lance with his right hand. Aegon watched as Aemon was looking at him through the helmet with... concern.
Aegon couldn't really tell, but he didn't care. I won't stop even if my arm falls off, Aemon, Aegon thought with determination; the helmet he wore felt suffocating, making it difficult for him to catch his breath; he refused to let it slow him down. With a quick and decisive motion, he removed the helmet and flung it away from him, feeling a sense of relief wash over him as the cool air hit his face. Anyone else would have taken the opportunity to strike him in the face with their lances, but Aegon knew Aemon wouldn't do that.
Aegon watched as Aemon removed his own helmet, showing his face. One perhaps could see the similarities between the two brothers.
"Aemon, the best Prince, wins." As the words left his lips, he knew his brother was too far away on the other end of the Jousting Arena to hear him, but he couldn't resist the urge to speak them aloud. With one swift kick to their horses, the two Princes set off at a gallop, their armor clanking rhythmically with each stride. The sun beat down on their backs, and the crowd roared with excitement as they watched the two brothers charge toward each other, their lances at the ready.
The trumpets sounded, signaling the start of the new round, and they both simultaneously spurred their horses into a gallop, causing the audience to hold their breath in anticipation. The sound of hooves pounding against the dirt grew louder and louder as they charged toward each other, and the cheers of the crowd faded into a deafening silence. The only sound that could be heard was the clashing of their lances as they met in the middle of the jousting arena, causing a spark to fly between them. Aegon, with precision, hit his brother square in the abdomen with his lance, causing the crowd to erupt in cheers.
However, Aemon's lance hit Aegon's chest once again, and this time, Aegon wasn't holding the reins of his horse. The spectators gasped as Aegon was sent flying from his horse, his body soaring through the air before crashing onto the ground with a loud thud.
The blistering pain coursing through Aegon's body caused him to clench his teeth tightly as if attempting to suppress the agony. Despite his efforts, he could barely feel his arm anymore, and his entire body felt as if a herd of wild stallions had trampled it.
However, instead of succumbing to the pain and closing his eyes, Aegon summoned all his strength and forced himself to look up at the bright blue sky above. The sight of the endless expanse of heaven above him brought a sense of peace, and he found himself momentarily forgetting the searing pain that had been consuming him just moments before. As he basked in the beauty of the sky, he suddenly felt a warm, wet sensation on his face. Startled, he opened his eyes to see his trusty horse standing over him, its tongue lolling out as it licked his face affectionately. Aegon couldn't help but smile at the sight of his loyal companion.
"Leonard, you're the best boy," Aegon spoke with a bright smile as he patted his horse's neck affectionately. The gentle breeze carried the scent of blooming flowers and fresh grass, making the moment even more magical. Suddenly, Aemon walked up to Aegon in haste, his eyes filled with concern.
"Are you okay, Aegon?" he asked, offering his hand to help Aegon stand up. Aegon smiled gratefully before accepting his brother's hand with a firm grip. Aemon helped him to stand up, and as he stood on his feet once again
With adrenaline coursing through his veins, Aegon eagerly seized his younger brother's hand without hesitation, hoisting it triumphantly into the air for all to see as the crowd erupted into a deafening roar of applause. As the dust settled and the shouts of victory began to subside, Aegon turned to his sibling with a wide grin plastered across his face, his eyes shining with pride and admiration.
"Aemon," he spoke with genuine sincerity, his words ringing out clear and true despite the throbbing ache in his shoulder. "You were born to be a great rider, a true champion of the jousting field."
"Aegon, you would have won the jousting if the Hound hadn't injured you," Aemon quickly pointed out, with a hint of sympathy in his voice.
Aegon, feeling the pain coursing through his body, gritted his teeth as he tried to stand on his feet straight.
However, instead of wallowing in self-pity or anger, Aegon channeled his frustration into a promise, "Aemon, just shut up and enjoy your victory. You deserve it, but next time I will be the one to win." His voice was laced with determination and a hint of competitiveness, a fire burning deep within him.
As he spoke those words, Aegon couldn't help but groan loudly in pain, no longer able to bear it. He knew that he needed medical attention quickly. Several healers quickly walked up to Aegon, their hands ready to treat his injury and take away his pain.
Suddenly, the sound of a trumpet blast filled the air, and the announcer's voice boomed like a horn, "And the winner of the jousting is Jon Snow!" The crowd erupted into a deafening cheer, despite the fact that Jon Snow was a bastard. Even the Southern Houses, who were notorious for their disdain towards bastards, couldn't help but cheer for Jon as he rode his horse.
As Aemon galloped through the jousting field, his eyes were drawn to the crown of blue roses on top of a pedestal, their delicate petals shimmering in the brilliant sunlight. He had long pondered who among the many deserving women he had encountered throughout his life truly deserved the honor of wearing such a magnificent crown. But as he gazed upon the glittering blue roses in his hand, he knew without a doubt that there was only one who could wear them with the grace and dignity they deserved. She had been with him when he needed help the most. When everything in his life had changed, she had been there to remind him that he was still the same Person and always showed support.
With a flourish, he held up the crown of flowers, its petals shining in the bright sunlight. The audience fell silent as Aemon strode towards the Northern section. Sansa's heart started beating faster, knowing Jon would choose her. Everyone will envy me, even the princesses will, Sansa thought with the brightest smile she ever had on her face.
But her heart almost stopped beating, and her smile dropped when she saw Jon ride past her instead of in front of her.
With a graceful bow, Aemon placed the crown on Val's lap, the delicate petals brushing against her skin.
Sansa let out a low gasp before looking at Val with pure jealousy; Meanwhile, her older brother Robb was trying very hard not to burst out laughing as he watched the scene unfold before him. Val slowly gripped the crown of flowers, her gaze fixed on Jon, who looked back at her with a mixture of amusement. Val gave her husband a sweet smile, her hand rubbing her stomach. She had told him that if he wanted to crown someone, he should crown either Rhaenys or Rhaella, but it seemed Jon was just too stubborn.
For a moment, Aemon was sure Val would throw the crown of flowers right at his face, but somehow Val restrained herself from doing exactly that.
"Lady Val, Queen of Love and Beauty!" The sound of thunderous applause filled the air, drowning out the cheers and cries of the crowd.
"Thank you, Jon. I will reward you properly tonight." Val thanked Jon. Her choice of words earned a groan from Catelyn, who looked away, cursing her luck for having to sit so close to such a shameless woman.
The royal family couldn't help but applaud for who Aemon decided to crown- especially Rhaenys, the princess who found it all too amusing. Val managed a smile. Her hand touched her slightly swollen belly as she held the crown of flowers in her hand. Slowly she placed it on top of her head. She didn't like that the Entire Westeros was looking at her right now.
As Daenerys gazed at Aemon with a predatory smile, her eyes fixated on every movement he made. She couldn't help but admire the way he was so caring to everyone, tending to their needs with such kindness and gentleness that left her in awe. It was as if he held the entire world's burdens on his shoulders, yet he never faltered under the weight of his responsibilities. She found herself yearning to be near him, to feel his warmth, and to bask in his selfless nature. As she licked her lips, Daenerys couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to be held in his arms.
Arya burst out laughing when she saw Sansa's furious face, much to the latter's annoyance, looking at Arya with clearly annoyance and anger. Arya was always annoyed by how Sansa said that she deserved to be the Queen of Love and Beauty more than anyone else, and now seeing her like that brought Arya great joy as she laughed yet again along with Robb; Bran was laughing along with them, but he had no idea why everyone was laughing.
Sansa's emotions were a swirling storm, her eyes heavy with tears that threatened to spill out onto her cheeks at any moment; it was as if she was holding back a dam of emotions that was about to burst. Her gaze was focused on the blonde wildling. The flowers she had put on top of her hair like a crown made her look even more stunning. Val, who seemed to be the center of attention, made Sansa's heart ache with pure envy.
Her face was flushed with heat, matching the fiery red of her hair, making her look like a raging inferno of emotions. She tried to compose herself and put on a brave face, but the jealousy and hurt were too much to bear, and it was clear that she was struggling to keep it together. Why her? She's a Savage; I'm the Lady Here, not the Wildling, Sansa thought, gripping her hair in frustration and anger. Ned smiled proudly at his nephew for crowing the woman he loved, a Northern woman through and through, just as Rhaegar crowned Lyanna many years ago.
Aemon knew he could have chosen others, perhaps Rhaella, Arya, or Rhaenys, but Aemon wanted to give it to the woman he loved and loved him back, to the woman that would give birth to their child. Val, who had stood by his side for the last five years, even when his entire life was changed, and he had learned his entire life had been a lie. Val had been there to show the love and support he needed, and Aemon knew once his dragon was revealed, every lord would want their daughters to marry him. Crowing Val would show everyone his marriage to her mattered, even if she was a Free Folk.
Aemon's eyes flickered at Arya. He had wanted to crown her, she deserved it, but he knew what would happen after the Jousting, her father will be punished, and Arya will hate his guts. Aemon knew that, and it hurt his heart knowing Arya would never look at him the same way she had looked at him since the beginning, she would blame him, and Aemon knew if he had crowned her, she would probably see him as him playing with her and insulting her even more.
Rhaegar took a deep breath before turning to face his mother. "Gather everyone to the Grand Hall.
A Little Sailor
As the heavy rain poured down upon the ship, the young boy's little arms struggled to maintain their grip on the rope as he lowered it down, inch by inch. Every muscle in his body was taut with the effort of keeping the rope secure, his fingers wrapped tightly around the wet and slippery cord. With each passing moment, the rope's weight seemed to increase, yet still, the boy persisted, his eyes fixed firmly on his goal.
As he stood on the ship's deck, he could feel the immense power of the ocean as the waves relentlessly crashed against the vessel, causing it to tilt from side to side. While he tried to steady himself, he noticed the wet rope he was holding suddenly start to slip through his hand, causing a burning sensation on his skin. As he tried to hold on, the rope continued to slip, causing his palm to bleed. Despite the pain, he clenched his teeth and tightened his grip on the rope, determined to prevent it from sliding any further. With the wind howling around him and the salty spray of the sea hitting his face, he fought with all his might, eventually managing to bring the rope under control and secure it to the ship.
His eyes fixed on the horizon, and he suddenly heard the sound of a loud thunder in the distance, echoing through the vast expanse of the ocean. The sky had turned a dark shade of grey, and the winds were picking up, signaling the arrival of a heavy storm. As the first drops of rain began to fall, every sailor on the ship sprang into action, moving around with purpose and urgency, each one carrying out their duties with precision and efficiency. The ship itself began to sway and toss as the waves grew larger and more violent, and the sounds of creaking wood and crashing waves filled the air.
Amidst the chaos, the boy heard the captain's voice shouting orders to his crew, but the sound of the heavy rain and the relentless pounding of footsteps against the wooden floor of the ship made it difficult for him to fully comprehend what was being said. Nevertheless, he felt a sense of safety, knowing the captain and crew were doing all they could to keep them afloat amidst the turbulent storm.
As the little boy struggled to hoist the large wooden box onto the ship, a voice suddenly reached him, calling out, "Art, here." The boy turned around to find Jacob, one of the ship's crew members, standing behind him, ready to help with the heavy load. Without hesitation, the two of them grasped the rope with all their might, and together, they slowly lowered the box into the cargo room. As they worked, Art couldn't help but feel a sense of camaraderie with Jacob, a newfound comrade in this great adventure of the seas. With the box finally secure in its rightful place, Art looked up at Jacob with a smile of gratitude, feeling proud of the teamwork they had just displayed.
As Art stood there, his hands trembling, he gazed down at the deep cuts on his palms, blood dripping down his fingers in a steady stream. The rain continued to pour down from the sky, each drop hitting his skin like tiny needles, intensifying the already excruciating pain. He couldn't help but think about how ironic it was that the same rain he had always found so soothing and calming was now causing him such agony.
"Art! ART!" The sound of the shout pierced through the sound of the pouring rain and echoed through the ship's deck. With a sense of urgency, Art turned sharply on his heel and made his way toward the captain's quarters. The rain was coming down hard, and the wooden deck was slippery and treacherous. As he approached the captain, he noticed the man's careful and deliberate steps, each one taken with the utmost care to avoid slipping and falling on the wet deck.
"Go inside. There's no need for you to help us," the captain's voice boomed, and Art felt a huge sigh of relief escape his lips before quickly nodding in agreement. He knew he needed to wash his hands with wine before they got infected.
"Yes, Fath- Captain." The boy said, smiling; the captain did not comment on his small slip-up; as the boy turned to make his way into the Captain's quarters, the ship suddenly shuddered to a halt, the sound of creaking wood and groaning metal echoing throughout the vessel.
As Art struggled to maintain his balance on the slippery deck of the ship, he suddenly stumbled back, losing his footing and falling with a resounding thud onto the hard, unforgiving wooden planks beneath him. The impact was so forceful that his forehead made a sickening sound as it collided with the surface, making him wince in pain.
The storm was raging all around them near Claw Isle, the wind howling like a pack of wolves and the waves crashing against the ship's sides with a thunderous roar. Despite the chaos and turmoil surrounding them, the ship had inexplicably come to a complete standstill, as if something was holding it in place beneath the churning waters of the sea. For a moment, Art lay there, dazed and disoriented, trying to make sense of what had just happened. He could feel the cold, salty spray of the ocean on his face, and the sound of the storm was so loud that it felt like it was inside his head.
"Did we hit something?" As the crew frantically searched for answers, Art struggled to stand up and make his way to the main deck. Gripping the railings tightly for support, he felt a trickle of warmth running down his forehead, but he couldn't tell if it was from the heavy rain or from a gash on his forehead.
Art's brown eyes looked at the far horizon of the sea; squinting his eyes from the heavy rain, he saw the outline of a ship sailing in the distance; the ship was sailing directly toward them.
Art opened his mouth to shout when...AHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
The sudden, deafening noise that erupted from the ship in the distance caused everyone to instinctively cover their ears in an attempt to shield themselves from the piercing sound waves. However, Art's reaction was far more extreme as he let out a blood-curdling scream of agony that made everyone turn their attention towards him.
He clutched his head as he felt as though his eardrums were being ruptured and blood was about to start pouring from them. As the noise eventually began to subside, Art slowly lowered his hands from his ears, feeling a sense of relief wash over him. However, he couldn't shake the feeling that the sound they had all just heard was eerily reminiscent of the blaring noise of a horn being blown.
Suddenly, a bloodcurdling scream pierced the silence and echoed through the darkness, sending shivers down the spines of everyone on board. Like a ripple effect, the scream was quickly followed by a chorus of panicked shouts and cries, filling the air with a deafening cacophony of sound. Art spun around, his heart pounding in his chest, trying to make sense of the chaos unfolding around him.
The darkness of the night made it hard to see anything clearly, but he could make out a figure flailing wildly on the deck. It was Jacob, one of the ship's crew, his arms and legs thrashing as he desperately tried to break free from something dark and shadowy that had wrapped itself around his waist.
"HEELPPP!!" cried out Jacob, his voice laced with terror and desperation. The sound of his screams faded away into the distance as his body was mercilessly dragged away from the ship by an unseen force, disappearing into the abyss below. The darkness swallowed him whole, leaving behind only the haunting echo of his cries.
As Art stood frozen on the ship's deck, his eyes widened with terror as he witnessed a haunting sight that left him petrified with fear. The screams of the people increased as he saw more and more of them floating above the deck, blood pouring out of their mouths. The darkness of the night and the heavy rain made it almost impossible to see what was happening around them, and the only sound that could be heard was the violent crashing of the waves against the hull of the ship and the screams.
Art's body suddenly stopped as he tried to process the surreal and terrifying scene before him. His mind raced with fear and confusion, and he couldn't help but cry out for his mother, begging for her to wake him up from this ghastly nightmare.
Art felt a cold rush of fear paralyze his body, and he couldn't move an inch. His breaths came in rapid gasps as he struggled to calm himself down. His heart pounding in his chest was so intense that he thought it might burst out of his ribcage. His knees buckled under the weight of his anxiety, and he collapsed onto the wooden floor, his body trembling uncontrollably. With his eyes squeezed shut, he began to pray to the Seven for protection and strength.
It's s Dream; It's a Dream, It's A Dream, It's A DREAM, Art repeated in his head; Suddenly, he felt the hands of someone grabbing him, lifting him up from the creaky and weathered wooden floor of the ship. The sensation was so vivid that he could feel the rough texture of the wood scraping against his skin. Art let out a blood-curdling scream as he tried to hit whatever had grabbed him in a frantic attempt to free himself from its grasp.
"Art, please swim," Art felt his body being thrown over the deck of the ship to the frigid water of the sea. His body hit the surface with a resounding smack, sending a shockwave through his bones.
The icy water enveloped him, causing his muscles to contract and his breath to catch in his throat. With each stroke, Art battled against the fierce current, feeling as though he was fighting against the very force of nature itself. The saltwater stung his eyes, and he struggled to keep them open. Art opened his eyes below the surface of the sea and saw... A Monster.
Right below the ship, in the ocean's dark depths, it was more enormous than the ship itself, with two glowing red eyes that seemed to pierce through the darkness like beacons. Its mouth was filled with teeth as sharp as swords, and it was large enough to swallow the ship whole. Art could see that it had long, writhing tentacles that reached out towards the ship like the arms of some monstrous sea creature.
He suddenly felt a sharp pain in his chest, and before he knew it, his lungs were filling with water. Panic seized him as his body began to move on its own, arms and legs flailing wildly in a desperate attempt to stay afloat. With a loud gasp, his head emerged from the water, and he greedily gulped in the crisp, salty air. Despite his efforts, however, Art couldn't seem to get the hang of swimming. This had been his first time in the sea.
"Dohaeragon. Dohaeragon. Muna Dohaeragon. (Help. Help. Mother Help.)" As the waves crashed against him, he struggled to keep his head above the water, desperately gasping for air as he cried out for help, his voice echoing across the vast expanse of the sea. His heart pounded in his chest as he continued to shout, his pleas for assistance growing increasingly frantic with each passing moment.
Despite the burning pain in his throat and the exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm him, he refused to give up, determined to cling to life and fight for survival. With each passing minute, the desperation in his voice grew more urgent, his cries for help echoing across the endless horizon as he struggled to stay afloat, hoping against hope that someone would hear his plea and come to his rescue.
As the waves crashed against his body, the salty water stinging his eyes, the unknown ship appeared in the distance, its silhouette growing larger and larger as it approached. Despite his exhaustion, Art's heart raced with anticipation as he watched the ship draw nearer, its dark hull looming ominously against the bleak horizon.
With a deep breath, he summoned all his strength and began to swim towards the vessel, his arms slicing through the water with determined strokes. As he drew closer, he couldn't help but notice the eerie silence emanating from the ship- no creaking of ropes, no chatter of sailors, no sound at all save the lapping of the waves against the hull.
Without hesitation, Art summoned all the strength he had left and grasped the rope with all his might, feeling the rough fibers dig into his skin as he was slowly but surely pulled upwards towards safety. As he was hoisted higher and higher, the adrenaline coursing through his veins gave him renewed vigor, and he gritted his teeth in determination to reach the safety of the ship's deck.
Art felt someone grabbing him before he was forcefully thrown onto the hard wooden deck, his body hitting the surface with a loud thud. As he slowly lifted himself up, he only now realized that he was completely drenched, his clothes clinging tightly to his skin. Panic set in as he struggled to catch his breath, his heart racing with fear and uncertainty. However, Art managed to calm himself down by taking deep breaths and reminding himself that he was safe now.
Art heard the sound of footsteps echoing against the creaky wooden floor, growing louder and closer with each passing second. The strange thing was that the group of unknown sailors were silent, and Art couldn't help but feel a sense of unease creeping up his spine. Suddenly, his eyes were drawn upwards as a tall, imposing figure loomed over him, casting a menacing shadow across the main deck.
He was wearing an eyepatch, and his lips were the bluest Art had ever seen, a wicked smile on his face; Art felt a shiver in his spine, and it wasn't from the cold.
"You survived, my little pet," the man spoke with an amused smile; in his right hand, he held a strange horn made of pure gold, with slim dark linen wrapped tightly around the surface of the horn, almost like a protective shield. The linen formed an intricate design that came together to form the likeness of a Kraken, complete with golden eyes that seemed to gleam with their own life.
"I'm happy to have a new member on my crew. Name's Euron Greyjoy, but don't tell anyone, Pleaseee," the man spoke with a wide twisted grin before motioning something to his man.
A strong hand gripped his arms from behind, and Art instinctively tried to fight back, but to no avail. Another man appeared out of nowhere and forcefully held Art's lower and upper jaw, prying his mouth open wide. Euron stood before Art, holding a pair of hot-red pincers in his hand, his smiling blue eye glittering in the darkness.
"It will only hurt a Little."
Note: Euron used the Kraken Horn to call the Kraken; the horn actually exists in the books, and House Celtigar has it in the books.
In The Books, there are three powerful horns, Dragonbinder Horn, Winter Horn, and Kraken Horn.
It will be revealed later how Euron used the Kraken Horn since it is not something he can use whenever he feels like it without cost.
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