Aemon Targaryen (103 A.C. third moon)
Sea Dragon point
The journey to his future land wasn't long, despite the summer snow and the twanging of the winds. The minimal road toward the western shore in that part of the North was not the most passable. So the journey took three weeks, with him visiting Deepwood Motte. He then remembered that time as he was flying one Balerion's back.
Flashback
"My Prince, it is an honor to host you and your dragons in my humble domain. May the old gods be with you. To the dragonwolf, the Prince of the North," Garred Glover shouted, pulled his sword, and then went to one knee.
"Thank you, my lord. We accept bread and salt," he said with a nod as the castle of Deepwood Motte came into view. "My prince, may I show you to your chambers?" A girl, perhaps two years his senior, asked.
"Of course. May I have your name, my lady?" He questioned the girl. "Of course, Your Grace. I am Diana Glover, Your Grace, the eldest daughter of Lord Glover. If it pleases you, Your Grace."
"Well met, my lady. I'll follow where you lead," he said with a smile, making the girl blush. "If that's your will, please follow."
'Deepwood Motte was a proper wooden keep made possible by the Wolfwood.' He thought as they walked through the halls of Deepwood Motte.
"This is it, Your Grace. I hope the room pleases you," she said with a smile when she opened the door. "It's lovely, my lady. Thank you. Deepwood Motte smells wonderfully like the pine of the Wolfswood," he said, giving her a warm smile.
"It does, my Prince, although I only notice it when I return. Now, I don't anymore. It's a pity; it's a nice smell indeed," she replied with a grin, her eyes twinkling. 'Diana Glover had stunning brown eyes, large and expressive, that seemed to sparkle with warmth. Her curly brown hair cascaded down her shoulders in soft, natural waves, framing her face with an effortless grace. Anyone would happily call her their wife, but he already had one lady, one with silver curls and amethyst eyes.' He thought as he stared into her eyes.
"True, the North generally smells much better than the South does. Oh, and don't get me started on King's Landing itself," he said, breaking the silence, and shook his head as he thought back to Kingslanding and its smells.
"Well, it's good to hear the North is well-liked by the Prince of the North and our humbled Glovers as well," she said, smiling. "Well, I'll leave you to settle in, your grace. The feast will start in three hours," she said, bowed, and left the chambers.
"Ser Harrold, please join me," he said, and the old knight entered. "My prince, you asked for me," Harrold said, bowing his head.
"How do you find the North, Ser? We have been here together for the past two years," he asked.
"Hmm, the air is cold and fresh, and it reminds me of my old home, the Crag. The Northern ale is good, but I prefer a good Summer Sea wine. Most lords are more honorable and less slippery than those in the South. This is one of the many reasons I chose to become a Kingsguard. I never wanted to deal with that as a lord. I'm sure my father wanted his second son to marry for land and title, but I only wanted to be a knight. When I heard of the chance to become a Kingsguard, I took it with all readiness. It was the greatest honor of my life; the second was serving you. You have made your father and family proud with how you have conducted yourself," Harrold said genuinely.
"Thank you for saying so, Ser. Having you here has been a great comfort. You are like family, and with my uncle, you are like a father to me after my father passed. So thank you for all your lessons," he said, opening the man's eyes well.
"Aemon, thank you. It's been an honor to train you and to be seen as family. I will always do my duty to you and your family until I draw my final breath, whether in sleep or defense of you, Aemon," Harrold said, his voice edged with emotion.
End Flashback
'The cold western wind from the sea, thick with the smell of salt, blew through his nose as he and his dragons, Balerion and Vhagar, flew in the skies above the waters of Sea Dragon Point. The castle had its foundation built, and a small wooden keep had been constructed in the center of the work town. This would be his home for the upcoming three years before he would return to Kingslanding to be wed and the home for his future children. A Targaryen bastion in the North.' He thought as he looked at the lands he was to rule.
'The harbor of the keep was large and, at the moment, harbored a fleet of twenty warships in the bay. The sight was glorious, and several trading ships were present—the first signs of increased trade in the North, which would help during the coming winters.
A palisade surrounded the town, and masonry was set up outside it, ready to build the walls and the main keep. Stone would be used, and he would use Balerion and Vhagar to construct the first Valyrian Masonry since Valyria. Here, he was free to build and explore, away from the eyes of the maesters. He had to test the loyalty of the maester of Sea Dragonholt, the upper castle's name at Sea Dragon Point.
To be sure, too many Targaryens had health problems. But before they were kings of Westeros, that wasn't the case. His mother had told him that Rhaegar had his suspicions. His grandmother, Rhaella, suffered from too many miscarriages, and even the good Queen Alysanne lost many babes. Then there was the tragedy of Summerhall, and according to Balerion, it was a very strange event, like an explosion. The only way he knew such a thing could happen was with volcanic power or black oil exploding in flames. During his time, there was also Wildfire, a highly flammable substance, which was valuable in the fight against the White Walkers.' He thought as he flew a couple of circles around his domain and looked it all over.
"Land outside the palisade looks like there is no space for the both of you," he said aloud in High Valyrian to Balerion. Vhagar and Balerion landed outside, and the people of Sea Dragon Point stared at them, many of them perhaps never having seen a Targaryen or a dragon before. They looked terrified and in awe of the dragons.
"All hail, Prince Aemon, Lord of Sea Dragon Point," a man hailed him as he approached and knelt. The people who had gathered all knelt in turn.
"Rise, thank you all for joining me. My people of this western shore of Westeros, I'm glad these past 11 years have been fruitful. In an hour or so, my retinue from Winterfell will join us. Soon, the whole of Westeros will hear of this place, the stronghold and the city. Together, this place will become a bastion of strength for the North and my house," he said, and all the people cheered.
103 A.C. Fifth Moon third day. Today marks the first time Valyrian steel was forged in the ancient forge of Seadragon Holt. The blood of Balerion boiled, the strain on him immense. The first steel was thrust into a fire ignited by his dragon flame, a sight both awe-inspiring and terrifying. I embedded the steel with Balerion's blood, repeating the process countless times—I've lost track of how many.
Throughout the forging, each infusion of blood, mine and Balerion's, was followed by the rhythmic hammering of the steel and the chanting of an ancient spell. This spell, taught to me by Balerion, is an old Valyrian chant used by the smiths of old to imbue the steel with its legendary properties. The process is grueling, both physically and mentally, but the potential outcome—a blade of true Valyrian steel—drives me forward.
A page out of the Journal of Aemon Targaryen The White Dragon
Two moons later
Aemon Targaryen 103 A.C. fifth moon.
"Sagon jin naejot, sagon hen vekhat. Sagon daor haji Valyria," he chanted each time, (By fire and blood, let the iron be fire. By the blessing of Valyria.) Each time, he chanted the words in the smithy he had built in the inner holding of Seadragon Holt.
After the foolding of the steel was done, he hammered the blade into the shape a shortsword, something he could test. After sharpening it, he heated the blade straight out of Balerion's flame. It glowed hot with heat, and he tempered the blade in the boiling blood of Balerion.
"Now or never," he whispered to himself.
"Don't worry, my friend; you have labored hard these past two years and studied all I had to teach. It will work—a newly forged blade of Valyrian steel," Balerion reassured him.
'And true, it worked. All of Balerion's teachings in masonry, metalwork, dragon care, lore of the freehold, and writing had paid off. But he had always kept it a secret, known only to his mother, who had helped him keep it hidden. The knowledge held was far to valuable to let loose into the world. How many men would try and use perhaps vile means to make the steel?' He thought as he marveled at the blade.
Now, after he pulled the blade from the blood, there were no cracks or explosions to worry about, only a newly forged Valyrian steel blade. "I did it, Balerion. I didn't think it would work," he said, holding the light blade in his hands; it still looked hot.
"Did I say it wouldn't, my friend?" Balerion asked mockingly. He walked out with the blade after he had attached the guard and pommel to the blade, opening the door of the Valyrian smithy. "My prince, you were in there for numerous hours; I was worried you had passed out from the heat, I would come in if the sun had gone under," Ser Harrold said, half relieved. It was true, the sun was setting in the western seas, and he had entered after his vast.
"Well, it was all worth it, Ser. Look," he said proudly, presenting the blade to Ser Harrold, who looked at him with wide eyes, gaping at the blade.
"By all the gods, it does look like Valyrian steel. May I feel it, your grace?" his voice still awestruck.
"Of course, Ser, try it, please," he said, handing the blade to him. The guard of the sword was made of silver and gilded beautifully into dragon scales, and the pommel had one wolf head and one dragon head, with red rubies for their eyes.
"It feels like Valyrian Steel, your grace. I had the pleasure of testing your brother's blade once. It feels similar. A true work of art, and it honors both sides of your family, it seems," Ser Harrold said, examining the blade.
"Yes, that's what I based it on. Stay on guard. I will make sure everything inside is cleaned up. Then we will test if we can trust our maester here or if Balerion has a nice snack today," he said with a grin and headed back inside the Valyrian smithy.
Leaving the blood to boil was one of the necessities for forging. The dragon blood seemed different than other blood; it didn't dry up when it boiled, only when it cooled and dried.
He picked up the book of lore he had written and closed the smithy. Closing it, and the key, a necklace around his neck. Walking toward the temporary wooden keep in the center of the town, he covered the blade. He wasn't yet ready to reveal it to the world. It was the discovery of the age, and the Blackstone used to build the walls of the holdfast was also a new invention. The stone was harder than any other, and it had different uses. It was also very malleable when heated to a certain point, although the process was perilous due to the heat. Many stonemasons had been burned, all of whom had taken a blood oath to him and his house to keep the secret. The penalty for breaking that oath was death and the extermination of one's family.
"Maester Dusard, I have something I wish to share with you. I have made a discovery," he said, allowing Ser Harrold to hold the blade while he slipped a mouse into the maester's chamber. He retrieved the mouse from his chambers before they went to Dusard. Harlord smiled as he saw the mouse slip behind the closet.
"Truly, my Prince? What might that be? Nothing of illness, I hope. You have done great work at the keep and the land. I was more than pleased when I heard I was to be stationed at your keep. I hear you were always a bright young man, the black stone you make with your dragons is a testament to that." Dusard said, but how could he trust the man; he was a maester. But this would be the test.
"Ah, that's good to hear, Dusard. Ser Harrold, if you please," he gestured to the knight, who laid the covered blade on the maester's desk. "Remove the cloth, and you will understand what I mean," he said to Dusard. The maester did so and gaped at the blade in shock. "Your Grace, am I seeing what I'm seeing?" he asked, quite frantic, the man's eyes wide with shock.
"Yes, Dusard, that is Valyrian steel. I just forged the blade, and I want you to send a letter informing my mother that I have succeeded. I want this discovery to remain a secret until I have spoken with my family. I will not have the word spread. Is that clear, Dusard?" he asked, his tone authoritative.
The man gulped and nodded. "Of course, Your Grace, your will is my command and any lord who rules this land," Dusard said, his words shaky. "Good. It would be wise for you to learn more about this in the coming weeks. Tomorrow, I shall forge a new one, and I would like you to learn alongside me. I know the Qohor Smiths can reforge Valyrian steel, which is not the same. As this newly forged Valyrian Steel that has not been seen since the Doom. People would kill for the truth. So I will tell you now: betray me and this secret, and I will bring fire and blood upon you and your family," he said, a low growl, making the man turn as white as milk.
"I wish you a good day; I shall return for the letter later this evening," he said, leaving Dusard in his chambers. He walked with Harrold to his chambers.
"Harrold, join, please," he said.
"Remember, the warging is nothing to worry about." He said to the knight.
"Of course, my prince, I hold the watch," Harrold said with a smile.
He closed the door of his chambers and sat down on his chair. Searching for the warg bond with the mouse, he entered Dusard's chamber. The man was nervously muttering to himself. He did as well when he needed to say things aloud. It made him think clearer on the occasion.
"This is the moment of your oath, Dusard. Either you stay loyal to the crown and your lord or become the maester of the Citadel, the same Citadel that made you vow to end all magic and unnatural things. But you are a Northerner as well; you know of the Wall, the legends of the Long Night, and my gods. I have been told they are nothing more than trees. Prince Aemon has rediscovered the secret of forging Valyrian steel. The amazing Blackstone and the design of the castle are marvels of old Valyria. When I went to the Citadel to learn more, they wanted me to destroy the world's dragons and magic, fearing what they didn't understand. It undermines their power. Damn them, and all the gods," the man muttered.
"Very well, I will hold to my vow to the crown and my brilliant lord. Let the Citadel burn with their old men stuck in their ways. I pledge my mind and loyalty to the man who rediscovered the secret of forging Valyrian steel. It's better than what those old men at the Citadel have done," he said, then burned the letter he had written.
After that, he blacked out the Warg connection and returned to his chambers. "So, Father was right. How many children, if not Aemma's children, passed away because of them? Our blood does have a connection to magic, as do the Starks. The maesters are mostly ignorant of that. Otherwise, I would not be surprised if the same thing happened to them," he thought.
"Harrold, it seems we have a loyal maester," he said with a smirk.
Sea Dragon Point Map to be found on my Patreon
Alicent Hightower (103 A.C. sixth moon)
Kingslanding
'The last two years had been quiet for her. She had taken care of the old King for the last three years, but the past year had been slow. She could do little but read and tell stories to the King. It wasn't without purpose; she had helped her father become the Hand of the King, the second most powerful position in the realm. She still hoped she could marry one of the three princes of the realm.
The crown prince had a wife who had given him only one daughter and had suffered several miscarriages. Daemon was in a marriage that both wife and husband despised. Then there was Aemon, the Winter Prince of the North and rider of Balerion, who was a diligent and temperate prince. He was also a close friend, and it pained her to know he was already betrothed to Lady Velaryon. She wouldn't mind marrying the handsome young Prince, who was only three years her junior. There was that possibility, and her father had urged her to write to him and maybe even seduce him so that the Prince might choose to marry her instead of Laena. However, she knew Aemon wouldn't do that. She had seen the way he looked at Laena during the tournament. There was something between the two.
Now, she was quite lonely, with only the servants from the old King for company, as her two friends had left since the Great Council. Rhaenyra was a sweet girl six years her junior and a great friend. Aemon was one as well, but she had developed a crush on him later in their friendship. So seeing him leave was harder than Rhaenyra's departure.' Her thoughts wandered over it all, as she walked to the King's chambers, where two Kingsguard were waiting. "I'm expected, Sers," she said, and they both nodded and opened the door.
"Your Grace, I'm here. We were supposed to continue reading about the First Dornish War. Is that still a good proposition, or would you like me to read something else?" she questioned as she walked into the chamber.
When she heard no reply, she walked over to his bed and checked if he was sleeping. But his eyes were open and had a glassy look in them. "Your grace?" she asked, leaning over to check his breathing. Nothing was gussed of breath, espacing him. She gasped then, realizing that King Jaehaerys, First of His Name, King of Andals, Rhoynar, and the First Men, had passed away.
"Sers, please come in; it is urgent," she said, her voice shaky. "My lady, is everything all right?" Ser Raym Redwyne asked. "No, I think the King has gone to the Father, Ser," she answered. "Your grace!" Raym said as he shook the King gently, trying to wake his King. "It's true then, the King is dead. Long live King Viserys," he said, his voice hoarse with grief.
"Summon the Small Council and inform the Hand. The Prince of Dragonstone must be informed," Raym said to Ser Rickard Throne. "My lady, it's best if you join so you can relay the details to your father, the Hand."
(Three moons later)
The Dragonpit was a massive structure where some of the dragons of the royal family were housed. The people waited intently for their King to arrive. He would come to his brown she-dragon, whom he had called Gon-gon or something. She wasn't sure.
Daemon Targaryen (103 A.C. Ninth Moon)
Kingslanding – Dragon Pit
'The great plot had finally worked, and he was now the heir. His brother would finally have to annul his marriage, something the old King would never have allowed. He planned to sire a son on his niece, ultimately giving birth to a true Valyrian. However, he had to wait until the girl was of age. Then there was the matter of Lady Laena Velaryon, also a prospect, but she was a waste of his younger half-brother Aemon.' He pondered over that as he waited alongside the Hand of the King.
'Ser Otto Hightower, a nine and thirty year-old man who had risen to Hand's position due to his comely daughter. The Hightowers had always been a persistent presence, constantly seeking proximity to the throne. They had previously aligned with Maegor the Cruel and had even tried to use the Faith to overthrow the Targaryens, or so he suspected. They held power as the center of the Faith and knowledge in the world and would always strive to be near the seat of power.
So when the Hand's daughter began to seek his company, he was more than willing to entertain her advances. Though she was just four and ten namedays old, she was comely for her age, and for now, he thought it suitable to entertain the young maiden. Perhaps plucking the young maids, maidenhead.' He thought with a smirk on his face.
'He had endured much over the last twenty-three years: his mother's death, the birth of the two Stark brats who had bonded with dragons, and his father's preference for the boy over him. The dutiful Aemon, the Northern Prince, was a thorn in his side.
At least the Stark brat wasn't coming to the coronation, or so he had claimed. Viserys always doted on the boy. His brother had even suggested marrying Rhaenyra to the brat, which had left him grunting in disdain. The half-breed Stark being betrothed to a true Valyrian like himself? Unthinkable. Though even Aemma was only half an Arryn, she looked nothing like an Arryn; she was a true Valyrian by looks alone. On the other hand, the Stark brats were too wolf-like for his tastes. His thoughts were interrupted by the roar of Goynogar.'
His brother and his goodsister were arriving for their coronation. As they landed in the center, his brother dismounted his dragon and helped Aemma down for the dragon. He even noticed a slight swell in the queen's belly. Was she with child yet again? All the people gathered at Kingslanding and knelt before their new King, even Rhaenys, who stood with her children and Rhaenyra as part of the royal family.
"Rise," Viserys commanded, his voice unusually stern. Daemon couldn't help but smirk, finding his brother's demeanor less than joyful.
"Brother," his brother embraced him before moving on to greet Rhaenys and Rhaenyra.
"Cousin, daughter," Viserys addressed them before kissing his daughter on the brow.
Viserys knelt before the High Septon, a fat old man, and another Hightower. The High Septon recited the words of the Faith of the Seven and anointed him with holy oils. He suppressed a snort as he watched the religious ceremony. 'Targaryen shouldn't bow before gods. Of the men we have conquered, we should stand above them.' He thought.
Finally, he walked over to receive the crown of the old King, a golden crown adorned with the sigils of all the great houses of the Seven Kingdoms. He addressed the gathered masses and placed the crown on his brother's head.
"All hail His Grace Viserys Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Rhoynar, the Andals, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm," he proclaimed his brother as King to the realm.
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