RED KEEP, 260 AC
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AEMON'S POV
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The towering stone walls of the Red Keep felt alive that night—buzzing, humming, filled with the heavy sounds of music, laughter, and celebration. Though the echoes of war still lingered in the hearts of men, the Great Hall now swelled with the victorious roars of lords and knights, their goblets raised high, the clinking of metal on metal ringing out like the peals of a bell.
The Great Hall of the Red Keep shimmered with golden light, its towering chandeliers heavy with candles that burned high above the crowd, casting flickering shadows across the vaulted ceiling.
The air buzzed with life—laughter, music, and the low hum of hundreds of voices blending into a single, living sound. The clinking of goblets, the scrape of plates heavy with roasted meats and honeyed fruits, and the crackle of torches along the stone walls wove together in a grand tapestry of celebration. Lords in velvet doublets, their house sigils stitched in gold and crimson, paused mid-toast. Ladies in silk and sapphire gowns smiled over their goblets.
At the head of the hall, the Iron Throne loomed, sharp and unforgiving, its jagged blades catching the flickering torchlight. Seated beside it was King Jaehaerys II, his silver hair gleaming beneath the weight of his crown. His goblet sat untouched before him as he gazed out over the hall—not with the easy contentment of victory, but with the quiet, sharpened focus of a king who understood that peace was only a pause between wars.
The hall roared with life. Knights laughed, their armour gleaming in the light. Lords traded tales of blood and glory over wine, some speaking of the Battle of Bloodstone, of the rivers of blood that had soaked foreign soil so Westeros might know peace. Others whispered of me—of how I had been spared, of how the old tales said the fire could not burn a true dragon.
Nestled safely in Shaera's arms, I gazed at the towering vaulted ceilings, his wide violet eyes reflecting the dancing light of countless candles. The grand feast to celebrate the victory over the Blackfyres had begun, though a babe, I could feel the weight of it all—the noise, the revelry, the history pulsing through the stones.
The world felt so vast from where I lay—swaddled in soft linens, the heavy air filled with the dull roar of voices, the clang of goblets, and the laughter of lords. Even in my tiny, fragile form, I could feel the weight of it all. My hands, small and weak, clenched at the silken folds of Shaera's gown as she cradled me in her arms.
Her heartbeat—steady and deep—was my anchor. I pressed my cheek against her chest, the faint scent of lavender and blood lingering there. She still bore the scars of the night she had saved me, the night steel had come for my life.
I remembered the cold, though I had no words for it. The steel blade, glinting in the dim light, came far too close—before warmth enveloped me, before Shaera threw herself over me, her body a shield against the blade. The faint metallic smell of blood had filled my lungs as it soaked through the blankets, but I had felt none of the pain. Only the weight of her, the beat of her frantic heart, the way she'd clutched me close as chaos erupted around us.
It wasn't like the fire that had taken my mother and father, but the same kind of sacrifice. Again, someone had chosen me over their own life.
And in that moment, in the warmth of her blood and the sound of her heartbeat, she became my mother.
Her arms tightened around me as the lords and ladies of the realm filled the hall, their cloaks heavy with sigils—the lion of Lannister, the stag of Baratheon, the trout of Tully, the falcon of Arryn, and, above all, the three-headed dragon of Targaryen.
But the world beyond her arms was loud and sharp-edged. The long feast table stretched far, lords and ladies laughing too loud, their goblets raised high. Golden platters overflowed with roasted boar, trout, and honeyed figs. Harpists and pipers played near the dais, the haunting notes of the harp rising above the murmur of voices, lilting and soft, even as tankards were raised in toasts to victory.
Shaera shifted, wincing slightly, though she kept her pain hidden behind a serene smile. Her strength was like iron beneath the silk. Though she had nearly died for me, she had refused to miss this feast, refused to leave me alone.
A lady in blue silk brushed my cheek, murmuring how handsome a prince I was. I recoiled, curling tighter against Shaera. Her arms only tightened around me.
"Shhh, little one, you're safe now," she whispered.
Safe.
The feast roared on, but I was deaf to it. I could only feel the thrum of Shaera's heart beneath my ear, the quiet strength of her even as the world roared around us.
"I am safe," I thought. "Here. With her."
But even through the music and laughter, I could feel something deeper in the air—a weight. The war was over, but the cost still lingered in the shadows of the hall. A child always can.
I burrowed deeper into her embrace, my tiny fingers curling into her hair.
"Even a babe is not safe in this cursed world," I thought—not in the words of men, but in that raw, bone-deep understanding that even the cradle could be touched by death.
The lords of Westeros filled the hall with their booming laughter and loud toasts. Goblets of rich Arbor gold and Dornish red were raised high, clinking in midair before their contents were drained in long, hearty gulps.
A goblet clinked nearby, and I turned my head, wide violet eyes catching the flicker of torchlight on steel.
At the head table, the great lords sat with their banners fluttering behind them.
Lord Tywin Lannister, calm and composed in his crimson and gold, sat like a statue of power. Though his face was cold and unreadable, he lifted his goblet in toast with the others.
Across the hall, Lord Rickard Stark sat bundled in heavy northern furs despite the warmth, a goblet of dark ale in his hand. His grey eyes swept the room quietly, a man used to the solitude of snow-covered forests now surrounded by the fire of King's Landing. Though he spoke little, the rare curl of a smile ghosted his lips as he listened to the jovial tales of the other lords.
Lord Hoster Tully was a stark contrast—already flushed from drink, laughing heartily as he boasted of the Riverlands' valour. He gestured grandly with his goblet, nearly spilling wine onto his embroidered tunic.
"Two months of peace!" he declared, slamming the goblet down with a hearty laugh. "And by the gods, may it last longer than this hangover will!"
Nearby, Lord Jon Arryn sat quietly, sipping his wine with measured grace. He watched the lords bicker and laugh, occasionally exchanging calm words with Lord Rickard. Though he smiled politely when spoken to, his eyes missed little, calmly studying the power plays unfolding across the hall.
At another long table, Lord Steffon Baratheon was in his element. He drank deeply, the black and gold stag of his house prominent on his doublet as he bellowed songs and half-sober jokes, his booming laughter rolling through the hall like thunder.
"Another round! And where's that bard I asked for?" he roared, slamming his goblet down.
Knights and bannermen of Storm's End cheered loudly, some already standing on benches, their voices raised high in a raucous drinking song. Even a few Tyrell knights joined in, their golden rose sigils gleaming as they passed pitchers of wine between tables.
A scuffle broke out when two tipsy knights debated who had slain more Blackfyres during the war. Their wooden benches toppled as they wrestled briefly before Lord Steffon, laughing, ordered more wine for them both.
"Let 'em fight it out in the yard tomorrow!" he bellowed. "Tonight, we drink!"
Even King Jaehaerys II chuckled from his seat on the Iron Throne, his normally solemn face softened by the warmth of the feast.
Prince Aerys sat at the high table, leaning into his goblet with a wild grin, his silver-gold hair tousled from the night's revelry. His violet eyes sparkled with excitement as he toasted the victory with more enthusiasm than most.
"To peace, for once!" he called, raising his goblet high.
"TO PEACE!" the hall echoed, and the goblets clinked like the ringing of a thousand bells.
Aerys laughed, deep and hearty, as he threw an arm over Lord Tywin's shoulder. Tywin barely shifted, but he let the moment pass.
"I say, Tywin, it's rare we drink to peace rather than war. You should smile more."
Tywin didn't, but he raised his goblet nonetheless.
The prince's laughter filled the hall again as musicians struck up a livelier tune, strings and flutes weaving a melody that had some of the younger lords and ladies rising to dance.
Around the great hall, the lords feasted heartily. Jesters juggled near the hearth, their coloured balls catching the golden light. Minstrels played tunes that drifted like honey through the crowd, and serving girls weaved between tables with baskets of warm bread and pitchers of wine.
Children of noble houses, young squires, and ladies giggled as they ran past guards, sneaking sweets from the dessert tables—honeycakes, candied nuts, and delicate lemon tarts dusted with sugar.
For the first time in what felt like an age, there was no talk of war.
No plots. No whispers.
Only the sound of voices raised in song, steel-forged alliances melting into laughter, and the crackle of hearth fires burning high against the night.
The voices in the hall rose higher as the first of many toasts were called.
To the King! To peace!
"To the warriors who bled for the realm!"
"To the end of the Blackfyre line!"
Goblets clinked, and the hall roared with approval.
The hall grew quiet as King Jaehaerys rose from his seat, his crown heavy upon his brow, though his shoulders bore it well. The king's face, lined with age and wisdom, softened as he looked over the gathered lords and warriors.
"Lords and ladies of Westeros," Jaehaerys began, his voice carrying through the hall, "today we feast not for the taste of victory, but for the honour of those who secured it. The Blackfyre threat, which has shadowed this realm for decades, is ended. Maelys the Monstrous is dead. And with him, the last of that cursed male line."
A murmur swept through the hall, a mixture of relief and satisfaction.
"No longer will the Blackfyre name haunt the Iron Throne," the king continued. "But we did not achieve this without cost. Fathers. Sons. Brothers. They lie cold now, beneath foreign soil, far from hearth and kin. They gave everything, so this realm might know peace."
He lifted his goblet high. "To the fallen!"
"To the fallen!" the hall echoed, goblets raised high, their contents spilt in tribute.
Aemon watched as Shaera's hand trembled before she drank, her strength hard-won after months of recovery. Her body bore the scars of the assassination attempt, but her spirit remained unbroken. Her other arm cradled him closer, as though she feared I might vanish if she let go.
Jaehaerys set his goblet down with a firm clang. "As a token of gratitude to this realm, for the bloodshed and the sacrifices made, I decree six months of tax relief. Let no smallfolk go hungry in this time of healing. Grain and cloth will be sent to the families of the fallen — their sons may be gone, but their loyalty will not be forgotten."
The hall erupted in applause, but Aemon heard the softer sounds — the sighs of tired men, the wet eyes hastily wiped dry, the soft clink of goblets raised not in revelry, but in remembrance.
He nestled deeper into Shaera's arms, her heartbeat strong against his tiny ear. In this vast world of steel and fire, of broken crowns and burnt kings, he had found something rare: a mother's love, unyielding and fierce.
And though he could barely form words, a thought echoed in his mind with startling clarity.
One day, I will make this world better. One day, no babe will fear the dark as I have.
But the moment shifted.
"Ser Jonothor Darry," the king called, his voice rich with authority, "come forward."
The hall parted as a man in worn but gleaming armour stepped forward, his boots struck stone—measured, heavy—with each step as Ser Jonothor Darry emerged from the gathered lords. He moved with a knight's grace, though the weight of the moment pressed heavily on his broad shoulders. His sword was sheathed at his hip, his armour bore the scars of battle, dents still unpolished, a crimson streak running down his pauldron where blood had splashed and dried. Yet his shoulders were square, his jaw tight with pride.
He stopped at the base of the Iron Throne, knelt deeply, and bowed his head.
Jaehaerys studied him for a moment before speaking, the gravity of his words echoing through the hall.
"In the darkest hour, when treachery crept within our very walls, it was Ser Jonothor Darry who stood alone between death and the future of this realm."
A murmur rippled through the assembled lords and ladies. Some had heard whispers of the night's horrors—assassins within the Red Keep—but few knew the full truth.
The king's gaze hardened.
"It was he who saved my wife, Queen Shaera, and my nephew, Prince Aemon, when blades sought their lives. While others fell or faltered, he did not yield. Though the enemy came in shadows, with steel and poison, Ser Jonothor placed himself in the path of their blades, holding fast until the last breath of the attackers was drawn."
Shaera's arms tightened around me, her breath catching for the briefest moment. Even I felt the heaviness of her memories—the assassin's blade, the cold stone floors, the blood that had soaked her gown as she shielded me. I remembered—not in images, but in feelings—the panic, the cold fear, the heavy weight of her body shielding mine. Jonothor had been there, a figure of iron and valour, standing where others might have faltered.
The hall stirred again, gasps rising from the nobles. Shaera, seated nearby with baby Aemon cradled in her arms, bowed her head, her silver-gold hair cascading over her shoulders as her eyes glistened with emotion.
Jaehaerys's voice grew softer, weighted with gratitude.
"There are debts that gold cannot pay, nor words repay. My blood lives because of your sword, Ser Jonothor. And the future of House Targaryen endures because of your unshakable courage."
A hush fell across the hall—deep and reverent.
The king took a step forward, descending a single step from the Iron Throne, something few ever saw a Targaryen king do.
"Name your reward. Lands, titles, gold—name it, and it is yours."
Jonothor lifted his head, his face calm, though there was a flicker of emotion in his eyes—pride, perhaps, or something deeper.
"Your Grace," he said, his voice steady, "I ask no debt, only the honour of serving you and your bloodline for as long as I draw breath. I would wear the white cloak and stand among your Kingsguard."
A sharp gasp rose from the crowd.
The Kingsguard—the most sacred order of knights in the realm.
Even King Jaehaerys blinked once in surprise before a slow smile curved his lips. He turned to the gathered court.
"You hear the man. He has saved the future of this house, and now he would give the rest of his life to it."
The hall filled with approving murmurs. Some lords nodded with respect, others whispered in awe.
Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stepped forward, his white cloak pristine against his silver armour.
"A worthy addition," Gerold declared, his deep voice cutting through the noise.
The king turned back to Jonothor.
"Then rise, Ser Jonothor Darry, and take your place among the Seven. You have served with your blade. Now serve with your life."
Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stepped forward, his tall frame imposing in his snow-white armour. In his hands, he carried a pristine white cloak—the symbol of eternal service.
"Kneel," Gerold commanded.
Ser Jonothor once again knelt before the Iron Throne, head bowed, his heart racing as Ser Gerold Hightower recited the sacred vows. He felt a surge of emotion rise from deep within his chest—pride, humility, and an overwhelming sense of duty all converging in that single, breathless moment. The weight of the cloak, though light in fabric, felt heavy with the responsibility it now symbolized.
"Do you swear to protect the king with all your strength?"
"I swear it."
Jonothor's voice trembled, not from fear but from the sheer gravity of the moment. He could still see flashes of that bloody night—the assassins, the Queen's blood pooling around the cradle, and his blade flashing as he stood between death and the infant prince.
"To give your blood for the king, should it be required?"
"I swear it."
His hand clenched into a fist, remembering the feel of blood slicking his gauntlet that night. He had already given his blood, nearly his life—but the vow made it eternal.
"To never take a wife, never father children, never hold lands and never claim titles beyond this white cloak?"
"I swear it."
This vow pierced deep. He had dreams once—of a family, a modest keep—but they burned away at that moment, leaving behind a cold clarity. To serve the realm. To protect.
"To guard the king's secrets as your own?"
"I swear it."
"To obey the king's commands without hesitation?"
"I swear it."
There was no hesitation now.
"To ride at the king's side, to stand vigil at his door, to defend his life, his honour, and his name?"
"I swear it."
The final words left him breathless.
With careful precision, Gerold placed the white cloak upon Jonothor's shoulders. The fabric billowed before settling, the weight of it both a burden and a crown and as Jonothor stood, he felt taller than he ever had before.
A cheer rippled through the hall, but Jonothor barely heard it. His hand briefly brushed the white fabric now hanging down his back—a symbol of purity, devotion, and a life no longer his own.
His eyes flicked to Queen Shaera, who held the infant prince—the boy he had risked his life to protect. She smiled faintly at him, a mother's gratitude etched deeply on her face.
For Jonothor, that was worth more than titles or gold.
The hall erupted into applause. Lords and ladies, some witnessing this sacred ritual for the first time, stood and clapped, their jewelled hands striking together in a rare moment of unified respect.
Shaera smiled, her eyes bright with both pride and the lingering pain of recent wounds. "He is a good man, little one," she whispered to me. Shaera's hand curled against me, a protective gesture, her pride swelling.
I didn't understand her words, not fully. But I felt the warmth in her voice, the sense of safety that Jonothor's vow promised. My tiny hand reached out toward the shining white cloak as Ser Jonothor rose, now a brother of the Kingsguard—a knight who had chosen honour over ambition, service over self.
In that vast hall of stone and steel, the future seemed, for a moment, safe.
But the moment did not end there.
King Jaehaerys lifted his hand, silencing the crowd.
"Ser Barristan Selmy," he called.
A hush fell. Even the musicians faltered.
The crowd shifted as a tall knight in gleaming armour strode down the hall. His stride was steady, unshaken by the weight of so many eyes. Ser Barristan Selmy, known now by whispers as the Bold, bore no ostentation—only the steel of a knight who had faced the storm and emerged unbroken.
His armour, though polished, still bore the faint scars of war. His blade hung heavy at his side—a blade that had ended the rebellion and ended the Blackfyre line.
As Barristan approached the Iron Throne, the whispers of the gathered nobles rose in a soft wave:
"He killed Maelys himself."
"A boy of but twenty… yet he felled the Monstrous One."
"The greatest knight of our age—perhaps the greatest since Ser Duncan the Tall."
Barristan knelt before the dais, lowering his head in deference.
The king's voice softened, though the weight of history pressed behind his words.
"All of Westeros knows the name of Maelys Blackfyre—the Monstrous One. A kinslayer, a usurper, a tyrant who sought to throw our realm into darkness. And it was you, Ser Barristan, who brought his reign of blood to an end."
A murmur rippled through the hall, the memory of that brutal duel vivid in the minds of all who had heard the tales. The clash of the Morningstar against Barristan's longsword. The sight of Maelys—towering and brutal—falling to the mud, his life's blood spilt beneath the weight of a young knight's blade.
Jaehaerys continued his voice now heavy with gratitude.
"You did what many thought impossible. You faced the beast head-on, and you did not falter. You ended the Blackfyre threat that has haunted this realm for five generations. And by your hand, the bloodline of traitors is no more."
Even I felt the reverence in the air—the shift. A man who had carved his name into history now stood, humbled, before the king.
A wave of applause surged through the crowd, though the king raised his hand to quiet it.
"For this, the realm is in your debt. And I, as its king, am in your debt." He paused.
"You are heir to House Selmy," Jaehaerys continued. "Promised to wed, to carry on your line. And yet, the realm owes you more than it can give. Name your boon."
The hall held its breath. Every nobleman leaned forward, eager to hear what a man who had ended a dynasty would demand.
But Barristan, still kneeling, raised his head, his expression calm and unwavering.
"Your Grace," he began, his voice carrying with unexpected strength, "I ask for neither land nor gold. I wish only for the honour of serving this realm and your house for the rest of my days. I ask you to take the white cloak and join your Kingsguard."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. To forsake his inheritance, his future, for the white cloak—such a choice was rare.
Even Jaehaerys seemed momentarily stunned. He exchanged a glance with Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, before speaking again.
"You would give up your inheritance? Your lordship? The future of your house? For a life of service?"
"Without hesitation, Your Grace." Barristan's answer was swift, his conviction clear.
The hall buzzed with disbelief and admiration. Some lords whispered of the selflessness of such a choice, while others shook their heads in astonishment at the sacrifice.
Jaehaerys smiled again—deeper, fuller this time. "Then rise, Ser Barristan Selmy, and take your place among the Seven."
Ser Gerold Hightower stepped forward once more, another white cloak in hand. The Lord Commander's voice was low and filled with respect as he spoke the sacred vows.
Barristan took the sacred vows, his voice did not tremble. His words were pure, driven not by gratitude or debt—but by the purest form of chivalry.
"I vow to protect the king and his family. To lay down my life for the realm. To have no wife, hold no lands, and father no children. To give my blood for the king, should it be required. To guard the king's secrets as my own. To obey the king's commands without hesitation. To ride at the king's side, to stand vigil at his door, to defend his life, his honour, and his name. I swear, before gods and men, to uphold the vows of the Kingsguard."
When the last of the Kingsguard's sacred vows left his lips, Ser Barristan Selmy felt a strange and profound stillness settle over him—a peace he had not known in years of battle.
The white cloak billowed as Ser Gerold Hightower laid it over his shoulders.
"Then rise, Ser Barristan Selmy, of the Kingsguard."
At that moment, Barristan felt the years of his youth, the countless tournaments, and even the brutal duel against Maelys Blackfyre fall away, leaving only the clarity of a knight's purest purpose.
But there was something else.
A pang.
The knowledge that he had just severed ties with his house, his betrothal, and any hope of heirs. The weight of that sacrifice hit him fully as the hall erupted in gasps and murmurs.
"The greatest knight of his age… now bound to a crown."
"His name will echo through the halls of history."
"But at what cost?"
Barristan, however, felt no regret.
As he stood, the white cloak heavy yet liberating on his broad shoulders, he let out a slow breath, one he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
For the first time, he felt untethered from earthly wants—no inheritance, no bride, no heirs—only the sword and the vow.
He glanced toward the Iron Throne where King Jaehaerys II smiled in approval. King's voice wavered with emotion.
"You are the sword of the realm now, Ser Barristan. And Westeros will remember this day for a thousand years."
And for Barristan Selmy, there was no finer title, no grander honour, than this moment.
As Ser Barristan took his vows, Aemon saw it—just for a moment—in King Jaehaerys' eyes: the weight of a crown that demanded blood as its price. The way his fingers tapped against the Iron Throne's twisted steel, as though counting the dead that had bought this peace. His smile for Barristan was sincere—but it did not reach the tired corners of his eyes.
When the cloak settled over their shoulders, the contrast between the two knights was clear. Jonothor is bound by duty and loyalty. Barristan, bound by idealism and the weight of history.
And the hall—again—erupted in applause, louder than before, as if the very stones of the Red Keep shook with it.
Shaera's heart thudded beneath my cheek. "The Seven stand complete now," she whispered.
The great hall roared with cheers, but the Iron Throne behind the king stood silent, its blades gleaming cold and sharp. Even as the white cloaks took their places, I felt it—a faint, flickering unease—like the storm had passed but left the air heavy with more to come. The shadows beneath the high arches seemed longer somehow, darker.
Ser Barristan Selmy's name was already a legend, and many in the hall could not help but admire the purity of his choice—powerless to ignore the way his self-sacrifice echoed the vows of old.
"The Kingsguard is whole again," whispered a septon from the crowd. "Seven to stand for the king, as the Seven intended."
Even Queen Shaera Targaryen, still pale from her wounds, clutched me tighter as she whispered, "This realm still breeds men of honour, little one. Remember that." Her voice was soft but firm, like a promise, her violet eyes shimmering with pride.
When Ser Gerold Hightower stepped forward, his white armour gleaming in the torchlight, he raised his voice above the murmur of the court.
"For the first time in a generation, the Kingsguard stands at seven."
King Jaehaerys II, his face lined with both age and relief, stood.
"The Kingsguard is complete. Seven swords. Seven shields. Seven lives bound in service to the realm."
The applause swelled again, but in the stillness that followed, I felt the moment's gravity. The Seven stood complete, their white cloaks gleaming, yet in my infant mind, a faint shadow lingered.
Would seven swords be enough to guard the realm from what was to come?
But for this moment, there was peace. And the Seven stood strong.
The lords and ladies, regardless of their alliances or opinions, stood as one—out of tradition, if not respect—and raised their goblets.
"To the Kingsguard!" the hall thundered.
"To the Seven!"
But as I nestled deeper into Shaera's arms, I felt something different in the room—a weight beneath the applause. A knowing, perhaps, that even the strongest shields crack under pressure… and that in Westeros, peace was always short-lived.
Yet for this moment, the realm had its protectors.
I yawned, small fingers curling into Shaera's gown, but even through the haze of sleep, I understood one thing.
And I, a babe with a crown already haunting my future, was safe.
For now.
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THE KING'S CHAMBER
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The Red Keep stood draped in a blanket of silence, the soft glow of torches flickering along the stone corridors, their golden light dancing like restless ghosts upon the walls. The echoes of the feast—laughter, music, and clinking goblets—had long faded, leaving only the deep hush that followed moments of grand celebration.
Within the King's chambers, the air was still, heavy with the scent of burning candles and the faint perfume of lavender that clung to Queen Shaera. The large chamber, with its vaulted ceilings and tall windows overlooking Blackwater Bay, was dimly lit, the moon's silver glow weaving through the cracks in the heavy curtains.
Queen Shaera sat by the arched window, the soft fabric of her silver gown pooling around her as she cradled Prince Aemon in her arms. The infant prince slept deeply, his tiny chest rising and falling against her, his silver hair a soft halo against the curve of her shoulder. Her fingers absently traced the line of his cheek, the tension of the long evening slowly unravelling within her.
Across the room, King Jaehaerys II stood near the hearth, his tall figure silhouetted against the gentle crackle of the fire. The flames cast sharp shadows across his silver hair and aged face, the crown heavy upon his brow. In the firelight, the Iron Throne's reflection flickered in his eyes—a ghost of its ever-present weight.
The golden glow of candlelight bathed the room in a soft warmth, flickering across the stone walls lined with dragon banners. A fire crackled in the hearth, its light catching in the polished blades of the three Kingsguard present—Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard; Ser Jonothor Darry, his white cloak pristine and new; and Ser Barristan Selmy, the young knight who had ended the Blackfyre line.
They stood tall, armour gleaming in the low light, their white cloaks shimmering in the flicker of flames and their swords sheathed but hands resting lightly on the hilts—a silent promise of vigilance.
Jaehaerys's gaze swept over the knights before him, lingering on Jonothor and Barristan. He took a deep breath, his voice low but firm, the authority of the crown threading through every word.
"You have sworn your vows," the King began, "and tonight, the Seven stand complete once more. Westeros is stronger for it."
The knights bowed their heads in solemn agreement.
The King stepped forward, his heavy robes trailing across the stone floor. "But the duties of the Kingsguard are not equal in burden. Some roles require men of particular strength… and unwavering resolve."
He turned to Ser Jonothor Darry first.
"You, Ser Jonothor, have proven that you would lay down your life for this family without hesitation. When the shadows crept into our walls—when the Queen and my heir were but a heartbeat from death—you stood between them and ruin. For this, you shall stand as the Queen's sworn shield."
Shaera's head lifted at this, her silver-blue eyes meeting Jonothor's. Her expression was soft with gratitude, though a mother's lingering fear darkened the edges.
"Your Grace," Jonothor replied, his voice steady, though the weight of the honour pressed deeply into his chest. He stepped forward and knelt before the Queen, bowing his head. "I swear upon my life. No blade, no poison, nor shadow shall ever touch Her Grace while I draw breath."
He had saved the Queen once with his sword. Now he would do so for life.
Shaera gave a soft nod, though her violet eyes glistened with unspoken gratitude.
The silence was broken only by the crackle of the hearth before Jaehaerys's voice filled the chamber, low and thoughtful.
"Westeros has been no stranger to bloodshed," the King began, his tone heavy with the memories of war. "But with every Targaryen born, we gamble with fate."
His words hung in the air, and the Kingsguards stood a little straighter.
Jaehaerys's eyes drifted to Aemon, his gaze softening with both pride and an undercurrent of worry.
"Madness and greatness are but two sides of the same coin," he continued, his voice steeped in the weight of prophecy and history.
"Every time a new Targaryen is born, the gods toss the coin in the air… and the world holds its breath to see how it will land."
Shaera's arms instinctively tightened around Aemon, as though shielding him from the weight of such fate.
"I see strength in this boy," Jaehaerys murmured, "but strength can be both a blessing and a curse."
"Too many coins had fallen wrong before. Maegor. Aerion. Baelor. Even Aegon the Unworthy. The gods rarely smiled on House Targaryen for long."
He stepped forward, the iron-shod heels of his boots striking the stone with measured force as he approached Ser Barristan Selmy.
"You, Ser Barristan," the King spoke firmly, "ended the Blackfyre threat with your blade. You have proven courage, honour, and skill beyond your years. But more than that, I have seen your heart."
Barristan bowed his head, though there was a flicker of surprise in his eyes.
Jaehaerys gestured toward the slumbering prince. "This boy… Aemon is special. Already, the maesters speak of his strange nature—his immunity to fire, a blessing, or perhaps, a curse. And I fear it will not be long before others, both in Westeros and beyond the Narrow Sea, turn their gaze upon him. To some, he will be a wonder. To others… a threat."
Shaera's knuckles whitened as her hand curled protectively around Aemon.
"Because of this," Jaehaerys continued, "he will need a shield, not only of steel but of wisdom and honour. Someone who can guide him, protect him—not just in body but in spirit."
He met Barristan's gaze fully.
"I appoint you, Ser Barristan Selmy, as Prince Aemon's sworn shield."
Barristan's breath caught, his honour-bound heart swelling with the weight of such trust. He stepped forward and knelt, his white cloak pooling at his knees.
For Barristan, this was the calling of every boyhood dream—to serve the realm in its purest form.
"I will guard him with my life, Your Grace," he vowed. "Through fire, steel, and shadow."
Jaehaerys nodded solemnly, though his next words carried a deeper weight.
"And when the boy grows, I hope you will not only be his shield but his teacher. Teach him the sword, yes—but also honour. Humility. Teach him what it means to serve something greater than himself."
Barristan's hand tightened over the hilt of his sword. "It would be my greatest honour."
The King's gaze softened, though a shadow still lingered behind his eyes.
"I have seen what power does to Targaryens. Rhaegar and Aemon are young now, pure—but the coin has yet to fall. I hope, Ser Barristan, when that day comes, you will be there to steady him."
"I will be," Barristan swore, his voice like iron.
Shaera's eyes softened. She lifted Aemon slightly, allowing the knight to see the sleeping prince's peaceful face. "Then he is in strong hands."
Jaehaerys exhaled deeply, the lines of his face softening—if only for a moment.
"With these appointments," the King declared, "the future of House Targaryen stands guarded."
Jaehaerys finally turned toward Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. "Ser Gerold, you have always known the weight of duty. These two young knights—see that they are forged not just by their oaths, but by the legacy of this order."
"I will, Your Grace," Gerold replied, the steel in his voice absolute.
The King stepped back, his gaze lingering once more on Aemon.
"Two boys now carry the future of the realm—Rhaegar and Aemon. Two coins still tumbling in the air."
He sighed, the firelight reflecting in the ancient lines of his face.
"Let us pray they land on the side of greatness."
The room fell silent, the crackle of the hearth the only sound as the weight of the moment settled over them all.
And in Shaera's arms, Aemon stirred slightly, a tiny fist curling tighter—as if somewhere, deep within, he felt the hand of fate reaching for him. A ripple of old magic stirred in the air, fleeting but heavy, as though the boy's blood remembered fires long extinguished.
Outside, the winds howled against the Red Keep's towers.
Inside, the walls held—for now.
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Author's Note:
Hey everyone,
I want to take a moment to address some of the feedback I've been seeing—especially the comments calling the story a disappointment, with slow pacing, heavy melodrama, and too much focus on side characters rather than the MC. Some of you also mentioned that the writing feels "AI-generated" or lacks dynamic flow.
To be fully transparent—yes, I did use AI as a tool during the writing process, but every idea, plotline, character arc, and world-building element came entirely from me. AI was simply a tool to help draft sections faster, but I edit, refine, and shape every part of the story to align with my vision.
When I first started this story, my goal was to make it fast-paced and MC-centered. But as I got deeper into writing, I felt compelled to flesh out the history, world-building, and side characters—which, I'll admit, ended up slowing the pacing more than I originally intended. This shift led to some of the melodrama and complex side plots that not everyone enjoyed, and MC is still in a bloody baby stage.
I'm truly sorry and completely understand that this has made the story feel out of sync for some readers, especially those expecting a more traditional, action-driven fanfiction. And that's on me. But I also want to make sure the foundations of the world are solid so that the MC's journey feels more impactful in the long run.
The good news? Starting with the next chapter, there will be a major time skip, and the pacing will pick up significantly. The focus will fully shift to the MC's journey, his growth, and the core plot—which I know many of you have been waiting for.
At the end of the day, I'm always learning and growing as a writer. Feedback—both the good and the harsh—helps me improve, and I'm grateful to everyone who's stuck around, offered constructive criticism, or just shared their thoughts.
For those who've been patient and supportive, thank you from the bottom of my heart. And for those who've been disappointed so far, I hope you'll give the upcoming chapters a shot—I'm working hard to make them worth your time.
Here's to better pacing, more MC focus, and the journey ahead!
Valar Moghulis.