Dragonstone was a place of storms, stone, and ancient whispers. The sea, ever restless, crashed against blackened rocks, its waves singing songs of old wars, lost kings, and the dragons that once ruled the skies. Above it all, perched high in a chamber within the ancient keep, I found a different kind of peace—one born not of swords or crowns, but of strings, paint, and parchment.
The chamber that housed the Painted Table was my sanctuary. The map of Westeros sprawled before me—every kingdom, every river, every mountain immortalized in green and gold. But it wasn't the wars it once planned or the kings it served that fascinated me. It was the idea of creation—the artistry behind its design.
Shaera often found me there, paintbrush in hand, sometimes adding a river where none existed or turning a hill into a dragon. She'd smile softly, calling me her "little cartographer," though once, when I painted an enormous sun with a smiley face over the Vale, she chuckled and dubbed me the "Mad Mapmaker."
Music and painting became my refuge. I was only five, but in this world, age felt like a formality. My mind—mature and vast—still found comfort in the simple scratch of quill on parchment or the resonant hum of harp strings under my small fingers. The first time I picked up the harp, its weight felt awkward, the strings sharp against my fingertips. But as my fingers fumbled through the chords, the vibrations echoed in my chest.
By the second week, Shaera would pause in the hallways to listen. By the third, she no longer called it noise.
"Again, my little bard," she'd say, her voice light, her eyes soft—the rare moments when grief loosened its hold on her.
I played for her often—soft lullabies, haunting melodies, and once, just to see her laugh, an off-key version of "The Bear and the Maiden Fair." Shaera burst into laughter, the sound like bells in the empty halls of Dragonstone.
But one day I played a gentle, haunting melody I had found buried in an old Valyrian scroll. The notes filled the quiet room, delicate and slow.
Shaera, seated by the window, turned at the sound. Her violet eyes widened, a flicker of something old and fragile rising within them.
"That song…" she whispered, her voice barely a breath. "It was Jae's favourite. He… he used to hum it. Sing it to me, before the crown weighed him down."
I kept playing, the melody weaving through the space between us.
Her hand trembled as she pressed it to her chest. "You even play it better than he did."
When I looked up, there were tears in her eyes—silent, heavy with memories.
"You remind me of him, Aemon," she said softly. "The boy he used to be."
The song ended, its final note lingering in the charged stillness. Shaera smiled through her tears, and for a moment, I wasn't just her nephew.
I was her reminder of happier days.
Painting came naturally too. There was something therapeutic about the brush to canvas. I'd lose hours sketching the curve of Dragonstone's cliffs or the wild chaos of a storm overhead. One painting—of a dragon curled around the Painted Table—now sat above my bed, Shaera insisting it was "worthy of the Red Keep itself," though I was fairly certain she just liked the glittering gold I'd used for the dragon's eyes.
My studies began at three—because why not? If I were going to be stuck on an island filled with more ghosts than people, I might as well learn everything I could. Shaera oversaw my lessons at first, her hand guiding mine as I traced letters. But soon, Maester Geradys took over.
He was an old, stooped man with a beard so long it could've been braided into a rope. He smelled faintly of ink and dusty tomes and had a way of sighing through his nose that made him sound perpetually unimpressed.
Dragonstone's library was a labyrinth of towering shelves, dust-laden tomes, and forgotten scrolls that smelled of ink and age. Though smaller than the Red Keep's vast archives, it held knowledge older than Westeros itself—tales of Valyria, the Free Cities, and lands beyond the known maps. This was where I spent most of my mornings, huddled beneath the arched windows where the storm's light filtered through stained glass.
I devoured everything it had. Tomes on ancient Valyria, dusty scrolls on dragonlore, sea charts, histories of the Blackfyre Rebellions. I read about the Doom, about kings and kin who had ruled and fallen, and sometimes I wondered if I too was doomed to be just another name in a forgotten book.
By four, I could read and write in the Common Tongue—though I secretly thought of it as Old English. The similarities were uncanny. High Valyrian followed shortly after, its lilting syllables becoming as natural as breath. Low Valyrian came next, though its dialects were like rivers branching off into confusing, chaotic streams. One day, I'd figure them all out.
Maester Geradys sat at the long oak table, his ink-stained fingers flipping through a massive, leather-bound atlas. His beard—so long it brushed the pages—twitched with every annoyed sigh.
"Pay attention, Aemon," he grumbled, though his eyes sparkled with reluctant fondness. "Today, we cover the known world. If you are to be a Targaryen prince worth anything, you must understand more than this island."
I rested my chin in my palm, eyes gleaming. "Tell me about what's beyond Westeros. I want to know it all."
Geradys harrumphed but indulged me, as always.
"Very well. Westeros, where you sit now, stretches from the icy lands beyond the Wall to the storm-lashed cliffs of Dorne. Seven kingdoms make up the realm—though some would argue the North alone could be its empire." He tapped the map with a bony finger.
"To the east lies Essos, the vast continent of the Free Cities, the Dothraki Sea, Slaver's Bay, and ancient Valyria—now a ruin of fire and shadow."
My fingers traced the jagged scars of Valyria on the map. "No one dares go there."
"No sane man, no. But Essos is more than just ruins and sellswords. Yi Ti, in the Far East, is a kingdom older than Valyria itself, rich in gold and strange magics. The Golden Empire, they call it. And even beyond that, Leng—an island of towering forests and secrets best left undisturbed."
"What about Sothoryos?" I asked eagerly.
Geradys raised a brow. "A wild land. Dense jungles, beasts larger than any here, and plagues that swallow men whole. Few who travel there ever return."
I grinned. "I'd like to try."
"You'd die in a week," he muttered, but there was a chuckle buried in it.
I leaned over the table. "And Ulthos?"
Geradys replied. "Very few know of Ulthos. Most maesters don't even mark it on maps."
"Then they're fools," I replied.
He sat back, shaking his head. "You'll make the maesters cry one day."
"Good," I muttered.
"And west of Westeros?" I asked, eyes bright. "The Sunset Sea?"
The maester hesitated. "Nothing, lad. Or so they say. The sea stretches endlessly. Many have sailed into it, hoping to find lands beyond, but none have returned."
"Or maybe they did, and we never heard of it," I mused.
"One day, I'll go. Fly a dragon over the endless sea and see what lies beyond."
Geradys chuckled softly. "Ah, you have the blood of dreamers in you. Like your ancestors."
The lesson shifted then, the maester's voice steady as he quizzed me on the great houses of Westeros.
"House Stark?"
"Winter is Coming," I answered instantly.
"Baratheon?"
"Ours is the Fury."
"Arryn?"
"As High as Honor."
"Lannister?"
"Hear Me Roar—though everyone remembers 'A Lannister always pays his debts' more," I smirked.
Geradys snorted. "Too true. And House Martell?"
"Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken."
"Good. Now in High Valyrian."
I didn't hesitate. "Vezof jin azantys."
The maester blinked. "And House Targaryen's words?"
"Fire and Blood—Perzys se Iksos."
He leaned back in his chair, genuinely impressed. "Most maesters can't speak it half so cleanly."
I gave a small smile. "It comes naturally."
"Most boys your age are still trying to figure out which end of the quill to hold," he grumbled when I corrected his translation of a Valyrian proverb.
"Most boys my age aren't me," I'd replied, innocent as ever.
"Prodigious," Geradys muttered, almost to himself. "You'll out-learn us all at this rate."
But my mind was already drifting beyond Dragonstone's shores, past the painted lines on the maps.
"I want to see it all," I said quietly. "The Free Cities, the ruins of Valyria, Yi Ti, Sothoryos... even the farthest edge of the Sunset Sea."
Geradys smiled, despite himself. "Then you best hope a dragon answers your call one day, Prince Aemon. Only wings can carry you to the edges of the world."
I glanced out the window, the sea churning far below, the storm's winds screaming across the cliffs.
"A dragon would do nicely," I whispered, a dream already taking root in my heart.
Then there were brooding hours.
Oh yes, I brooded.
A lot.
Dragonstone had a way of pulling brooding out of you. Maybe it was the endless storms or the heavy weight of its history, or maybe it was just that I was a five-year-old with the mind of a grown man trapped in a world I couldn't fully change—yet.
Some afternoons, I sat on the stone bench overlooking the sea, harp in my lap, the wind tugging at silver hair too long for a child. The sky stretched endlessly, painted in blues and greys, and the waves roared below.
"This is where I'm supposed to say something wise," I muttered once, watching clouds swirl above the island. "Like, 'The sea is a reflection of the soul,' or some nonsense."
Instead, I plucked a soft tune from the harp, a song Shaera liked, letting the notes drift with the wind.
Dragonstone had become my home—not because of its looming towers or its heavy stone walls, but because it was quiet here. No whispers. No politics. No thrones looming in the background.
Just me, my music, my paints, and the ever-crashing sea.
.
.
.
.
The storm outside had settled into a moody drizzle, the kind that soaked stone until it wept.
I sat cross-legged on the cold floor of my chamber, head propped on my hand, staring out the narrow window slit. Raindrops streaked down the glass, and beyond it—perched on the ledge—sat my favourite gargoyle.
Ser Grumblestone.
Dragonstone had too many gargoyles. Ugly little things—twisted, fanged, hunched in miserable poses. They perched on ledges, glared from rooftops, and loomed over courtyards, waiting for the perfect moment to leap down and terrify someone.
But Ser Grumblestone? He was special.
It sat just outside my chamber window, wings curled around its shoulders like it was sulking. Its face was a masterpiece of misery—lips twisted into a grimace, a permanent frown etched deep into its stone face, and bulging eyes narrowed as though judging me for every single bad thought I'd ever had.
"You look like Ser Jonothor," I thought, folding my arms over the windowsill as rain drizzled over the stronghold.
Ser Jonothor Darry, sworn Kingsguard, is the very picture of discipline and grumpiness. He had that same deep scowl, the same "I'm not mad, just disappointed" face—except he was mad. Constantly.
I poked the cold window sill with a finger. "Ser Grumblestone," I whispered to the gargoyle. "That's your name now."
Naturally, the gargoyle didn't argue.
He just scowled at me through the glass.
"You get it," I told him. "You understand the pain of royal existence."
The gargoyle didn't answer—of course, it didn't—but there was something oddly comforting about its silence. Unlike the courtiers in King's Landing, Ser Grumblestone didn't expect anything from me. He just sat there. Watching. Waiting. Like me.
The door creaked open behind me.
"Aemon."
I didn't turn. I knew that voice—Ser Barristan Selmy.
"I'm busy," I muttered.
"Busy brooding?"
I sighed. "Yes."
His footsteps echoed across the stone floor as he approached. "You're five, Aemon. Five-year-olds aren't supposed to brood. That's something you do when you're older and have a bad knee."
"Brooding is a Targaryen tradition," I countered. "It's in the blood."
Barristan chuckled, the sound soft and fond. "You don't want to end up like that, trust me."
I didn't answer. Instead, I traced a raindrop sliding down the glass with my finger.
The chair creaked as Barristan sat beside me. "What's on your mind, little prince?"
I hesitated, then shrugged. "Nothing. Everything."
"A lot for a boy your age."
I turned to him. "Do you think Ser Jonothor knows how to smile?"
Barristan laughed. "He does. He just forgets sometimes."
"I named the gargoyle outside my window after him," I admitted. "Ser Grumblestone."
Barristan nearly choked. "Seven help me, that's perfect."
"I thought so too."
He ruffled my hair. "You hide it well," he murmured.
I blinked. "Hide what?"
"The storm inside."
I didn't answer, tracing another raindrop. But something in my chest tightened, just a little.
"Come on, Aemon. Enough brooding for one day. Ser Jonothor's waiting in the yard. He's been glaring at the training dummies like they insulted him."
"I'm not starting sword training yet," I reminded him.
"I know. But fresh air might do you some good. Besides," he added with a sly smile, "if you don't show up, Jonothor might turn into a gargoyle."
That made me grin. "Fine. But if he tries to hand me a wooden sword, I'm climbing up there and joining Ser Grumblestone on the roof."
"Deal."
The rain had slowed to a fine mist by the time we made it to the courtyard. The stone underfoot was slick, reflecting the grey sky, and puddles formed in the dips between the flagstones. Mist curled across the flagstones like the castle itself was sighing. Somewhere in the distance, thunder grumbled—soft, but not gone.
And there he was—Ser Jonothor Darry.
Standing in the centre of the yard, arms crossed over his chest, a grim frown fixed on his face—just as I expected. He barely even glanced at me as I approached.
"You're late, Your Grace," he grumbled.
"Blame the weather," I replied. "Brooding weather."
Jonothor's frown deepened if that was even possible.
"I see the resemblance now," Barristan murmured beside me.
Jonothor finally turned, one dark brow raised. "The resemblance to what?"
"To the gargoyle outside my window," I answered before Barristan could. "I named it Ser Grumblestone. You should be honoured—it's the biggest one."
For a moment, there was silence. Then Barristan broke into laughter, deep and full-bellied, while Jonothor just stood there, his frown so profound it was almost a physical weight.
"Seven save me," Jonothor muttered.
"Don't be upset," I said with mock seriousness. "It's my favourite gargoyle. The others just look like they're sneezing."
Barristan was wiping tears from his eyes now. "He's not wrong, Jonothor."
"I train warriors, not jesters," Jonothor grumbled, but there was the tiniest flicker of amusement behind his eyes.
"I can be both," I offered, giving my most princely bow.
Jonothor shook his head, muttering something about Targaryens and their cursed pride, before waving me over to the dry side of the courtyard.
"No swords today," he informed me. "But you're old enough to learn the stances. Balance. Discipline. Even princes need to know how to stand their ground."
I considered this. "Sounds boring."
"It is," he admitted.
Barristan smirked. "But it'll keep you from falling on your backside the first time you swing a blade."
That seemed fair.
I spent the next hour in the yard, mimicking Jonothor's stiff stances, arms outstretched like a wobbly scarecrow while he muttered corrections and pointed at my feet. Every time I messed up, I imagined Ser Grumblestone watching from the rooftop, shaking his stone head in disappointment.
I stood with my arms out, mimicking Jonothor's rigid stance while he circled me like a hawk.
"Keep your feet grounded, boy," he barked. "You're not trying to take flight."
I shifted my weight, carefully adjusting my footing. Jonothor made a grunt—a short, surprised sound—when I slid smoothly into the correct posture.
"Huh," he muttered.
"What?" I asked, squinting at him.
"You're… more balanced than I thought. Most boys your age stumble like drunkards."
Barristan, leaning on a post, smirked. "Told you he was sharp."
Jonothor folded his arms, still frowning but now in thought rather than irritation. "It's not just sharp. He reads movement. Learns fast."
I bit back a grin. " I'm a natural."
Jonothor snorted, but I caught the flicker of begrudging respect. "Special or not, you'll still fall flat on your arse if you don't keep your guard up."
Barristan's eyes lingered on me for a beat longer than usual. "He picks up patterns. That's not normal—not at this age."
Jonothor grunted again but didn't argue.
By the time Barristan called an end to it, my arms felt like lead.
"Good effort, Aemon," Barristan said, clapping me on the back.
Jonothor crossed his arms. "You've got potential, Your Grace. But too much tongue and not enough focus."
"That's what makes me special," I replied.
Barristan laughed again.
Even Jonothor couldn't stop the small huff of amusement. "You've got the Targaryen mouth, that's for sure."
"And the charm," I added with a grin.
"Debatable."
"Undeniable," I shot back.
Barristan was nearly doubled over, laughing again. "You're going to give Ser Jonothor grey hair before his time, Aemon."
"He already looks like he was carved out of stone," I whispered loudly. "I don't think hair will help."
Jonothor threw his hands in the air. "Seven help me!"
He walked away, his armour creaking as he muttered, "By the Seven, that boy's going to be the death of me."
I watched him go, then looked up at the rooftop where Ser Grumblestone sat in all his fanged, miserable glory.
"Don't worry," I whispered to the gargoyle. "He'll come around."
The gargoyle didn't answer.
But I swore it's frown deepened, just a little. A gust of wind sent the rain sideways, streaking the glass. The gargoyle's frown deepened—or maybe it was just the shadows—but for a moment, I liked to think Dragonstone was listening.