The library of Dragonstone was a cavern of shadows and parchment, its towering shelves stacked high with dusty tomes and brittle scrolls, some so old their ink had faded to mere whispers on the page. It smelled of parchment and candle wax, a constant aroma that seemed baked into the stone.
Outside, the sea raged against the cliffs, the storm's fury barely muffled by the thick walls of the ancient keep, but here, in the flickering candlelight, the world felt small—tiny, even.
I sat hunched over the Painted Table's smaller cousin—a broad oak desk cluttered with maps and ink-stained parchment. Before me sprawled a large, hand-drawn map of the known world, its surface a patchwork of faded greens and deep blues, its coastlines jagged like they'd been traced by someone with a shaky hand and a fondness for embellishment. A flickering candle cast long shadows across a massive map of the known world — Westeros, Essos, Sothoryos, and the distant lands beyond the Jade Sea.
It was beautiful, in its way — archaic, hand-drawn, coloured with care — but also painfully incomplete.
Westeros took up the left side of the parchment, a long, thin stretch of land surrounded by the Narrow Sea. To its right, Essos sprawled out like someone had sneezed a mountain range onto the page and thought Perfect. Done. Farther still, the Jade Sea curved into a crescent, with Yi Ti marked in rich gold, and beyond that, the map gave up entirely, the paper left blank.
I sat back, squinting at it.
This is it? I thought, my lips tugging into a faint smile. This is their whole world?
In my old world—back when maps were cold, digital things that could zoom into a street corner or out to a satellite view of entire continents—this would've been laughable. I could almost picture some poor cartographer huddled over this parchment centuries ago, ink-stained hands trembling as he guessed where to put mountains.
Here, the maps were more… romantic. More uncertain.
"Westeros is about the size of South America," I muttered, running a finger along the coastline, "if South America decided, it hated straight lines and added a few dozen peninsulas just for fun."
Essos, though—that was the real beast. Vast, ancient, sprawling. Bigger than Asia, if I had to guess, though with a lot more deserts, wastelands, and terrifying horsemen who thought civilization was just an obstacle to trample over.
And then there was Sothoryos—barely more than a green blob at the bottom of the map, marked with ominous warnings: Jungle of Death and Here Be Plagues. I snorted.
"Real creative labelling there."
"Honestly," I muttered, "Google Maps would've had a field day with this."
I dragged a worn scroll closer — a history of Valyria before the Doom — and scanned the neat, spidery handwriting. Tales of dragonlords, of sorcery and blood magic, of towering cities now swallowed by ash and ruin.
The Doom of Valyria — a cataclysm that had shattered an empire. And yet, despite their magic, despite their dragons, they hadn't seen it coming.
"Even with dragons," I muttered to myself, "they were still blind."
The thought unsettled me. In my old world, disasters were cold and scientific — tectonic shifts, global warming, nuclear accidents. Here, catastrophe was cloaked in legend, tied to prophecy and the whims of gods.
And yet… people still died just the same.
I dragged my finger west, across the Sunset Sea—the blank void where even the maesters threw up their hands and gave up.
Nothing beyond this point, the map seemed to say. Go back to your castles and your cousin marrying.
But I didn't believe that. Not for a second.
There had to be something beyond the sea. There always was. In my old world, people once thought the edge of the Earth ended in a waterfall into oblivion—until someone brave or stupid enough sailed past it and proved them wrong.
"Too bad no one here thought to try GPS," I muttered.
"You speak to maps now, young prince?" came a dry voice from behind me.
I didn't need to turn. "Maester Geradys. You walk too loud to sneak up on anyone."
The old man shuffled into view, his grey robes heavy with dust, his beard trailing across the map like an unwanted landmark. "Maps don't talk back, lad."
"Not with that attitude."
He snorted, leaning on the desk and eyeing my mess of scrolls and parchment. "Still trying to redraw the world?"
"Just trying to figure out how wrong you maesters are."
He chuckled, his thin fingers tracing the edge of the Sunset Sea. "You think there's more out there?"
"Of course there is." I gestured at the empty expanse of parchment. "Whenever someone draws a big blank space and labels it Nothing, it's usually because they're too scared or too lazy to find out."
Geradys' eyes crinkled with amusement. "Or too wise."
"Or too boring."
He barked a laugh. "You have the mind of a sailor—and the arrogance of a dragonlord. Dangerous mix."
I grinned. "One day, I'm going to fly over it all. The Sunset Sea, the ruins of Valyria, maybe even Sothoryos, if the giant bugs don't get me first."
Geradys eyed me sceptically. "And you'll do this on what? A rowboat?"
"No." I tapped my fingers against the map. "A dragon."
There was a beat of silence.
"Seven save me," Geradys muttered. "You are a Targaryen."
He wasn't wrong.
"Anything new?" I asked, not looking up.
Maester Geradys didn't answer right away. The old man was neck-deep in raven scrolls, ink-stained fingers flicking through pages like they were his last connection to life. His chain clinked softly as he moved, links of iron, bronze, and silver reflecting the candlelight.
I cleared my throat.
He sighed. "You ask as though Westeros stops turning when it storms."
I grinned, resting my chin in my palm. "You never know. The lords might be napping."
Another sigh—deeper this time—but he shuffled through the scrolls and tugged one free. "You're more interested in the realm's gossip than most princes I've known."
"I'm not," I said quickly. "I just… like to know what's happening."
The truth was, I didn't care much for thrones or lineages. Power? Thrones? Boring. But people? Their stories? Those I could get lost in.
Geradys rolled open the scroll and cleared his throat. "Let's see… there's been a flood in Fairmarket, a minor fire in Oldtown—no dragons involved—and the Dornish are still Dornish."
I chuckled. "Anything less dull?"
The old man huffed a laugh, setting aside the quill. "Very well. There's been no shortage of new heirs being born—every lord seems eager to ensure their legacy."
He reached for a scroll, unrolling it with careful hands. "Let's see… in the Stormlands, Lord Steffon Baratheon and Lady Cassana Estermont have been busy. They had a son, Robert, in 262 AC—by all accounts a healthy, robust boy. And just two years later, in 264 AC, another son followed—Stannis. A quieter babe, by the whispers I've heard, but iron-willed, even in the cradle."
I smiled faintly. Robert Baratheon. That name will mean more than he knows… if the future holds.
Geradys shifted to another scroll. In the North, House Stark has its brood growing. Lord Rickard Stark and Lady Lyarra Stark welcomed Brandon in 260 AC—fiery, stubborn and wild they say—and then Eddard in 263 AC, calmer, thoughtful. A good balance for Winterfell."
Brandon and Ned. Names that stirred something in me—threads of a tapestry not yet woven.
"And in the Riverlands," Geradys continued, "Hoster Tully at Riverrun has a new daughter—Catelyn, born this year, 264 AC. A strong child, with red hair like all Tullys. Her father beams with pride."
I nodded, quietly noting the connections forming across the realm.
"And everywhere else? Any heirs popping out of thin air?"
"Plenty," Geradys sighed. "The Reach is drowning in new heirs—Lord Manfred Hightower has been busy with his wife. The Martells in Dorne welcomed Oberyn not long ago, and there's talk of more Martell children on the way. Even around Dragonstone, minor houses like Sunglass and Celtigar have seen fresh heirs born. Guncer Sunglass came into the world just this year."
I mentally noted it all, lining the names up in my head. The board was still intact—every major house in place, every piece ready for the moves that would eventually lead to Robert's Rebellion.
I traced the edge of the map, my thoughts circling.
"So many heirs," I mused aloud. "The future's getting crowded."
Geradys chuckled. "Aye, Westeros will not lack for lords and ladies. But every new heir means new alliances… and new rivalries."
His words echoed, heavy with unspoken meaning.
"Anything interesting happens, though?" I asked, drumming my fingers on the map.
Geradys squinted at me. "You mean bloodier?"
"Or scandalous. I'll take either."
He harrumphed but flipped a few pages. "Ah, the Reyne-Tarbark Rebellion. That ought to satisfy your appetite for blood."
I straightened. This was one I wanted to confirm.
"Not long ago, in 261 AC, House Reyne of Castamere and House Tarbeck of Tarbeck Hall rose in rebellion against Lord Tywin Lannister. A foolish decision, if you ask me. The Reynes were wealthy and ambitious—always the second lions of the Westerlands. Rogar Reyne thought himself clever, and Lady Ellyn Tarbeck dared to mock Tywin at court, but they forgot that Tywin is not a man who forgives slights."
Geradys' fingers drummed on the table, his voice dropping lower as though the stone walls might echo his words back to Lannisport.
"They overplayed their hand. The Tarbecks kidnapped a Lannister cousin, thinking it would force Tywin's mercy. Instead, it sealed their fate."
I pictured it in my mind—the cold, calculating Lord Tywin, the kind of man who wielded power like a scalpel, cutting not where it bled most but where it hurt deepest.
"Tywin marched his banners without delay," Geradys continued. "He crushed House Tarbeck first, tearing down their hall stone by stone. Ellyn Tarbeck, their lady, thought herself clever—tried to bargain, tried to plead. Tywin gave no quarter. Their line ended there."
He let that hang in the air before moving on.
"Then he turned on Castamere. The Reynes sealed themselves inside their mines, confident in the strength of their stone walls. But Tywin didn't waste men battering them down. He simply had the entrances sealed… and diverted the river."
I felt a chill. Even though I knew this part of history, hearing it told like this—here, in this world—made it all the more brutal. It was one thing to sing about lions and their claws. Another thing entirely to imagine was cold water seeping through the stone, rising inch by inch until there was no air left to breathe and water rising like some silent executioner…
"Drowned them," I murmured.
Geradys nodded gravely. "Every man, woman, and child. No Reynes left to sing their song."
A beat of silence hung in the air.
"That's… dark," I muttered.
Geradys sighed. "The song makes it sound poetic. The Rains of Castamere. But it's a warning, Aemon. Every lord in Westeros knows the meaning: defy the Lannisters, and there'll be no mercy."
He hummed the first few notes—soft, haunting.
"And who are you," the proud lord said,
"That I must bow so low?"
"Only a cat of a different coat,
That's all the truth I know."
I joined in, my voice lower, steadier.
"In a coat of gold or a coat of red,
A lion still has claws,
And mine are long and sharp, my lord,
As long and sharp as yours."
Geradys chuckled. "You've got the pitch, lad."
I leaned back, a faint smile on my lips. "Hard song to forget."
"The Lannisters make sure of that," he said grimly. "Tywin had it played at feasts afterwards. Let every hall in the realm know exactly what he did."
I stared down at the map of the Westerlands, tracing my finger over where Castamere would have been—now nothing more than a flooded ruin.
"Tywin made his message loud and clear," I mused.
Geradys grunted approval. "And the realm's been quieter for it. Even the boldest lords know better than to cross Casterly Rock now."
The silence that followed was heavy. The storm outside lashed against the keep, the wind howling through the narrow windows like the ghosts of Castamere themselves.
"And now?" I asked.
"The Westerlands are quieter. No more open defiance. But quieter isn't always safer. A realm without rebellion is a realm where the powerful grow complacent—or worse, ruthless in their victories."
I sat back, feeling the weight of the story. Tywin made a name for himself that day, I thought. Cold. Efficient. The lion who never forgets. Songs last. But so do grudges.
And in Westeros, both could kill.
"Anything else?" I asked, though I already suspected the answer.
Geradys closed the ledger with a heavy thud. "Whispers of banditry rising in the Riverlands, minor border skirmishes near Dorne—nothing that changes the game."
I exhaled slowly, tension easing from my shoulders.
"Tell me, Maester," I said after a moment, "do you ever wonder how one life—one birth, one death—could change the course of history?"
Geradys considered that his eyes clouded with thought. "History is a fragile thing, Aemon. One misstep, one unexpected heir, and the whole realm could twist into something unrecognizable."
That's what I fear, I thought.
So far, history was holding steady. No ripples. No butterfly wings. But it was early days yet.
I stood, the heavy rain still lashing the windows. "Let's hope the winds don't shift too soon."
Geradys nodded sagely, though he didn't understand what I truly meant.
Maester Geradys then droned on about the economic aftermath of the Reyne-Tarbeck rebellion—trade routes disrupted, gold mines lost, Tywin's iron grip on the Westerlands tightening—but my mind had already drifted somewhere between the sea beyond Dragonstone and wondering if the library gargoyle had a name.
"—and, of course, the tariffs imposed—"
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Boots echoed down the stone hallway before the door creaked open.
Ser Barristan Selmy, ever the image of stoic knighthood—polished armour, white cloak, the whole package—stepped in, his gauntlet resting casually on the hilt of his sword. His blond hair caught the torchlight, though his face was lined with that look only a seasoned knight could perfect: somewhere between "I have important things to do" and "the prince is probably causing trouble again."
"Aemon," Barristan called, voice calm but carrying that unspoken authority.
I looked up from the scroll I'd been half-pretending to study. "I didn't break anything this time."
His mouth twitched—so subtle most wouldn't notice, but I caught it. "Her Grace wishes to see you."
I blinked. "Muna..?"
" Yes, the Queen Mother wants you."
I turned to Maester Geradys, who was already sighing as if I'd committed some grave sin by leaving mid-lesson. "We were just getting to tariffs," he grumbled, though there was a sliver of fondness buried deep in the complaint.
I stood, brushing imaginary dust off my tunic. "Another time, Maester. Perhaps when I'm desperate for sleep."
Geradys muttered something about "disrespectful Targaryens " under his breath as I followed Barristan out, though I caught the faintest chuckle when I closed the door behind me.
Dragonstone's hallways were vast and cold, torches flickering against the dark stone as we walked in step. Rain still whispered against the high windows, and the sea's eternal crashing echoed through the fortress like the heartbeat of the island.
"You know," I said, hands tucked behind my back, "if I were a betting man, I'd say she's going to scold me for missing supper."
Barristan let out a low hum. "Possibly. Or she might just want to hear you play that harp of yours."
"Or both."
He chuckled. "She does enjoy your songs. Reminds her of happier times."
We rounded a bend, and there he was—Ser Jonothor Darry—planted like an immovable wall outside the Queen Mother's chamber.
Full Kingsguard armor. Arms crossed. Scowl firmly in place.
"Ah, Ser Grumblestone," I greeted, giving a low, dramatic bow.
Jonothor didn't even blink. "It's Ser Jonothor."
"I know what I said."
Barristan coughed, poorly masking his amusement.
Jonothor's jaw flexed, but he didn't take the bait. "Her Grace is waiting."
I sidled up next to him, craning my neck as if inspecting him. "You know, you should meet Ser Grumblestone sometime. Maybe he is your long-lost brother."
"I'm sworn to guard the Queen, not entertain Targaryen jesters."
"I'm a multi-talented prince," I said solemnly. "Jester just happens to be one of my finer skills."
Barristan, the traitor, laughed out loud this time.
Jonothor finally cracked—barely—but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth before he fixed his gaze back ahead. "If you weren't a prince, I'd have you running laps until your legs gave out."
"And miss the chance to hear the Queen Mother lecture me on my posture? Unthinkable."
Barristan gestured toward the door with a smirk. "Off you go, Aemon."
"Thanks, Ser Grumblestone. Always a pleasure." I gave Jonothor another exaggerated bow.
"Go inside, boy," he grumbled, but this time I swear the gargoyle scowl softened—just a bit.
As I stepped past, I heard Barristan murmur behind me, "He's got a sharp tongue, that one."
To which Jonothor replied, "Seven help us all."
I grinned and pushed the chamber doors open, half-expecting Shaera to greet me with the same look of tired exasperation I seemed to inspire in every adult on this island.
But hey, I thought, at least I'm consistent.