The corridors of Dragonstone stretched endlessly, cold stone and flickering torchlight guiding my path. The ocean beyond roared like a caged beast, but near Shaera's chambers, the storm's voice softened, muffled by heavy walls and time-worn tapestries.
The heavy oak door creaked softly as I stepped into Shaera's chamber, the scent of lavender thick in the air, barely masking the damp stone smell Dragonstone always seemed to carry. The fire burned low in the hearth, its light dancing across the chamber's stone walls, illuminating the silk-draped bed and the tall, narrow windows where rain streaked like ghostly fingers.
Shaera sat reclined in a high-backed chair, silver silk draped around her frail form, her once-bright hair loosely braided, strands falling across her face. Though thinner now, her presence still filled the room.
She didn't look up as I closed the door.
"Aemon," she began, her voice soft but tinged with that particular note only a mother could perfect—the kind that said, You're about to get scolded, but gently. "You missed supper again."
I grimaced. "I wasn't hungry."
"Of course not," she mused, swirling the wine. "You were probably in the library, buried under maps and dusty scrolls, debating with Maester Geradys about why dragons should have seatbelts or some other nonsense."
A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. "I wasn't that bad."
She turned her head, raising a delicate brow. "You were last week. He still grumbles about it. Said you called the maesters 'history hoarders with commitment issues.'"
"That was out of context," I defended, stepping closer.
Her eyes softened with amusement. "And then you slipped away before I could send a maid to drag you to supper."
"Didn't want to ruin my streak."
She sighed, but I caught the flicker of a smile she tried to hide. "Aemon, you spend too much time either buried in those scrolls or pestering the Kingsguard."
"I don't pester."
"Ser Jonothor would disagree."
I chuckled. "Ser Grumblestone? He loves me"
She laughed, the sound soft but real. "You named the poor man after a gargoyle."
"He scowls like one. It fits."
She set the goblet down, leaning slightly toward me. "He said if you called him that again, he'd have you scrubbing the armoury floors."
"Ser Barristan would stop him."
She gave me a knowing look. "Ser Barristan only indulges you because he thinks you'll end up his finest squire."
"Well," I said, with mock humility, "he's not wrong."
Shaera chuckled again, the sound warming the cold chamber. But her smile faded into something softer, more maternal. "Aemon, you never stop moving. If you're not in the library, you're off exploring the cliffs, teasing maids into giving you extra lemon cakes, or questioning poor Maester Geradys about every war Westeros has ever fought."
"Geradys likes it," I insisted.
"He called you a walking test of his patience' the other day."
"He said that fondly."
Shaera let out another soft laugh, then her gaze lingered on me—longer this time, thoughtful. "You remind me of your father," she whispered. "Duncan was always like that. Restless. Curious. Chasing dreams bigger than the world."
I didn't know what to say to that. So, I sat at her feet, careful not to disturb the delicate folds of her gown.
Her fingers brushed through my silver hair. "But you've got your mother's heart. Jenny had that same spark—saw beauty in everything. Even the broken things."
The fire crackled in the silence that followed, the storm beyond the walls thrumming low, a constant heartbeat.
Shaera smiled down at me, eyes soft. "You're all that's left of them, Aemon. And sometimes, when I look at you, I see pieces of everyone I lost."
I swallowed past the lump forming in my throat. "I'm not going anywhere."
"I know." She brushed her thumb across my cheekbone. "But dragons… dragons don't stay in cages. Not forever."
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The storm outside howled louder, as if it too remembered Summerhall, remembered all we had lost.
"Can you tell me about them," I said, my voice softer than I intended.
She didn't need me to clarify. Her fingers stilled on the goblet, and for a beat, the only sound was the storm.
"About who, my sweet boy?" she asked, though her eyes had already gone distant—lost in old halls and fading faces.
"My father. My mother. Jaehaerys. Our family. "
A faint smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "You always ask the hardest things."
"Because you always have the best answers."
That pulled a proper chuckle from her, soft and warm. "Flatterer."
I grinned. "You raised me well."
Her hand found mine, her skin cool but soft. "Your father, Duncan, was… stubborn. Stubborn in that beautiful, infuriating way that made people both love and curse him. He was the heir to the Iron Throne, but he threw it all away—for love."
"My mother," I murmured, my fingers tracing the embroidered dragons on her sleeve.
She nodded. "A peasant girl, yes, but your father didn't care. The realm roared with outrage, but Duncan—" her voice softened with something between pride and sorrow, "—he only ever listened to his heart."
"Is that why people called him Duncan the Small? Because his brain didn't quite match his heart?" I teased.
Shaera snorted, which turned into a soft, unguarded laugh. "No, little prince. Because he was shorter than most of the Targaryens. Though, with how reckless he was, I wouldn't argue with your theory."
I smiled, but the warmth faded as another thought crept in. "Did you like Jenny?"
Her gaze dropped to our joined hands, a moment of silence stretching thin before she answered. "At first? No. She took my brother away. But… Jenny was kind. Wild, in a way. She loved him—truly. And that was something even the court couldn't deny. She was the kind of woman who saw magic in everything. She danced barefoot in gardens and sang old songs the court had long forgotten."
I pictured her—a girl in a crown of flowers, laughing among ancient stones.
"And she loved you," Shaera added gently. "Fiercely. You were their miracle."
I swallowed hard. "But they died."
Her jaw tensed. "Yes. At Summerhall."
The word hung heavy between us—Summerhall. A place that lived in shadows and smoke, in every song of tragedy sung across the realm.
"The wildfire," I whispered.
Shaera's eyes darkened. "Your grandfather, Aegon V… he wanted dragons. Believed the Targaryen line would be stronger if the dragons returned. He gathered his closest kin. Built the pyres. Read the old scrolls."
Her voice grew brittle. "But the fire… it didn't bring dragons. It brought ruin."
I didn't press. I'd remembered—the wildfire, the smoke, the screams. But hearing it from Shaera, hearing how her voice trembled when she spoke of it… It carved the loss deeper.
"Jaehaerys?" I asked.
A smile returned—this one tinged with both warmth and ache. "He was a good man. Stern, but fair. Never wanted to be king, not truly, but he bore the crown with honour. And he loved your father—loved you."
"Even though I'm… half-peasant?" I offered, only half-joking.
Shaera arched a silver brow. "The blood of the dragon runs hot, Aemon. Titles fade. Love doesn't."
The storm outside broke for a moment, a heavy gust rattling the windowpanes. I stared into the fire, watching the flames twist and dance.
"Do you ever think," I hesitated, "that if Summerhall hadn't happened… if Aegon V hadn't tried…"
Shaera's hand tightened around mine. "We could drown ourselves in what-ifs, sweet boy. But that's all they'd ever be—phantoms."
I nodded, though the ache in my chest didn't fade.
She shifted in her chair, her frailty clearer now than before. "But your grandfather… he died chasing hope. There's something noble in that, even if it cost him everything."
For a moment, the room was heavy with ghosts.
"Muna..?"
She blinked, pulled from whatever shadowed memory had gripped her. "Yes, Aemon?"
I hesitated. "Do you think I'll be like my father?"
Her violet eyes softened, deep as the storm-tossed sea. "You already are."
It was the kind of answer that both warmed and broke me.
But then she tilted her head, a sly smile breaking through the gloom. "Though, let's be honest—you're far more sarcastic."
I snorted. "I'll take that as a compliment."
She brushed a hand through my silver hair. " You carry all of us, Aemon. Duncan. Jenny. Jaehaerys. Me. But you're more than our shadows. You're you."
I didn't have words for that. So, I just squeezed her hand, hard.
The fire crackled low, its glow painting Shaera's face in soft gold. I hesitated for a moment, rolling the thought around in my head before I finally asked it—the question I'd been sitting on for weeks now.
"Mother..?"
She didn't open her eyes, just hummed—a low, warm sound, like the storms outside had finally settled inside her bones.
"Where did they keep the dragons? The real ones, I mean."
Her eyelids fluttered open, curiosity flickering through her tired gaze. "You've seen the dragon carvings all over Dragonstone, Aemon. They once filled the skies here."
"I know that," I pressed, "but where did they live? Where did they sleep? Did they have nests, caves, or—"
"—or a luxury tower suite?" she cut in, a faint smile curving her lips.
I huffed a laugh. "Well, if they were dragons with taste."
Shaera's smile lingered, but there was a soft sadness beneath it now. "The dragonlords of old built the hatcheries deep within the cliffs. You know the path—beyond the lower keep, past the stone arch that looks like a dragon's open maw."
"I thought that was just a storm drain."
"It's both." She chuckled, then winced slightly at the motion. "But yes, the hatchery lies beyond. It was once filled with eggs—some dormant, some warm. Dragons roamed freely here in the days before the Doom of Valyria, and later, when the Targaryens made Dragonstone their seat."
I leaned forward, practically vibrating with excitement. "And the eggs? Are they still there?"
Her smile dimmed. "A few. But the fires in them have long cooled. No dragon has hatched from those eggs in generations."
"None?" I asked, disappointment sinking heavily in my chest.
"Not since the last dragons died," she said gently. "Some maesters say the eggs left here are nothing more than stone now—beautiful, yes, but lifeless."
I frowned, my fingers drumming against the armrest. "But dragons did hatch here once."
"Oh, many times. Dragonstone was a cradle of fire and blood. Some dragons were small—barely the size of a horse—while others, like Balerion the Black Dread, outgrew the very skies."
I glanced toward the high, vaulted ceilings, imagining them blackened with soot, the walls echoing with the cries of dragons that no longer lived.
"Do you think," I started, then hesitated. "Do you think any could hatch again?"
Shaera tilted her head, regarding me with that soft, knowing look that only mothers—or in her case, aunts—could pull off. "Many have tried, Aemon. Your grandfather, Aegon V, died trying. Summerhall burned because of that dream."
"I know," I murmured, the weight of that tragedy never far from my mind.
"But dreams die hard in Targaryen hearts," she continued. "Even now, I sometimes wonder if the eggs slumber—waiting."
I swallowed the lump rising in my throat. "I want to see them."
Her eyes softened. "I thought you might."
"Will you take me?"
A flash of the old Shaera flickered through her—bold, sharp-tongued, the woman who had once wielded the chaos of court life with a single look. "I'm too old and too tired for that, little prince. But Barristan might look the other way if you pester him enough."
I grinned. "He's terrible at saying no."
"And Ser Jonothor?"
"Grumblestone will fold like wet parchment if I call him my 'dearest protector' in front of the maids."
Shaera burst out laughing, the sound airy but real. "Seven help me, you're the worst kind of Targaryen."
"Charming and unstoppable?"
"Exactly."
There was a long pause then, the warmth between us lingering even as the storm outside picked up again.
"Go on, Aemon," she whispered. "If you must go chasing dragon dreams… just promise me you won't burn the castle down."
"No promises," I shot back, but I squeezed her hand before I left.
I wasn't sure if she meant the warning as a joke.
And that only made me more determined.
She'd been watching me for a while, eyes half-lidded, that wistful look on her face that made my stomach twist in a way I didn't quite understand. I let the music trail off, the last note hanging in the air.
"You've grown so fast," she murmured, her voice carrying a weight that years couldn't quite erase.
I tilted my head, trying for light-hearted. "Well, I was five last week. Now I'm five and a half. Practically ancient."
Shaera huffed a laugh, but it faded quickly. "I still remember the day you were born." Her eyes clouded, lost in a place I couldn't quite reach. "The Tragedy of Summerhall took so much from us… but it gave me you."
I stayed quiet. I remembered the fire, the loss—but hearing her say it like that, like I was the silver lining in a sea of ash, felt… heavy.
"You were this tiny thing," she continued, her hands miming the size of an infant. "Tufts of silver hair already wild, violet eyes too bright for a newborn. And when I first held you…" Her voice caught for a moment, softening. "I felt it, Aemon. That pull. Like I wasn't just your aunt—I was your mother."
The words sat between us, heavy and warm.
"You didn't have to—" I started, but she cut me off with a raised hand.
"I wanted to." Her eyes sharpened, their Targaryen violet burning through me. "When I held you that day, all I saw was a boy who deserved more than ashes and ghosts."
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly tight. "You've been everything, Muna ."
She smiled, but it was laced with a bittersweet edge. "I tried. And I've watched you grow into something… more. You're not like the other children, Aemon. You never have been."
I shifted awkwardly. "Because I read too many books?"
"Because you understand them. You devour history like most boys devour sweets. Maester Geradys complains you're too sharp for your good—says you catch his mistakes before he does."
"Maybe he should make fewer mistakes," I offered with a grin.
She chuckled. "And in the yard, even with just stances, Barristan says you move like someone who's been training for years. You watch, you learn—too quickly."
"I'm just… observant."
"Observant, clever, kind…" She trailed off, her eyes softening. "And far older than your years."
I fiddled with the harp strings, the notes coming out awkward and broken. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"It's not," Shaera said gently. "But it's a heavy thing. And I worry."
"For me?"
"For what this world will ask of you."
The silence stretched between us, thick as the storm outside.
"I just want to be better," I admitted, voice low. "For you. For this family."
Shaera reached out, her fingers trembling slightly as they brushed a stray lock of hair from my forehead. "You already are. You're the best of us, Aemon. I see it."
I tried to swallow the lump in my throat, but it stuck there, stubborn as stone.
"Though," she added, a sly smile creeping across her face, "if you keep tormenting poor Ser Jonothor, I might have to revoke that title."
I laughed, the tension cracking like thin ice. "He loves it. Deep down."
"Hmm, perhaps. Or perhaps he's drafting a resignation letter as we speak."
"Doubt it. He's far too grumpy to quit."
Shaera's laughter—light, soft, but so alive—filled the chamber, and for a moment, the storm outside didn't seem quite so loud.
She squeezed my hand gently. "Promise me, Aemon. No matter how heavy the crown, the history, the dragons… don't lose this. Don't lose who you are."
I nodded, the words thick on my tongue. "I promise."
Her smile lingered long after the fire died low.
The storm outside had dulled to a low, steady drumbeat against the stone, the kind that lulled the stronghold into a softer stillness. Shaera lay nestled within the heavy furs of her bed, the candlelight casting soft shadows across her tired face. Her silver hair, streaked with threads of white, fanned out against the pillows, a fragile crown for a queen long retired from court.
She patted the space beside her, her violet eyes warm despite the frailty in them. "Come, Aemon. Sit with me a while."
I hesitated before crossing the room, climbing onto the bed, careful not to jostle her. The old wood creaked under my weight, but she only smiled, reaching out to brush her fingers through my hair.
She chuckled, but it turned into a cough, her frailty betraying her. I stiffened, but she waved me off, regaining her breath. "I worry about you, little prince. Always with your books, your maps, your songs…"
"You like my songs," I pointed out.
"I do." Her smile softened. "You have a gift, Aemon. It's not just skill—it's something deeper. The way you play, the way you sing… it's as if the very air listens."
I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling my ears heat. "It's just a harp, Mother ."
"No." Her hand found mine, squeezing gently. "It's more than that. When you play, I feel things I haven't felt in years. Memories. Joy. Even pain."
Her eyes sparkled with a misty sheen, but her smile stayed intact. "You've been working on something new, haven't you?"
I hesitated, fingers tracing idle patterns on the bedspread. "Yeah… it's for someone."
"Someone special?"
I nodded. "My mother."
Shaera's breath caught, but she said nothing, her eyes soft with emotion.
"Will you sing it for me?" she asked quietly.
I slid off the bed and fetched my harp from where it rested near the fire. Its strings caught the candlelight, shimmering gold and silver as I plucked them gently, tuning them by ear. Then, with a deep breath, I let the first haunting notes float into the air.
The melody was slow—gentle but heavy—each note lingering as though unwilling to leave.
And then I sang.
The harp's strings trembled beneath my fingers, each note blooming into the air, delicate and raw. Candlelight flickered across the stone walls as the melody filled Shaera's chamber. Outside, the storm seemed to hush—as if the sea itself was holding its breath.
"High in the halls of the kings who are gone…"
My voice was steady, but I felt the strain beneath it—a hollow kind of ache that crawled up from somewhere deep. This wasn't just a song. I could feel that in my bones. Every word was heavy, dripping with ghosts and grief.
I saw Jenny in my mind—barefoot, spinning in some forgotten hall, her hair wild as she danced with the dead. It wasn't just her ghosts I saw, though. It was mine.
"Jenny would dance with her ghosts…
The ones she had lost and the ones she had found
And the ones who had loved her the most."
"The ones who'd been gone for so very long
She couldn't remember their names."
"They spun her around on the damp old stones
Spun away all her sorrow and pain."
"And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave
Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave."
The melody coiled tighter in my chest, every word a thread I was barely holding onto. My throat burned—not from the strain of singing, but from the heaviness behind the song like it wasn't entirely mine anymore. It was as if something older, something deeper, had woven itself into the notes.
My fingers trembled against the strings.
I could feel it then—the sharp edge of breaking. That thin line where the ache in my chest clawed its way up, thick and hot behind my eyes, blurring my vision. For a heartbeat, I nearly stopped. Nearly let the grief swallow me whole.
But I didn't.
I pushed the feeling down, anchoring myself in the weight of the melody. This wasn't just about me—not now. This was for Shaera. For Jenny. For all of them.
I could feel them here. In the room. In the song.
The room felt heavy with it—the kind of silence that hummed just below hearing, thick with ghosts and old sorrows. My voice faltered for a breath, catching on the word "ghosts", but I pressed on, pouring the ache into the strings, into the air, until it wasn't just a song anymore. It was a wound.
And I wasn't sure if I was singing for them—or myself.
Shaera's face blurred in my vision for a moment. She was still, her violet eyes glassy with something ancient—sorrow, perhaps, or memory. I didn't stop. I couldn't. My voice softened on the next line, the melody dipping low, nearly a whisper.
"They danced through the day.
And into the night through the snow that swept through the hall."
"From winter to summer, then winter again
'Til the walls did crumble and fall."
"And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave
Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave."
The harp's final notes hung, trembling, before fading into silence.
I sat there, my fingers still on the strings, feeling the weight of it all—the grief, the love, the sheer, aching loneliness buried in that song. It wasn't just something I'd written. It was something I had felt, every note a mirror to the quiet corners of my soul.
It felt like I had left a piece of myself in that song.
And I wasn't sure I wanted it back.
I glanced at Shaera, who sat frozen, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.
And in that moment, I understood what music was here—in this world of swords and crowns and fire.
It was a kind of magic.
The kind that could make even ghosts dance again.
I lowered the harp, its strings still quivering under my fingertips, and turned toward Shaera.
She sat propped against the pillows, her silver hair soft against the dark furs, but it wasn't the frailty in her that caught me—it was the look in her eyes. Glassy with tears, wide with something older than sorrow. Grief, maybe. Or memory.
She didn't speak right away. Her hand drifted to her chest, fingers curling into the fabric there like she was clutching something invisible.
For a moment, the room was silent. Then I heard it—soft, broken—Shaera was crying.
Her hand trembled as she wiped at her cheek, but the tears kept falling, silver rivulets tracing down her worn face.
"That song…" she whispered. "It's like… it knows what we've lost."
I sat quietly, unsure of what to say.
"You sound like… like something from beyond," she added, her voice thick with emotion. "It's haunting, Aemon. It pulls at places in the heart I'd long since buried."
The candlelight flickered, shadows dancing across the hollows of her face.
"For a moment," she continued, "I could see them. All of them. Jae… your father… Jenny. Even my father, sitting by the fire, his crown set aside."
Her lips trembled, but the smile that broke through was soft. "Jaehaerys used to hum something like that," she murmured. " In the quiet moments… when we were just Jae and Shaera, not king and queen."
She closed her eyes briefly, and a tear slipped free.
"When he sang to me, it wasn't perfect. His voice cracked sometimes. But it was real. And tonight—" her eyes opened again, locking with mine "—you brought him back."
A heavy lump lodged itself in my throat.
"You have a gift, Aemon," she whispered. "It's not just music. It's… something deeper. Your voice doesn't just sing—it remembers. It carries ghosts."
I didn't know what to say, so I settled for, "It's just a song."
But Shaera shook her head. "No. It's more."
She wiped at her cheek, but the tears kept falling.
"When you sang about Jenny—dancing with her ghosts—I felt it. That… endless grief. The kind that never leaves, even when the years pass."
She turned her hand upward, reaching for mine. I took it, her fingers cold but steady.
Her grip faltered slightly as her strength waned.
"And this song…" she sighed. "Aemon, it's beautiful. Haunting. And it breaks my heart."
I felt my own throat tighten. "I wrote it for her, Jenny of Oldstones," I murmured. "That's what I'm calling it."
She smiled, tears still clinging to her lashes. "It's perfect and she would be proud."
Her breathing grew slower, softer. The storm outside had faded into a hush, the island still beneath its weight. I noticed how her eyelids drooped, her exhaustion catching up to her.
"Stay," she murmured, her fingers still tangled in mine.
I did.
We sat there in the quiet, the storm outside reduced to nothing but a low hum, and I watched as Shaera slowly drifted toward sleep. Her breathing softened, her hand still lightly curled around mine. I stayed by her side, my harp resting in my lap, its strings still reverberating the last of the song.
But even as her eyes closed, her lips still moved—mouthing the last lines of the song.
"And she never wanted to leave… never wanted to leave…"
And for the first time in a long while, I realized that neither did Shaera. Not really.
She was still here—held together by memories, by love, by songs that refused to be forgotten.
For a moment, the storm outside had quieted, as if the winds themselves had stopped to listen, leaving only the soft rasp of Shaera Targaryen's breathing.
She lay still, her silver hair spread across the pillow like threads of moonlight, her frail chest rising and falling in a steady, fragile rhythm. Tears traced delicate lines down her cheeks, the candlelight catching them, making them shine like pearls. Her hand, thin and weathered, still clutched the edge of the blanket as if trying to hold onto the last echoes of the song.
I set the harp aside, its strings still humming softly, as though reluctant to let go of the melody. My hands trembled as I reached for the blanket, pulling it gently up to her shoulders, tucking it around her like I was anchoring her to this world.
"Sleep well, Muna," I whispered.
Her face was softer now, the tight lines of worry and age smoothed away by sleep. There was peace here, in this moment—quiet and pure, untouched by the weight of the past or the shadows of grief that so often clung to her.
For a heartbeat, I just stood there, the soft flicker of candlelight catching the tear tracks on her cheeks. It was strange—how the most fragile moments could feel the heaviest. I brushed a stray strand of silver hair from her temple, my fingers lingering against her warm skin. There was a hollow ache in my chest, sharp and deep, the kind that stayed long after the moment had passed.
"I hope he sang to you like this," I murmured, my voice breaking on the last word. "I hope he made you feel safe."
She didn't stir.
She looked peaceful. No shadows of grief, no weight of memories.
Just… Shaera.
But there was something in the air—something heavy and sacred—like the ghosts she had always carried with her were standing here now, listening.
I swallowed hard, forcing the lump in my throat down before I rose from her side.
The chamber door creaked softly as I opened it, the cold stone hallway beyond a stark contrast to the warmth of the room. The air felt heavier somehow, thick with the remnants of the song, its echoes lingering in the stone walls.
Outside the chamber, Ser Barristan stood at his post, his white cloak pristine despite the damp chill of Dragonstone. Beside him, Ser Jonothor Darry was less composed. His jaw clenched tight, his hands flexing as though trying to keep control of something raw and fragile.
Neither of them spoke.
I closed the door gently behind me, the soft click echoing in the silence.
For a long moment, the three of us stood there, the weight of the song still thick in the air.
I took a breath, the lingering weight of the song still heavy on my chest. My gaze drifted between them, noticing the subtle shift in their postures—small cracks in their armoured façades.
Jonothor cracked first. The scowl was gone, replaced by something raw. He swallowed hard, failing to hide the lump in his throat.
"That…" His voice was rough, a low rasp in the stone hall. He cleared it, but it did nothing to soften the edges. "That wasn't just a song, boy. That was…" He trailed off, unable to find the words. His hands curled into fists at his sides, white-knuckled.
I let the silence hold. Sometimes, that was easier than trying to answer grief with words.
"It was like the ghosts themselves came to listen," Jonothor finally muttered, his voice trembling despite himself. "Seven help me, it felt like I was back in Summerhall. Like I could smell the damn ash again." His jaw flexed, the scowl threatening to return, but it didn't. Instead, his eyes glistened, though he blinked hard against it.
I swallowed the lump rising in my own throat. "It wasn't meant to—"
"No," Jonothor cut in, voice cracking. He let out a shaky breath, rough and jagged. "It was right. It hurt, but… it was right."
The words hit me like a punch to the chest.
Then there was Barristan.
He hadn't spoken once. His armour gleamed under the torchlight, his hands folded over the pommel of his sword like the perfect Kingsguard. But his shoulders… they were tighter than usual, the set of his jaw strained as if he was holding something back.
I glanced at him. "Ser Barristan?"
He didn't look at me right away. His eyes were on the door, the candlelight flickering against his weathered face. When he finally spoke, it was soft—barely more than a whisper. "I've heard songs of war. Songs of love. But that…" His voice hitched, and he pressed his lips together, trying to pull himself back to the knight I knew.
"Ser?" I pressed gently.
He exhaled through his nose, his grip on the sword tightening. "That was the kind of song they'll sing for centuries." His throat bobbed. "Not because it was beautiful—though it was—but because it carried truth. A heavy truth. Grief. Memory." His voice dropped lower. "I could see them, Aemon. Your father. Your mother. King Aegon, Queen Betha and even King Jaehaerys. The ghosts lingered here tonight."
I didn't know what to say. I wasn't sure if there was anything to say.
His words trailed off, and I saw the sheen in his eyes before he turned his face away, as though the vulnerability was something that needed to be hidden.
Jonothor finally cleared his throat, the roughness in it refusing to fade. "You did something tonight, boy. For her. For all of us."
"And for the dead," Barristan added, softer now.
I nodded, the lump in my throat returning. "It was for her."
Barristan turned back to me, his eyes full of something that looked a lot like pride—and sorrow. "You gave her something tonight… something none of us could."
I didn't know what to say to that. So I just stood there, the air heavy around us.
"She's been carrying ghosts for so long," I whispered. "I thought… maybe for a moment, she wouldn't have to."
Jonothor exhaled a shaky breath that rattled in the hollow corridor, he was wiping his nose with the back of his gauntlet, trying and failing to look like he hadn't been crying"You did more than that. You reminded her of the love she lost—and the love she still has."
His voice was raw, rough with emotions he wasn't used to sharing.
I felt it then—the depth of it. The love Shaera had given to all of us, the way it lingered, strong and fragile, in these stone halls. And the way grief, when steeped in love, could be beautiful in its haunting way.
We stood there for a moment longer, the weight of the song still heavy around us. Even the torches along the hall flickered a little softer, as though the keep itself was still holding its breath.
"I'll see her in the morning," I murmured, stepping away.
Neither man stopped me.
But as I walked down the corridor, my footsteps echoing in the heavy silence, I could feel it—like the song was still there, woven into the stone, still reverberating in the hearts of the men I left behind.
I didn't look back—but I didn't need to.
The song had left its mark.
Not just on Shaera.
But on them too.
High in the halls of the kings who are gone…
The ghosts of Dragonstone were still dancing.
And tonight, I think, they weren't dancing alone.
Outside, the sea sighed, the rain softened, a misty hush falling over the cliffs—as though the storm had finally exhaled. For a moment, it felt like all of Dragonstone was listening.....