DRAGONSTONE, 265AC
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The reflection in the still water was not my own.
It should have been.
But the boy staring back at me was a stranger wearing my face.
This is not me. And yet, the water did not lie.
I ran my fingers over my face, tracing the sharper lines of my jaw, the faint hollows where childhood softness had once been. A year ago, my cheeks had been rounder, my limbs shorter, my frame slighter. Now, I was… different.
Too different.
I pressed a hand against my chest as if expecting to feel something new beneath my ribs. But I was still me. The same bones, the same blood.
Then why did I feel like something was shifting?
Like I was becoming something I wasn't meant to be.
It wasn't just height. It wasn't just muscle. It was in the way people looked at me—like they saw something they couldn't explain.
Like they weren't sure if I was still… normal.
Servants who once ruffled my hair now hesitated, offering stiff bows instead. A stable boy who had once chased me through the halls no longer met my gaze.
Even Shaera, who always reached for me without thought, paused before tucking my hair behind my ear—her fingers ghosting over my skin as if expecting it to feel different. As if something about me had changed in ways she couldn't see.
Had I grown too fast?
And maybe I couldn't explain it either.
I have become Taller. Broader. Older. In my past life, I had feared growing old. Now, I feared I never would.
I did not look six.
Even my voice had changed, settling into something deeper, steadier. Shaera had noticed first. At first, she dismissed it as a trick of posture, a play of shadow and light. But when my sleeves tightened at the wrists and my boots pinched at my toes, there had been no more doubt.
It was in the little things.
The way my laughter sounded different—not a child's anymore. The way my hands looked older—not quite a man's, but no longer a boy's.
The way Shaera sometimes looked at me as if searching for something she wasn't ready to find.
I had grown. Too fast.
I stood at 4.2 feet, taller than most boys my age, my shoulders stronger, and my limbs lean with quiet strength. The cliffs of Dragonstone had become my second home, my hands roughened by the rock I climbed, my muscles shaped by the endless training I had begun. Even my hair had grown longer, silver strands brushing past my shoulders, catching the firelight like strands of woven moonlight.
I leaned closer, studying my eyes. They were the same, yet not. The violet had not changed, but the way they stared back at me had. Less wonder. More understanding.
Shaera had noticed that, too.
"You look older than six," she had mused one evening, tucking a stray lock of silver hair behind my ear.
I shrugged. "Some boys grow faster than others."
She smiled, but I caught the flicker of something else in her gaze. Curiosity? Concern? Or something deeper?
"Perhaps it is your blood," she murmured. "The First Men were always taller, stronger. And Valyrians… well, they were not like other men."
I didn't know what to say to that. So I just grinned, leaning back slightly. "I'm going to outgrow you soon, Mother."
The flick to my forehead came faster than I expected.
"Not in wisdom, you won't."
I laughed, rubbing the sore spot as she turned away, shaking her head. But as she left, I saw it again—the way her gaze lingered on me for just a second longer than necessary.
Like she was watching something change before her eyes.
If Shaera was overprotective, Ser Barristan and Ser Jonothor were the opposite. When I started showing signs of proper growth, they decided it was time I learned how to wield something sharper than my wit.
Well… more like how not to stab myself with a dagger or shoot my foot with an arrow.
To my disappointment, no swords yet.
The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of salt and damp stone. Dragonstone's cliffs loomed in the distance, the waves crashing below. I rolled my shoulders, shaking off the morning chill. It was my first proper day of training, and I was ready.
Or so I thought.
Ser Jonothor Darry stood a few feet away, his arms crossed, watching me like a hawk. A stern man, but not unkind. His steel-grey eyes measured me before he put a bow in my hands.
"You're eager, my prince," he noted, unreadable.
I grinned. "Should I not be?"
His mouth twitched—just barely.
He gestured toward the bow rack.
Ser Barristan smirked. "You have time for that. First, we teach you how to handle yourself properly—daggers and bows will do for now."
And so, my mornings became a ritual of sore muscles, bruised fingers, and constant scolding.
I stared at the bow in my hands, frowning. It felt awkward. Unfamiliar. Back in my past life, firearms had done all the work for me—no need for stances, no need for adjusting tension.
But this? This was different.
There was no recoil to brace for, no smooth trigger to pull. Just tension, breath, and patience. I had to adjust—not just my stance, but my expectations.
The first time I properly drew the bow, the string snapped against my forearm, leaving a bright red welt.
"Hells!" I hissed, shaking out my arm.
Ser Jonothor only raised an eyebrow. "You'll learn."
I muttered under my breath, but I adjusted my stance, mindful of my grip this time.
I nocked an arrow, pulling the string back— too much. My fingers trembled under the tension. Gods, this was harder than it looked.
"Stop thinking so much, lad," Ser Jonathon called lazily, leaning against a post. "The bowstring won't shoot itself."
I exhaled and released.
TWANG—
The arrow veered wildly to the left, burying itself in the dirt several feet away from the target.
Ser Jonothor let out a low whistle. "Ah, a bold strategy—aiming for the enemy's feet. That'll surely terrify them."
I scowled. "I was testing the wind."
"Oh? And what did the wind tell you?"
"That I'm terrible at this."
I clenched my jaw, forcing my arms to steady as I drew another arrow.
The bowstring dug into my fingers, the coarse fibres biting into my skin like tiny needles. My shoulders burned, my elbows ached, and the weight of the bow felt heavier than before.
My fingers slipped—just barely.
The arrow wobbled in the air, its flight unsteady, like it had lost its purpose mid-air.
Halfway to the target, it gave up entirely, falling with a pitiful thud.
My arms felt like lead. The bowstring wasn't just cutting into my fingers anymore—it felt like it was carving them open.
Jonothor sighed. "My prince, do you plan to kill your enemies with boredom?"
I exhaled sharply, shaking out my arm. Gods, this was frustrating.
I adjusted my stance, nocked another arrow, drew the string back—too far—and let go.
TWANG—
The arrow went wide. Very wide.
A beat of silence.
Jonothor exhaled through his nose. "Aemon… have you ever considered diplomacy instead?"
Ser Barristan chuckled but quickly hid it behind a cough.
I glared at them both. "Give me a moment."
By the second hour of practice, my shoulders were burning, and the bowstring had left angry red marks on my fingers. Every time I thought I had the right stance, Ser Jonothor would tsk and nudge my elbow into a new position.
My arms burned, the muscles trembling under the weight of repetition. My fingers ached from gripping the bowstring too tightly, the raw skin pulsing with pain. Sweat dripped down my spine, making my tunic stick uncomfortably.
The salt air didn't help. It clung to my skin, making my grip slick with sweat. The calluses on my palms, which had just started forming, throbbed with each shot.
My latest arrow barely even reached the target, landing with a pitiful thud into the dirt.
"You don't have the strength yet," Ser Jonothor said bluntly, walking past me. "But that's why you train. Strength comes after suffering."
Strength… after suffering.
I exhaled, rolling out my sore shoulders. My body ached, but giving up wasn't an option.
"One more shot," I told myself, knocking another arrow despite the sting. My fingers slipped, and the arrow thudded into the dirt—again.
I bit back a curse.
"You're gripping it like you're strangling a man," Ser Jonothor muttered. "Relax your fingers, let the bow do the work."
Easy for him to say. My arms felt like lead.
I should have hit the mark.
I had adjusted my stance. I measured the distance. I had done everything right—so why was the arrow still veering off?
Frustration coiled in my chest, but I swallowed it. Getting angry wouldn't make me better.
"Again," I muttered, knocking another arrow.
"You're going to wear yourself out," Jonothor warned.
"Not until I get it right."
I made a lot of mistakes.
But here's the thing about me—I hate making mistakes.
So every time I missed a shot, every time my grip slipped, I kept practising until I got it right.
Every strike, every stumble, every arrow loosed—it wasn't just training. It was preparation.
One day, I wouldn't just be standing before wooden dummies and straw targets.
One day, my opponent would be flesh and blood.
And when that day came, I would be ready.
I drew the bow again, ignoring the trembling in my arms. My fingers barely had the strength to pull the string back properly. The weight of the bow had doubled—or at least, it felt like it had.
My vision blurred for a moment, sweat dripping into my eyes. I gritted my teeth. Gods, this was frustrating.
But I refused to stop.
Even as my shoulders burned like fire, even as each pull felt heavier than the last, I forced myself to keep going.
One more shot.
It happened so fast I almost didn't believe it.
The arrow flew—a blur of wood and steel cutting through the air.
Then—thunk. A dull, solid sound that made the world still.
The outer ring. Not perfect. But there.
I didn't realize I was holding my breath. My fingers twitched, still remembering the release.
I blinked at the target.
The arrow stuck—not in the centre, not even close, but it hit.
I froze.
My breath hitched, my fingers twitching as if they hadn't quite caught up with what had just happened, still remembering the release.
My heart pounded in my chest, the sensation unfamiliar—not fear, not relief, but something deeper. Something thrilling.
It wasn't luck.
I did that.
And if I did it once…
I could do it again.
Then, slowly, a grin stretched across my face.
Ser Jonothor hummed. "Well, I'll be damned. He learns."
I flexed my fingers. They still ached. But this time, the bowstring didn't feel like the enemy.
This time, I knew I could do it again.
And so I did.
The second arrow landed in the centre.
Jonothor let out a sharp whistle. "Took you long enough."
I grinned. "Told you I'd get it."
Ser Barristan chuckled. "Well, at least now we know it wasn't just luck keeping you alive."
Jonothor hummed. "Still debatable."
I rolled my eyes. "You're lucky I'm patient."
"And you're lucky I don't charge for my wisdom."
"You'll be a fine archer in a few years," Ser Jonothor admitted. "Might even hit the target before you turn fifteen."
"Funny," I deadpanned. "I thought you were here to teach me, not mock me."
Barristan smirked. "Mocking you is part of the lesson, my prince."
Ser Barristan chuckled. "By ten, you'll master it." He crossed his arms, nodding approvingly. "And maybe—just maybe—I'll let you hold a real sword."
I brightened at the prospect. "A real one?"
"Aye," Ser Barristan smirked. "If you prove to me you won't trip over it first."
I huffed but turned back to my training, determined. I wouldn't let myself be useless. Not in this world.
The bow had been a struggle. But daggers?
Daggers felt… natural.
The weight of the wooden practice blade sat comfortably in my grip, more familiar than the bow had been.
But familiarity wasn't enough. Skill still mattered.
"Now," Ser Barristan said, tossing me another practice dagger. I caught it awkwardly, adjusting my grip until it felt right. "Let's see if you have a warrior's hands, my prince."
A warrior's hands.
I twirled the dagger experimentally—it felt good, balanced, almost familiar.
Then Barristan lunged.
I barely had time to react before he was upon me, his wooden practice blade a blur. I twisted on instinct, dodging the first strike—but my foot caught on a loose stone and—
Thud.
Flat on my back.
Barristan loomed over me, eyebrow raised.
I coughed. "You cheated."
He smirked and held out a hand. "Get up."
I took it, rolling my shoulders. So maybe I wasn't as quick as I thought.
"You're gripping it too tightly," Ser Barristan sighed, watching me fumble with the dagger.
"I'm not," I insisted, even though my knuckles were turning white.
"Oh? Try to move your wrist," he said. I did. The blade wobbled like a fish out of water.
Barristan smirked. "A natural, are you?"
We went again.
This time, I was ready.
I didn't stumble, didn't fall as easily. I dodged more, parried once, and even managed to get in a weak counterstrike. My movements were rough and clumsy—but improving.
Ser Barristan stepped back, studying me.
"You have the hands for it," he admitted. "But hands alone won't make you a fighter. That takes practice."
I nodded, panting lightly. "Then I'll practice."
Barristan hesitated just a moment before nodding.
He learns quickly. Too quickly.
He absorbed every failure like a lesson, his mistakes never repeated. Most boys at his age would be crying over bruises, eager for a warm meal and a softer life.
No—it was more than that.
Barristan had trained squires for years and watched them struggle with footwork for weeks, their hands fumbling with grips no matter how many times they were corrected.
But Aemon?
He adjusted too quickly. His steps became smoother after a single correction. His fingers found the right grip almost instinctively.
As if his body learned faster than his mind.
It wasn't just talent. It was something else, something that made him more than just another prince with a sword.
Perhaps, one day, he'll surpass even me.
The thought made him smirk. That would be a sight to see.
A rare smile crossed his face—small, but unmistakable.
"You learn fast."
I wiped the sweat from my brow, chest still rising and falling from exertion.
"Good. I hate being bad at things."
He chuckled at that, shaking his head. "A good trait, when tempered with patience."
By the time training ended, my body was exhausted but satisfied.
I sat on the edge of the cliffs of Dragonstone, staring at the horizon as the sun dipped below the waves. My arms ached, my fingers burned from the bowstring, and my shoulders stung from where Barristan had knocked me down.
But beneath all of it, there was exhilaration.
I had the hands for it. That much was clear.
But hands alone weren't enough.
It wasn't bad. But I wasn't good either.
Every arrow I loosed, every dagger I threw—it all built toward something greater. One day, these weapons wouldn't just be tools in my hands. They would be extensions of me. And when that day came… I wouldn't just be learning how to fight.
I wasn't just learning how to fight.
This wasn't just training.
I'm learning how to survive.
One day, I wouldn't be facing wooden targets and practice dummies.
One day, I'd be facing real steel, real men, real death.
House Targaryen had ruled with fire and blood, but that fire had all but died out. My family's history was one of greatness and tragedy, and I refused to be on the wrong side of it.
Weakness had no place in this world.
"A strong hand holds the throne, a weak one loses it."
The words weren't mine—they belonged to my ancestors.
But which of them had truly been strong?
Was strength measured in fire and steel? Or in the choices we made?
Either way, I knew one thing.
When my time came, my hands would not be weak.
That night, long after the torches had burned low, I returned to the training yard.
My arms ached. My fingers stung. But I picked up the dagger anyway.
One more throw. One more attempt.
The blade struck the post—not the centre, but close. Closer than before.
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Shaera watched from the balcony, arms folded tightly over her chest.
He was too young for this.
Too young to be pushing himself like a man grown.
He should be playing in the castle halls, not training until his hands bled.
And yet…
Aemon had always been stubborn. But this was different. He wasn't just eager. He was desperate.
She had seen that look before.
On Jaehaerys. On Duncan. On every Targaryen who thought they had something to prove.
"A strong hand holds the throne. A weak one loses it."
That was what his ancestors believed. Was that what he believed too?
She had seen kings who mistook power for wisdom. Who let strength become their only truth.
She prayed Aemon would never be one of them.
She wanted him to be strong, but she also wanted him to be safe.
But looking at him now, as he stood before the training post, dagger in hand, eyes sharp and unyielding—
He is only six.
Her hands clenched at her sides.
Not in anger. Not in frustration.
In fear.
She had always believed she would have more time.
More time before he stopped running into her arms.
More time before he looked at her with a mind older than his years.
More time before the weight of the world settled on his shoulders.
But there was no more time.
And yet, when she looked at him, she didn't see a child anymore.
The dagger hit the post—closer to the centre this time.
Aemon exhaled slowly, stepping back to study his work.
Shaera closed her eyes for a moment.
He would not stop. He could not stop.
She just prayed he would never forget who he was.
That he wouldn't let Steel turn his heart cold.
That he wouldn't mistake strength for cruelty.
That he wouldn't let his ancestors' shadows decide his path.
She prayed… but she was not sure the gods were listening.
Or worse—maybe they were.
Then, before he could see the worry in her eyes, she turned and disappeared into the shadows.
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The training yard left its mark on my body—aching muscles, stiff shoulders, fingers raw from the bowstring—but none of it mattered as I slipped through the winding corridors of Dragonstone. The halls were quiet at this hour, with only the occasional flickering torch casting jagged shadows against the ancient stone.
I knew the way by heart.
Every step, every turn, every secret passage that led deeper into the bowels of the fortress had been carved into my mind through repetition. This place had become my second sanctuary. A place where no eyes watched, no voices whispered, and no expectations weighed upon me.
The hatcheries.
The air changed the moment I stepped inside. It was warmer here—thick, stifling, laced with the scent of stone, embers, and something older, something that had not stirred in lifetimes. The walls bore the scars of a forgotten age, a time when fire lived and breathed within these halls.
The lava vein glowed faintly, a deep crimson pulse beneath the stone. It did not crackle or roar—it simply existed, ancient and patient.
And in the centre of it all, resting in braziers near the molten veins that cut through the stone, the eggs waited.
Dark, cracked, and covered in layers of hardened soot and dust, they lay nestled in the remnants of old embers that had long since lost their heat.
Each one was asleep, not dead.
The maesters called them relics—ornaments of a bygone era, nothing more than stone and memory.
But I knew better.
I felt it in my bones, in the way my blood stirred when I stood among them.
They were not dead.
They were dreaming.
And in their silence, they listened.
I stepped forward, exhaling softly as I crouched before the largest of them. The heat from the lava veins did not touch them, yet they seemed to absorb the light, hoarding its fire in silence.
One by one, I let my fingers trail over their surfaces, mapping their textures, their silent whispers.
The first egg was deep crimson, the colour of molten rivers in a volcano's heart. Its shell bore veins of black, pulsing like frozen fire, twisting and branching as if something beneath the surface still remembered how to breathe. The texture was rough, almost like hardened scales, ridged and uneven beneath my touch.
The second egg was stormy blue, as dark as the midnight sea beneath a raging tempest. Its shell shimmered beneath the torchlight, the deep blue depths marred by streaks of silver and white, lightning frozen in time. Cold to the touch, unlike the others. It was the only one that did not drink in the heat—it repelled it as if waiting for something else.
The third egg was shimmering gold, streaked with bronze and smoky grey, its colours shifting as the firelight danced across its surface. It looked ancient as if it had been forged in the dying breath of a star. The shell was smoother than the others, warm beneath my fingers, almost as if it recognized me.
I let out a breath and rested my palm on the golden shell.
"…Still nothing?"
My voice barely broke the silence, but the words carried. The eggs, as always, did not respond.
I smirked, running a hand over the rough surface of one. "I suppose you're stubborn, then."
They had been stubborn the night I first found them, hidden away in the depths of Dragonstone, long forgotten by men who no longer believed in their purpose.
And they had been stubborn when I tried to wake them.
It had been a desperate act, guided more by instinct than knowledge.
A single drop of my blood smeared against their stone shells. A gift, an offering—one I thought might stir something beneath the surface.
But no warmth, no shift. Just silence.
Just waiting.
Still, I kept coming back.
Perhaps it was foolishness. Perhaps it was hope.
Or perhaps, like them, I was just waiting.
Waiting for something to change.
"You treat them like old friends."
The voice broke through the silence, but I did not startle.
I had heard the approaching footsteps long before Ser Barristan came into view, his silhouette framed by the dim torchlight.
"They're better company than most," I admitted, brushing a stray speck of dust from one of the eggs.
Barristan gave me a long, measured look, his sharp eyes flickering between me and the dormant shells. He did not question why I was there. He never did. He, Shaera, and Ser Jonothor were the only ones who knew.
And none of them had ever told me to stop.
Instead, he sighed, folding his arms over his chest.
"A raven has arrived," he said.
I barely glanced up. "From where?"
His voice was steady, but something about the way he looked at me made my fingers still against the eggshell.
Barristan never hesitated. But this time… he did.
He shifted his weight, a rare thing for a man who had always carried himself like unshaken steel.
"King's Landing," he said.
A pause.
"About Princess Rhaelle."
My breath slowed.
The hatchery, the eggs, the warmth of the lava veins—all of it faded away.
Barristan inhaled sharply as if steeling himself. But there was no gentler way to say it.
"She's dead."
Silence.
The words hit harder than I expected.
My fingers stiffened against the eggshell, but I didn't move. Didn't breathe. For a moment, I wasn't sure I could. The air felt heavier like the embers had turned to stone.
Like something inside me had cracked—but I didn't know where.
The warmth of the golden shell beneath my palm felt distant now, its quiet presence swallowed by the weight pressing against my chest.
I forced myself to exhale, slow and steady, but the air felt thinner—like I was breathing in something heavy, something final.
The embers had long gone cold.
But at that moment, the room felt colder still.
Something inside me sank, deeper than grief.
Like I had lost a piece of something I would never get back.
And the silence swallowed everything.