Aemon's POV
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The sky bled as the sun dipped toward the horizon, streaks of fire and gold spilling across the waves. The sea, once an endless stretch of cold steel, now shimmered with the last warmth of the dying light, reflecting the sky's final breath before night consumed it.
Aemon sat on the damp sand, his elbows resting on his knees, watching as the waves lapped against the shore. Slow. Steady. Unchanging.
The ocean was a graveyard of forgotten names. It had swallowed kings and peasants alike, dragged ships into its depths, and erased stories with every crashing wave. It did not grieve. It did not remember.
It simply endured.
And so would he.
He let out a slow breath, the salty air burning his lungs, sharp and raw. The wind whispered against his skin, cold and insistent, but he barely felt it. His hands dug into the wet sand beside him, fingers curling into the earth as if trying to anchor himself.
The scent of salt and seaweed clung to the air, sharp and raw. The waves whispered and crashed in their endless rhythm, each pull of the tide carving away at the shore, washing footprints into oblivion.
How many lives had the sea swallowed? How many names had been erased by time, swept away by the tides that cared nothing for kings or beggars?
Above him, the sky darkened. The fire of sunset gave way to deep violets and indigo, the first stars winking into existence like distant embers in an endless void. He had always liked the night. It was quiet. Honest. It did not hide things in the glare of daylight—it let them exist in silence, unjudged.
A wave crashed against the rocks in the distance, sending a spray of foam into the air. The sound was thunderous, drowning out the whispers in his mind.
He wished it could drown out the ache in his chest.
His body ached—not from training or exhaustion, but from the crushing weight in his chest. His shoulders felt heavier than steel, his limbs leaden, as though the very air pressed against him with unseen hands. His heart beat slow and deep, like the distant rumble of the tide, steady but hollow. He rubbed at his wrist absentmindedly, feeling the tension coiled beneath his skin, the stiffness in his fingers, the silent tremor he couldn't quite shake.
The sea's chill had settled over him, sinking into his skin. His cloak fluttered behind him, but he did not pull it closer. The cold did not matter. It was a distant thing, something outside himself, unable to touch the deeper, gnawing emptiness inside.
He swallowed. His throat was dry, raw like he hadn't spoken in hours. He hadn't.
Three months.
It had been three months since the raven arrived—three months since I learned that Princess Rhaelle Baratheon, my aunt, had passed in her sleep.
Three months, and still, the world felt… wrong.
She had been buried in the crypts of Storm's End, beside her husband, Ormund Baratheon.
It was a fitting place, I supposed. She had lived as a Baratheon longer than she had been a Targaryen, but the blood of dragons had always burned in her veins.
Now, it burned no more.
I picked up a stone and rolled it between my fingers, feeling the roughness scrape against my palm before tossing it into the waves. It barely made a sound as it sank beneath the surface, swallowed whole.
Like Rhaelle.
Like all the others before her.
Her death had not been violent. There was no wildfire, no steel, no blood. Just sleep. One breath, then another. And then… nothing.
A peaceful death. And yet, the wounds it left behind were anything but.
Shaera had fainted when the news came. She had collapsed right there in the hall, her body crumpling as if something vital had been torn from her.
She had not recovered since.
The maesters said there was nothing physically wrong with her—no fever, no illness. But I had seen her. I had watched the fire in her die, leaving behind only embers struggling to stay lit.
She is fading.
Not all at once, not in a way that could be stopped, but slowly—like embers losing their fire, like silk unravelling thread by thread.
The woman who had once stood as a pillar of quiet strength, the last living child of Aegon the Unlikely, the queen of Dragonstone, was now a ghost of herself.
The first time I saw her after the news, she had already begun to wither.
She lay in bed, her once-vibrant silver hair dull and unkempt, spilling across her pillow like strands of moonlight forgotten in the dark. Her skin once kissed with the warmth of life, had taken on the pallor of cold marble. There were bruises beneath her eyes—deep, hollowed things that made her look like she had not slept in years.
And perhaps she hadn't.
The fire in her gaze—the quiet, stubborn defiance that had once made her a Targaryen in spirit as well as name—was gone.
She did not speak much anymore.
When she did, her voice was soft, and distant, as if she were speaking through a veil of fog. Her words carried no weight, no strength.
She did not rise from her bed, not even when the maesters urged her to. She barely ate, pushing away trays of food with the same absentmindedness as a woman brushing away a stray thread.
Her hands, once so warm when they combed through my hair, now trembled when they reached for her cup. The fingers that had once held my face in comfort now struggled to hold a spoon.
She had been grieving for years—grieving the husband she had loved with all her heart, the father who had guided her, the mother who had nurtured her, and the brothers she had lost one by one.
And now, Rhaelle's death had simply been the final wound.
She was the last of Aegon's children now. The last living reminder of a king who had dreamed too big and paid the price for it.
And perhaps she no longer wished to be.
I had sat by her bedside for hours, speaking softly, telling her of my days, of my training, of the stories I had read.
She barely responded.
The only time she did, her voice had been so quiet I almost missed it.
"There's nothing left, Aemon."
Her violet eyes—once so bright, so filled with love—stared at me like I was a stranger. A ghost. She did not reach for me, did not soften at my voice. And in that moment, I knew—I was not enough. No matter how much I stayed, no matter how hard I tried—she had already let go.
"I have nothing left."
The words sat like stones in my chest.
She was wrong.
She still had me.
But when I looked at her, I wasn't sure she remembered that.
I had spent lifetimes saving people.
In my past life, I had been a soldier, a medic—a man who had pulled bleeding comrades from the battlefield.
I had fought against death. I had seen it steal away the weak, the unlucky, the ones too far gone for even my hands to save. But I had fought it, tooth and nail, with every ounce of skill and knowledge I had.
And sometimes, I won.
But not this time.
Because this time, there was no wound to stitch, no fever to break, no poison to flush from her veins.
I had tried everything.
I brought her food myself, coaxing her to eat, watching as she pushed it aside with shaking hands. I called for maesters and tested every remedy they suggested, but they only whispered to each other and told me the same thing I already knew: "There is no illness to treat, my prince."
I clenched my fists.
I had held dying men together with nothing but my hands. I had torn open wounds to rip out bullets and used my own body to shield the weak from fire and steel. I had seen Death and spat in its face.
And yet, here I was. Powerless.
Useless.
He wanted to beg. To plead. To bargain with whatever gods still listened. But there was no mercy in them. No justice in the world. Only what you carved from it with your own hands.
Watching the only mother I had ever known slip away, and for the first time in two lifetimes, I had no enemy to fight. No blade to stop it.
I gritted my teeth so hard I tasted blood. If Death would not give me an enemy, I would become one.
I was supposed to be strong. My mind, and my body—both had been reforged in the fires of two lifetimes. I had lived as a soldier, trained as a warrior, and yet—
What good was any of it if I could not save the only mother I had ever known?
My nails bit into my palms.
No.
I refused to watch her slip away.
No. I would not let her slip away. If there was no cure—then I would become one.
If grief was the poison eating away at her, then I would rip it from her veins myself.
She had lost everything. Her family. Her home. Her dreams of what life should have been.
But she still had me.
I would not let her forget that.
I would not let her die—not like this.
Not while I still had the power to fight it.
The last sliver of the sun sank into the sea's depths, swallowed in quiet finality. For a fleeting moment, the sky burned—then faded, leaving only the stars.
The wind carried the sharp scent of salt and seaweed, stinging his eyes, though he hardly noticed.
Aemon's gaze remained fixed on the horizon, where the final glow of daylight lingered, fragile and fleeting. His jaw tightened, his muscles coiling with something unspoken.
The tide retreated, only to return—ceaseless, relentless, unchanged by sorrow. The sea did not grieve. It did not weep. It simply moved forward.
Shaera had always been the strongest person I knew. She had raised me, protected me, and loved me like a mother should. She had held me when I was a child and whispered words of comfort when nightmares clawed at my mind. She had been my rock, my warmth, my family.
Aemon closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. The scent of salt and sea filled his lungs, but beneath it, he swore he could still remember something else—the soft fragrance of lavender and parchment, of warmth and safety.
His mind drifted, carried away by the tide of memory.
He had been younger—no more than three years old—when she had lifted him into her arms, spinning him through the air like he was no heavier than a feather.
"Higher, Múna! Higher!" he had laughed, reaching his hands toward the sky, toward the bright blue that stretched endlessly above.
Shaera had only laughed in return, a real, full, unguarded laugh, one that filled the halls of Red Keep with something rare—joy.
"Higher, my little dragon?" she had teased, holding him aloft. Her silver hair caught the sunlight, shimmering like molten moonlight, her violet eyes alight with mischief.
He had nodded eagerly, giggling as she swung him around, as if she could lift him high enough to pluck the sun from the sky and place it in his hands.
"One day, you will fly higher than all of us," she murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "But no matter how high you go, my love for you will always follow."
He had nestled into her shoulder, content, drowsy from the warmth of her embrace, from the way her fingers traced soothing circles against his back.
For the first time, he felt something he hadn't in weeks.
Happiness.
The memory was so clear, so real, that for a moment, he almost believed he could turn back time—that if he opened his eyes, he would find her standing there, arms open, ready to catch him once more.
But when his eyes fluttered open, there was only the empty shore, the cold sea, and the fading light of day.
No laughter.
No warmth.
Only silence.
The ache in his chest deepened. His breath stilled. The memory slipped away, leaving behind only grief.
She had held him once. She had lifted him, cradled him, sung to him. She had been unshakable.
Now, she barely had the strength to hold a cup.
And she would never hold him again.
Aemon's jaw clenched. He gripped the sand tighter, feeling it crumble in his hands. His grief had no voice, but his body felt it—like a scream stuck in his bones.
No.
He refused to let the last remnants of her slip away.
She had promised to love him no matter how high he flew.
Then he would fight to bring her back, even if she had already begun to fall.
Death had taken enough from him. It would not take her. Not while he still had breath in his lungs
The wind howled across the shore, sweeping away the footprints in the sand.
The waves rolled in, brushing the edge of his feet. The water was cold—icy, almost—but it grounded him, kept him tethered to the present when his mind threatened to drift too far.
He exhaled slowly, his breath ghosting into the evening air. His jaw clenched. Fingers curled. Muscles tensed as if bracing for a battle that had no enemy.
The tide pulled back, retreating, only to come again.
And Aemon sat, still as stone, his body rigid, his thoughts endless, waiting for something—anything—to break the silence inside him.
Tomorrow, the sun would rise.
And so would he.
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Ser Barristan's POV
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The boy sat on the shore, silent, staring into the darkening horizon.
Barristan watched from a distance, his armoured form half-hidden by the jagged outcroppings of Dragonstone's cliffs. He did not move, did not call out. He merely stood a silent guardian, his eyes tracing the lone figure against the vast expanse of sea and sky.
The tide swelled and retreated, restless and unrelenting. The waves crashed against the shore, carving away the sand with every pull as if trying to erase what had been. The ocean had always been that way—eternal, untamed, uncaring.
Just like the world.
And Aemon sat before it, unmoving, unyielding.
Aemon did not belong to this world—not fully.
Even as a child, there had always been something… other about him. Something sharp and quiet, something unshaken and unyielding, as if the boy was carved from something older than flesh and bone.
A fire that did not burn but smouldered.
And now, that fire dimmed.
A child who should not have to bear the weight of grief yet did. A boy who had already seen too much lost, and was on the verge of losing the last thing that tethered him to innocence.
Barristan had seen many men break under lesser burdens.
But not Aemon.
The boy had never broken.
Even now, as the wind howled and the sea roared, he sat in the damp sand, his silver hair shifting with the gusts, his gaze fixed on the horizon. Still as stone. Quiet as the coming dark.
Not unfeeling. Never unfeeling.
But something else.
Something Barristan could not quite name.
He had known grief before. Had seen it carve through men, hollowing them out like rot in a tree. But Aemon… Aemon did not rot. He burned. Quietly, relentlessly, like embers refusing to die, feeding off every hardship, every sorrow.
It was not natural for a child.
And that was what worried him.
Shaera was dying.
Barristan had seen it in the slow collapse of her body, the way her once-bright eyes dulled, the way she carried herself like a woman long past her years. She was slipping, fading like the last glow of an ember. She had buried a father, a mother, and her brothers—now, she was the last child of King Aegon V.
But not for long.
He knew it in the way she looked at the sea without seeing it, in the way she no longer corrected Aemon's posture or fussed over his tunic. The fire in her had burned fiercely once—proud, defiant, unyielding. But now, the flames had dimmed, leaving only ashes.
All but one ember.
Aemon.
Barristan's gaze lingered on the boy, sitting alone in the damp sand, the last light of the setting sun casting him in shades of crimson and gold.
What will happen to him when she's gone?
The boy trained harder than any child Barristan had ever seen. Not reckless, not wild, but disciplined beyond his years. He did not flinch from pain and did not shy from failure. He absorbed every lesson, every strike, every fall like a man desperate to prove something.
Barristan had trained squires, had seen boys grow into warriors, and had watched young men break beneath the weight of expectation.
But Aemon was different.
He did not break.
He endured.
There was no indulgence in his training—no idle distractions, no desire to impress. Aemon's path was not one of vanity but necessity. He learned because he had to. Because he refused to be weak.
That frightened Barristan more than anything.
There was no boyhood in him, no foolish arrogance, no reckless playfulness. He was not a child eager to prove himself.
He was something else.
A blade forged too soon, tempered too quickly.
Would it make him unbreakable? Or would it shatter him?
The words of King Jaehaerys echoed in his mind, spoken on the day he was first assigned as Aemon's sworn shield.
"Madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin. Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods flip the coin and the world holds its breath."
At the time, Barristan had thought little of it. He had served princes and kings alike and had seen both their glories and their follies. He had thought himself prepared for whatever fate awaited the boy.
Now, he was not so sure.
Greatness lay in Aemon's future—of that, Barristan had no doubt. But greatness always had a cost. He had seen it before. Kings who dreamed too high. Men who fell too far. Would Aemon rise like a beacon? Or would he burn? Burn, like so many before him? Barristan did not know. And that terrified him.
And Shaera was the only pillar keeping him steady.
If she died—when she died—what would remain?
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of salt and damp stone. The tide moved closer, waves licking at the shore, erasing footprints in the sand.
Barristan sighed, stepping forward.
Aemon did not stir as he approached, his gaze fixed on the dark horizon.
For a long moment, Barristan said nothing, only lowering himself onto the sand beside the boy.
He did not speak. Did not try to break the silence.
Some grief was meant to be shared in silence.
Together, they sat, watching as the last sliver of the sun sank beneath the water, leaving only the deep hues of twilight.
The sky darkened.
The waves crashed.
The wind howled.
And Barristan Selmy, the Bold, the Knight of the Kingsguard, sat beside his prince—not as a sword, not as a guardian, but simply as a man who understood.
Barristan had sworn an oath to guard the boy. But could he guard him against this? Against the weight of his grief? Against the destiny that waited for him beyond the horizon? He did not know. But he would try. Even if the gods had already made their choice
It was only when the first stars glimmered in the sky that he finally spoke.
"She's calling for you," he said quietly.
Aemon did not look at him. But after a moment, he nodded.
The last of the sunlight disappeared beyond the waves, swallowed whole by the endless sea.
The world was dark now.
And as Aemon turned his back to the sea, the weight of what lay ahead settled onto his shoulders. The boy who sat by the waves tonight would not be the same one who faced the dawn. And God's help the world if he no longer knew how to grieve.
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Author's Note:
Hey everyone!
First off, I just want to say a huge thank you to all of you who've been reading, commenting, and supporting this story. Your engagement and excitement keep me motivated, and I genuinely appreciate every single one of you!
Lately, I've been thinking about starting a Patreon to provide early access to chapters and a faster release schedule for those who want to support the story. If I do go through with it, here's how things would look:
Webnovel: 3 chapters per week (consistent updates for everyone).
Patreon: More advanced chapters available for those who want to read ahead.
But before I make a decision, I wanted to hear from you all first. Would you be interested in a Patreon with early access to more chapters, or should I just continue releasing everything here at the same pace?
I'm also wondering—should I wait until the story gains more reach before launching a Patreon, or is now a good time? What do you guys think?
Let me know your thoughts in the comments! Whether you'd support a Patreon or prefer things as they are, your feedback means a lot. No matter what, I'll keep writing and improving this story for all of you!
Thanks again for being part of this journey—I couldn't do it without you!