Shaera's POV
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The room was quiet.
Too quiet.
Not the kind of silence that brought peace, but the kind that suffocated—thick, heavy, unyielding. The air smelled of firewood and lavender oil, a lingering scent from the past, though it could no longer mask the sterility of age and sickness.
A single candle flickered on the bedside table, casting long shadows against the stone walls of her chamber. Once, this room had been a place of warmth, filled with the laughter of her children, the whispers of her husband, the security of a life untouched by loss. Now, it felt like a tomb, waiting for its occupant to rest within it forever.
Shaera Targaryen lay beneath silk sheets, though no fabric could shield her from the cold that had settled in her bones. She had known this chill before—not the bite of winter, but the deeper kind, the slow, creeping frost that settled in bones and soul alike, a harbinger of the inevitable.
She was dying.
She had known it the moment she collapsed upon hearing of Rhaelle's death. It had not come suddenly, nor had it been forced upon her by sickness or poison. It was the slow kind that seeped into one's heart, unravelling the threads of life one by one, until nothing remained but longing.
And she was longing.
Longing for Jaehaerys' warm embrace, for her mother's gentle hands smoothing back her hair, for the bright laughter of her brothers as they raced through the halls of Summerhall.
In the past.
For everything she had lost.
For them.
Her father, King Aegon V, had carried the weight of a dream too heavy for any man to bear. Her mother, Queen Betha, had ruled with quiet strength, tempering her husband's ideals with wisdom.
Duncan, her beloved older brother, had chosen love over a crown and perished in flames for it.
Daeron, the baby of their family, whose quiet dreams had never come to pass.
And now Rhaelle, the last link to those distant days of childhood, was gone too.
She was the last.
The sole remaining child of King Aegon the Unlikely.
The final thread of a family unravelled by fate.
But even now, she was not truly alone.
A quiet sigh left her lips as she turned her head, gazing at the small silver locket resting on her bedside table.
Her mother had given it to her the night before her wedding. She had held it tightly in trembling fingers, standing before the great hearth in Maegor's Holdfast, her mother's words echoing in her mind.
"A marriage is not just a union, my sweet girl. It is a promise. A promise to love, to endure, to hold onto each other even when the world tries to pull you apart."
Betha had fastened the locket around her daughter's neck, pressing a lingering kiss to her brow.
"One day, you will pass this on—to the one who holds your heart beyond all reason."
Shaera had worn it on her wedding day.
On the day she gave birth to her children.
On the day Jaehaerys had died in her arms.
And now, as her own time drew near, she knew where it must go next.
To him.
To Aemon.
Her last light in this world.
She closed her eyes for a brief moment, exhaling softly.
The world had taken so much from her, and yet… it had given her him.
Aemon, her little dragon, is the only thing tethering her to life. She had loved him since the moment she had first held him, so small, so precious, his violet eyes staring up at her as if she were the only thing in existence.
He had been her solace, her strength, the only warmth left in the ashes of her grief.
He was not hers by blood, but he was hers in every way that mattered.
The son of Duncan. The last of her brother's legacy.
And soon…
The last of hers.
A faint knock sounded against the wooden door.
She opened her eyes, feeling the corners of her lips curve into a small, tired smile.
The door creaked softly as it opened, and the quiet shuffle of footsteps filled the room.
Even before she turned her head, she knew it was him.
Aemon.
Her little dragon had come.
He moved with a quiet grace, though she could hear the tension in his steps, the weight of something too heavy for a boy to bear. The candlelight flickered against his silver hair as he stepped closer, his violet eyes shining with a familiar, unspoken emotion.
She smiled faintly.
"You should not look at me like that, my love," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "As if I am already gone."
Aemon moved closer, silent, his footsteps measured, and controlled. But she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched at his sides. He was holding himself together through sheer will alone.
He had always been strong.
And yet, even the strongest could not fight time.
"Come here, sweet one," she whispered, her voice softer than the rustling wind beyond the windows.
He hesitated for only a moment before crossing the space between them. He knelt beside her bed, close enough that she could reach out and brush his hair back from his face.
She lifted a trembling hand toward him, and in an instant, he was kneeling beside her bed, his much larger hands enveloping hers.
They were warm. Strong. Unyielding.
Unlike her own.
She traced her fingers over his knuckles, memorizing the shape of them, the way they had grown from the chubby hands of a child into the warrior's grip of a man.
Aemon, her little dragon, was not so little anymore.
But to her, he would always be her boy.
"I have missed you," she confessed, letting her head rest against the pillows. "It feels as though I have not spoken to you in days."
Aemon shook his head, his grip tightening around her hand. "I have been here every day, Muna. Every morning, every night."
"I know." A small, tired smile touched her lips. "But my mind drifts… sometimes, I feel as though I am already elsewhere."
Aemon's jaw clenched, and she saw it—the pain in his eyes, the war inside him.
"My love," she murmured, tracing her fingers along his cheek. "You've grown so much…"
His jaw clenched. "I had to."
She exhaled, her smile laced with sorrow. "I know."
Aemon had always carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, even as a child. She had seen it in the way he trained, in the way he studied, in the way he looked at the world—not with the naive curiosity of a boy, but with the calculating, solemn eyes of a man who knew too much.
Sometimes, it scared her.
Sometimes, she felt as if she were speaking to an old soul trapped in a young body.
Other times…
Other times, he was just her boy.
Just Aemon.
And she wished the world would let him be that for a little while longer.
She sighed and rested her palm against his cheek. "You look exhausted."
"I should be asking you that," he said, his voice tight. "I should be the one worried for you."
She let out a chuckle. "Oh, my love… there is no need to worry anymore."
His eyes darkened. "Don't say that."
She shook her head gently. "Aemon, my sweet boy… you know as well as I do. There is nothing left for me here."
His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "That's not true."
She knew what he wanted to say.
"You have me."
"You still have me."
And he was right.
She had him.
He was the only reason she had held on for this long.
But even his love could not fight the inevitable.
She smiled softly, cupping his face between her hands, her thumbs brushing against his sharp cheekbones.
"I know, Aemon," she whispered. "I know you're here. I know you would fight for me, even against the gods if you had to."
His breath hitched.
"But my love," she continued, her voice gentle, "I am tired."
Aemon clenched his jaw, his body rigid with unspoken grief.
"I have been longing to see them again," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "My father, my mother, my brothers, my sister… and Jaehaerys."
Her throat tightened at the thought of him. Her beloved Jaehaerys.
"I have been alone for so long, Aemon," she murmured. "They have been waiting for me, and I am so very tired of waiting."
Aemon shook his head, his breath shallow. "No, please stay. I'll—I'll find a way. I'll—"
She smiled through the ache in her chest. "Oh, my little dragon…"
She traced her fingers through his hair, the way she had when he was a small boy when he would crawl into her lap and fall asleep against her chest.
"My love, you are the brightest star I have ever seen. You will fly higher than any of us ever dreamed… but no matter how far you go, I will always be watching over you."
Aemon squeezed his eyes shut, his shoulders shaking slightly.
A single tear slipped down his cheek.
She wiped it away with the gentleness only a mother could give.
"When I see them again, when I see your parents…" she smiled, "I will tell them that Aemon was the best of us."
A sharp breath left him, his shoulders trembling.
"You will go far beyond, my love," she continued, her voice filled with quiet certainty. "The sky will be your only limit."
She paused, then chuckled softly. "But if you awaken fire from the eggs…" Her gaze softened, and a knowing look flickered in her violet eyes. "Then there is nothing that can stop you."
His breath stilled.
She felt it—the shift in him.
The way his body tensed, as if she had confirmed something he had been too afraid to put into words.
Her sweet, brilliant boy.
Aemon was not like others. She had known this since the day she first held him in her arms. And if the gods were kind—or perhaps cruel enough—he would not just rise.
He would burn.
She reached for his hand, threading their fingers together. "Sometimes," she mused, "talking to you feels like speaking to a man grown… wise beyond his years."
He let out a shaky breath.
She squeezed his hand. "And other times, it feels as if I'm speaking to a baby still learning the world."
He let out a quiet, breathless laugh, though it was broken, filled with grief.
She smiled, brushing his hair back once more. "Aemon, my love… You were the best thing that happened to me after Jaehaerys."
His eyes widened slightly, pain flickering across his face.
He knew she meant it.
He knew she had loved him as her own, more than duty, more than obligation.
She had loved him because she chose to.
With the last of her strength, she pulled him into her arms.
Aemon stiffened for only a moment before he collapsed into her, pressing his face against her shoulder. She cradled him like she had when he was small, running her fingers through his hair, and whispering soft comforts into his ear.
He was shaking.
His arms wrapped around her tightly, his body trembling against hers, his silent sobs muffled into her shoulder.
"My sweet boy," she murmured, pressing a kiss to his head. "My strong, beautiful boy…"
Aemon's shoulders shook, his breath ragged as he clung to her. His grip was desperate—unrelenting—as if sheer will alone could anchor her to this world.
She only held him tighter.
"Shh, my love," she whispered. "I'm here… I'm here…"
For now.
With great effort, she reached toward the bedside table, fingers brushing against the silver locket.
Her mother's locket.
Shaera traced the edges of the silver locket resting in her palm, her fingers running over the delicate dragon insignia engraved upon its surface. The metal was old—ancient even—but it had never dulled. Even in the dim candlelight, it shimmered like molten silver, as if it still carried the fire of those who had worn it before.
A piece of history. A piece of her family.
Her mother had given it to her on the night she wed Jaehaerys.
"It belonged to Rhaenyra," her mother had whispered, fastening the delicate chain around her neck. "Daemon Targaryen gifted it to her, a token of love from a dragon to his dragon. It has passed through the hands of our bloodline ever since—given from mother to daughter, from queen to queen."
And now, it was time for her to pass it on.
She turned to Aemon, whose violet eyes were still red-rimmed, his lips pressed into a thin, trembling line. He had not spoken much since she held him, and she knew why.
He was holding himself together.
Just as she had taught him.
Just as she had done all her life.
But she would not let him carry this grief alone.
With slow, careful movements, she reached for his hands, placing the locket into his open palm. His fingers instinctively curled around it, his touch reverent, as if he could feel the weight of its history in his grasp.
"This locket has been in our family for generations," she murmured. "It was given to our ancestor, Rhaenyra Targaryen, by Daemon Targaryen. A dragon's gift to the one he loved most."
Aemon's fingers tightened around it.
She smiled faintly, watching his reaction. "It has been passed down through our bloodline ever since. When I married Jaehaerys, my mother gave it to me, just as the Queen did before her."
His lips parted slightly, his breath uneven.
"You must keep it," she said softly, brushing a hand through his hair. "Wear it, hold it close, until the day you find the one who holds your heart beyond all reason."
A shuddering breath escaped him.
"Just as I found Jaehaerys," she whispered. "Just as your father found his Jenny."
His gaze snapped to hers at the mention of his parents.
She smiled wistfully, tracing her fingers along the locket once more. "And when that day comes, my love… pass it on to her, just as I have passed it on to you."
Aemon exhaled sharply, his throat working as if he wanted to say something—but no words came. Instead, he lifted the chain, his fingers trembling as he fastened it around his neck. The locket settled against his chest, cool and solid, an unspoken promise sealed between them.
He clutched it for a moment, his fingers brushing against the engraving as if trying to memorize the feel of it.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
Shaera's heart ached at the sight of him—so strong, so unbreakable, yet in this moment, still just a boy clinging to the last piece of his mother.
She reached forward, cupping his cheek once more.
"You promise?" she whispered.
His breath hitched, and he nodded again. "I promise."
She smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to his brow.
She closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of his presence, the love in his touch.
This… this was all she had ever wanted.
Aemon closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against her hand as if trying to commit this moment—this warmth—to memory.
She wished he didn't have to.
She wished she had more time.
But even as her body withered, even as the weight of death loomed over her like a shadow…
She was at peace.
Because Aemon was here.
And she knew, no matter how high he soared, no matter how far he went…
He would never forget.
Shaera's breath was slow, measured, as she studied the boy before her. Aemon's hands still lingered near the locket at his chest, his fingers curled around it as if holding onto the last tangible piece of her. His violet eyes shimmered, filled with an unspoken plea—one she had no power to answer.
She wished, more than anything, that she could promise him she would stay. That she would fight, that she would endure. But a mother should never lie to her child.
And he was no ordinary child.
She inhaled deeply, gathering the last of her strength, and reached for his hand.
"The world is cruel, Aemon," she murmured, her voice softer now, but still steady. "And it will not be kind to you."
His grip tightened around hers as if trying to anchor her to this world.
"Honor and honesty are rare," she continued, her gaze never leaving his. "Lords will seek only power. They will smile in your presence and sharpen knives behind your back. Peasants will not care for war or crowns; they will only worry if they have food for the day."
She sighed, her fingers tracing over his palm. "This world is full of lies and treachery. It is an endless game, Aemon, one where kindness is seen as weakness and mercy is mistaken for folly."
His jaw clenched, but he did not interrupt. He only listened, absorbing every word, as he always did.
Shaera studied him for a long moment, the candlelight flickering in his silver hair. "You must be careful," she whispered. "You are not a simple prince. You are more than that. And that makes you both a hope… and a threat."
She could see the defiance in his eyes, the refusal to accept a world so callous. She knew that look well. It was the same one Jaehaerys had worn in his youth, the same one she had seen in her father when he tried to build a better realm.
But Aemon would not simply survive in this world—he would shape it.
She smiled. "You have been training hard, haven't you?"
He swallowed thickly. "Yes."
She smiled weakly. "Jonothor tells me you have already mastered the dagger and bow in only three months."
Aemon blinked, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Ser Jonothor exaggerates."
Shaera chuckled, shaking her head. "No, my love. Jonothor Darry is not a man who speaks empty words. He boasts that you are a prodigy, that you will become the greatest knight this realm has ever seen."
A flicker of something passed through Aemon's expression—pride, perhaps, or humility. But it was overshadowed by sorrow.
Shaera reached up, gently tucking a stray strand of silver hair behind his ear. "I am proud of you," she murmured.
His breath hitched, his hands tightening into fists at his sides.
"But you must continue to train," she added, her tone firmer now. "You must master every weapon, every skill. Strength alone will not save you. It will be your mind, your discipline, that keeps you alive."
A single sob broke past his lips.
And she only smiled, pressing a final kiss to his brow.
She gestured toward the wooden table beside her bed. "Bring me the oak box inside the drawer, my love."
Aemon hesitated only a moment before rising, his steps silent as he retrieved the small wooden box. He placed it carefully in her lap, his eyes dark with curiosity and something deeper—reverence, perhaps.
Shaera exhaled, her frail fingers brushing over the polished wood. "Inside lies something that should have been passed down to the worthy."
With a soft creak, she lifted the lid.
The candlelight caught on the dark gleam of Valyrian steel.
A dagger, elegant and deadly, lay nestled in the velvet lining. The blade was as black as night, its surface rippling with the faint, ghostly waves of folded steel. The hilt was adorned with a dragon's head, carved in exquisite detail, its eyes set with rubies that gleamed like embers in the dim light.
Aemon's breath stilled.
"This is Dragontooth," she whispered. "It once belonged to Aegon the Conqueror."
His violet eyes widened, awe flickering in their depths.
Aemon reached for the wooden box with careful, steady hands, his fingers brushing against the polished surface before unlatching the silver clasp. The hinges creaked softly as he lifted the lid, revealing the treasure nestled within.
His breath caught.
The dagger lay before him like something out of a dream—dark, sleek, and impossibly beautiful. The Valyrian steel blade rippled with ghostly waves, a testament to the lost art of dragonfire-forged weapons. The hilt, carved in the shape of a dragon's head, gleamed in the candlelight, its ruby eyes glinting like embers in the dark.
Aemon swallowed hard, his fingers trembling slightly as he reached out. He hesitated for only a heartbeat before curling his hand around the hilt.
The moment his fingers closed around it, a strange sensation coursed through him—a whisper of something ancient, something powerful. The blade was cool, yet it felt almost alive in his grip like it had been waiting for him all along.
Slowly, reverently, he unsheathed it.
The dagger slid free with a whispering sigh, its dark steel catching the flickering light. Aemon turned it slightly, watching as the rippling waves along the blade's surface seemed to shift and dance. It was light, perfectly balanced, yet carried a weight beyond the physical—a weapon of kings, of conquerors, of history itself.
His violet eyes darkened, his breath steadying.
"This… this was Aegon the Conqueror's," he murmured, almost to himself.
Shaera, watching him with quiet amusement, nodded. "King Jaehaerys the Conciliator wielded it as well," she said. "It was passed from king to heir, much like the lost sword Blackfyre."
She hesitated before adding softly, "Jaehaerys wished for you to have it when the time was right."
Aemon's grip tightened.
He was no fool. He understood what it meant to be given such a weapon—not just its value, but its weight. The history it carried, the expectations it bore.
His throat worked as he looked back at her.
Then, in one smooth motion, he knelt before her.
The dagger rested against his open palms, the silver dragon's head gleaming under the candlelight.
His voice, when he spoke, was not soft. It was not hesitant.
It was the voice of a prince. The voice of a man who had already carved his path into fate.
"I swear it, Muna." His voice was steady, but beneath it burned something fierce, something unbreakable.
"Upon my name, upon my blood, upon the steel that binds me—I will become the greatest knight this world has ever known."
His fingers clenched around the dagger's hilt as if swearing the vow into its very steel.
"I will carve my name into history, not for glory, not for power—but for those I love."
His eyes darkened, fierce and unrelenting.
"No man, no blade, no gods will keep me from protecting what is mine."
Shaera inhaled sharply.
For a moment, she simply stared at him, as if memorizing every detail—the way his silver hair caught the candlelight, the way his young yet solemn face held the resolve of a man grown.
Then, she smiled.
Tears welled in her eyes.
She reached out, cupping his cheek one last time. "Oh, my love," she whispered. "You already are."
Aemon trembled, his breath shuddering as he carefully resheathed the dagger, holding it close to his heart.
Aemon barely had time to react before she pulled him into her arms.
He stiffened for only a moment before melting into her embrace.
She was light in his arms, fragile as parchment, but her touch remained warm—comforting. He felt her fingers trace the back of his head, smoothing down his hair the way she had done since he was a child.
For a long while, they simply stayed like that.
No words, no expectations—just the quiet, steady rhythm of her breathing, the gentle strength of her embrace.
Shaera watched him, warmth spreading through her chest—not from life, but from peace.
The knot in her heart had unravelled.
She had feared leaving him. Feared what would become of him without her. But now, looking at him—strong, determined, full of fire—she knew.
He would be more than fine.
He would become something greater.
She reached out, pulling him close, wrapping her arms around him as she had done when he was but a babe.
For the first time in years, she felt light.
She smiled into his hair, pressing a soft kiss to his temple.
Her little dragon had grown.
And with him, her fears had faded.
Aemon stiffened, then melted into her embrace, clutching onto her as though he could hold her there forever.
The first sob broke from him, muffled against her shoulder.
Shaera smiled.
"Grow up to be brave and kind, my love," she whispered. "Do not let this world change you. Do not let it harden you."
Aemon's hands trembled against her back.
"Stay who you are," she murmured. "Because who you are… is beautiful."
He cried softly, his tears warm against her skin.
She held him, her frail hands tracing slow, soothing circles against his back, just as she had done when he was a child.
After a long while, she exhaled, feeling the weight of exhaustion settling deeper into her bones.
"Aemon," she whispered.
He sniffed, pulling back slightly, his eyes red-rimmed.
Shaera smiled gently. "Will you play for me?"
Aemon's throat bobbed as he nodded. He wiped at his eyes, rising shakily to his feet before retrieving his harp.
He took a seat beside her, his fingers hovering over the strings.
And then, he played.
The soft melody filled the chamber, weaving through the candlelight like a whispered promise. The notes were gentle, slow, and full of longing and love.
Shaera let her eyes drift closed.
The music wrapped around her like a warm embrace.
The scent of lavender and parchment filled her senses.
The weight in her chest disappeared.
And for the first time in years, she was at peace.
She could see them now—her father, her mother, her brothers, and Jaehaerys.
They were waiting for her.
She smiled.
And let go.
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Aemon's POV
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Aemon's fingers trembled as they hovered over the strings of his harp. He had played for her many times before—when she smiled when she was lost in thought, when she simply wished to hear music—but never like this.
Never with the knowledge that this would be the last time.
His breath was uneven, his throat tight as he strummed the first note. The sound was soft, and gentle, like the whisper of a breeze through autumn leaves.
She was listening.
Her eyes remained closed, her breathing slow, as if the melody carried her somewhere far away.
Aemon swallowed hard and began to sing.
His voice was unsteady at first, cracking under the weight of grief, but he pushed through.
"When the morning comes, will you wait for me?
Where the rivers meet the open sea,
Where the golden sun meets the endless sky,
Will you smile, my love, will you fly so high?"
His voice wavered, breaking on the last note. A sob caught in his throat, but he forced himself to keep going. He had to give her this.
Shaera's hand twitched slightly in her lap. Her lips parted slowly. A sigh—so soft, so faint.
Her face was peaceful, her features soft in the candlelight.
Aemon saw it then—the change. The way her breathing slowed, the way her body relaxed as if the weight she had carried for so long had finally been lifted.
She was seeing them.
She was no longer in this room. No longer bound to her frail, failing body. She was with them—with Jaehaerys, with Aegon the Unlikely, with her brothers.
And she was happy.
Aemon knew, deep in his heart, that she was no longer in this room. She had already drifted beyond this world, beyond the pain, beyond sorrow.
She was going home.
Tears blurred his vision, spilling onto the harp's polished wood. His hands trembled so badly he nearly missed a chord.
But still, he played.
"When the stars alight, will you think of me?
Where the winds whisper through the ancient trees,
Where the dragons soar and the fires gleam,
Will you dream, my love, will you dream of me?"
His voice broke entirely, a choked sob escaping before he swallowed it down.
Shaera's lips curled into the faintest smile.
Her breathing slowed.
Soft. Faint.
The room was silent.
Only the soft, rhythmic rise and fall of Shaera's chest remained.
Aemon played for her, his fingers trembling over the strings of his harp, his voice cracking as he sang her favourite song.
She was smiling.
For a brief, fleeting moment, a whisper passed between them—so faint, so soft, Aemon almost thought he imagined it.
"My sweet boy…"
Then, her body stilled.
And then—
The candle beside her bed flickered.
A single breath—shallow, fragile—left her lips.
The flame wavered, dancing for one final moment.
Then, with a whisper, it went out.
Aemon's fingers pressed against the strings, stilling the music as silence fell over the chamber.
His breath stilled.
Shaera did not move.
Aemon's heart stopped.
The harp slipped from his grasp, the sound of it hitting the stone floor echoing through the chamber.
He stared at her.
Her silver hair rested against the pillows, her hands still folded neatly over her lap. Her face was calm—more serene than he had seen her in years.
She looked… at peace.
As if she had simply drifted into a dream.
But she was not breathing.
His hands trembled as he reached out, barely daring to touch her wrist, searching for warmth, for movement, for breath—
Nothing.
The world tilted. His lungs refused to work.
"Muna?"
No answer.
He touched her wrist, searching for a pulse, for warmth, for something—anything.
Nothing.
The world tilted. His breath caught in his throat.
His hands trembled as he clutched her shoulders, shaking her gently—then harder, as if sheer force alone could pull her back.
"Muna, please," his voice broke, raw with desperation. "Don't leave me."
She did not stir.
Aemon's breath hitched violently. His chest felt too tight, his vision blurred with tears he could no longer hold back.
Then, as if the weight of the world had suddenly crushed him, his legs gave out.
He collapsed beside her bed, knees hitting the stone floor with a dull thud, his forehead pressing against the mattress, against the silk of her gown. His sobs came ragged, shaking his entire body.
She was gone.
She had left him.
And he… he was just a boy, clinging to the last warmth of his mother before it, too, faded away.
Shaera Targaryen, Queen of Dragonstone, the last daughter of Aegon the Unlikely, had passed.
And she left with a smile on her face.
He pressed his fingers against her wrist again. Then again. Then once more.
He felt nothing.
No.
Aemon's breaths came sharp and ragged, his hands tightening over hers.
"No," he whispered, voice hoarse. "No, no, please, just one more breath—just one more."
He turned to her lips, searching for movement, for warmth, for any sign of life.
"You're just resting, Muna. That's all. You're just tired. You'll wake up soon."
But the stillness around him spoke the truth he could not bear.
Aemon clenched his jaw, shaking her once. "You said you'd always watch over me," his voice cracked. "You can't leave yet. You can't—"
The room did not answer.
A wail ripped from his throat, raw and broken, filling the chamber with grief. He clutched her lifeless body to his chest, his hands fisting into the fabric of her gown as he sobbed into her shoulder.
The boy who was born twice, the prince of two worlds, the prodigy of steel and fire—
Was just a child at that moment.
A child who had lost his mother.
And no power in the world could bring her back.
The storm raged inside him, a silent, howling void of agony that no blade could cut through, no fire could burn away. He held her tighter, rocking slightly, as if he could keep her in his arms and bring her back to life.
But death did not bargain.
And Shaera Targaryen was already with her family.
With Jaehaerys.
With Aegon.
With Duncan, Daeron and Rhaelle.
She had gone where he could not follow.
Not yet.
Aemon choked on a breath, his forehead pressing against hers as silent tears streamed down his face. His fingers trembled against her skin.
It was still warm.
But soon, it would not be.
A sob tore through him again, deeper this time. The kind that left his lungs empty, his body hollow, as if his very soul was unravelling.
And so, he did the only thing he could.
Aemon sucked in a sharp breath, his heart hammering against his ribs. The world outside did not stop. The wind still whispered through the windows, the candle still flickered, and the sea still roared beyond the castle walls.
But Aemon's world had ended.
His mother was gone.
And for the first time in two lifetimes, Aemon did not know how to move forward.
So he didn't.
He simply held her.
And wept.
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The hallway beyond the chamber was silent.
Not the kind of silence that came with peace, but the kind that suffocated—a stillness heavy with grief, with the weight of something irreversible.
Ser Barristan Selmy stood at the threshold, his posture rigid, his hand clenched tightly around the pommel of his sword. Beside him, Ser Jonothor Darry remained equally motionless, his gaze fixed on the scene before them.
The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the room, illuminating the silver-haired boy who knelt by the bedside, his small frame trembling as he clutched the lifeless body of the woman who had raised him as her own.
Aemon Targaryen—the prodigy, the unburnt prince, the one who had always carried himself with unshakable resolve—was now nothing more than a child mourning his mother.
Barristan had witnessed many deaths in his lifetime. He had seen men fall in battle, their last breaths stolen from them in the chaos of war. He had held comrades as they bled out on the battlefield, whispering final words of honour and regret.
But this—this was different.
This was a different kind of battle.
Aemon was not bleeding, nor had he suffered a wound that could be mended. Yet, Barristan knew that this loss would scar him in ways no blade ever could.
He had sworn an oath to protect the Targaryens. To shield them from harm.
And yet, at this moment, there was nothing he could do.
No sword could cut through grief. No armour could guard against the kind of pain that stole the breath from Aemon's lungs. No shield could protect him from the cold, empty ache of losing the only mother he had ever known.
Jonothor shifted beside him, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. He had trained the boy, watched him grow, and witnessed his rise in strength and wisdom beyond his years. But now, he saw Aemon as he truly was—just a child who had lost someone irreplaceable.
A muffled sob broke the silence.
Aemon's body shuddered violently, his fingers curling desperately into the fabric of Shaera's gown. He clung to her, pressing his forehead against her chest as if he could hold onto the last remnants of warmth before it faded.
Barristan's grip tightened on his sword. His knuckles turned white, but he made no move to step forward.
This was not a wound that could be stitched, nor a sorrow that could be eased with comforting words.
This was grief in its purest, most devastating form.
Jonothor swallowed hard, shifting slightly, his fingers twitching at his sides.
"Should we…?"
Barristan inhaled slowly. His grip tightened on his sword, but he did not move.
He had stood on battlefields. He had fought against monsters in armour, and seen men die in pools of their blood.
But this? This was a wound no blade could heal. No knight's vow could mend.
He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose.
"No," he murmured. "Not yet."
Because to step forward now would be to shatter what little remained of the moment between mother and son.
To intrude upon Aemon's grief would be a cruelty far greater than any silence.
And so they stood.
Two knights. Two warriors who had fought countless battles.
But this—this was a battle they could not fight.
So they bore witness.
They watched as the boy they had sworn to protect fell apart.
They watched as his cries, raw and broken, filled the chamber.
They watched as he clung to the lifeless body of the only woman who had ever truly loved him.
And in that moment, Ser Barristan Selmy—the greatest knight of his age, the hero of a hundred battles—felt utterly helpless.
For all the strength in the world, there was no force greater than grief.
And no sword could mend a broken heart.
Beyond the doors, the world continued as if nothing had changed. But for Aemon, nothing would ever be the same again.