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Aemon's POV
Darkness clung to him.
Not the comforting embrace of night, but the kind that suffocated, pressing down on his chest, coiling around his throat like unseen chains.
He was falling.
The world beneath him cracked and crumbled, a void swallowing everything in its path. He reached out, grasping for something—anything—to hold onto.
And then, he saw her.
Shaera stood on the other side of the abyss, her silver hair shimmering like moonlight on water, her violet eyes filled with something soft… something unbearably sad.
He tried to move. Tried to reach for her.
"Muna—!"
Her lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came.
The distance between them widened.
The light dimmed.
And then she was gone.
Aemon fell into the darkness.
He woke up choking on his breath.
His chest heaved, his lungs burning as if he had been drowning. His heart pounded wildly, a frantic rhythm against his ribs like a caged bird desperately trying to escape.
The room was silent. Too silent.
Aemon sat up, gripping the sheets with trembling fingers, his breaths uneven, ragged. He barely registered the cold air against his sweat-dampened skin, barely noticed the faint glow of embers in the hearth, dying—just like her.
For a brief, fleeting moment, his mind betrayed him.
He expected to hear the soft rustle of silk.
Expected to feel a warm hand smoothing back his hair.
Expected to hear her voice, whispering in the dark.
But there was nothing.
Only stillness.
Only the emptiness she left behind.
The truth slammed into him like a blade to the gut.
Seven days.
Seven days since she had left him.
Seven days since he had held her hand.
Seven days since he had watched the light fade from her violet eyes.
His breath hitched.
His fingers curled into the sheets, gripping them so tightly his knuckles turned white.
His mother was gone.
And she was never coming back.
The weight of it crushed him, pressing against his ribs, squeezing his lungs. His throat tightened, his vision blurred, and before he could stop it—before he could even try—the first sob tore from his lips.
Raw. Broken. Unstoppable.
He clutched at his chest as if he could physically hold himself together as if pressing hard enough against his ribs would keep the pain from splitting him apart.
But it was useless.
The grief came in waves, brutal and unrelenting, crashing over him without mercy. He gasped for breath between shuddering sobs, his shoulders shaking under the weight of everything he had lost.
His body trembled. His fingers dug into the mattress. He tried to silence himself, to swallow down the grief, to push it back into the void inside him.
But he was not strong enough.
Not for this.
The bed felt too empty without her.
The castle felt too silent without her voice.
The world felt too cold without her warmth.
Aemon squeezed his eyes shut, his breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts. His nails pressed into his palms, deep enough to leave crescent-shaped marks on his skin, but he barely noticed the pain.
Because the only pain that mattered—the only one he could not escape—was the one tearing him apart from the inside.
She was gone.
And Aemon was alone.
The castle was silent.
Not the kind of silence that came with peace, but the type that smothered, heavy and oppressive, weighing down on his chest like a millstone. The halls of Dragonstone had never been lively, never filled with the warmth of laughter like the Red Keep, but now… now they felt hollow. As if Shaera's absence had drained even the walls of life.
Aemon stood by the window of his chambers, his hands resting against the cold stone, his violet eyes unfocused as he watched the waves crash violently against the cliffs below. The sea did not care for grief. It moved as it always had, restless and untamed, indifferent to the sorrow of men.
His mother had loved the sea.
She had often sat by this very window, gazing out at the endless horizon, lost in memories of a time when her heart had been full. He had once asked her, as a child, what she thought about when she stared at the waves for so long.
"I think about home," she had said softly.
"Isn't this your home?" he had asked.
She had only smiled. A sad, faraway thing.
"No, sweet one. My home was never a place—it was the people I loved."
Aemon clenched his jaw, his grip tightening against the stone.
The weight of grief was suffocating. It sat in his chest like a cold, unmoving thing, refusing to lessen, refusing to fade. It had been seven days since she left him, yet the ache had not dulled, the world had not become kinder. Time was a liar—it did not heal. It only carried you forward whether you were ready or not.
A knock at the door.
Aemon inhaled sharply, forcing himself to straighten, to bury the pain beneath the steel of his resolve. He would not break. Not here. Not now.
"Enter."
The door creaked open, and Ser Barristan Selmy stepped inside, followed closely by Ser Jonothor Darry. Both knights stood tall, their armour polished, their expressions solemn. Warriors of great renown, men who had stood in battle without fear—yet today, their gazes held a quiet sorrow.
"My prince," Ser Jonothor spoke first, his voice careful, respectful. "A raven has arrived from King's Landing. The royal court will be arriving today."
Aemon said nothing.
He only nodded once, slowly.
He had expected this.
King Aerys. Queen Rhaella. And Rhaegar.
They were coming.
Perhaps out of duty. Perhaps out of grief. Perhaps out of something colder—concern for what this meant for the realm.
"Prepare the men," Aemon finally said, his voice quiet but firm. "I will greet them upon their arrival."
Ser Barristan studied him carefully as if looking for something beneath his carefully controlled expression.
"If you wish, my prince… You do not have to face them immediately. You are still mourning."
Still mourning.
As if grief could be confined to days. As if it could ever leave him.
"I will do what is expected of me," Aemon said simply.
What Shaera would have expected of him?
Ser Barristan gave a slow nod, understanding. "Then it will be done."
Aemon turned back to the window, his gaze returning to the horizon.
"Leave me."
The two knights hesitated, then bowed before stepping out of the chamber, the door clicking softly shut behind them.
The room was silent once more.
Aemon exhaled shakily, his shoulders tense, his fingers curling against the cold stone. He could not break. He could not fall. He had spent a lifetime forging himself into something unbreakable.
And yet—
His hands trembled.
Gods.
He was so tired.
The hallways were silent, save for the distant echoes of the sea crashing against the cliffs.
The walls felt too large, the corridors too empty, as if the very castle was grieving. Even the torches burned lower than usual, flickering like ghosts in the dark.
Aemon stepped into her chambers.
His chest tightened the moment he crossed the threshold.
It still smelled of her.
Lavender oil. Ink-stained parchment. Old books.
The same scent he had buried his face into as a boy, seeking comfort in her embrace.
The same scent that lingered in the night when she would tuck him in, her hands smoothing over his silver hair.
The same scent that had always meant home.
And now—now it would fade.
Aemon inhaled sharply, his fingers curling into fists.
Slowly, carefully, he walked toward her writing desk, where a stack of old letters lay, still neatly arranged, untouched.
His hands trembled as he reached for them.
He should not be afraid.
And yet—he was.
With shaking fingers, he picked up the first letter.
His mother's handwriting was elegant and precise, written in the flowing script of a queen.
He swallowed hard as he read.
"My sweet Aemon,"
"I wonder if you will ever read this. Perhaps you will find it one day when you are grown, when I am no longer able to hold you in my arms as I do now. I write this because I know what kind of man you will become. Strong, wise, kind—but also burdened. I see it already, even in your young eyes."
"You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, even when no one has asked you to."
"And I know that one day, I will not be here to remind you to rest."
"But my love, you must promise me one thing."
"Promise me you will not let the world take your softness away."
"You are a dragon, yes—but not all dragons need to burn the world. Some must bring warmth whereas others bring fire."
"And you, my sweet boy, were always meant to be a light in the dark."
"With all the love in my heart,
Your Muna."
Aemon's throat closed.
A sound escaped him, something between a sob and a breath, his fingers tightening around the parchment as if it could anchor him.
"Muna."
His vision blurred, but he did not stop reading.
Letter after letter.
Memory after memory.
Each word was a whisper from the past, each stroke of ink a piece of her soul left behind.
Aemon traced the ink, his fingers trembling.
The words blurred—not from age, not from wear, but from his tears.
He hadn't even noticed them falling, silent and relentless, smudging the script she had left behind.
Her last words to him.
He pressed the parchment to his forehead as if trying to pull her voice from the ink as if the words could bring her back.
But parchment was not flesh. The ink was not a heartbeat. And the dead did not return.
He had spent his life learning how to endure pain.
Training. Fighting. Hardening his body, sharpening his mind.
But nothing had prepared him for this.
Nothing had taught him how to survive the death of a mother.
Aemon exhaled sharply, squeezing his eyes shut.
The ink was smudged where his fingers had trembled.
Aemon stared at the letter, the words blurring through the unshed tears burning in his eyes. The parchment was old, fragile beneath his grip, yet her words felt so close—as if she had just written them yesterday.
His breath shuddered.
He wanted to hold onto her voice, to the memory of her soft hands and warm embrace. But the letter was only ink and paper. And she was gone.
Aemon clenched his jaw, folding the letter with careful precision. He set it back down among the others, his fingers lingering for a moment longer before he finally forced himself to stand.
The walls of the chamber suddenly felt too small, the air thick, pressing in on him.
He needed to leave.
The suffocating weight in his chest had only grown heavier, a restless, clawing thing that demanded to be set free.
Without another glance at the letters, he turned and strode toward the door.
Ser Barristan was waiting outside, his gaze sharp yet unreadable. Aemon barely acknowledged him as he moved past. The knight didn't stop him, didn't question him. Perhaps he already knew where he was going.
Aemon made his way through the silent halls of Dragonstone, his boots echoing against the stone, each step feeling heavier than the last. Servants hurried out of his path, their heads lowered, their whispers barely audible over the roaring in his ears.
He ignored them.
His body moved on instinct, drawn toward the only place that could hold his grief.
The wind hit him the moment he stepped outside. Cold, sharp, biting. The salt-laden air carried the distant cries of gulls, and the crash of waves against the cliffs below.
Aemon did not stop.
His steps carried him up the familiar path, past the weathered stones and the crumbling remnants of old watchtowers. The place he had always gone to think.
Sometimes alone.
Sometimes with her.
His chest tightened.
By the time he reached the edge of the cliffs, his breath was unsteady, his pulse hammering beneath his skin.
The sea stretched before him—endless, untamed, unmoved by his grief.
Aemon stood there, staring into the abyss, his hands clenched at his sides.
Here, he could breathe.
Here, he could break—if only for a moment.
The wind howled against the cliffs of Dragonstone, carrying with it the scent of salt and the distant cries of gulls. The sea stretched endlessly before him, dark and unyielding, crashing against the jagged rocks far below.
Aemon stood at the edge, his boots resting against the uneven stone, his violet eyes locked onto the turbulent waters.
This was where he had come with her.
His mother. His Muna.
They had sat here beneath the open sky, speaking of dreams and stories of dragons long gone. Sometimes, they had remained in comfortable silence, the weight of their unspoken bond needing no words.
But now…
Now, she was gone.
Without her, what was left?
And the silence was unbearable.
The nobles whispered—about her death, about what it meant for him. About the boy who was neither heir nor king, but something in between.
None of them mattered.
He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms.
He had lived two lives—one of war, one of magic and dragons. Yet in both, there had only ever been one constant, one person who had truly, unconditionally loved him.
And now, she was beneath the earth, lost to dust and memory.
What was he supposed to do without her?
The thought curled in his mind like a viper, hissing cruel truths into his ears.
"You have no place here."
"You have lost the only love you have ever known."
"You have no father. No mother. No family who truly sees you."
"What remains for you in this world?"
The wind howled around him, fierce and unrelenting. Below, the sea raged like a restless beast, its waves crashing violently against the jagged rocks. The abyss stretched before him, endless, unyielding, whispering the same cruel promise over and over.
One step.
One breath.
And it all ends.
Aemon exhaled shakily, his chest rising and falling in an uneven rhythm. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. The weight of the world had never felt so heavy. The grief, the loneliness, the unbearable ache in his chest—if he fell, he would not have to carry it anymore.
His foot lifted.
The world slowed.
The salt-laden wind wrapped around him, urging him forward. The ocean roared below, promising finality. His heart pounded against his ribs, a frantic, unsteady rhythm as if his very body rebelled against what his mind had already accepted.
Would it hurt?
Or would it be like slipping into a dream?
A breath shuddered past his lips.
Just one step.
He could still do it. He could still choose.
The weight of the world would be gone. The ache in his chest would disappear.
His fingers twitched. His heart pounded. His body leaned forward—
And then—
"Aemon."
The voice was soft, familiar, curling through the air like a whisper carried on the wind. A warmth brushed against his skin, cutting through the bitter cold, something real—something impossibly there.
His foot hovered in the air.
The scent of lavender and parchment drifted past him, curling around him like an embrace.
His heart stopped.
No.
It couldn't be.
He swallowed hard, his breath shallow, his pulse erratic. The wind shifted, gentler now, wrapping around him like a presence—like her.
"Aemon, if you take another step, I will drag you back and kill you myself."
His eyes widened.
His foot faltered.
And suddenly, he could see her.
Not as a ghost. Not as a figment of his grief-maddened mind. But as he remembered her—strong, exasperated, watching him as if he were a foolish boy about to do something very, very stupid.
She stood before him in his mind's eye, arms crossed, her silver hair shifting in the wind. Her violet eyes, sharp yet filled with the warmth only a mother could offer, held him in place.
"Jump, and I will curse you, my sweet boy."
A sob clawed at his throat.
The tension in his limbs snapped. His foot lowered, slowly, hesitantly, as if breaking free from the spell of the abyss.
Aemon stumbled back a step, his breath coming in sharp gasps. His chest ached—not from the cold, not from the wind, but from the crushing realization of what he had nearly done.
He pressed a trembling hand to his chest, his fingers tightening over the fabric of his tunic.
Shaera was gone.
But she would never have wanted this.
She had loved him too much to let him fall.
Aemon clenched his jaw, his breath steadying.
He would not break.
He would not fall.
Not today.
Never.
And with that final promise, Aemon turned away from the edge.
The whisper of the wind faded.
But the warmth lingered.
The wind howled, tugging at his cloak as Aemon stood at the edge of the cliff, his boots pressing against the cold, uneven stone. Below, the waves crashed violently against the jagged rocks, their endless fury mirroring the storm within him.
For a long moment, he simply stared at the horizon, at the place where the sky met the sea. The world stretched endlessly before him—vast, untamed, indifferent to his grief.
And then, he saw it.
A shadow against the water.
No—not a shadow.
A fleet.
Banners of red and black snapped against the wind, bold and unmistakable, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen standing stark against the grey sky.
Aemon's breath slowed.
They had come.
The royal fleet.
He watched as the ships cut through the waves, their sails full, their prows sharp as spears. Even from this distance, he could see the unmistakable flagship at the head of the fleet—larger, grander, a ship that bore the Royal Standard of the King.
King Aerys. Queen Rhaella. And Rhaegar.
His Family.
They were coming to Dragonstone.
To mourn.
To judge.
To see what remained of him.
The Targaryen fleet grew larger against the horizon, their banners of red and black snapping violently in the wind. The sea churned around them, restless and unyielding—much like the storm inside his chest.
Aemon exhaled slowly, his breath steady but cold, his fingers twitching at his sides.
This was it.
The past was gone. The future was coming.
No more time to grieve. No more time to be the boy who had lost his mother.
The world did not wait for sorrow to pass. The King would not wait.
And yet—his feet did not move.
For a long moment, he simply stood there, watching the ships carve through the waters, their approach inevitable. He should have already turned back, should have been making his way down the cliffs toward the keep.
But he lingered.
His hand drifted to his chest, his fingers brushing against the cool metal resting against his skin.
The locket.
Shaera's locket.
He curled his fingers around it, squeezing tight enough that the edges pressed into his palm, grounding him.
"You will go far beyond, my love."
The whisper was not real.
But it felt real.
The wind stirred around him, carrying echoes of a voice he would never hear again.
"You are meant for more, Aemon."
"One day, you will shape the world itself."
A breath shuddered past his lips.
How many times had she told him that?
As a child, when he had struggled with self-doubt. As a boy, when he had faltered under the weight of expectations. Even before her death, she had believed in him, seen something in him that he had never truly seen in himself.
And now…
Now, he had to prove her right.
The whisper was not real. But it felt real.
She had believed in him. Even when the world had not. Even when he had doubted himself.
His fingers uncurled, letting the locket rest against his chest.
Aemon released a slow breath, forcing the ache in his chest into something harder, sharper.
He let go of the locket.
The moment shattered.
The cold returned.
His shoulders squared. His spine straightened.
His grief did not fade. But he buried it—where no one could see.
And then, without another word, Aemon turned away from the cliffs.
The time for mourning was over.
Now, it was time to greet the King.