296 AC
The halls of Meereen's Great Pyramid were vast and silent, save for the distant echoes of Unsullied boots and the low rumble of dragons overhead. Aemon Targaryen—once Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell—stood atop the pyramid, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the endless blue of Slaver's Bay met the sky.
Two years had passed since he conquered the last of the slaver cities. Two years of ruling with fire and blood, of transforming Slaver's Bay into the heart of his growing empire. Yet, despite his victories, despite the power he wielded, a part of him remained restless.
Aemon missed the North.
The icy winds of Winterfell, the snow-covered forests of the wolfswood, the comforting chill of the godswood beneath the ancient weirwood tree—these memories haunted him more than any ghost from his past. The warmth of Slaver's Bay felt oppressive, a constant reminder of the distance between him and the land of his birth.
But it wasn't just the land he missed. It was the Starks.
The Rise of a Dragonlord
In the two years since his conquest, Aemon had solidified his rule over Slaver's Bay. The cities of Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen were no longer symbols of Ghiscari pride but pillars of his empire. The Unsullied patrolled the streets with unflinching discipline, their presence a constant reminder of his authority. Trade flourished under his iron-fisted reforms, and the wealth of the region flowed into his coffers, funding the construction of new fortresses and expanding his military might.
Yet, amidst the grandeur of his rule, Aemon felt the weight of his choices. He had become what the world feared—a dragon reborn, a conqueror of cities, a ruler who bent nations to his will. But in the quiet moments, when the roar of dragons faded and the fires of conquest dimmed, he questioned what he had become.
Was he a Targaryen, destined to reclaim the Iron Throne with fire and blood?
Or was he still Jon Snow, the boy who had sworn vows at the Wall, who had dreamed of honor and duty in the frozen North?
The Bond with Dragons
Aemon's dragons were his greatest strength—and his greatest solace. Ancalagon, the largest and most fearsome, was a creature of unparalleled power. His black scales shimmered like obsidian, his wings casting shadows over the city as he soared through the skies. The younger dragons—Rhaegal, Meleys, and Silverwing—had grown into formidable beasts in their own right, their loyalty to Aemon unshakable.
The bond between Aemon and his dragons was forged in blood and fire. The ritual he had performed at their birth had tied them to him in ways few could understand. They were not just creatures of destruction; they were extensions of his will, reflections of his soul.
When Aemon flew with Ancalagon, he felt a freedom he hadn't known since his days as a boy in Winterfell, running through the snowy forests with Ghost at his side. The wind in his hair, the vast expanse of the world beneath him—these moments reminded him of who he had been, even as they affirmed who he had become.
But the dragons also served as a reminder of his Targaryen heritage, of the destiny he could not escape.
The Weight of the North
Despite his conquests, Aemon could not shake the longing for the North. The letters from Westeros spoke of political intrigue, of power struggles in King's Landing, but they said little of Winterfell. He knew that Ned Stark still ruled, that his siblings continued their lives unaware of the storm gathering across the sea.
But Aemon's heart was heavy with questions.
Would Ned stand with him when he returned to claim the Iron Throne?
Would his family accept him as Aemon Targaryen, or would they see only Jon Snow—the bastard who had abandoned them?
Aemon feared the answers. He had built an empire in Essos, but his heart remained tied to the frozen lands of his youth. The thought of returning to the North, of facing Ned Stark and revealing the truth of his birth, filled him with both hope and dread.
But he knew he could not delay forever.
The Quiet Moments
In the rare quiet moments, Aemon found solace in Missandei. She had become more than his adviser, more than his confidante. She was his anchor, the person who understood the man beneath the title, beneath the dragon's shadow.
Their bond had deepened over the years, built on mutual respect and shared purpose. Missandei's counsel tempered his ruthlessness, her presence grounding him amidst the chaos of rule. She saw the man he was, not just the ruler he had become.
But even with her by his side, Aemon felt the pull of the North.
One night, as they stood together on the balcony of the Great Pyramid, Missandei turned to him, her eyes reflecting the flickering torchlight.
"You're thinking of the North again," she said softly.
Aemon nodded, his gaze distant. "It's where I belong."
Missandei placed a hand on his arm, her touch warm and steady. "Your place is here, ruling what you've built."
Aemon's jaw tightened. "I've built this, yes. But I need to know… will he stand with me when I return? Will they?"
Missandei's eyes softened. "You'll find your answers in the North. But remember, you are not alone."
Aemon looked at her, gratitude and sorrow mingling in his gaze. "I know."
The Decision
The decision came to him one night as he soared above Meereen on Ancalagon's back. The city sprawled beneath him, a testament to his power, but his heart was not with the brick and mortar of Slaver's Bay. It was with the snow-covered fields of Winterfell, with the family he had left behind.
Aemon knew what he had to do.
He would travel to the North—alone. No Unsullied, no advisers, no entourage. Just him and Ancalagon, the last dragonlord returning to the land of his blood.
He needed to see Ned Stark. He needed to know if the man who had raised him would stand by his side when he returned to claim the Iron Throne. And more than that, he needed to ensure that House Stark would not suffer the same fate it had in the stories he had learned of the future—a fate marred by tragedy and loss.
The North called to him, and he would answer.
The Farewell
Before dawn, Aemon prepared to leave. He stood in the courtyard of the Great Pyramid, Ancalagon's massive form looming behind him. Missandei approached, her expression calm but her eyes betraying the storm within.
"You don't have to do this alone," she said quietly.
Aemon shook his head. "I do. This is something I must face without the weight of an army behind me."
Missandei stepped closer, her hand resting on his chest. "Then promise me you'll return."
Aemon covered her hand with his own, his gaze steady. "I promise."
They stood in silence for a moment before Aemon turned, climbing onto Ancalagon's back. The dragon's wings unfurled, casting a shadow over the courtyard as he prepared for flight.
As Ancalagon lifted into the sky, Aemon looked down at Missandei one last time. She stood tall, her eyes fixed on him, a silent promise lingering between them.
And then he was gone, soaring northward, toward the land of his birth and the answers he sought.