297 AC
The night was thick with silence as Ancalagon glided through the dark sky, his wings cutting through the clouds like a blade. Aemon Targaryen sat astride his dragon, the cold wind biting at his skin, but his mind was far from the chill of the air. Exhaustion weighed on him, both physical and emotional, and as the moonlight bathed the landscape below, his eyelids grew heavy.
It was in this twilight between wakefulness and sleep that the dream came.
The Dream
Aemon found himself standing in a grand hall, its walls lined with rich tapestries and golden chandeliers that cast flickering shadows across the marble floor. The air was thick with the scent of incense and something darker—fear.
Before him stood Viserys Targaryen, his once-proud posture now hunched with desperation. His violet eyes darted around the room, wide with panic, as faceless figures closed in around him. Aemon watched, powerless, as Viserys's voice rose in a shrill scream, demanding respect, demanding his crown.
But there was no crown to be given.
With a sudden, brutal motion, one of the figures plunged a blade into Viserys's chest. The scream cut off abruptly, replaced by a gurgling gasp as Viserys crumpled to the floor, his lifeblood pooling around him.
Aemon's heart pounded in his chest, but the vision did not end.
He turned, his eyes falling on Daenerys. She was older than he remembered, her silver-gold hair cascading down her back in soft waves. But her face was etched with terror as chains were fastened around her wrists. She struggled, her violet eyes pleading for mercy that would not come.
"No!" Aemon shouted, his voice echoing through the hall, but no one heard him. He watched helplessly as Daenerys was dragged away, her screams fading into the distance as the shadows swallowed her whole.
The grand hall dissolved into darkness, and Aemon awoke with a start, his heart racing and his breath ragged.
The Realization
The cold wind stung his face, but Aemon barely felt it. The vision had been more than just a dream—it was a warning. He knew, deep in his bones, that the events he had seen were unfolding in Pentos, in the home of Magister Illyrio Mopatis.
Aemon clenched his fists, his mind racing. The Targaryen siblings were supposed to be safe, hidden away until the time was right. But his sudden rise to power in Slaver's Bay had changed the game. Whispers of a dragon reborn had spread across Essos and Westeros, and those who once sheltered Viserys and Daenerys now saw them as liabilities.
"Damn it," Aemon muttered under his breath, his jaw tightening with determination. He couldn't let this happen. Viserys, for all his flaws, was still family. And Daenerys…
Aemon felt a strange pull at the thought of Daenerys, a connection deeper than blood. He couldn't explain it, but it burned within him, as fierce as dragonfire.
He had to save them.
The Flight to Pentos
Aemon leaned forward, whispering into Ancalagon's ear. "To Pentos. Now."
The dragon let out a low growl, sensing the urgency in his rider's voice. With a powerful beat of his wings, Ancalagon surged forward, cutting through the night like a shadow on the wind.
The landscape blurred beneath them as they flew faster than ever before. The forests and mountains of the North gave way to rolling hills and open plains, but Aemon barely registered the change. His mind was consumed by the images from his dream—Viserys's lifeless body, Daenerys's terrified screams.
The hours dragged on, each one an eternity as Aemon pushed Ancalagon to the limits of his endurance. The dragon's powerful wings beat against the air, the rhythmic thrum a steady counterpoint to the chaos in Aemon's mind.
As the first light of dawn broke over the horizon, the city of Pentos came into view, its spires and domes silhouetted against the rising sun.
Aemon's heart pounded in his chest as he urged Ancalagon faster, his eyes fixed on the sprawling estate of Magister Illyrio Mopatis.
"Hold on, Daenerys," Aemon whispered, his voice a vow carried on the wind. "I'm coming."