297 AC
The flames of the Dothraki camp still flickered on the horizon as Aemon Targaryen guided Ancalagon into the dense forest that bordered the great grasslands of the Dothraki Sea. The dragon's massive wings stirred the trees, sending leaves cascading to the forest floor like the embers of a dying fire. The air was cooler here, heavy with the scent of pine and damp earth—a stark contrast to the heat and ash they had left behind.
Aemon dismounted first, his boots sinking into the soft ground. He turned to Daenerys, who sat motionless on Ancalagon's back, her silver-gold hair tangled by the wind, her violet eyes distant and unseeing. She hadn't spoken since they had left the ruins of the khalasar behind, her silence heavier than any words.
"Daenerys," Aemon called gently, reaching up to her. "We're safe now. Come down."
For a moment, she didn't move, her gaze fixed on some far-off point in the trees. Then, slowly, she slid down into his waiting arms, her body light and fragile in his grip. He could feel the tremor in her limbs, the tension in her muscles, as if she were holding herself together through sheer force of will.
Aemon set her gently on the ground, his hands lingering on her shoulders. "You're safe," he repeated, but the words felt hollow in the stillness of the forest.
Grief and Guilt
They found shelter beneath the canopy of an ancient oak, its sprawling roots forming a natural alcove where they could rest. Aemon built a small fire, careful to keep the flames low and hidden from prying eyes. The forest was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant call of a night bird.
Daenerys sat by the fire, her knees drawn to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around them. She stared into the flickering flames, her face pale and drawn, her eyes hollow.
"I should have saved him," she whispered suddenly, her voice barely audible over the crackle of the fire.
Aemon looked up from where he was tending to Ancalagon's saddle, his heart tightening at the pain in her voice. "Daenerys…"
"Viserys," she continued, her voice trembling. "He was all I had left. And now… now he's gone."
Aemon crossed the space between them in two strides, kneeling beside her. He wanted to tell her that Viserys hadn't deserved her grief, that he had been a cruel and selfish brother. But he knew those words would bring her no comfort.
"I'm sorry," he said instead, his voice low and sincere. "I should have come sooner. I should have saved both of you when I had the chance."
Daenerys turned to him then, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "Why didn't you?" she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.
Aemon swallowed hard, the weight of his guilt pressing down on him like a physical burden. "I was gathering power," he admitted. "I thought I needed to be stronger before I could protect you. But I was wrong. I let my fear keep me from doing what was right."
A tear slid down Daenerys's cheek, and Aemon reached up to brush it away, his touch gentle. "But I'm here now," he said, his voice firm. "And I swear to you, Daenerys, I will never let anyone hurt you again."
A Lifetime Together
They sat in silence for a long time, the fire casting flickering shadows across their faces. The weight of their shared loss hung between them, but beneath it, a fragile bond began to form—a bond forged in blood and fire, in grief and guilt.
"What do we do now?" Daenerys asked finally, her voice small and uncertain.
Aemon took a deep breath, his gaze fixed on the flames. "We rebuild," he said. "We reclaim our family's legacy. Together."
Daenerys looked at him, her eyes searching his face for any hint of deceit. But all she saw was sincerity—and something else. Something deeper.
"Together?" she echoed, her voice soft.
Aemon met her gaze, his expression unwavering. "Always."
For the first time since Viserys's death, Daenerys felt a flicker of hope stir in her chest. It was a fragile thing, easily broken, but it was enough.
She reached out, her hand finding Aemon's. "Then I'm with you," she said, her voice stronger now. "For as long as it takes."
Aemon squeezed her hand, his heart swelling with a mixture of relief and determination. "We'll do this together," he promised. "And no one will stand in our way."
Whispers Across the Narrow Sea
The news of Daenerys's rescue spread like wildfire across Essos and Westeros. In the shadowed halls of King's Landing, whispers of the dragonlord and his aunt reached the ears of those who thrived on intrigue and deception.
In the Red Keep, Varys listened carefully as his little birds sang their songs of fire and blood. The Master of Whisperers sat in his dimly lit chambers, his fingers steepled beneath his chin as he pondered the implications of Aemon's actions.
"If he's taken Daenerys," Varys murmured to himself, "then he means to strengthen his claim on the Iron Throne. A dragonlord with a Targaryen bride…" He let the thought trail off, the possibilities spinning in his mind like a spider's web.
Elsewhere, Petyr Baelish, known to most as Littlefinger, stroked his neatly trimmed beard as he considered the news. "Aemon Targaryen," he mused, his lips curling into a sly smile. "If he's taken Daenerys, he might make her his queen. A dragonlord with ambition and a Targaryen wife… this could be… interesting."
Both men knew the balance of power was shifting, and they would need to act carefully if they were to maintain their influence in the game of thrones.
But neither could deny the truth that now loomed over the realm:
The dragons had returned, and with them, the fire of House Targaryen burned anew.