298 AC
The morning sun cast long shadows over the city of Meereen, its golden rays glinting off the polished domes and the soaring spires that now bore the banners of House Targaryen. Yet within the grand halls of the palace, the warmth of the sun did little to chase away the chill that settled in Aemon Targaryen's heart.
Seated at his writing desk, Aemon's fingers tightened around the quill, the parchment before him untouched, though his mind was ablaze with thoughts. The news had come at dawn, borne by a swift raven from across the Narrow Sea: Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, was dead. The implications of this were as heavy as the Valyrian steel blade resting at his side.
Aemon knew what would come next. Robert Baratheon would turn to the man he trusted most—the man Aemon still called father in the quiet corners of his heart—Eddard Stark.
The thought of Ned Stark leaving Winterfell sent a ripple of unease through Aemon. He had seen too much, learned too much of the treachery that festered in King's Landing. The capital was a nest of vipers, and Ned's honor, while noble, would be his undoing in a city that devoured the honorable and rewarded the cunning.
Aemon dipped the quill into the ink, the black liquid pooling at the tip before he pressed it to the parchment. The words came slowly at first, each letter carrying the weight of both warning and love.
The Letter
To Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North,
Father,
I write to you not as the dragonlord of Slaver's Bay, nor as the blood of House Targaryen, but as the boy you raised as your own—the boy who still remembers the feel of Winterfell's cold winds and the warmth of your guidance.
Jon Arryn is dead. I know what will come next. Robert will ride north, seeking your counsel, your loyalty, and your honor. He will ask you to be his Hand, to stand beside him in King's Landing.
Father, I beg you—do not go.
The South is no place for wolves. The game of thrones is played with lies and daggers, and even the sharpest blade of honor will dull against the poison of courtly intrigue. You have a family to protect, a North that needs its Warden. The Stark name must endure, and it cannot do so if you are ensnared in the web that killed Jon Arryn.
I know you will feel duty-bound. I know you will believe you can make a difference, that your honor will shield you from the darkness that festers in the capital. But Father, honor is a poor shield against men who wield deceit like a blade.
Stay in Winterfell. Protect our family. The South will burn, as it always does, and I fear the fire will not spare the Starks if you are caught in its path.
Your son,
Aemon Targaryen
Sealing the Fate
Aemon read the letter twice, his jaw clenched, his heart heavy. He knew Ned's sense of duty ran as deep as the roots of the weirwood trees in the godswood. But perhaps, just perhaps, these words would be enough to sway him.
He folded the parchment carefully, sealing it with wax stamped with the three-headed dragon sigil of House Targaryen. As he pressed the seal, a part of him wished he could ride to Winterfell himself, to stand before Ned and plead his case in person. But the distance between them was more than miles—it was kingdoms, destinies, and the ever-looming shadow of the Iron Throne.
Summoning a trusted messenger, Aemon handed over the letter. "Fly swift and true," he commanded. "This must reach Winterfell without delay."
As the raven took to the skies, disappearing into the horizon, Aemon stood at the balcony of his chambers, his gaze fixed on the distant north. He felt the weight of history pressing against him, the threads of fate weaving a tapestry he could not fully see.
"Please, Father," he whispered into the wind, "stay safe."
But deep in his heart, Aemon knew the pull of honor was a powerful force—and the game of thrones had already begun.