The Long Summer, 300 AC
The sun rose over Meereen, casting golden light across the city that had once been the heart of Slaver's Bay. Now, banners of the three-headed dragon fluttered from every tower, and the streets buzzed with a mixture of reverence and fear. But within the grand halls of the palace, a different kind of energy stirred—one of preparation and finality.
Aemon Targaryen stood at the balcony overlooking his conquered kingdom, his dark eyes fixed on the distant horizon where the sea met the sky. The time had come. After years of conquest, betrayal, and loss, he was ready to return to Westeros. But this was more than a quest for the Iron Throne. It was a mission steeped in purpose far beyond crowns and titles.
Behind him, the palace bustled with activity. Missandei coordinated the final preparations with her characteristic efficiency, while Daenerys cradled their daughter, Visenya, close to her heart. Though Daenerys had grown increasingly protective of their child, she knew there was no stopping Aemon's march.
The Departure
In the great hall, Aemon gathered his household—the loyal followers who had stood by his side through every battle and betrayal. The Unsullied stood at attention, their spears gleaming under the torchlight. Missandei and Daenerys flanked him, their faces composed, though the tension in the air was palpable.
Aemon addressed his people, his voice steady and commanding. "We march to Westeros. Our banners will fly from the Narrow Sea to the Iron Throne. But we do not abandon this city." He turned to Daario Sand, who had proven himself a capable leader and loyal ally. "You will govern Slaver's Bay in my absence. Ensure our reforms endure and our power remains unchallenged."
Daario bowed deeply. "It will be as you command, my king."
Aemon's gaze swept over the room. "This is not just a conquest for power. There are darker forces at play in Westeros—forces that threaten all of humanity. We ride not just for a crown, but to end a threat that none in the Seven Kingdoms truly understand."
The room fell silent, the weight of his words sinking in.
A Mission Beyond Thrones
Later that evening, in the quiet of their private chambers, Aemon shared his deepest truth with Daenerys and Missandei. The flickering candlelight cast soft shadows on the stone walls, and the distant sounds of the bustling city faded into the background.
"There's something I haven't told you," Aemon began, his voice low and filled with gravity. "My claim to the Iron Throne is only part of why we must return to Westeros."
Daenerys looked up from where she rocked Visenya, her violet eyes narrowing with concern. "What is it, Aemon?"
Aemon took a deep breath, his mind drifting back to the frozen landscapes of the North, to ancient tales whispered by the Night's Watch and the chilling visions that had haunted his dreams.
"The White Walkers are real," he said quietly. "They are more than just legends. They are death incarnate, and they will come for all of us—whether we sit on thrones or in hovels. Westeros is blind to the danger that lurks beyond the Wall, but I have seen it. I know what's coming."
Missandei's eyes widened, and even Daenerys's usually composed face paled at the revelation.
"You've never spoken of this before," Daenerys whispered.
"Because I needed to be sure," Aemon replied. "And now I am. We will take the Iron Throne, but that is only the beginning. We must unite the kingdoms—not just to rule, but to stand against the darkness that will soon descend."
He paused, his gaze distant as he recalled the dream that had plagued him for years.
"This is the dream of the Song of Ice and Fire," Aemon continued, his voice tinged with reverence. "It was Aegon Targaryen's dream—a vision of a great war between the living and the dead. Aegon believed that only a united Westeros could stand against this threat. That is why he sought to conquer the Seven Kingdoms, not just for power, but for survival."
Daenerys clutched Visenya tighter, her heart aching with the fear of what this meant for their family. "And what of our daughter? Will we raise her in a world of war and death?"
Aemon reached out, placing a gentle hand on Daenerys's shoulder. "We fight so that she won't have to."
Missandei, ever the voice of calm reason, nodded. "Then we stand with you, Aemon. For Visenya. For the realm."
Setting Sail
By dawn, the harbor of Meereen was a flurry of activity. Aemon's fleet—a formidable armada of sleek ships adorned with the Targaryen sigil—was ready to set sail. The dragons circled above, their roars echoing across the bay, a promise of the fire and blood to come.
Aemon stood at the prow of the lead ship, Ancalagon perched on the cliffs above, watching over his master. Daenerys stood beside him, Visenya swaddled securely in her arms. Missandei, ever loyal, was at their side, her eyes scanning the horizon.
As the ships pulled away from the docks, Aemon felt a surge of determination. The journey ahead would be fraught with danger, but his resolve was unshakable. He was not the boy who had once called Winterfell home. He was Aemon Targaryen, dragonlord, heir to the Iron Throne, and the realm's last hope against the coming darkness.
The wind filled the sails, and the fleet surged forward, cutting through the waves toward destiny.
And in the distance, across the Narrow Sea, Westeros awaited—unaware of the storm that was about to descend upon it.