Late Summer, 300 AC
The skies over Dragonstone were shrouded in gray, the ancient fortress looming over the turbulent seas below. The winds carried a chill that spoke of coming storms, both in the skies and in the hearts of those who had come to reclaim their birthright.
Aemon Targaryen stood at the edge of the castle's ramparts, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the waves crashed against jagged rocks. The sea breeze tugged at his dark hair, but he did not feel it. His heart was heavy with the weight of his mission, yet there was a fire in his veins—one that had carried him across the Narrow Sea to this ancestral seat of his family.
Dragonstone felt both foreign and familiar. The black stone walls, carved from ancient volcanic rock, whispered of his lineage, of Aegon the Conqueror and the dragons that had once ruled the skies. But Aemon was not here to bask in the glory of his ancestors. He was here for a purpose that went beyond thrones and crowns.
And then the raven came.
The Raven's Message
The bird arrived at dusk, its black wings blending with the darkening sky. Aemon accepted the scroll with a furrowed brow, his heart pounding with an inexplicable sense of dread. He broke the seal, his eyes scanning the parchment, and the world around him seemed to blur.
The Red Wedding.
The words etched into the letter burned into his mind. Robb Stark, his cousin and the King in the North, murdered. Catelyn Stark, the woman who had been his adoptive mother in name only, slaughtered alongside him. Though Catelyn had never shown him the warmth he longed for as a child, the knowledge of her brutal death still twisted something deep within him. The betrayal at The Twins was complete, and the North's hopes had been drowned in blood.
Aemon's hands trembled, the parchment falling to the ground as he staggered back, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The grief hit him like a physical blow, his knees buckling under the weight of it.
Daenerys and Missandei found him moments later, their faces etched with concern. Daenerys reached him first, her arms wrapping around his shoulders as he sank to the cold stone floor.
"Aemon," she whispered, her voice trembling. "What is it?"
Aemon could not speak. The images of Robb's proud, determined face, the banners of House Stark, the dreams of the North's independence—all shattered. The grief was suffocating, but beneath it simmered a rage that threatened to consume him.
Missandei knelt beside him, her hand resting gently on his arm. "We are here," she murmured, her voice steady and soothing. "You are not alone."
But Aemon felt utterly alone. The family he had longed to protect, the ties to his Stark heritage, had been severed by treachery and blood.
The Dragon's Fury
As night fell over Dragonstone, Aemon's grief transformed into something darker. He stood on the castle's highest tower, the winds whipping around him, his eyes reflecting the fires that burned in his soul.
"They will pay," he whispered, his voice a promise to the dead. "The Freys. The Boltons. The Lannisters. They will all pay."
Daenerys approached him cautiously, their daughter Visenya cradled in her arms. Her eyes were soft with understanding, but there was a flicker of fear in them as well—fear of the man Aemon was becoming.
"Aemon," she said gently, "this rage will consume you if you let it."
Aemon's gaze softened as he looked at Daenerys and their child. For a moment, the fire within him dimmed, replaced by the love he felt for his family. But the rage was still there, simmering beneath the surface.
"I cannot let this go, Daenerys," he said quietly. "They took everything from me. From us."
Missandei stepped forward, her voice calm but firm. "Then we will make them pay. But we must be smart, Aemon. We cannot fight this war with anger alone."
Aemon nodded slowly, his mind already turning to strategy. He would not let his grief blind him. He would channel it, use it to fuel his conquest. But first, he would fortify Dragonstone and prepare for the war to come.
Fortifying Dragonstone
The days that followed were filled with preparations. Aemon transformed Dragonstone into a fortress, strengthening its defenses and gathering resources. The ancient stronghold of House Targaryen became a beacon of impending war, its walls bristling with soldiers loyal to Aemon's cause.
Aemon spent hours in the war room, pouring over maps and planning his next moves. He knew that sending ravens to Westeros would be a crucial step, but he needed to choose his words carefully. The message had to inspire fear and hope in equal measure. The banners of House Targaryen would fly again, and the world would know that a dragon had returned to claim what was his.
Daenerys and Missandei stood by his side through it all, offering counsel and comfort. But Aemon felt the distance growing between them—not from a lack of love, but from the shadows that grief and rage cast over his heart.
Aemon's Resolve
In the quiet of the night, as Daenerys and Visenya slept, Aemon stood alone in the throne room of Dragonstone. The Blackstone Throne, carved in the shape of coiled dragons, loomed before him.
He placed his hand on the cold stone, his heart heavy with the weight of his mission. He thought of Robb, of the North, of the family he had lost. But he also thought of Daenerys, of Visenya, and of the future he would fight to protect.
"I will not fail," he whispered to the shadows. "I will bring fire and blood to those who wronged us. But I will also bring light to the darkness. This is the Song of Ice and Fire."
And with that, Aemon Targaryen, dragonlord and heir to the Iron Throne, steeled himself for the battles to come.