The heavy oak doors swung open, and Aemon stepped through with Barristan and Jonothor close behind, the noise and heat of the Red Keep's main kitchens washing over them like a wave.
The Kitchen Keep loomed across the courtyard, its broad stone walls alive with motion. Inside, the air was thick — hot, sweaty, and dense with the smells of bread baking, meats roasting, and herbs simmering in giant steaming pots.
Huge stone ovens lined the walls, their open mouths spitting firelight onto the soot-darkened ceiling. Long wooden tables stretched the length of the hall, crowded with trays of fresh loaves, heaps of flour, jugs of butter, and baskets of herbs. Butchers worked at heavy blocks near the far wall, their cleavers rising and falling with wet, rhythmic thuds.
The scent was overwhelming — savory, yeasty, mouthwatering — roasted lamb, sweet onions, crisping duck fat, warm honeyed rolls. It filled Aemon's lungs, clung to his skin, and made his stomach grumble loud enough that Jonothor shot him a sideways grin.
The kitchen buzzed with life — servants shouting orders, knives clattering, pot lids banging. Somewhere near the ovens, a woman barked orders over the roar of boiling kettles, her voice sharp enough to cut through the steam.
It smelled like battle and feast — overwhelming, chaotic, and impossibly inviting.
The moment Aemon stepped inside, a few heads turned. Then more.
"Morning, my prince!" called Old Talla, a broad-shouldered woman stirring an enormous pot of stew. She wiped her hands on her apron and gave him a gap-toothed smile.
"Morning, Talla," Aemon said casually, weaving through the crowded kitchen. "How's that boy of yours? Still chasing hens out of the garden?"
Talla laughed. "Worse now. He's climbed the chimney and thinks he'll catch a bird that way."
Aemon chuckled and clapped her lightly on the arm as he passed.
In the following table, a skinny girl rolling out dough curtsied awkwardly. "Good day, my prince."
"Good day, Mina. How's your wrist doing?" Aemon asked, his voice casual but kind.
The girl blinked, surprised he remembered. "Better, m'lord. Thank you."
"Keep the bandage tight. And don't carry anything heavier, you hear?"
He moved on without waiting for thanks, trading a few quick words here and a nod there. A young butcher boy with a blood-streaked apron beamed when Aemon thumped his shoulder in greeting. An old maid folding linens grinned when he asked if her husband's back had mended.
Aemon was slipping through the kitchens as if he belonged there, like he'd grown up among them.
Jonothor slowed, watching him work the room, and muttered, "Seven hells… he's like a baker's son down here."
He shook his head, half in disbelief. "You should see him at the royal feasts — stiffer than a board. Looks like he wants to throttle half the lords at the table."
Barristan gave a quiet huff that might've been a laugh and nodded once. "Aye. This is more his element."
Jonothor raised a brow. "Is he always like this?"
"Always," Barristan said simply. "Knows almost all the servants by name. Spends more time sneaking into kitchens and guard halls than most realize."
Jonothor watched as Aemon leaned casually against a table, laughing with a fat old cook over something burning on a spit.
The head cook, Ed, spotted them coming and wiped his hands on his apron, a broad smile splitting his weathered face.
"Well, well — how you doin', my prince?" he called over the clatter of pots and shouting scullions. His voice was rough with years of shouting over kitchens, but warm. "Busy rush, you're just in time for the madness."
Aemon grinned and clasped the man's forearm in greeting. "Wouldn't miss it. What's on the fire today?"
The cook puffed out his chest a little, pride clearly in his voice even over the din. "Honey-roasted lambs, bacon thick enough to stop a heart, river trout, pork pies, sausages bigger than your wrist — and your favorite lemon cakes cooling by the window, if the bloody cat hasn't gotten at 'em."
Jonothor let out a low whistle at the list. Aemon chuckled, flashing a quick grin.
"Lemon cakes, you know me too well," he said, shaking his head. "But… you know what I could really go for?"
The head cook raised a brow, amused.
"A proper cheeseburger," Aemon said, dead serious. "Something greasy, messy, stacked high enough, it is a crime."
The cook laughed, wiping sweat from his brow with his hand. "Cheeseburger? Never heard of it."
Aemon leaned in, eyes gleaming. "Well, how about learning a new dish today?"
The head cook's grin widened instantly. With a barked order, he cleared a long table, scattering scullions and flour alike.
The moment space opened up, Aemon rolled up his sleeves with easy authority as if he owned the place.
"Right, Ed — you're my assistant today," Aemon said, jabbing a finger at the head cook with a grin.
The big man laughed and nodded without missing a beat. "Aye, Prince Aemon. You call it, we'll follow."
Aemon clapped his hands once. "First — someone gets me fresh beef, good stuff, not scrap cuts. I want it minced, not chopped. Fine, like paste."
A few cooks hurried to obey, dragging down slabs of red beef from the coolers.
"And bring me bread dough," Aemon added, glancing over his shoulder. "We're making buns, not using those flat loaves."
Within minutes, the long table was cleared, the flour dusted off, and the kitchen staff gathered around, eager to watch him work. Aemon moved with swift precision, demonstrating how to roll the dough into tight, smooth, perfectly round buns.
"Hundred buns. No more, no less. Enough for everyone here."
The cooks nodded, hands flying to shape the dough exactly as he demonstrated. Once ready, the trays were slid into the massive stone ovens, the smell of rising yeast already starting to fill the air.
Meanwhile, the beef was minced to his satisfaction, red and fine-grained.
Aemon wiped his hands clean. "Ten eggs. Beef tallow. Now."
The kitchen scrambled. Eggs clattered into bowls. Beef tallow — rendered fat, golden, and rich — was set beside him.
Aemon started whipping up a simple mayonnaise, working with the focus of a man who'd done this a hundred times before — a slow drizzle of tallow, quick whisk, creamy texture coming together.
Jonothor wandered over, curiosity outweighing dignity.
Aemon glanced up with a wicked grin. "You—you're on onion chopping duty."
Jonothor recoiled like he'd been slapped. "I'm a knight, not a bloody kitchen girl!"
Aemon laughed. "Fine, stand there and look pretty, then. But stay out of my way."
Jonothor grumbled under his breath but stayed off to the side, arms crossed, glowering. Barristan, watching from near the hearth, smirked into his hand.
Aemon turned to another cook. "Twenty onions, fine slices. I want 'em grilled slow, not fried. Caramelized, golden brown."
"Yes, my prince, "The cook nodded briskly and got to work, slicing the onions into fine slices and tossing them onto the wide iron pans. The rich, sweet aroma of caramelizing onions soon thickened the air, weaving through the kitchen like a warm, golden thread.
Meanwhile, Aemon, satisfied with the creamy sheen of the finished mayonnaise, turned his focus back to the beef.
"First — season it properly," he said, grabbing a handful of the fine mince. Working quickly, he mixed in a good pinch of salt, a generous crack of black pepper, and a splash of whipped egg white to help it hold together without turning heavy.
Only after seasoning the whole batch did he move on.
"Now — form tight patties," Aemon instructed, showing them how to scoop handfuls of the seasoned beef, packing it gently but firmly into thick, even disks — careful not to press too hard and squeeze out the juices. "About the size of your palm. Same thickness all around."
The cooks and Ed nodded, moving fast to copy him, while Aemon kept a sharp eye on the shapes — neat, even, ready for the grill.
By the time the buns emerged from the ovens — golden, pillowy, and steaming — the patties were perfectly prepared.
Aemon sliced each bun neatly in half, brushed them lightly with butter, and tossed them onto the flat-top grill, toasting them until they turned golden and crisp.
Then, it was time for the main event.
One by one, the beef patties slapped onto the hot grill, sizzling loudly and furiously. Aemon worked the spatula with effortless precision, searing the outsides to a rich, savory crust while locking the juices inside. The moment he flipped them, he crowned each patty with a thick slice of cheese, watching it melt in glossy, gooey rivers down the sizzling meat.
Barristan, standing with arms folded near the door, watched dryly — but there was a distinct glimmer of approval in his blue eyes.
When the patties were done, Aemon moved fast, assembling the burgers like a general commanding a battlefield.
Toasted bun.
A swipe of homemade mayo.
Crisp lettuce.
A few thick pickles.
A juicy patty molten with cheese.
A spoonful of caramelized onions.
A strip of crispy bacon.
Another cheese-laden patty is stacked on top. More mayo.
Then, the top bun, glossy and warm, is pressed gently into place.
Around him, the cooks followed suit, working fast but carefully under his sharp instructions.
By the time they finished, the long wooden tables were covered with neat rows of towering cheeseburgers — easily a hundred — each looking heavy enough to break a man's diet in one bite.
Aemon stepped back, surveyed the army of burgers proudly, then turned with a grin.
He raised his hands like a showman announcing a royal decree.
"Ladies and gentlemen — I present to you- Chef Aemon's Special & Limited Edition — Bacon Cheeseburger with Caramelized Onions!"
The kitchen erupted into cheers and laughter, the scent of grilled beef, toasted buns, melted cheese, and sweet onions hanging thick and heavenly in the air.
The smell alone was enough to draw a crowd.
Servants, cooks, butchers, and even a few passing guards started filtering into the kitchen, sniffing the air like bloodhounds. Heads craned. Eyes widened.
Aemon clapped his hands once, loud enough to snap everyone's attention.
"Alright! First rule — wash your hands. All of you. I don't want any greasy fingers nearby."
A ripple of chuckles ran through the kitchen, but the staff quickly obeyed, lining up at the stone basins to scrub their hands with rough lye soap and splash cool water over their faces.
Some hesitated near the food after glancing at Aemon with nervous looks. One of the older bakers, wiping her hands on her apron, shifted from foot to foot.
"My prince… are you sure? It doesn't feel right, eatin' what's made for you…"
Aemon grinned, tossing a kitchen rag over his shoulder.
"That's an order," he said. "Eat. As much as you want. You deserve it."
That broke whatever awkwardness was left.
With grins and a few shy laughs, the workers started stepping forward, each taking a burger carefully, like it was some holy relic.
Aemon leaned back against a table, arms crossed, surveying the scene with pride. Then, mock-stern, he added, "Except — twenty of these are mine. Non-negotiable."
Before anyone could argue, one of the younger servants, wide-eyed and earnest, hurried forward, clutching a tray of polished silverware.
"My prince — do you need forks and knives?"
Aemon froze, staring at the offered utensils as if they had personally offended him.
"No," he said, scandalized. "Absolutely not."
He snatched a burger straight off the tray with both hands, the juices already soaking into his fingers.
"The best way — the only way — to eat this is with your hands," Aemon declared firmly. "If I catch anyone using a fork or knife, there'll be no more burgers for them. Ever."
The whole kitchen roared with laughter.
Jonothor stared at him like he'd grown a second head. "You're serious?"
Aemon straightened, deadpan. "I'm always serious about cheeseburgers."
Without waiting for another heartbeat, he leaned in like a starving wolf and took a massive bite.
The rich taste of beef, caramelized onion, crispy bacon, cheese, toasted bun, and sharp mayo hit his tongue in a glorious, greasy explosion.
Aemon let out a muffled groan of happiness, half-laughing through the mouthful as juices dripped down his fingers. He swiped the mayo with a thumb and sucked it clean without shame.
Tears stung his eyes as he cradled the burger like a long-lost lover.
"Ah… It's been too long," he murmured, voice rough with devotion. "I missed you."
Around him, the kitchen burst into chaos — laughter, talking, chewing, more laughter.
Servants moaned with pleasure at the first bites.
"Gods, that's good!" someone blurted, mouth full.
Even Jonothor, who acted like a scolded hound earlier, sank his teeth into a burger and immediately went wide-eyed.
"Seven hells," he muttered through a mouthful. "That's the best thing I've eaten in years."
Then, grinning like a thief, he snatched two more from the table. "Don't judge me!"
Ser Barristan, ever the proper knight, picked up a fork and knife from the table and poised them neatly over his burger, ready to cut it cleanly in half like a gentleman.
Aemon caught the movement instantly—and froze, glaring at him like a hawk spotting prey.
His message was clear without a word: If you cut that burger, you're getting nothing more.
For a heartbeat, Barristan just looked at him, fork in midair. Then, recognizing the silent threat, the old knight sighed — the long-suffering sigh only a man used to handling stubborn princes could manage — and set the utensils aside.
With a quiet grunt of surrender, Barristan set down his utensils and picked up the burger properly, grease and all.
He took a deliberate bite, chewed thoughtfully, and after a long moment, gave a rare, approving nod.
"Unexpectedly excellent," he said dryly — and without another word, reached back and grabbed a second burger like a man who knew a good thing when he tasted it.
At some point, one of the younger cooks snickered from the back, mouth still full, "We should call 'em Prince Aemon's Meat Rolls!"
Aemon fixed him with a mock glare. "Say that again, and you'll be chopping onions for your lifetime."
The young cook blanched, snapping his mouth shut like a trap. He quickly ducked his head, suddenly fascinated by the floor.
The kitchen roared with laughter, some of the older hands slapping the boy on the back as he turned bright red.
Meanwhile, Aemon was living his best life — inhaling burger after burger, stacked high, patting his stomach between bites.
By the time he finished his twentieth, he leaned back against the wall, stuffed and utterly content.
"Ahh… That's the stuff," he sighed, wiping mayo off his chin with a smug grin.
Ed, the head cook, dropped heavily onto a nearby stool, clutching a half-eaten burger in both hands as if it were a priceless treasure.
There were actual tears in the big man's eyes.
"My prince…" he said thickly. "That… that's the finest thing I've ever tasted. If you'd have me, I'd gladly be your student. Teach me more. Please."
Aemon, still licking a smear of grease from his thumb, laughed and clapped Ed on the back.
"Of course," he said. "Stick around — I'll teach you all the foods I invent."
The room broke into another round of applause and laughter.
One by one, the burgers disappeared from the tables, the last scraps fought over good-naturedly. Bellies were full, faces were flushed with happiness, and the heavy air smelled of toasted bread and grilled beef.
Robert, an old cook — red-faced, grinning ear to ear — lifted a massive mug of mead in one hand and clutched a half-eaten burger in the other. He raised them both high like a champion.
"This is life!" he declared loudly before taking a huge bite, greasy and mead dribbling down his chin as he devoured the rest with a blissful groan.
Laughter rippled through the kitchen again.
Finally, Aemon pushed off the table and waved a hand.
"Alright, greasy monsters — wash up. That's an order."
Groaning and chuckling, the cooks and servants dragged themselves to the basins again, scrubbing their oil-slicked fingers, smiling, still talking about the "prince's miracle food."
It was a scene of simple, messy joy — the kind of moment that didn't need gold or banners to feel real.
Aemon stretched, patting his stomach with great satisfaction — but then he turned to Ed with a grin.
"So… about those lemon cakes you promised earlier?"
Ed stared at him, wide-eyed. "After twenty burgers, my prince?"
Aemon just shrugged, utterly dead serious. "There's always space for lemon cakes."
The head cook hurried to fetch them, and within minutes, thick, golden slices were laid out on the table.
Aemon didn't even hesitate. He dove in, devouring five — no, six — hefty slices one after another, humming contentedly with each bite.
If burgers were comfort, lemon cakes were pure happiness.
Barristan and Jonothor just stared at him in awe as if watching some unnatural force of nature at work.
"Gods save us," Jonothor muttered helplessly, shaking his head. "Where the hell does he put it?"
Barristan only smirked faintly, used to it by now.
Aemon just grinned through a mouthful of cake, utterly shameless.
After the last crumbs were cleared and the laughter faded, Aemon and the Kingsguard finally made for the basins lined along the wall. The servants brought out fresh soap and clean washcloths without being asked.
Aemon scrubbed his greasy hands thoroughly, the smell of roasted meat and onions stubborn but slowly giving way to the sharp tang of lye soap. Barristan and Jonothor followed, washing with the same disciplined efficiency they showed with swords.
As Aemon dried his hands on a linen cloth, he exhaled and stretched lazily.
"Now," he said, grinning, "would be a good time to find a shady spot in the godswood and have a great afternoon nap. Care to join me?"
Jonothor blinked, clearly caught between amusement and confusion, not sure if he was joking or actually about to drag them off for a royal nap under the trees.
Aemon was about to tease him further when a sudden commotion broke the kitchen's easy rhythm.
Boots pounded against stone. Servants rushed past the doors in a flurry — maids with wide eyes, stewards barking orders, pages sprinting like their lives depended on it.
Aemon stiffened, instincts kicking in fast. He stepped into the hall and flagged down a passing guard.
"Martin," Aemon said sharply. "What's happening?"
The guard, Martin, skidded to a stop, flushed and breathing hard. "The Queen, my prince! Queen Rhaella — she's in labour!"
Aemon didn't waste a heartbeat.
He turned back to Barristan and Jonothor, his voice cutting sharp and clear. "We're going to the Queen's chambers. Now."
Without waiting for an answer, Aemon broke into a run — boots hammering against the stone, heart pounding faster with every step.
The godswood — the nap — all of it forgotten.
Duty was calling.
.
.
.
Thank you for reading...!!
Advanced 9 chapters are available on my Patreon.
patreon.com/Horcruz