Author's Note: Upcoming Rewrite of the First Arc
Hey everyone,
I wanted to give you a quick update.
Starting this week, I'll be rewriting the first arc of the story (Chapters 1–20). When I first began writing, I thought that a long, detailed setup was necessary to build the world properly—but looking back now, I realize it was too much. The pacing dragged, and I know it made it harder for new readers to continue with the story.
So, I've decided to condense the first 20 chapters into a tighter arc—likely under 10 chapters total. This rewrite will improve pacing, clean up the early structure, and help new readers get into the main story faster.
👉 Nothing will change after Chapter 20—the rest of the story will continue exactly as it is.
👉 Patreon content remains unchanged—this only affects the public web novel release.
👉 I won't be rewriting anything beyond the first arc—just trimming and cleaning the intro.
I know many of you felt the first 20 chapters were slow or even unnecessary. That's on me—rookie mistake. Thank you for sticking with it anyway.
If you've already read past Chapter 20, you don't need to re-read anything unless you're curious about the revised intro.
Thanks for your patience and continued support. More chapters are coming soon!
Horcruz.
.
.
.
.
.
Meagors Holdfast, 269 AC.
.
.
.
Aemon ran through the stone corridors with Barristan and Jonothor at his heels, boots slamming hard against the ground. The clamor inside the Queen's wing grew louder with each step — the sharp screams of women, the barked orders of midwives, the distant, pained cry of Queen Rhaella echoing down the hall.
They reached the door to the royal birthing chambers — heavy, iron-bound wood sealed shut — just as another cry rang out from within, sharp and raw. The sounds inside were chaos: shouting, clattering, the low wail of someone in pain.
Aemon didn't hesitate.
"Ser Barristan — stay here," he said, short and definite. "Ser Jonothor, go and tell the King what's happening."
Jonothor gave a quick nod and turned, sprinting down the hall.
Aemon stepped forward toward the door, where Ser Harlan Grandison stood guard — the old knight still and silent in his white cloak, hands resting on the pommel of his sword. His face was stone, but there was tension in his jaw.
Aemon came to a stop in front of him.
"Ser Harlan," he said firmly, not raising his voice. "Let me in."
The old knight didn't move at first. His eyes flicked to Aemon's, searching.
"She's in pain," Aemon added, his voice low but steady. "I won't get in the way. I can help. Please."
A long moment passed.
Then Ser Harlan stepped aside and gave a short nod.
Aemon pushed open the door and stepped into the storm.
The heat hit him like a solid wall. Thick, humid, suffocating — the windows had been shut tight, and the stench of blood, sweat, and boiled herbs clung to the air like a choking hand. Sweat gleamed on every face in the dim, grey light filtering weakly through heavy curtains. Only a few oil lamps burned, throwing long, restless shadows across the walls.
Maids, midwives, and wet nurses stumbled over one another, bumping and jostling, their arms full of towels, jugs, and bowls. Clothes dropped to the floor. Herbs spilled and crushed underfoot. Sharp whispers cut the air, arguments flaring and fading in frantic, useless flurries.
A side table near the wall was buried under clutter: steaming pots of water forgotten to cool, jugs of milk of the poppy knocked half-empty, linens stained with fresh blood, bundles of crumpled herbs crumbling into dust.
At the center of it all, Queen Rhaella lay half-sitting, half-sagging against the heavy pillows of her canopied bed. Her face was deathly pale, her hair plastered to her temples with sweat. She gasped and whimpered between contractions, clawing at the sheets, her fingers twisting the fabric into knots.
Near the foot of the bed, Grand Maester Pycelle stood dabbing his brow with a shaking cloth. He muttered vague orders under his breath— 'Patience… focus on breathing'—but had no genuine control of the room.
Closer to Rhaella, Maester Keryn barked orders sharply, his voice cutting through the haze like a whip. His face was red with heat and panic, though he carried himself with false authority. "No, you fools, faster! Bring the bandages—no, not those!"
His shouting only deepened the confusion, driving the midwives to clumsy mistakes.
Maester Symond hovered uselessly near the supply tables, fretting over bottles and jars, unable to decide which remedy to prepare.
The midwives knelt between her legs, their hands trembling as they worked. They kept glancing back to Keryn for orders, their faces drawn and fearful, sweat dripping from their brows.
The noise in the room was a steady, grinding pressure: the Queen's screams, the scrape of boots on stone, the clatter of falling bowls, the sharp bark of Keryn's voice—all wrapped in a heavy, oppressive heat.
Aemon stood still for a heartbeat.
His jaw tightened.
He moved swiftly to Queen Rhaella's bedside, the chaotic noise of the chamber dulling to a low hum in his ears.
Rhaella lay half-reclined against the soaked pillows, her face pale and slick with sweat. Her hands clutched the sheets in a death grip, her body trembling with every shallow, ragged breath. When her tear-filled violet eyes caught sight of him, she tried to speak, but all that came out was a broken gasp:
"It hurts… gods, it hurts so much…"
Aemon didn't hesitate. He dropped to one knee beside the bed and took her hand firmly in both of his, anchoring her to him.
He leaned close, keeping his voice low and even calm against the rising panic in the room.
"I'm here," he said gently. "I've got you. Breathe with me — slowly, in and out. You're not alone."
He squeezed her hand just enough to let her feel his strength, grounding her. His thumb brushed lightly across her hand in slow, reassuring strokes.
Rhaella's chest heaved unevenly at first, but she tried to match his breathing, dragging air into her lungs in short, shaky bursts.
Aemon stayed close, not crowding her but refusing to leave her side. With his free hand, he wiped her damp brow with the sleeve of his tunic, careful and tender. Then he shifted slightly, reaching for a nearby mug of cool water a maid had abandoned on a cluttered side table, and brought it to Rhaella's lips.
"Drink," he murmured. "Take small sips to wet your throat."
Rhaella obeyed, weakly sipping as the coolness seemed to ease her a little. Aemon set the cup aside within easy reach and turned his focus fully back to her, breathing slow and exaggerated so she could follow his rhythm, holding her hand firmly — her lifeline amid the storm.
A sharp voice suddenly cut through the haze.
"Push, Your Grace! Push now!" one of the midwives cried frantically from the foot of the bed.
Rhaella whimpered, shaking her head weakly. Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes.
"I can't—I can't—it hurts too much—" she sobbed.
Aemon gripped her hand tightly, leaning in closer so only she could hear him.
"You can," he said quietly but firmly. "You're stronger than this pain. Breathe with me — you can do it."
Another contraction tore through her, and Rhaella screamed, her body arching off the bed. She squeezed Aemon's hand so hard it felt like the bones might snap.
But Aemon gritted his teeth against the sudden spike of pain, a muscle ticking in his jaw — but he held firm, refusing to let her go.
Her agony mattered more than his discomfort.
From the corner of the room, Pycelle's voice wavered as he wiped his forehead with a cloth.
"Milk of the poppy… another dose, quickly…" he muttered vaguely to a midwife, offering no real direction.
Aemon blocked it all out, focusing only on Rhaella.
"Good," he breathed, steady and low. "You're doing good. Just breathe, Mandiá. Focus on me, not them."
As Rhaella's breathing steadied — still shallow, but no longer panicked — Aemon drew a slow breath and shifted closer.
He spoke under his breath, barely audible beneath the noise of the chamber.
"S.E.R.A., initiate the immediate diagnostic scan."
There was a soft flicker in the back of his eye as S.E.R.A.'s interface activated.
[Scanning vitals,] the calm voice replied in his mind.
[Detecting elevated temperature, weak uterine contractions, and early signs of fatigue-induced shock. Heart rate irregular. Further analysis limited— the subject is in active labor.]
Aemon frowned, jaw tightening. That wasn't good — but it wasn't hopeless.
He squeezed Rhaella's hand again, firm and warm.
"You're doing alright," he said softly. "Just stay with me a little longer."
Aemon drew a slow breath as S.E.R.A.'s scan results flickered through his mind: elevated temperature, weak contractions, early signs of shock. Not good — but manageable if he moved quickly.
He squeezed Rhaella's hand once, grounding her, then rose to his feet.
In his mind, his voice sharpened.
"S.E.R.A., full status report. Now."
Softly, cleanly, the system responded:
[Heart rate: 128 beats per minute — elevated.
Blood pressure: 85 over 56 — dropping.
Temperature: 102.1 F — febrile.
Uterine contractions: weak, irregular.
Oxygen saturation: borderline.
Immediate priorities:
• Reduce body temperature.
• Strengthen uterine contractions.
• Stabilize blood pressure and circulation to prevent hypovolemic shock.]
Aemon's jaw tightened with no time to hesitate.
"Listen to me!" Aemon's voice rang out, sharp and commanding, cutting clean through the chaos of the chamber.
Every head turned — midwives freezing, maids stiffening, even Pycelle pausing mid-mutter to blink at him in surprise.
"The windows — open them! All of them!" Aemon barked, pointing sharply. "We need air. Now."
Several midwives hesitated, exchanging uneasy glances — the old superstition of "closed rooms" lingering in their minds — but Aemon didn't slow down.
"Open them, or the Queen will boil alive in this heat!"
That broke their paralysis. A flurry of movement followed as maids rushed to throw open the heavy drapes and unlatch the windows, letting a rush of hot but moving air pour into the stifling room.
"You," Aemon pointed at a startled maid. "Douse the hearth. Put the fire out. We don't need more heat."
The maid scrambled away, grabbing a jug of water and throwing it into the crackling fire until it hissed and died.
Turning back to the crowd, Aemon's voice dropped into a low, deadly calm.
"Every single one of you — wash your hands. Now. Scrub until clean. No one touches the Queen — or her linens — without clean hands."
There was a stunned pause. Even Pycelle looked momentarily taken aback. Keryn's mouth opened as if to argue — but Aemon didn't wait for him.
"That is a command," he said flatly.
Reluctantly, the midwives and maids broke away, moving to the washbasins set against the walls. The sound of frantic splashing filled the room.
"No dirty clothes!" Aemon added sharply. "Strip the bed if you must, but only fresh linens touch her skin from now on. Everything else — out!"
He moved swiftly, steady as a surgeon under pressure.
"Maid — cool, clean clothes," Aemon said, catching the eye of a young girl standing frozen near the herb tables. "And water — not ice cold, just cool."
The girl bobbed a quick curtsey and rushed off, returning moments later with a bowl of clean, cool water and several clothes.
Aemon knelt by Rhaella again, squeezing the excess water from a cloth and beginning to gently wipe her brow, her neck, the hollow of her arms. Slow, careful motions — cooling her without shocking her body.
Rhaella flinched slightly at first, but then sighed, some of the tension easing from her face as the fevered flush of her skin began to subside little by little.
All the while, Aemon kept one eye on her breathing — shallow but calmer now — and with quiet focus, he began timing her contractions, tapping lightly against his thigh with each wave.
His gaze flicked briefly to her hands. He pressed gently against her fingernails, watching how long it took for the color to return — a rough but effective check on her circulation. It was not perfect, but it told him enough: she was strained but not crashing.
Another contraction hit — and he saw how awkwardly she struggled against the bed's high slope.
Without a word, Aemon shifted the pillows behind her, lowering her angle and gently adjusting her hips. The change was subtle — but already, her breathing seemed less panicked, the contractions more productive.
The chamber's frantic energy had dulled into a tense, uncertain quiet.
Aemon leaned closer to Rhaella, his voice low and steady.
"You're doing well. Just wait a little longer."
Around him, the room moved hesitantly but began following his lead — washing hands, changing linens, wiping gently at the Queen's fevered skin.
Aemon, his hands still wet from cooling Queen Rhaella's skin, straightened and turned sharply toward the three maesters hovering at the edge of the chaos.
"I need herbs," he said clearly, loud enough to silence the low-murmuring midwives. "What herbs are on hand?"
Pycelle frowned, his jowls quivering slightly.
"My prince… it would be better if we prepared the mixtures," he said stiffly. "This is delicate work. Years of experience—"
Maester Keryn stepped in smoothly to back him, his voice clipped and slightly patronizing.
"Indeed, my prince. Allow those trained in the arts to manage it properly. This is not the place for—"
Aemon cut them both off without even looking at them.
His violet eyes locked onto Maester Symond, the younger of the three, who had been hovering anxiously by the herbs.
"You," Aemon said crisply. "What do you have?"
Symond, caught between fear of his superiors and the desperate urge to help, blurted out a rapid list:
"Pennyroyal, red raspberry leaf, blue cohosh, lady's mantle, shepherd's purse, willow bark—"
"That's enough." Aemon stepped forward without hesitation.
Traditional uterotonics. Crude by modern standards — but they could work.
Without sparing the older maesters another glance, Aemon issued orders briskly.
"Head midwife — keep her breathing steady. Watch her pulse at the wrist and throat. Don't move her position until I return."
The midwife nodded hastily, bolstered by the calm authority in his voice.
Aemon stripped off his outer tunic, rolled his sleeves up, and headed to the side table where the herbs were kept. He washed his hands thoroughly in the cool water basin — scrubbing them harder than most surgeons would, then dried them quickly on a clean cloth.
Working with swift, careful precision, Aemon selected the herbs he needed. He crushed a few small leaves of pennyroyal between his fingers — just enough to release the oils but not enough to cause dangerous cramping.
In the back of his mind, S.E.R.A.'s calm voice surfaced:
[Recommended dose: pennyroyal, no more than two crushed leaves. Blue cohosh: three parts to one of raspberry. Maintain a mild syrup consistency to ensure gradual absorption.
Note: contraction interval: 64 seconds and tightening.]
Aemon adjusted instinctively, reaching for a clean bowl.
He turned to Symond, explaining crisply:
"Too much pennyroyal will cramp her beyond control. We need to stabilize her contraction."
Symond nodded quickly, watching wide-eyed as Aemon crushed the pennyroyal first — gently, precisely — then measured the red raspberry leaf and added a trace of blue cohosh, balancing the mixture carefully in a small bowl. The scent was earthy and bitter, but it was the right combination — strong enough to stimulate contractions, gentle enough not to harm.
Pycelle dabbed at his forehead again, stepping forward with a nervous shuffle.
"My prince… surely it would be wiser to let us—"
Aemon didn't even look up.
"This is an order," he said coldly. "If any of you get in my way again, you'll answer for the Queen's life — not just to the King, but to me."
Pycelle and Keryn stiffened, their mouths tightening, but neither spoke another word.
Aemon turned back to Rhaella, cradling her head gently with one hand as he helped her sip the herbal mixture. She swallowed weakly but without protest.
The effect wasn't immediate, but Aemon knew the signs: her breathing eased fractionally, her shivering began to lessen, and the color in her lips deepened ever so slightly — small victories, but victories nonetheless.
As he worked, soft flickers danced at the edge of his vision — S.E.R.A. silently monitoring vitals, feeding him real-time data in calm, clinical pulses.
[The temperature declining: 101.3 to 100.4 F.
Uterine contractions are stabilizing.
Heart rate: elevated but steady.
Oxygen saturation normalizing.
Next contraction expected in… 43 seconds.]
Without a word, Aemon moved to the bed, adjusting the Queen's position — shifting her hips slightly, elevating her legs a few inches with bundled cloths. Anything to improve circulation, to keep her from sliding into fatal shock.
He spoke in a low murmur that only Rhaella could hear.
"Breathe in slowly. And push.
The chamber, once a frantic storm, had fallen into a taut, humming order. Even the midwives followed Aemon's unspoken rhythm— moving efficiently, almost without thinking.
The Queen's moans quieted to low, pained breaths, steadier than before.
Symond, standing nearby, stared at Aemon in open amazement. This wasn't luck. This was a terrifying skill for a boy who wasn't even man-grown.
Aemon squeezed Rhaella's hand gently again.
S.E.R.A. pinged softly in his mind.
[Contraction spike incoming… now.]
Right on cue, Rhaella stiffened — the contraction sharper and more coordinated thanks to the herbal stimulation.
"Now," he said, voice firm. "Push, Your Grace. Push hard."
Rhaella screamed as the contraction tore through her body, but Aemon didn't flinch. He squeezed her hand, anchoring her again.
"Good — good, Rhaella. Breathe — in, out — you're doing it."
He signaled a maid to press a cool cloth to the back of the Queen's neck to regulate her temperature and guided the midwives with sharp, minimal nods.
There was a soft flicker in the corner of Aemon's vision.
[S.E.R.A.: Next contraction imminent. Intensity rising. Forty seconds. The progressive labor stage is beginning. Stronger, longer, more frequent contractions expected.]
Aemon sucked in a slow breath, steadying himself.
He leaned closer to Rhaella, brushing a damp lock of silver hair from her brow, voice low and firm.
"Rhaella — listen to me. Focus only on my voice. When it comes, I need you to push hard. "
Rhaella gave a weak, shuddering nod, clutching his hand with desperate strength. Her violet eyes, glassy with tears, never left his.
Thirty seconds. Twenty.
The tension in the room stretched thinner than silk.
Around them, the midwives hovered anxiously. Pycelle wrung his hands. Symond stayed frozen with the bowl of cooling water. No one moved — they all seemed to orbit Aemon now, drawn by the calm gravity he had imposed.
Ten seconds.
Aemon squeezed her hand gently.
"Get ready," he murmured, voice a thread of steel.
The contraction slammed into Rhaella like a wave crashing on stone.
She cried out, arching off the bed, her fingers locking around Aemon's so tightly that pain spiked up his arm. He winced, gritting his teeth hard-not pulling his hand away.
"Push!" he urged, voice cutting through her scream. "Push now!"
Rhaella pushed, sobbing and gasping, the effort wracking her fragile, sweating body.
And then —
The heavy doors slammed open, and for a heartbeat, a rush of colder air broke the fevered heat inside.
Every head turned. Every breath seemed to stop.
The sudden noise crashed into the room like a storm.
Aemon turned just as Ser Gerold Hightower stepped through, his white cloak trailing behind him — and behind Ser Gerold came King Aerys II, his golden robes sweeping the stone floor, his face pale with disbelief.
For a heartbeat, time seemed to stop.
Aerys's sharp, startled gaze locked onto the scene before him — Queen Rhaella, screaming in pain, bloodied linens heaped around her, midwives frozen mid-motion, Pycelle standing aside — and there, at her side, kneeling at the heart of the chaos, was a ten-year-old boy, his hands cradling the Queen's trembling ones, guiding her through the agony.
Aemon looked up at him — calm, resolute, sweat dripping from his temple, sleeves rolled to the elbow like a battlefield surgeon.
Aerys stared, his mouth opening in horror.
"What. Is. The meaning of this?" the King roared.
The words hung in the air like a blade poised to fall.
The midwives froze, pale and trembling.
Pycelle stood stiff, dabbing his brow with a shaking hand but offering no words.
Even Maester Symond looked down at his feet, silent.
Only Aemon moved.
Steadily, he rose from where he had knelt by Rhaella's side. Sweat streaked his hands and brow, but his gaze was calm as he faced the King.
He opened his mouth to answer.
"Your Grace—"
But Maester Keryn swept forward, bowing low, cutting him off before the first word had barely left his lips.
"Forgive me, Your Grace," Keryn interrupted, his voice laced with urgent concern. "But the Queen's labor is at a critical point — and dangerous missteps have already been made."
He straightened, lips pressed into a line of grave duty.
"This boy—this prince—has interfered recklessly. He has disordered the chamber, confused the midwives, tampered with our remedies, and usurped the proper healers appointed by the Citadel."
Aemon's fists curled at his sides.
"That's not true—" he began, trying to step forward, but Keryn was already riding over him.
"Not true?" Keryn's voice was thick with disdain as he sneered at the boy. "You are no maester. No sworn healer. You are just a child playing at war inside a battlefield you do not belong in."
He turned back to Aerys with a slow, performative bow of submission — though every word that followed dripped with superiority.
"Your Grace, the Citadel has served House Targaryen loyally for generations. We are trained in the healing arts by the greatest minds of Westeros. We are the shield between life and death. And yet here, tonight, your Queen's life is gambled upon the instincts of a boy — a boy who still smells of wet ink and sparring yards."
The words struck deep.
A murmur passed through the room. A few midwives dropped their gazes. Even Maester Symond's shoulders sagged with shame.
Seeing the momentum shift, Pycelle — ever eager to shield his own station — shuffled forward with a grave, bobbing nod.
"It is so, Your Grace," he intoned ponderously, thick with false regret. "Prince Aemon's heart may be brave… but bravery cannot replace knowledge earned through decades of study. We dare not risk her Grace's life further."
Rhaella stirred weakly in the bed, her hand tightening slightly around the empty air where Aemon had been.
Her lips moved — whispering his name — but the words were lost under Keryn's relentless momentum.
Keryn pressed forward, voice swelling with righteous indignation.
"We cannot entrust a Queen's survival — nor that of your child — to the reckless dreams of a boy. Let us, the sworn servants of the Citadel, do what we were born and bred to do."
He bowed low again, chest puffed out with pious humility.
"For the sake of the realm, Your Grace."
Aemon stepped forward, his voice quiet but cutting through the charged air with unexpected clarity.
"I didn't gamble her life," he said. "I walked into a room drowning in chaos; there was no order, no leadership. She was burning, Your Grace. Her temperature was rising toward birth fever. Her blood pressure was collapsing. Her heart was faltering."
He met Aerys's eyes — not as a subject, but as someone pleading for a reason.
"She was going into shock. No one saw it — but I did. And I stopped it."
A few of the midwives stiffened, guilt flickering in their eyes. One of them opened her mouth as if to speak — but faltered.
Aemon pressed on, hands clenched at his sides.
"You must believe me. I can help the Queen. I have helped her. She can survive this — so can the child — but not if you turn away now. Please."
His voice cracked slightly at the last word — not from fear, but from urgency.
And that was when Keryn laughed. He let out a short, sharp scoff, curled with disdain.
"Save her?" he echoed, turning again to the King as if Aemon had never spoken. "He speaks of fevers and pressures as though quoting lines from some badly copied scroll. Dosing her with peasant herbs, barking orders like a child playing soldier. It's a miracle he didn't poison her outright."
He shook his head solemnly, robes rustling.
"This is not medicine, Your Grace. This is dangerous mimicry."
Pycelle shuffled forward again, his face a mask of heavy concern — but his eyes calculating.
"Your Grace," he said gravely, "if you value the lives of your Queen and your unborn child — trust the Order. The boy's actions, however well-meant, are not born of knowledge. They are born of arrogance."
He clasped his hands and bowed slightly.
"The Grand Citadel remains your most loyal ally. And we are your only true hope now."
Keryn nodded stiffly, standing tall beside Pycelle like a pair of marble statues — ancient, immovable, unquestioned.
Aemon stood alone in the silence that followed, breathing hard. His fists were clenched, his jaw tight — but he said nothing more.
He couldn't.
Because at that moment, he knew.
The King would never choose him over the men the realm had told him were wise.
A beat of silence hung heavy — but just before Aerys spoke—
One of the midwives — a gaunt woman with grey-streaked hair — gathered a shred of courage and stepped forward, wringing her bloodstained hands.
"He… he did help, Your Grace," she whispered hoarsely. "When he came, the Queen's fever was breaking worse. We—we thought…"
Another midwife, younger, eyes wide with fear, nodded quickly.
"And the breathing… she's better now. Prince made it better…"
Even Maester Symond, pale and uncertain, opened his mouth — some torn apology or defense struggling to rise.
But before any of them could speak—
Keryn turned sharply, silencing them with a single scornful glare.
"Enough!" he snapped, voice cracking like a whip. "The Queen's life is not a matter of gossip and panic."
Maester Symond's mouth snapped shut, shame burning on his face.
The moment of hope — crushed like a flower under a boot.
Then Aerys's voice rang out, cold and regal, slicing the air like a drawn sword.
"Enough with the whispers."
His face was pale, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides — not just in fury, but fear.
Fear for his Queen and his child.
Fear of losing control.
He turned his burning gaze onto Aemon.
"You overstepped Aemon, and you forgot your station."
Aemon's breath caught. His hands, still faintly stained with Rhaella's blood, curled slightly at his sides.
"Your Grace, I only—" he began, trying one last time.
But Aerys cut him off with a sharper edge.
"Are you questioning your King's chosen healers?" he said, voice rising like a lash. "Are you questioning your King?"
The chamber went still.
Even the midwives dared not move.
Aemon stood frozen—caught between duty and helplessness, between the woman who needed him and the crown that commanded him.
Then, with painful slowness, he bowed his head heartbrokenly.
"No, Your Grace," he whispered.
A sound stirred from the bed.
Soft and weak. But unmistakable.
"…Aemon…"
Rhaella's voice.
Barely above a breath.
The Queen's fingers twitched toward him, searching for his hand.
Aemon's jaw clenched. His entire soul screamed to stay.
But he had no power here.
Aerys quickly moved to her side — awkward in his attempt to appear comforting, yet strangely theatrical. He brushed her damp brow as though touching a porcelain doll.
"Pycelle is here," he said stiffly. "The finest of healers, my love. You have nothing to fear."
Behind him, Pycelle bowed and stepped forward, already preparing a draught.
"Milk of the poppy," he said gravely, "to ease her grace's pain."
Aemon's heart sank. If given too much, it could slow her labor, making it worse, but he is no longer allowed to speak.
Keryn followed without pause, producing a small vial from within his robes.
"I have brewed a soothing tonic," he said smoothly. "It will help stabilize her grace's contraction."
Together, they moved in — pushing Aemon's presence to the edges of the room like a smudge to be wiped away.
Aerys turned, not looking at Aemon this time, and flicked his hand in a lazy wave.
"Ser Gerold. Escort Prince Aemon out."
Ser Gerold Hightower, ever the dutiful shadow, stepped forward — his touch light but unyielding on Aemon's shoulder.
"Come," he said softly.
Aemon didn't resist.
He stepped back slowly, head bowed, heart thundering in silence.
But as he neared the door, Maester Keryn couldn't resist the final word.
"Back to your practice yard, boy," he sneered. "Swinging wooden swords is safer than playing maester with a queen's life."
Aemon stopped.
He turned, looking straight at Keryn.
The cold in his eyes shut Keryn his mid-smirk.
"If anything happens to her or the child," Aemon said quietly, voice like a drawn blade, "I'll cut out your tongue first."
He stepped closer, the heat of his words searing.
"Then your hands."
Keryn's throat bobbed in a dry swallow. He said nothing more.
Ser Gerold gently resumed his escort, leading Aemon away from the chamber.
His boots felt too heavy. Every step away from Rhealla was a betrayal he could not undo.
Behind them, the door groaned open.
Just as he crossed the threshold, he heard it again.
"…Aemon…"
Fainter this time.
He looked back.
Rhaella's eyes met his — wide and shimmering with desperation.
"Forgive me," he thought. But there was nothing he could do.
The doors shut between them with a hollow finality.
And Aemon was gone — but the sound of her broken whisper clung to him like a scar.
.
.
.
Thanks for reading..!!
Advanced 10 Chapters are available on my Patreon!!
patreon.com/Horcruz