The heavy doors groaned shut behind him.
Aemon stood frozen in the corridor, his breath catching in his throat as the sound of Queen Rhaella's strained cries was swallowed by thick stone and silence. Sweat still clung to his brow. The heat of the birthing chamber clung to his skin like a fever.
Ser Gerold Hightower paused after sealing the doors, turning his face to the others. His voice was low, but the steel in it left no room for argument.
"No one lets him back in," he ordered grimly. "The King's command."
Then his eyes flicked to Aemon — unreadable. Regret, perhaps. Or warning. His gauntleted hand landed briefly on Aemon's shoulder and gave him a firm nod.
Then, without a glance, the Lord Commander turned and re-entered the Queen's chambers, vanishing behind the thick door.
The iron latch fell into place with a dull clank.
Leaving Aemon outside alone.
Except he wasn't.
Across the hall stood Rhaegar, his silver hair damp with sweat, eyes wide and uncertain. Behind him, the full strength of the Kingsguard had assembled like statues carved from marble and steel — Ser Oswell Whent, Ser Jonothor Darry, Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Harlan Grandison, Gwayne Gaunt, and even Ser Renly of Fair Isle.
All of them watched him.
But none stepped forward.
None spoke.
Not even Rhaegar.
Aemon didn't meet their eyes. He stood there stiffly, jaw clenched, breathing through his nose. His fists were still curled at his sides, nails biting into raw skin. He didn't know if Rhaella would live. He didn't know if the child would survive. And worst of all —
He wasn't inside anymore. He couldn't protect them.
He had been dismissed. Muzzled by a King's word.
And yet, despite the thunder building in his blood, Aemon held still. Because somewhere deep down, he still hoped.
That, what he did—the herbs, the quick remedy— had helped.
But the screams on the other side of the door said otherwise.
And as the first low rumble of thunder rolled outside the Red Keep's towers, Aemon closed his eyes.
The storm was coming.
Inside and out.
Suddenly, S.E.R.A.'s voice flickered softly in his mind, calm and clinical against the pressure mounting in his chest.
[Survival probabilities updated. An estimated 63% increase in maternal outcome success following your intervention.]
Aemon's jaw twitched.
"Shut up."
The words were muttered beneath his breath, sharp and ragged. He didn't want numbers or any calculations. He wanted to be in that room.
And now he couldn't even hear her voice without flinching.
He turned away from the sealed doors, pacing three slow steps down the hall — then stopped, turned, pacing back and forth. His boots thudded against stone, but he barely heard them over the muffled and distinct echo of screams.
Rhaella.
Still fighting and suffering.
Another minute passed. Time went slowly, and every second felt like a needle driven under the skin.
And then —
Thunder cracked—a jagged explosion that rattled the high windows above the hallway. The torches along the walls flickered violently, and outside skies broke open.
Rain lashed the arched windows in relentless sheets, striking with a fury that echoed through stone and glass. The wind howled through the narrow slits of stone like the wail of ghosts.
Aemon stood firm like the storm hadn't touched him at all.
He walked towards the window at the corridor's end—the one overlooking Blackwater Bay—and gazed out into the storm's fury.
Lightning forked across the sky, illuminating the waves below in stark white flashes. The sea churned like a beast in agony, crashing against the rocks far below the Red Keep. Rain blurred the world to grey and silver, painting the towers and rooftops in silver streaks of sorrow.
Aemon just stood there, soaked in sweat, the ghost of heat still clinging to his skin from the birthing chamber — now replaced by the icy bite of dread.
Behind him, the Kingsguard remained where they were, unmoving. But their eyes followed him.
They knew the look in his eyes. Some had worn it themselves, after battles lost or after comrades bled out in their arms.
Ser Barristan shifted slightly but said nothing. Ser Jonothor looked down at his hands.
None approached.
None dared.
Gerold's command was law.
Aemon's breath fogged the glass like smoke from a dying fire.
Another scream tore through the storm — muffled behind thick stone and rain but still audible to him.
His head twitched at the sound. His senses — sharpened now— caught it through the torrent.
He didn't turn back to the door.
He just stared at the sky.
His reflection shimmered faintly in the window — hollow-eyed, pale, shadowed by something he couldn't name.
.
.
.
.
Hours passed.
Or at least, it felt like hours.
No one spoke. Neither Rhaegar nor the Kingsguard.
They stood like a solid steel wall, silent and unmoving in the corridor, waiting for news that refused to come. The torches guttered in the damp air, and the wind shrieked through narrow gaps in the stone, dragging the rain sideways against the glass.
Aemon paced slowly, again and again, across the same ten paces of stone — his boots damp from the floor. He could hear it all, more transparent than he should've through layers of wall and weather.
Rhaella's screams.
Midwives begging: "Push, Your Grace — please, once more!"
A bowl, falling. Metal chains, clanging.
Keryn barked, "Clean the blood! Keep pressure here!"
Aemon froze when he heard one of the midwives cry out:
"We see the head, Your Grace! Push again—!"
Aemon turned to face the window, but didn't see the storm anymore.
He just listened.
Rhaella's scream tore through the stones.
Then silence.
Then, Pycelle's voice: "It's out — the child is out…"
Aemon stood as if rooted, lost in a silence too deep to name.
A beat passed.
Then another.
No cry.
Just stillness.
Only Pycelle's voice again, quieter this time, too soft for the others to hear — but not Aemon.
"No heartbeat… the boy is… he's gone."
Another pause.
"The Queen is alive… weak, but stable…"
Aemon stepped closer to the window. Rain streamed down the glass. Lightning flickered again.
Nothing reached him—neither the rain, noise, nor the pain.
He just stood there, still.
And in that stillness — something broke inside him.
A long moment passed.
Then, behind him, the door to the Queen's chamber creaked open.
A gust of warm air spilled into the hallway — thick with the coppery tang of blood and the cloying scent of crushed herbs. It carried the lingering heat of the birthing chamber, damp and heavy, brushing against the cooler corridor air like a ghost refusing to leave.
Maester Symond stepped out, wiping his shaking hands on a cloth soaked through with blood. His face was pale, his eyes wide with something between sorrow and failure. The maester's chain around his neck clinked faintly as he moved — the links of silver, tin, and lead catching the torchlight as though weighing down his very breath.
Symond looked up—first at Rhaegar, then at the gathered Kingsguard.
He didn't speak right away.
He swallowed once. Then again.
"I… I bring news," Maester Symond said, voice barely above a whisper. "The… the Queen… she…"
He faltered. His gaze dropped to the floor, unable to meet Rhaegar's eyes.
"The Queen lives," he forced out after a pause, his voice tight with strain. "She lost… a great deal of blood, but… but she's stable now."
Another pause.
His grip on the bloodied cloth tightened. The fabric trembled.
"But the… the babe…" A breath caught in his throat like it refused to pass. "…there was no breath. No heartbeat. The boy is… gone."
The words hit like a stone dropped in a silent pond.
And in that instant —
Lightning cracked.
A white-hot flash lit the corridor through the window—stark and sudden.
In that brief moment, every face was etched in silver — the wide eyes, the clenched jaws, the shock-frozen mid-breath. Then darkness again, save for the flickering torchlight and the pounding of the rain.
Rhaegar clenched his fists.
The Kingsguard shifted, some lowering their heads. Even Oswell's mouth tightened.
Barristan turned slightly, instinct pulling his eyes toward the window.
Toward Aemon.
But the space in front of the glass was empty.
The boy was gone.
No one had seen him leave.
But somehow, he knew exactly where he was going.
Outside, rain struck the Red Keep like war drums.
.
.
.
Aemon walked quickly.
His boots struck the stone with deliberate force, each step reverberating through the hollow corridor. The torchlight flickered against the damp walls, casting shadows that clung to the folds of his rain-soaked tunic. He drew in sharp, measured breaths, his face carved in stillness — jaw clenched, eyes unblinking, unreadable.
The servants he passed pressed themselves against the walls without a word. A few guards glanced up from their posts, but none dared to speak. Something in his eyes told them not to.
By the time he reached the outer gates of the Keep, rain slapped across his face in sheets. His silver hair clung to his forehead, drenched in seconds. His clothes soaked through, the cold biting into his skin, still warm from the fire of the birthing room.
He walked past the stables. Past the barracks. Past a stablehand who paused mid-step, mouth open, but said nothing as the boy passed.
The guards stationed at the western archway straightened when they saw him approaching. One of them opened his mouth to speak—perhaps to ask if he was lost or to offer assistance—but Aemon didn't acknowledge them. They stepped aside.
The wind picked up as he crossed the open courtyard, blowing the rain sideways in relentless waves. The sky lit up again—another crack of lightning, brief and sharp—followed almost instantly by the rumble of thunder overhead.
He passed beneath the stone arch that led to the White Sword Tower.
And turned toward the yard.
The yard was empty.
Rain hammered the stone like it wanted in.
Aemon didn't slow. He walked straight to the weapons rack, grabbed the first blunt wooden training sword his hand landed on, and turned without hesitation.
The grip was slick.
His hands were already raw.
He stepped forward and swung.
Crack.
The first dummy rocked. The second strike split its chest wide. Straw spilled out like guts.
Slash.
Straw flew. Wood cracked. His arms burned — but he didn't stop.
The rain blurred everything, but he didn't blink.
He hacked until nothing was left.
Another blow. The dummy's head flew off.
He turned to the next.
He roared and smashed the blade down. Wood cracked. Straw burst into the rain-soaked mud.
What the fuck was it for?
He had the system. The knowledge. All of it.
And still — the baby died.
Another blow — too wide.
He hit the next dummy so hard the blade bent.
He caught his breath. Swung again.
The sword slammed sideways, knocking the dummy over.
His fingers were slipping. Every grip felt like glass.
SERA tried to warn me. I didn't listen. And now—
He raised the sword again. His arms were burning now. Blisters, ripping open on his palms.
Shoulders screaming.
He struck the post behind the dummy.
Wood shrieked against each other.
The sword almost slipped from his hands.
He struck and struck, and still, it wasn't enough.
The last dummy stood.
Aemon paused — breath ragged. Arms dead.
Then, he turned to the final target.
He drove the blade into its chest with a two-handed swing.
The pole snapped at the base.
Thump.
The dummy collapsed.
The sword cracked. A clean fracture split through the blunt sword—then it snapped, the top half falling into the dirt beside the ruin.
He stood over it. Chest heaving. Fingers trembling.
His shirt was soaked through.
The sword hilt dropped from his grip.
Thud.
Then, with the same numb focus, he turned.
A wooden block stood a few yards away — thick, solid, gouged from years of drills.
He walked up to it.
Raised his fists.
And hit it.
Once.
Twice.
The third time, his knuckles split open.
No sound escaped him.
The impact echoed dull and wet under the storm — flesh on soaked wood, blood on rain-slick grain.
Blackwater Bay churned behind the Keep. Waves slammed into the cliffs with steady violence, a rhythm that matched the strikes.
Rain poured down his face. Mixed with sweat.
He hit it again.
And again.
The skin on his right hand peeled. His left wrist jolted wrong. Didn't matter.
The world passed by, and he didn't follow.
The rain swallowed the sound of approaching boots, but Aemon didn't hear them.
Two white-cloaked figures came into view at the far edge of the yard.
Ser Barristan and Ser Jonothor.
They stopped under the archway for half a second, just enough to see what lay ahead.
Twenty shattered dummies.
Straw was scattered across the yard like battlefield debris. A broken practice sword, its hilt lying in the mud. And Aemon — soaked, silent, fists hammering a wooden post like it had killed someone.
They remained still.
Silent.
Ser Barristan and Ser Jonothor stepped through the rain and stopped a short distance behind him — close enough to see everything, far enough to leave him space.
Rain streaked down their cloaks. It clung to the white like blood never would.
Another punch. Aemon's hand left a red smear on the post. He didn't react.
Jonothor shifted. Took a half step forward, unsettled.
"Ser—" he began, his voice low.
Barristan raised a hand. Just a shake of the head.
Let him finish.
Sometimes, a man doesn't need comfort; he just needs to vent his emotions..
And so they stood there, letting the storm hit them.
Aemon's arms were shaking now.
Every hit felt like slamming bone into fire.
The sound was sick now — more flesh than wood.
He is just a boy. Gods help him. Jonothor thought.
The Kingsguard stood there in the downpour, silent witnesses.
Jonothor glanced down at the broken sword on the ground.
Straw everywhere. The post was stained red.
He exhaled low. "What the hell happened in there?"
Barristan didn't answer.
Truthfully, he had no idea. They did not understand what had happened in that birthing room.
They watched as old knights watched wildfire burn — knowing it cannot be smothered by force.
Only waited out.
Let the fury burn itself cold.
Each hit landed slower, harder — but Aemon refused to stop.
Didn't even notice them there.
He hit the post like time might rewind if he struck hard enough.
Another punch.
And I still couldn't stop it.
Not with all the power in the world.
Blood spattered. The wood split at the edge.
Each punch sent sparks through his wrist.
His body was breaking faster than his anger. Then—
[S.E.R.A. online. Critical override engaged.]
[Warning: Severe trauma. Blood loss exceeding 38%. Right radius: hairline fracture. Multiple fractures are detected. Ligament strain. Immediate medical intervention required.]
"Shut the fuck up!" Aemon roared, voice hoarse and cracking.
He screamed and slammed his fist forward — one final, brutal strike with all his might.
The block gave with a deep, splintering crack. A thick chunk tore free and thudded into the mud.
Aemon staggered.
His shoulders drooped. His chest hitched.
But he wasn't done. His arms lifted again. Half a breath, half a thought—
Then, his body gave out before his rage did.
The punch never landed.
His knees buckled, legs giving way under him like soaked straw.
He dropped.
Just breathe. Shallow and ragged.
He sat there, slumped in the mud, blood streaming from both hands, soaking into the rain-slick earth. The training post stood jagged and broken beside him.
Jonothor twitched — half a step forward on reflex.
Barristan didn't move. Just watched him, his jaw tight.
Aemon tilted his face upward. Eyes wide. Letting the rain hit him like the world was grieving.
Yet not a single tear had fallen.
His silence was not peace. It was the only thing left standing.
The rain hit him like knives — but he felt none of them.
Somewhere beyond the yard, hooves thundered.
Fast. Uneven. Wild.
The sound cut through the rain as Barristan's brow twitched. Jonothor turned slightly toward the noise, instinctive hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
Then, from the shadow of the stables, a dark blur emerged.
Balerion.
The young stallion didn't wait for gates or bridles. The stable door had splintered open behind him, kicked loose by instinct and panic. Steam poured off his wet flanks. Mud clung to his hooves.
He didn't pause. Didn't need direction.
He just ran straight toward the yard. Toward Aemon.
Barristan didn't step in. Jonothor didn't call out. They understood enough to know this wasn't something to interrupt.
The great black horse skidded to a halt a few feet from the broken boy in the mud.
For a second, Balerion was wild — snorting, ears twitching, pacing in the rain, nostrils flaring as if trying to make sense of it all. As if the storm had gotten into him.
Then he saw Aemon.
And stopped moving.
There was no sound but the rain.
Balerion stepped forward.
He dipped his head slowly, brushing Aemon's shoulder with a gentle nudge, firm enough to anchor him.
Just enough to say: I'm here.
Aemon didn't speak.
But his hand moved.
Shaky fingers reached up and touched the stallion's soaked neck. Then gripped — tighter than intended, afraid to let go.
Balerion stood still.
He didn't flinch at the blood. Didn't shy away from the shaking hands.
Then, with a low breath, the black stallion eased down — folding his legs and settling in the mud beside him. Not minding the cold or the rain.
He leaned gently against Aemon's side, giving him comfort and warmth.
And finally, Aemon leaned back.
Arms wrapped around the beast's thick neck. Forehead resting against soaked black fur.
"Good boy," Aemon whispered, voice cracked and raw.
And for a moment, with his forehead pressed to Balerion's neck, he finally breathed.
Two Kingsguards stood a short distance away, silent as stone.
One broken boy.
One loyal beast.
Two watchers in the rain.
And above them — the storm wept on.
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[Advanced chapter available on my Patreon.
@patreon.com/Horcruz]