Aemon Targaryen (103 A.C., Fourth Moon)
Seadragon Holt, the Valyrian Forge (103 A.C., Fourth Moon)
The forge sang a song of fire and steel.
The blade was nearly complete, its smoky grey surface rippling with the telltale pattern of folded Valyrian steel—layer upon layer, forged and reforged under dragonflame and hammer. Aemon had shaped the final length into a wide-bladed, double-edged sword.
All that remained was the sharpening.
With common steel, one would temper the blade and then grind the edge to razor sharpness. But this was Valyrian steel—its nature anything but common. Tempering changed it. Only the Qohorik smiths—and perhaps a few others—had ever known how to reforge Valyrian steel. Aemon wondered how they had sharpened it, and whether they used the same spells he now did. More likely, they had relied on blood sacrifices to temper the metal.
With his own blood and Balerion's, Aemon had discovered it was possible to temper the steel without taking a life. Still, he wouldn't be surprised if the Qohorik had used blood.
Yet he couldn't help but wonder: was reforged Valyrian steel truly the same as newly forged? Was the tempering process identical? Were the swords reforged from Ice, Widow's Wail, and Oathkeeper truly Valyrian steel? Were they equal in strength to blades forged whole from the start?
He would never know. Those swords had fought the dead. Still, he remembered the destructive properties of Longclaw, against both the dead and the White Walkers. Brienne had slain a White Walker with one of those blades during the battle—its edge cut through the dead like butter.
Aemon wiped the sweat from his brow—not from the heat, for fire did not harm him, not even in the inferno of the Valyrian Forge—but from the strain of the work. The glyph seared upon his chest pulsed every time he spoke the words, like it drew upon his will, the inner fire that had kept Balerion alive.
He steadied his grip, holding the seax-blade with tongs of blackened dragonglass, and fed it back into the funnel of the forge.
"Balerion," he said through the bond.
He felt the great dragon stir on the terrace outside the forge. A deep breath, then Balerion exhaled through the sculpted funnel. Black flame roared in, a tempest of heat that wrapped around the blade like a lover's embrace.
The steel glowed orange-red, then white-hot.
Now.
Aemon went to the grinding stone, made of blackstone. It sharpened weapons better than normal stone, requiring fewer reheats—saving time, and time was something he never had enough of.
He pressed the glowing steel to the stone. The forge filled with hissing and screeching as the edge took form. Sparks flew, bouncing off the leather band around his head. He might be immune to burning, but his hair was not. His smithing days in Winterfell had taught him that.
Aemon worked in silence, sweat soaking his clothes. Inch by inch, the edge came alive—sharper, keener—and he found himself drawn to the rippling patterns in the steel.
After two hours of reheating and sharpening, the blade was done.
He gave the command once more to heat the sword. Speaking the words now was like reciting memory. When it glowed again, he went to the quenching cast.
The blood hissed as the steel entered, steam rising with a coppery smell. Flames licked the surface, and after a moment, he pulled the blade free.
The steel darkened as it cooled, the ripples now more pronounced—like frozen waves of smoke and shadow.
It was time to complete the sword.
The guard was already crafted—a crosspiece of ivory, painted yellow.
Next came the grip: a leather wrap, dyed the color of sun-yellow. He bound it tightly.
Last came the pommel, a silver seashell. He hammered it into place, then smiled.
Finished.
I hope Harrold will like it, Aemon thought with a grin.
He tested it in his hand.
It was light—perhaps lighter than Longclaw, which was a bastard sword. This was a longsword.
Aemon gave it a few cuts through the air. The blade sang, true and clean.
"My first true sword of Valyria," he murmured, catching his soot-covered reflection in the blade—grey eyes like the steel. Same shape as before, but a different color, he thought.
"It will not be the last thing you make," Balerion said through the bond.
"I hope not. It's truly wonderful. Hard work, but it gives me peace of mind."
He cleaned the forge once more, the blood left to boil softly under the fire. It had been a hassle at first to keep the flame lit alone. At first, Jeffery, Harrold, and Vaegon had kept it fed. He didn't mind—he had other powder he hadn't found a use for yet. A project for the future.
He had no doubt dried dragonblood would be useful. Even Balerion's shit—with its sulfuric properties—was good for the soil. Apparently part of a dragon's diet. Balerion had told him so.
While digging and finding the stonecoal, Balerion had especially smelled the sulfur in it. On Dragonstone, dragons ate parts of volcanic rock rich in sulfur. Aemon wondered whether the dragons' decline in the pit had to do with sulfur deprivation.
Even the wild dragons of Dragonstone had stayed healthy—if scrawny—compared to those kept in the pit. He had considered sending word to King's Landing, but Otto Hightower ruled, and he doubted the man would listen to a letter from an eleven-year-old boy.
After cleaning, Aemon wrapped the sword and picked up his smithing book. He stepped outside and locked the door.
Waiting there were Ser Jeffery and Harrold.
"My prince, I see you're done for the day," Harrold said.
"Indeed, sers." Aemon smiled, showing them the cloth-wrapped piece.
He glanced toward the castle smithy, where his forge-master worked on armor for the first of his Oathguard. Nearby, Martin and Tom—his fellow apprentices from Winterfell—hammered away. They had come south at his invitation. After swearing their oaths, they now served as his assistants.
Mostly still learning, but at times they helped with folding steel and other tasks. They had their own quarters near the smithy and were tasked with keeping the forge fires alive.
"Tom, Martin, come here," Aemon called.
The two set down their tools and approached, wiping their hands on aprons.
"My prince?" they said in unison.
"Make sure the fire is fed."
They nodded immediately. Though both were five years older than Aemon, they followed his orders without question.
"Tomorrow, you'll be working with me," he added. "We'll craft some smaller pieces. I've steel left."
"We will not fail you, my prince," they answered with identical grins.
Aemon returned the smile, then turned to Harrold and Jeffery.
"Come. We need to speak in private."
They followed him up to the top floor of the Dragon Drum, where his chambers were—one for Laena as well—and a central hall meant as a communal space for their future family.
Inside, Aemon gestured for them to sit. He poured wine—his own diluted with water—and once they had drunk, he spoke.
"You've both served me loyally. Harrold, even longer. To honor that, I have something for you."
He unwrapped the sword. The Valyrian steel shimmered faintly in the dim light.
"My first Valyrian steel sword," Aemon said, presenting it to Ser Harrold, who accepted it with reverence.
"My prince… this is wondrous," Harrold said, voice thick with emotion. "Like the seax you made—but this… I'm honored."
Aemon nodded, then turned to Jeffery.
"And I have something for you as well. It's not Valyrian steel, but I know your preference lies with axes."
From a nearby closet filled with pieces from his apprentice days, Aemon pulled a steel axe. The head was engraved with dragons, the pommel carved from ironwood in the shape of a leaf. The handle, too, was steel—one of only two he had made. The other had gone to his uncle.
"I hope this serves you well, Ser Trueleaf," Aemon said. "Perhaps one day, you'll wield a Valyrian steel axe too."
"There's no need," Jeffery replied, turning the weapon in his hands. "Serving you is enough. This… I'll treasure."
"I hope so."
After a few test swings, Aemon had them sit again.
"As you know," he began, "I've commissioned armor for my household guards."
They nodded. When he'd arrived, his men-at-arms wore mismatched armor—some from the South, some from the North, some still in Targaryen livery. He wanted uniformity, though he'd still allow them to display their house sigils.
"Well," Aemon continued, "if war breaks out, lords summon vassals, and smallfolk are levied. They're given a few weeks' training—then sent to die. The survivors are often undisciplined. Even knights can be reckless, chasing glory."
Jeffery nodded. Harrold grunted.
"I want to change that," Aemon said, voice firm. "Throughout my family's history, we've had few men-at-arms. Dragons are powerful—but it's men who hold castles and guard roads."
"So I'll build a standing army. In peace, they'll train, learn formations, and do maintenance work. They'll be paid. When too old to fight, they'll train the next generation—or retire with honor."
"I haven't worked out all the details—but that's the vision."
They were intrigued.
"And who will train them?" Jeffery asked. "Organize them?"
Aemon smiled. "That's where you come in. If you're interested."
"Me?" Jeffery blinked.
"I trust you. You were born a commoner—King's Landing smallfolk—but you earned your place. The men will relate to you. You'll inspire them. That's what this system is about—those who prove themselves can rise."
"Rise through the ranks?" Harrold asked.
"Yes," Aemon nodded. "Like squires becoming knights—but structured. Tiers, roles, units. Organized."
He walked to his desk, opened a leather-bound book.
"Here—it's what I've worked out."
He showed them diagrams, training regimens, and proposed ranks. They stayed late, even sharing their evening meal there, speaking of what might come.
Alicent Hightower (103 A.C., fifth moon)
Kingslanding
Alicent's footsteps echoed softly as she ascended the winding stairs of the royal tower in Maegor's Holdfast. The climb was steep, and by the time she reached the upper level, her breathing had grown shallow. This was where the King's and Queen's private chambers were located. Two Kingsguard stood posted outside the king's door.
"I'm expected, Sers," she said softly.
The knights nodded and stepped aside, opening the door for her.
"Your Grace, I'm here," she called gently as she stepped into the room. "We were supposed to continue reading about the First Dornish War. Is that still a good idea, or would you prefer I read something else?"
There was no reply.
Frowning, Alicent walked quietly toward the royal bed. At first, she thought he might be sleeping, but something felt off. His eyes were open, but glassy, unfocused.
"Your Grace?" she said again, leaning in close.
She bent to check for breath. There was none. No sound, no warmth in the air. No rise or fall of his chest.
She gasped as the revelation came to her. King Jaehaerys, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, was gone.
Her voice trembled as she turned toward the door. "Sers, please, come in. It is urgent."
Ser Raym Redwyne was the first to respond. "My lady, is everything all right?"
"No," she whispered. "I believe the King has gone to the Father."
Raym rushed forward, kneeling beside the bed. He gently shook the king's shoulder, but there was no response. Just stillness.
"It's true, then," Raym murmured. "The King is dead. Long live King Viserys."
He stood, his face pale with grief. "Summon the Small Council. Inform the Hand. The Prince of Dragonstone must be told."
Then, to Alicent, he said gently, "My lady, it's best you come as well. You can speak to your father directly."
A tight knot formed in her throat. She nodded and followed Ser Raym down the corridor and into the stairwell, heart pounding with the weight of what had just occurred. The king was dead. The king, who had been kind, gentle, if occasionally confused, was gone. Sometimes he had mistaken her for his daughter Saera, but even in those moments, there had been warmth in his eyes. And now that warmth had vanished forever.
They crossed the courtyard, heading toward the Tower of the Hand. Her family's house guards stood watch outside, greeting them with solemn bows. She barely registered it.
At her father's chambers, Ser Humfrey and Ser Dalmun stood in their usual places.
"Sers," she said, her voice fragile. "We must speak to the Hand. There is urgent news."
The guards exchanged glances, their expressions shifting at the sound of her voice. It must have been written on her face.
"As you say, my lady," Ser Humfrey said as he opened the door. "Lord Hand, your daughter and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard are here to see you."
Inside, Lord Otto Hightower sat behind his desk, surrounded by letters, scrolls, and open tomes, as always. He rose at once when he saw them enter. "Daughter. Ser Redwyne."
Ser Raym's voice was low and grim. "Grave news, Lord Hand. The king has passed."
Otto inhaled slowly, deeply. Then he nodded. "This is most sorrowful news. King Jaerhaerys will be missed, but his legacy will endure. Long live King Viserys."
Viserys Targaryen (103 A.C. Fifth moon)
Drum Tower – Viserys's chambers
Viserys was carefully scraping at one of his carved dragon figures—part of the model city of Valyria he had begun building not long after his arrival. The project had become a quiet source of comfort for him. Between scrolls, ancient texts, and tomes on Valyrian history, he sometimes found the time to work on the miniature structures himself. It was one of the few things that allowed him to forget the burdens of court and lose himself in something peaceful.
A knock sounded on the chamber door.
"My prince," came Ser Rickard's voice through the wood, "Maester Jordis is here to see you."
Viserys sighed and set the figure aside. Rising from his workbench, he crossed the room and opened the door.
Maester Jordis bowed his head lightly and began speaking at once. "My apologies, my Prince. Normally, I would wait until morning before disturbing you, but—this could not wait. I received a raven from the Lord Hand."
He held out a sealed letter, its golden wax marked with the sigil of the Hand of the King.
"Indeed... a letter from the Hand," Viserys murmured, accepting the parchment. He broke the seal without hesitation, eyes narrowing slightly as he began to read.
To His Highness, Prince Viserys Targaryen,
Prince of Dragonstone
My Prince,
It is with great sorrow that I write to you, though write I must.
His Grace, King Jaehaerys, your illustrious grandfather, has passed from this world. He died peacefully in his sleep.
I pen this letter scarcely an hour after his passing was confirmed by Grand Maester Ruciter. Preparations for a grand funeral for His Grace have already begun. The goal is to have everything prepared within a week. His Grace deserves no less.
It is now time, my Prince, for you to come to Kingslanding and take up the mantle that awaits you, King of the Seven Kingdoms.
May the Seven guide your every step as you walk this path.
Long live King Viserys, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.
With deepest respect,
Your faithful servant, Otto High Tower Hand of the King.
Time seemed to stop for a moment as Viserys read the letter.
He was King. His grandfather was gone. King Jaehaerys had passed. Now the realm would look to him for guidance, for strength, for the protection of Aegon's Dream and the peace of the realm. He thought, still dazed.
He took a slow, steady breath and looked up at Ser Rickard and Maester Jordis.
"The King is dead," he said softly. "He passed in his sleep, earlier today, by all accounts. I am summoned to the capital, to attend the funeral and to take up the mantle of king."
"I'm sorry, Your Grace," Ser Rickard said, his voice quiet with sympathy. "King Jaehaerys was a good man. But I believe you will rule well." He gave a small, comforting smile.
"Indeed," Jordis added in his gentle, grandfatherly voice. "King Jaehaerys is gone, but his family remains. As does his heir. May you reign well, King Viserys, First of His Name."
Jordis hesitated for a moment, then asked, "Shall I inform the castle, Your Grace?"
"Yes," Viserys said, nodding. "But let my daughter sleep. My wife and I will tell her in the morning."
He paused briefly, collecting his thoughts.
"Wake my steward and have him begin preparations for our departure. I want to leave in two days' time."
He turned back toward the room, then paused again. "Also, summon my wife to my chambers."
As the door closed behind him, Viserys walked to the nearest chair and let himself sink into it, shoulders heavy with the weight of a crown he had not yet worn.
The fire crackled low in the hearth, throwing faint orange light across the stone floor. Viserys sat in silence, elbows on his knees, the letter from the Hand lying beside him, already reread too many times. He had not changed clothes, nor moved much since Maester Jordis and Ser Rickard left. The words still rang in his head. The king is dead, and he was king.
The knock at the door was soft. He lifted his head as it creaked open.
Aemma stood there, robe drawn close, her expression tired but worried. "You sent for me?" she asked gently.
He stood slowly. The motion felt heavy.
"Aemma," he began, voice low and rougher than he intended. "Our grandfather… he's gone. Jaehaerys passed in his sleep."
He saw the shift in her eyes, the shock, and then the sadness that followed. She didn't ask questions. She simply stepped forward and pulled him into her arms.
Viserys let her hold him. He didn't care how tightly. He needed to feel something solid, warm, living, because everything else felt like it had turned to dust. Her scent, lavender and the faint trace of ink, was familiar. Steadying.
"They want me in King's Landing," he said quietly against her shoulder. "The funeral… the crown. It's happening in a week."
"You'll be a good king," she whispered.
"I don't feel like a king," he muttered. "Not yet."
He pulled back slightly to look at her, and she saw the sadness too. Aemma didn't know Jaehaerys well, as she spent most of her youth in the Eyrie. After that, she was busy being a mother to Rhaenyra. Yet he was her grandfather all the same. "How do you feel?" He asked.
"Sadden, for you, for our family. Yet together we will get through it." She replied, giving a sad smile.
Smut
"Stay with me tonight," he said, kissing her with hunger, tasting the sweetness of her lips as his hands found her hips.
"I wasn't planning to leave," Aemma replied, kissing him back. Her hand slid beneath his clothes, fingers wrapping around his already hard cock. He swallowed, breath catching, as his own hands rose to cup her breasts, full and warm beneath his touch.
"Aemma," he murmured, voice low and aching, and she moaned in return. Together, they moved to the bed.
Soon, their clothes were gone, strewn carelessly across the floor. He looked into her eyes, those striking blue eyes flecked with purple, and felt a pang of guilt. It had been far too long. He hadn't touched her like this in over half a year. At Aemon's urging, apparently, Maester Vaegon and another maester at Seadragon Point had advised against it.
He groaned as he felt her hand close around his cock again, slow and certain.
"Take me, husband," she whispered, guiding him between her thighs, pressing the head of his cock to the wet, welcoming lips of her cunt.
He groaned again, pushing into her with a shudder. "Oh, Aemma…" Gods, he had missed this, the heat, the wetness, the way her body yielded to his. She was soft and warm beneath him, her arms wrapping around his back, pulling him closer.
He began to move, finding a rhythm quickly. Her cunt gripped him tight, almost too sweet to bear. Aemma moaned beneath him, arching her back as he cupped her breasts, squeezing them, kissing them. Gods, he loved the feel of, and the weight of them in his hands, the way her nipples hardened beneath his tongue.
Soon, far too soon, he felt his pleasure build. And with a final thrust, he spilled inside her, groaning her name. "Aemma,"
He collapsed on top of her, panting. Her hands stroked his back gently, her lips brushing his cheek.
"Vis," she whispered, kissing him again.
After a few moments, he felt himself soften and rolled off her. "Oh, my wonderful, dear wife." He mumbled as he kissed her again and pulled her into an embrace. He knew then that this wouldn't be the only time he would bed her tonight. "I love you," He murmured, closing his eyes.
Later that night
Viserys stood in the Red Keep, but it was not as he remembered it. The hall had changed, but its decorations were similar; the torches burned with pale blue flame. The shadows shifted with purpose, dancing like spirits. It was a dream, he knew it, but it felt real, more real than any dream before.
He walked barefoot through the hall, following a distant sound. Laughter, the soft gurgle of a babe.
He turned the corner and entered the throne room.
The Iron Throne stood before him, taller and sharper than it had ever been in waking life. Its blades twisted high toward the heavens, as if yearning to pierce the clouds. Sunlight streamed down through the great windows, and on the top of the throne sat a babe.
A babe, swaddled in black and red, cradled in arms he could not see. The child turned his head toward Viserys, and his eyes, eyes he knew similar to his.
Viserys moved forward. "My son…" he exclaimed in joy as he fell to his knees.
The child reached out to him, tiny fingers curled into a fist. A wind picked up, soft at first, then rising into a storm. The torches flickered. The blades of the throne sang.
The babe was no longer there; instead, a man was seated on the Iron Throne.
He had grown to be a man in his thirties, or possibly in his forties, and on his head was the crown of valyrian steel with big red rubies, the crown of Aegon the Conqueror. A sword at his side. The Red Keep shook with the chants of the realm: "The king! The king! The king!"
Around him, he heard the sounds of thundering hooves, splintering shields, and ringing swords. Then he heard roars and felt like all the dragons roared as one.
He saw lords bend the knee. Stark, Baratheon, Arryn, Tyrell, and to his surprise, even the proud Martells of Dorne. All sworn to his boy.
His son.The heir who would unite the realm. Viserys thought.
Then came a cold wind, freezing, endless. The light dimmed. And behind the boy, in the distance, a great shadow rose, swallowing the walls of the hall. Then a figure walked into the hall, its body blue, and eyes like blue stars, a crown of ice upon its brow.
But the boy did not flinch. He stood tall, his blade alight with fire. And Viserys heard the words once more, whispered in the wind, "He is Aegon's song,"
Viserys jolted awake with a gasp, his body trembling. Aemma lay beside him, her breathing slow, steady in sleep. Moonlight washed over her bare shoulder.
He turned toward her, tears in his eyes. His hand moved to her belly, resting there.
"I will have a boy," he whispered. "Our son… the dream was clear." Then kissed her cheek.
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