Chapter 127: A Song of Ice and Fire
Aemon didn't realize he had unknowingly won the favor of someone of the same sex.
He held two delicate hands, his fingertips carrying both warmth and chill.
Laena propped her chin up with one hand, trying to appear calm.
The back of her hand was cold, smooth like finely carved jade.
Rhaenyra, on the other hand, forced herself to look away from Aemon.
Her palm was warm and damp with nervous sweat, making her hand harder to hold than usual.
The first unclenched her hand, and Aemon intertwined his fingers with hers.
Her small, slender hand fit neatly into his. He held it gently, absently playing with it.
"Don't go too far," Rhaenyra muttered through clenched teeth, ashamed and angry.
Aemon chuckled softly. "I won't let go."
Another double meaning.
Two pairs of eyes watched the scene intently.
Corlys's expression hardened as he looked at his eldest daughter, who had stopped resisting.
Was this really still his cold, noble daughter?
That bastard boy was holding another girl's hand, and she hadn't slapped him away.
"What fine education the Targaryens gave him," Corlys thought bitterly.
"He grew up in Runestone!" Viserys's face darkened, murderous rage in his eyes.
The bastard had dared to take his daughter's hand too.
Like a beast, he wanted both at once—greedy enough to drown himself.
Clang, clang!
The gongs sounded in quick succession, the tournament reaching its fever pitch.
Borros charged forward with a hammer, roaring.
Daemon, wielding Dark Sister, dodged swiftly, looking for an opening.
Thanks to his Baratheon physique, Borros was built like a warhorse, and each swing of his hammer came with devastating force.
No matter his size, Borros didn't fight recklessly.
"My cousin-uncle can't read a word, but at least he inherited our family's courage," Laena said with a faint smile.
Her grandmother was a Baratheon, and Storm's End and Driftmark had always stood united.
Aemon nodded slightly, taking note. The tenacity of House Baratheon was still well remembered.
"I bet he won't last more than a few rounds," Rhaenyra said dismissively.
"What do you mean?" Aemon whispered.
"That's Daemon you're watching. Borros is just a foolish stag who's never seen a battlefield. Wait and see."
Aemon smiled faintly. Deep down, he hoped Borros might explode and beat Daemon bloody.
"Hmph." Rhaenyra raised her chin proudly.
Aemon couldn't help but grin.
Bang!
Borros forced Daemon's guard open with his hammer and smashed a fist into his face.
Daemon staggered back from the heavy blow.
"Good fight!" Aemon's eyes lit up.
Ignoring his two small, delicate hands, he clapped excitedly.
Helaena frowned, covering her ears with her pudgy hands.
Such a racket.
"Ah!"
Borros pressed his advantage, shouting at the top of his lungs.
He had entered the tournament for no other reason than to defeat Daemon.
In the tourney of 105 AC, his father, Lord Boremund, had ridden for Rhaenys only to be speared down by Daemon himself.
A son could not forget that debt.
"Bah!"
Daemon spat bloody foam, his expression grim.
Suddenly, shouting rose from the royal box.
"Huh?" Borros glanced up, confused.
It was Daemon's son—had he yelled something wrong?
"To be distracted while fighting me!"
Daemon's eyes flashed cold. With Dark Sister he locked the hammer's haft, stopping Borros in place.
Borros panicked, trying to wrench it free.
But Daemon gave him no chance—he kicked out hard, denting Borros's leg armor.
"Aghhh!" Borros screamed.
Daemon pressed his advantage, driving Dark Sister into the ground as he seized the hammer and brought it crashing down.
The muffled impacts rang out, punching dents through Borros's armor.
Each blow reeked of vengeance.
Nearly fainting from pain, Borros finally cried out, "I yield!"
Ding ding!
The referee struck the gong, ending the bout.
"Pathetic," Aemon muttered in disappointment.
Felled in moments. What a waste.
. . .
That evening.
The Red Keep — King's chambers.
"Prince, His Majesty awaits you," Ser Harrold announced respectfully at the door.
Aemon didn't answer. He drew a steady breath instead, knowing he had no choice. Two Kingsguard followed behind him.
The tournament lasted days, with breaks each afternoon. After supper, before he could even decide whom to speak with, his uncle had summoned him.
Scolding was inevitable.
Creak—
Aemon pushed the door open. Inside, a round table stood covered in carved stone figurines. A brazier burned pinecones hotly before it.
Among the flames rested a dragonbone-hilted dagger.
Bang!
Ser Harrold glanced once, then shut the door quietly.
The prince had gone too far today, angering both the king and Lord Corlys. Surely a harsh lesson awaited him.
Aemon smiled bitterly, his gaze fixed on the dagger.
If memory served, it was a relic of his great-grandfather—its hilt carved from dragonbone, its blade Valyrian steel. After his passing, Viserys had kept it.
"This dagger belonged to Aegon the Conqueror," Viserys's voice cut through the silence.
Aemon looked up. His uncle stood alone before the fire, his face half-lit, half-shadow.
"Uncle," Aemon said softly, guilt pricking him.
Viserys ignored him, eyes fixed on the flames. "Its history reaches back to Aenar the Exile. Before him—who can say?"
"You've never cared much for books," he went on bitterly, "but surely even you know who Aenar was."
Viserys gave a self-mocking laugh. "Perhaps you and your father know more than I."
Since the Doom, Valyria lay in ruins.
Aenar, guided by the prophetic dreams of his daughter Daenys, sold his holdings in the Land of the Long Summer and led his family to Dragonstone.
From forty dragonlords, the Targaryens became but one.
Even most records vanished.
"Aenar's flight preserved our line," Viserys murmured.
Aemon said nothing, though he recalled months spent poring over Celtigar tomes, rare works written in High Valyrian.
"I knew you bore your father's temperament," Viserys sighed, picking up the glowing dagger. Fire hardly bit a dragon's blood.
Aemon's eyes narrowed. His uncle hadn't called him here only to scold him.
"This blade," Viserys said solemnly, "once carried a secret. Before Aegon's death, the last pyromancers of Valyria etched his song upon it. A Song of Ice and Fire."
Aemon frowned. By tradition, he should not yet have heard this.
"Read it," Viserys urged, thrusting the dagger toward him.
"Uncle…"
"Quiet!" Viserys barked. "Read it."
The weight of prophecy—he would lay it on his nephew's shoulders. Until now, only he and Rhaenyra had known. Not even Daemon.
Reluctantly, Aemon recited, "The prince that was promised will come from my line. His blood is the song of ice and fire."
There was more, of course, but he need not read further.
In short—it spoke of the Others beyond the Wall.
"Good," Viserys said, a forced smile tugging at his lips. "That burden, nephew, is greater than thrones or crowns. Tell only Rhaenyra."
Aemon shook his head. With his memories, he knew the truth of the Conqueror's prophecy.
"No, she can't bear it alone."
Viserys bristled. "Only you can help her carry it."
The matter weighed heavier than ever, and his nephew must shoulder it. Rhaenyra worried him endlessly. Aemon, he believed, could steady her.
"This burden matters more than power—or desire," he pressed.
Aemon stayed silent, but he understood.
Viserys's tone softened. "Aemon, I watched you grow. If it were your grandsire Jaehaerys, you'd have lost your head already. Holding a princess's hand—and other maidens'—in public? Treasonous, some would say."
"Uncle, say what you will." Aemon was resigned to whatever came.
"Then I'll be blunt," Viserys said gravely. "The Sea Snake is ambitious. Tied to his daughter, you'd drag us all into ruin."
"Laena is a good woman. And Aunt Rhaenys…" Aemon countered.
"And what of Rhaenyra?" Viserys snapped. "Is she in love with you too?"
"If it were possible—"
"Enough!" Viserys roared, slashing the air with his hand. "Say you wish to play the Conqueror, and I'll cut out your tongue and geld you myself."
He meant every word.
He was not satisfied with Rhaenyra—she was a girl, lacking in wit. But she was his eldest daughter, the only child left him by his late wife, Aemma.
Ten thousand faults would not matter. He would never let her suffer an insult.
Aemon froze, then gave a bitter smile. "Then I've nothing more to say."
Viserys's heart softened slightly. "Think carefully, Aemon. Family or impulse—which weighs more?"
He and Daemon had already arranged their children's betrothals. For that, Viserys would give him time—but only so much.
The thought depressed Aemon. Two wives in Westeros would only invite disaster. Obstacles from every side.
"I will think on it," he said at last, turning to leave.
"Go," Viserys murmured, turning his back to the fire.
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