Aemon knelt in the dark earth of Aegon's Garden, his linen sleeves rolled high, forearms stained with soil. The air off the sea was a cold, carrying the taste of salt and the distant, familiar scent of the Dragonmont's sulfur and brimstone, yet beneath his palms, the ground was warm. He pressed the small, pale weirwood seed into the hollow he had dug and covered it gently, patting the dirt settling the seed beneath.
"This land won't like you," he murmured to the seedling, in a private confession. "Too hard and too wet. The roots will hate the stone beneath. But try all the same."
Ghost lay at his side, a friend he always had. The direwolf's nose twitched, and his hackles lay flat, as though he already sensed the faint stirring of the Old Gods' presence beneath the newly turned dirt.
Shiera Seastar stood a few paces behind him, her shadow falling long and lean across the cobbled path. She wore no over the top white armour today, but dark, fitted leather beneath pale mail with its steel links catching the morning sun. Her crimson mask of vivid colour a contrast to the green and colourful garden. One hand rested idly on her sword-hilt, not readiness but merely there in protection for a person whom she had waited for many years.
Jojen Reed sat cross-legged in the grass beside Aemon, quiet as always, watching the burial of the seed with quiet reverence.
When the last of the soil was patted smooth, Jojen finally spoke, his voice soft and in whisper as always.
"Your Grace."
Aemon glanced over, brushing a lump of black earth from his fingers. "Speak."
Jojen started, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the King. "Lannisters and Tyrells prepare for the marriage between Joffrey and Margaery. The ceremony begins within hours."
He paused, his mind did not leap straight to battle plans or political opportunity now that Lannister and Tyrell are allied by marriage, but to Oberyn Martell bleeding perhaps, in some Black cell beneath the Red Keep, caged for a reckless deed Aemon himself had only been planning of accomplishing.
A man had stepped into the darkness for his family. It was reckless and self-serving move, undoubtedly, but clearly a brave and costly one.
He turned then, looking up at the silent, masked figure.
"Princess Shiera—"
"Aunt Shiera," she corrected, a note of low amusement lacing her tone.
He gave a small, defeated huff. "Aunt Shiera. How well do you know the layout of the Black Cells?"
Shiera let out a soft, low laugh behind her mask, a sound that felt of pure, pleased mischief. "I performed half my most interesting experiments in the vaults beneath the Red Keep. I could walk those halls blindfolded and drunk."
"And escape?" Aemon asked a practical question that showered no flattery to her previous words.
She tilted her head, feigning offense. "Worried for your beautiful aunt, dear nephew?"
Aemon just stared at her waiting for the answer. Jojen did the same, his green eyes steady.
Shiera sighed, a soft, dramatic sound that seemed to mock the solemnity of the Northern blooded boys. "Yes. I can escape. There are secret passages and trap doors beneath those walls that even the Kingsguard do not know exist. They were built by King Maegor I Targaryen throughout the Red Keep and Aegon's High Hill."
Aemon nodded once, his mind already shuffling the pieces of his plan, the wedding, the distraction and the tunnels.
Before he could speak, Jojen suddenly toppled backward, his body going loose as a discarded cloth, eyes rolling into white beneath his lids.
Shiera groaned with a touch of genuine annoyance in her voice. "He could at least warn us before he goes collapsing like that."
Aemon did not move. Ghost rose fully, his ears lifting but only slightly. They had seen this times before. Moments later, Jojen inhaled sharply, a gasping, ragged breath that tore the silence. He sat up, shaking his head as if clearing the headache.
"Your Grace," he said, his voice hoarse from the effort. "Today is the best time if you wish to save Oberyn. In a few hours, a Dornish ship, carrying envoy from Martell's will dock at King's Landing. If you act now, your act can bind Dorne to you."
Aemon looked to Shiera. She gave a single, slow nod, her masked face impossible to read, yet her meaning was clear.
He stood, dusting his hands on his breeches.
"Prepare yourself. Only the two of us will go."
She turned to leave but then paused as his gaze slid to the sword at her hip.
"Can you fight?"
Shiera looked over her shoulder, a strange, beautiful mixture of insult and fondness woven into her voice. "I have lived over a century, boy. I've forgotten more ways to kill men ..and women than you've yet learned."
He didn't argue. Instead he drew Dark Sister from his own belt. The steel blade had a distinctive, flowing "watery", rippled patterns which all Valyrian sword had, though it was clearly much slender and more deadly. He held it out for her hilt first.
"Then take this, she's lighter than any steel and she'll serve you better than any."
For a moment, silence hung between them, heavy with the weight of history and the sudden intimacy of the offered weapon. Then Shiera reached out and accepted the blade with an almost reverent touch. Though her face was masked, Aemon could feel the small smile beneath it. She looked behind from where Missandei emerged from the ancient archway, carrying a simple wooden chest. Without a word, the young woman offered it to Shiera.
Shiera opened it.
Within lay a bastard sword, longer than Dark Sister had been, it had dark-grey almost black rippled patterns with twin dragon guard and a ruby pommel.
Aemon's breath caught, seeing a sword any child in Westeros can recognize.
"Blackfyre," Shiera said quietly, in a whisper voice. "The sword of kings. It has waited long enough for a hand, worthy of it that remembers its weight."
He reached for it instinctively, his hand fitting the worn leather grip. It was heavier than Dark Sister, built for cleaving shields and showing power and lineage rather than finesse. It felt much like Longclaw he had in his last life. He buckled the king's sword at his side.
And without another word, they walked together from the sunlit garden, through the ancient halls, past startled guards and curious servants, down winding stairs to the smoking mouth of the Dragonmont.
Meleys was waiting. The she-dragon's golden eyes fixed on them knowingly, smoke curling from her nostrils as though she had heard their plan long before they spoke of it.
Aemon approached, laying a hand against her warm, smooth scales. She lowered her great head, then the arch of her neck, offering her back.
He mounted first, settling the weight of the sword on his hip. He reached a hand for Shiera and she took it without flourish effortlessly settling herself onto the saddle behind him, pressing flush against his back.
Her arms wrapped around his torso, a grip that was tight and almost possessive. The edge of her mask brushed his cheek.
"Let's fly, my prince."
He gripped the spines in front of him and whispered, the word lost in the rumbling sound coming from the dragon's chest. "Sovegon, Meleys."
The ground fell away with a tremendous roar and the cold wind howled past them with a deafening force. The world below tilted and shrank in few moments.
In air, Shiera leaned close her voice sharp in his ear cutting through the wind's shriek.
"When we reach the capital you'll let me take the front, make me deal with their guards. You carry the crown they must fear you, not bleed you. The King should not be doing the work of a herald."
Aemon did not answer. He stared ahead looking beyond gathered clouds for walls of King's Landing. Shiera growled softly, a sound that oddly matched the dragon's rumble. She caught his chin in her hand, the movement brutally swift, wrenching his gaze back toward her masked face.
"You are to be king," she said sharply, her tone leaving no room for his pride or honor. "Not a martyr. I will not watch you die for glory like so many fools before you. Do you understand?"
Aemon swallowed, the dry air burning his throat. He felt the steel of her words more keenly than the cold air.
He nodded.
Shiera made a soft sound pleased by his acceptance, patting his cheek as though he were still a boy in swaddling. Then she leaned back against him, her body steadying his as Meleys roared toward the distant walls of King's Landing.