Lyanna Targaryen Stark (101 A.C. Seventh Moon)
Harrenhal - Courtyard
Here she was again at Harrenhal, a place she always seemed to drift back toward. It was where she had first seen Rhaegar, found her first love, and her second. She wasn't sure she would find a third; she couldn't even fathom it. Baelon's death was far too fresh for her to even think about it. Aemon had fallen into despair, burdened by guilt, and it seemed that only with Balerion had her son found peace. The fact that the old dragon communicated with her son was something she had never gotten used to, but at least Balerion provided Aemon with advice and friendship.
The keep of Harrenhal was vast, more than large enough to hold the Great Council to choose a new heir. In truth, she knew which of his grandchildren Jaehaerys truly wanted to be heir. Aemon was his grandfather's favorite; he was dutiful and strong and was a model prince in almost every aspect. Aemon also rode The Black Dread and had a bond with the dragon, which had not been seen since the Conqueror himself.
She thought back on what her Goodfather had said before they had left for Harrenhal. "My dear daughter. I would name your son as heir, but the realm would not accept a thirdborn son as heir. Yet his line will be that of the kings one day. His children, born to him and Laena, will marry those of Viserys and Aemma, or his son or daughter will inherit if Rhaenys becomes the heir, as Laena is her heir," he had said as he patted her hand and smiled with affection. It was something she expected. Baleon and Rhaegar had both told her of the Song of Ice and Fire prophecy and their suspicions on who was the prophesized prince, and it was likely Aemon due to being a son of a Stark and Targaryen, Ice and Fire. 'Aemon is the embodiment of the song. If the past were better, he would stop the darkness that is to come. But corruption and power-hungry bastards had thrown the world that is to face the darkness into chaos.'
The walls of Harrenhal loomed large as the lords of the realm arrived to offer their condolences. She bore it as she should, presenting the image of the grieving widow of Baelon Targaryen, Princess Lyanna Stark Targaryen, mother of Aemon, Visneya, and Arya Targaryen. However, her demeanor changed when her brother Benjen Stark was announced as arriving.
"Your Graces, I am honored to join you at Harrenhal, though I am sorry it must be under these circumstances," the Lord of Winterfell announced as he bowed to the gathering.
"Welcome to Harrenhal, Lord Benjen of Winterfell and Warden of the North," Viserys said, being the oldest of Baelon's children. He had the duty of welcoming the lords along with Lord Lyonel Strong.
"Dear sister, I am so sorry. I know you loved him," Benjen Stark said as they embraced. Her younger brother resembled her Benjen from her past life so much that when she had grown up with him, she felt that her precious younger brother was reborn into him again.
"Where are my nephews? Did you bring them?" she asked, hoping to meet her brother's children. Even if they would soon all travel toward the North to see Winterfell and for Aemon to travel toward his lordship, she didn't really want to wait to meet them.
"No. Rickon is the Stark of Winterfell now, and Bennard is still too young to make the journey. Lysa is with the boys and is their regent in my absence. It will be a wonderful moment when you and my children finally meet. Rickon is quite excited to meet his cousins." Benjen said with a smile. She looked forward to that day. It was still hard, but seeing her new brother brought her some joy.
"Ah, I would have loved to meet them and Lysa as well. But I suppose we will in a few moons," she said, holding her brother's hands.
"Yes, we will, Lya. Now, where are my nieces and nephew? How are they doing now? We both know the loss of a parent." Benjen asked, his voice full of excitement as his face lit up. She smiled brightly at him. He would be a good uncle to her pups.
"Aemon often finds solace in the sky soaring with Balerion," she confided, her voice heavy with grief. "The loss of his father has weighed heavily upon him, Benjen. Words are scarce from his lips, and only in the company of his dragon does he seem to find any semblance of peace. As for Visneya, she doesn't truly seem to understand his death. Sometimes, she asks when Papa is coming home. And Arya, she's but a babe, too young to have known her father," she added, her voice trembling as her brother's comforting embrace enveloped her. Even if the part about Arya was a lie.
"I'm sorry, it should have been different, but the gods had other plans, Lya. I hope that returning to the North will bring you and the children comfort," Benjen remarked, his eyes reflecting a sense of nostalgia. "Your memory is held dear by all, and Mother's impatience has reached its peak; she yearns to be reunited with her daughter and grandchildren," he chuckled softly, using his sleeve to wipe away her tears.
"To think my nephew has formed a bond with the Black Dread," Benjen mused, his disbelief evident. "When I read your letter, I thought it was a jest; it was a five-year-old flying on such a fearsome creature. But regardless, I look forward to meeting them in due course. It shall do Aemon good to find a respite in the North, away from the burdens of court and politics. I hope the same can be true for the girls," he added with a warm smile.
"Come, dear sister, let us share a meal and discuss the joys and tribulations of our children," he suggested.
"Yes, brother, I suppose we should get away from all the politics. You'll be able to meet Visenya and Arya as well. They should be in my chambers unless they have run off with their friends," she said and as they walked together toward her chambers.
Benjen Stark 101 A.C. (Seventh Moon)
Halls of Harrenhal
After leaving Lyanna's chambers, he wandered through the vast halls and corridors of Harrenhal. As he wanders the halls having no destination in mind, his thoughts drift towards Lyanna. 'Lyanna's fire had dimmed, and she is still deep in grief over her husband's death.'
He had only briefly met Baelon during the tournament and the wedding planning, and they hadn't had enough time to get to know each other. He had met Baelon's two oldest sons, and it seemed that Viserys was a good man. However, he had made it clear back at Winterfell that he would support Rhaenys for the Iron Throne, given her strong will and Valyrian appearance, even with the Baratheons' black hair. He had no qualms about a woman ruling, as many Northern women were more than capable, as evidenced by his mother and wife. His sister had given up her claim for him, as she had been their father's heir for eleven years. After his birth, his father even petitioned for the crown so she could stay his heir. Only after her marriage to Baelon did he become heir. A change his sister had never regretted, as she had birthed three wonderful children and held a deep love for Baelon, even if it had now regrettably ended with Baelon's death.
The other reason he had argued was that Rhaenys' eldest child, Laena, was betrothed to his nephew, which meant the boy would become a future king-consort. It would mark the first time a Stark-blooded king or queen would sit on a throne in the South, at least to his knowledge. And a child of theirs would sit on the Throne. So, amidst the lords and knights of summer, he would vote for Rhaenys Targaryen at this Great Council.'
Stepping outside to breathe fresh air, he was startled by the two enormous shadows cast over Harrenhal. Vhagar, whose wingspan was around 120 meters, was impressive enough, but the Black Dread was a colossal beast, easily double Vhagar's size. To his amazement, he spotted a small boy with silver-gold hair perched atop Balerion. It could only be his nephew Aemon.
"By the old gods," he exclaimed in awe. He wasn't the only one gaping at the two circling dragons. A voice from behind interrupted his reverie.
"Well, Lord Stark, what do you think? Ready to host the Black Dread." Looking over his shoulder, Benjen spotted Prince Viserys walking up beside him.
"Your Grace, a pleasure," he replied. "I suppose I have to be, yet I doubt I have much of a choice, do I?"
"No, you don't, but I wouldn't be surprised if he's not the only one. Vhagar has been keeping close to the boy since my father's passing," Viserys sighed. "Every time my brother takes to the sky, Vhagar joins him. So don't be surprised if she also joins you in the North."
"As long as we don't see a third one," he quipped, though he wondered what other surprises the dragons might have in store.
"Well, we will never know. Vhagar may lay eggs in the North, and Visenya and Arya might gain dragons. And ever since Arya's birth, Grey Ghost has been spotted coming out of hiding. So don't be surprised if the dragon travels North to her to claim her as his bond. It feels similar to Aemon's and Balerion's bond, yet I suspect their bond is even closer," Viserys added.
"Shall we go and welcome my brother? I'm sure he'd like to meet his other uncle. My Step-uncle, I suppose. And when we're alone, call me Viserys. We're family, after all," the prince suggested. They might not be related by blood, but the bonds forged in other ways were just as strong, if not stronger.
As they left the castle, they found the fields outside Harrenhal filled with tents and pavilions. However, a space to the castle's right was reserved for the dragons, and four of them were already there. Benjen didn't know their names except for the unmistakable bronze fury. The other three were smaller. Being so close to these massive creatures made him more nervous than he cared to admit.
"Viserys, are all these dragons here with riders?" he asked, his curiosity piqued.
"Yes, they all have riders. The brown one is mine, and her name is Goynogar. It means 'earth dragon' in High Valyrian," Viserys explained, but their conversation was interrupted by the resounding roars of Vhagar and Balerion as they landed, shaking the very ground. Balerion lowered his head and shoulder to allow his nephew to dismount. The boy bore Targaryen features, but his Stark grey eyes stood out.
Aemon approached Balerion's snout and began petting the dragon as if it were a hound, murmuring something under his breath. Viserys stifled a laugh as the prince watched Benjen's bewildered reaction to Aemon with the giant dragon. "Oh, I know, he's done that plenty of times, leaving people with open mouths. His bond with Balerion is unlike any other, stronger than any other rider's bond, much to Daemon's annoyance," Viserys chuckled.
Suddenly, a gasp escaped Viserys as he watched Aemon walk over to Vhagar and repeat the same affectionate gestures. "I can't believe it; even Vhagar seems to accept him. Usually, riderless dragons can't be approached like that, but I suppose Vhagar sees my father in my brother or wants his attention. Then again, she wouldn't be foolish enough to attack him, as it would likely end in her demise," Viserys mused.
"I can see that. Balerion is the largest creature I've ever seen," He admitted, still in awe of the dragon. Their size cloaked the entire area in shadow. He had immense respect for his nephew, who somehow commanded respect and affection of such fearsome creatures.
After a few minutes of watching his nephew with the dragons, Aemon walked over to them. Studying the boy more closely, he realized just how much of both parents lived in him. He had Lyanna's storm-gray eyes and the silver-gold hair of the Targaryens. Baelon's high cheekbones framed his face, but his chin and nose were unmistakably his father's. The ears were all Lyanna's; Arya had the same ears as them, though she had also had the rest of her looks from her mother. That made him wonder what Visenya looked like. She hadn't been there when he had met Arya. A smile tugged at his lips at the sight of his nephew.
"Valonqar, Kepus," Aemon said in Valyrian, embracing him. "It means 'Elder Brother' and 'Uncle,'" the boy explained, his Stark grey eyes filled with warmth. "It's good to meet you finally, Uncle. It's been a long time coming."
Benjen returned the embrace and said, "The feeling is mutual, nephew. I wish it were under happier circumstances." The boy's mood seemed to brighten momentarily, but then he grew somber. "What's troubling you, Aemon? You looked happy for a moment there."
"My father's death caused us to be here, and it reminded me of what I had hoped to show him, what I've learned, how I was a lord, and show him my children," Aemon said, his voice filled with sorrow, and tears began to well up.
He hugged the boy tightly and said, "Oh, Aemon, you'll find peace with the pain in time. The only thing you can do is accept that he's gone and make sure you keep his memory alive. That's what I do for your grandfather, Rickard." He gently stroked the boy's head, offering whatever comfort he could. However, as Benjen held the boy, he wondered what Aemon meant when he said, 'what I've learned'.
Aemon Targaryen (101 A.C., Seventh Moon)
He sat on his bed in his room, reflecting on the day's events. Meeting his uncle was nice, except he had broken down in front of him. No matter what he did, it seemed history wasn't changing. The only things that were different were him, his mother, his sisters, and Balerion. He had been with his father for most days as had become his page, looking for possibilities of poisons to be served to him. He even warged from time to time into rats, cats, and other creatures to keep an eye on him. Yet nothing and the gods didn't seem fit to change the fate of Baelon Targaryen.
But he would keep to his vow and do his duty to his family. Laena was already part of that duty, his betrothed and someone he had grown to like, and she had been with him when his father passed. The pretty purple eyes looked at him kindly and comforted him in his grief.
Rhaenyra, his younger niece of two years, was starting to become a young beauty; no wonder the realm called her the realm's delight. He only hoped his sweet, good-sister would live. Rhaenyra needed her mother as long as possible. Aemma was only nine and ten namedays, and already she has been through three pregnancies. With only one making it to birth so far, he hoped the one she had now in her belly would give them the peace of having a son or another daughter and bring the family some much-needed happiness.
The Great Council of 101 A.C. The famous event in the history books. His mother had told him his uncle would declare for Rhaenys so one day Stark blood through him would sit the Throne to represent the North. It was funny that almost 200 years later and it would have been so if Sansa had married Joffrey. He growled involuntarily as he thought back on that rotten soul.
But no, he knew deep down that Rhaenys wouldn't be chosen. While the North would support her, almost all the lords of the South were against naming a woman heir. It only happened when there weren't any other direct descendants. It was ridiculous; he never thought it was a cock that would make a good heir. His mother was heir for a time before she married his father. The vote today would decide the heir and set the precedent for all the heirs to come, and if history were to be followed, his older brother would be the heir.
His thoughts were interrupted when a knock came at the door. "Come in," he said, not bothering to move from his position.
His sworn shield, Ser Harrold Westerling, walked inside. Harrold had been a good friend and kingsguard to him, and was like an uncle to him. Aemon had enjoyed training with him when his father couldn't. "The King asked for you, my Prince." Ser Harrold said, looking at him with a face of compassion.
"Of course, Ser Harrold, let's go." He said, and they made their way to the king's chambers.
"Ser Ryam, we're here to see the King. He summoned me." He said to an old knight guarding the king's chambers. Ser Ryam opened the door, allowing him to enter. Ser Harrold gave him a nod as he waited outside.
"Aemon, please come to sit by the bed. I must talk to you," Jaehaerys said. The older man looked as frail as he had ever been. The loss of his children and wife, as well as ruling the realm had taken a great toll on his grandfather's health.
"Of course, Grandfather," he said, holding his grandfather's hand as he sat down next to him.
"Aemon, I know you are young, but you have always been beyond your years. You have always taken your responsibilities seriously. It something to be proud of, my boy." His grandfather said, and his heart swelled with pride at his words.
"When Viserys tried to bond with Balerion and failed, I was sure Balerion would pass away. But after your birth, the old dragon flew again, recovered from his wounds, and even grew large. And your bond with him. It is simply amazing. Not even Aegon had that with Black Dread, nor I with my Bronze Fury. There is something only the heir and the king know. A prophecy, a dream, is the true reason Aegon conquered all of Westeros. Not what has been written in history books. It's a duty carried by our family since Aegon's time."
'What? Aegon had conquered Westeros based on prophecy. Not this again,' he thought frantically. 'What had Melisandre said again? "Prophecies are fickle things; you can read their signs all you want, but in the end, you can still be wrong about their truth." She was right about that; she had done so many things in the name of prophecy. Burning a young girl, turning an honorable man into a burning fanatic.' He grew angry as he remembered the red witch's fanatic words.
"Aemon, pick up the dagger," his grandfather asked, gesturing to the dagger sitting in the nearby brazier. His blood ran cold when he saw the dragger lying in the brazier. It was the very same dammed dagger that had slit his throat all those years ago. It still brought back memories of those blue eyes that had taken over his little brother.
"Read it, please. What is described on?" Jaehaerys requested as Aemon picked up the dagger to read the words on the blade.
"From my blood will come the prince that was promised, and his will be the song of ice and fire," he said, visibly gulping as he read the Valyrian glyphs aloud.
"You are that song, or your line will be my boy. It will lead us through the dark that is to come. Aegon dreamed this as Daenys dreamed of the Doom. He dreamed of the end of men. It is to begin with a terrible winter. A gusting wind will come with it, and Aegon saw absolute darkness riding on those winds; and whatever is inside those winds will destroy the world of the living." The old king said, half out of breath. It made more sense now why he had sent so many faith-militant rebels to the wall.
The prophecy was probably lost in the dance. Rhaenyra was the heir and probably never passed on the prophecy to her son Aegon, or she did, and it was lost with either Baelor or Daeron. It also reminded him of something his mother had said about Rhaegar. Rhaegar thought the child in her belly was the prophecy of Ice and fire that he and his mother would bring forth that child. But, well, everything went wrong with rebellion, didn't it? The prophecy was once again lost after the death of his mother and father, after Rhaegar had discovered it. He was the child of Ice and Fire, the gods sent back to prevent the dragon's dying out, and was he also to protect the Song of Ice and Fire? He wondered as he looked at the dagger.
"If our world is to survive, all of Westeros must stand united against it. A Targaryen must be seated on the Iron Throne. Promise you will keep the prophecy and the realm and unite Aemon. If I could, I would name you my heir, Aemon. Yet the realm wouldn't accept a third born to pass over two of his older brothers, and I don't trust Daemon not to do something foolish. The realm would tear itself apart. Our house would tear itself apart because the only thing that can bring down our house is itself. Promise me, Aemon, Promise me." His grandfather said with a cough of exhaustion.
"Yes, grandfather, I promise. I will make sure the realm is united," Aemon solemnly promised him and kissed his grandfather's head. His grandfather smiled, sighed deeply in relief, and fell into a deep sleep.
After that, Aemon returned to his room, and his mind pondered over what his grandfather had revealed. His house knew what was coming, almost three hundred years before the White Walkers came. Yet war and failures of man had shattered the warning.
He sighed as he lay down on his bed. He was tired; today had been too emotional. He wanted nothing else but to sleep, and with his thoughts still racing, he closed his eyes.
He awoke.
But something was wrong.
His limbs felt like they were submerged in mud, thick, cold, and clinging. His breath came shallow as though the very air resisted him. Then came the sounds: sharp, brutal, and rhythmic. The crack of wood splitting. The wet twacks of axes biting into living trees. The cruel snap of leather across flesh.
"Work, you lazy cunts! Work or die! King Harren has no shortage of river scum!" The voice was coarse, thick with Ironborn venom and laced with the authority of unchecked cruelty.
Aemon sat up, blinking against the harsh daylight. He wasn't in his bed.
He was on the forest floor, except it was no longer a forest anymore. The ground was littered with pale stumps, the corpses of weirwood trees. All around him, chained men labored under the lash. They swung axes at a sacred grove of weirwoods, their white bark now desecrated by deep wounds. One tree in particular bled freely, red sap trickling down like tears of blood.
Aemon's stomach turned as he watched the sap being collected, scraped into buckets, and poured into troughs where it was mixed with rock dust, mortar, and what looked like ash. A thick, dark paste.
"They're using the sap in the mortar," he muttered in disbelief. "They're mixing blood into the stone…"
He had heard the tales. "Harren the Black used blood in the mortar of Harrenhal," they said. "Human blood. Sacrifice. Witchcraft." Aemon never put much stock in them. The Ironborn were hated by almost everyone in Westeros, and people always change narratives to fit their ends. But this was beyond the pale. This was the blood of the scared trees, mingled into stonework.
'As mockery, ' Aemon thought with venom. 'A direct insult to the Old Gods.'
He looked up the hill, and his breath caught.
There, towering above the ruined grove, stood the main keep of Harrenhal. The Ten Towers were not yet there. Yet even the keep itself was huge. He recognized the cracked and melted thing, and he now slept in.
"They built Harrenhal on a weirwood grove," he said softly in realization. "Of course it's haunted, the gods would never take that laying down."
He began walking, feet moving without thought, his eyes scanning the chaos around him. Smoke curled from tar pits. Black ravens circled overhead. The workers groaned. The trees screamed, though no one seemed to hear.
He then walked into the main hall, and then he saw him.
A figure sitting atop a huge throne of scorched white wood and hacked branches and roots, a throne made of weirwood. He wore a crown of black iron, twisted and cruel, like something forged in a storm. His armor was blackened steel. On the sigil of house Hoare was on his armor, a raven, ship, tree, and grape featured prominently. His skin was pale, unnaturally pale, being almost a milky white. Yet his hair was black as coal, and his eyes a sick yellow.
"Harren the Black," Aemon murmured, both awe and loathing in his voice.
'Why am I seeing this? Why now? Was it a warning? A memory not his own? Or something more. A vision sent by powers older than dragons?' He mused as he looked around the great hall.
The wind howled through the ruins of the grove, whispering voices he couldn't understand. He felt something cold coil around his spine.
And then everything began to shake.
"The Old Gods ruled here, and yet they chose wicked gods, false ones: the Drowned God, Storm God, and the Seven. Remember what we told you, boy?" voices whispered.
Aemon shot up from his bed and snapped awake. His breath came in ragged bursts. Sweat clung to his skin. The morning light spilled through the slats of his window, soft and golden, but it did nothing to warm him.
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