Dragonstone, 98 AC
As the days passed, my dragon grew rapidly—within a year, he was the size of an adult tiger . I decided to name him Zalrazar. He slept curled beside me, nipped at my fingers when he wanted to play, and growled protectively if anyone got too close. We were inseparable.
I was nearing my second nameday. In this world, survival wasn't guaranteed—even more so with the storm I knew was coming. The war happened in the first place because of the lack of male heir ( even this is putting it mildly) , which I am right now but this castle don't lack people that want to put their blood on the throne , so their immediate and easiest target is me . To survive the violence that this house and continent the center of, I needed to be strong. Not just politically, but physically. But at this age, I couldn't risk traditional training; it would only harm my developing body. Instead, I focused on coordination.
Back on Earth, I was right-handed. So this time, I resolved to train myself to be ambidextrous. I used my left hand for nearly everything—playing, eating, lifting wooden toys. My young body adapted quickly. The maester gave me a quill and parchment to "doodle," but I used it to practice writing with both hands. It was clumsy, but effective.
And of course, Zalrazar needed training too. He was too small to ride, but he responded to my voice, especially when I used High Valyrian phrases I'd picked up. "Soves" I whispered to him during our games. He'd chirp like a cat trying to purr fire and flapped its wings to fly . One day, I promised myself, he would roar flames into the sky.
-Viserys Targaryen POV-
Aemon is a unique child. As he grows older, his mind seems sharper than his years. He speaks clearly, learns quickly, and already knows his letters. He's even picked up bits of Valyrian—enough to command his dragon like a young prince of old Valyria. He fills me with pride.
"He's growing up fast," Aemma said beside me again heavy with a child, watching our son scribble on parchment while Zalrazar coiled protectively nearby. The grief from her last pregnancy still lingered in her eyes, but slowly, joy was returning to our household. I thanked the Seven daily for the family I'd been given.
- Aemon's POV-
Second Nameday – Red Keep
My second nameday arrived with celebration and ceremony. A feast was held in my honor at the Red Keep, grander than anything I'd seen before. The entire family was present—Uncle Daemon arrived with his usual roguish charm, King Jaehaerys sat at the center beside Queen Alyssane, and my grandfather Baelon and father Viserys entertained the guests with pride and laughter.
But the biggest surprise came when I spotted Princess Gael Targaryen, my grand-aunt. She was still alive. That meant the tragic future I knew hadn't unfolded yet—not completely. I had time. The Game of Thrones had only just begun. I needed allies and influence. And to do that, I needed to start young.
I mingled with other noble children, putting on my best charming toddler act. And that's when I met young Harwin Strong, barely six namedays old, with a wide grin and strong shoulders for his age.
-Harwin Strong POV-
I'd been to a few feasts before, but never one this grand. The Red Keep was full of gold and firelight, with so many lords and ladies, I couldn't keep track of their names. My father, Lyonel Strong, told me to stand straight and speak properly. "You're a lord's son, Harwin. Act like it."
I tried. But it was hard with all the food and music and knights walking around in armor. My boots were too tight, and my tunic itched.
Then I saw him—Prince Aemon.
He was small, smaller than me, but walked like he belonged on a throne. There was something in his eyes, sharp and clear, like he was watching everything. Most two-nameday babes drooled and clung to their mothers. Not this one.
He came right up to me.
"Hello," he said, voice higher than mine but confident. "You're Harwin Strong, right?"
I blinked. "Yeah. I mean—yes, your—um, Prince Aemon."
He grinned. "You're taller than I thought."
I didn't know what to say to that. "You're... smarter than I thought."
He laughed, a real laugh, not one of those fake court ones. "Good. Then we both surprised each other."
We talked about silly things—dogs, food, dragons (well, mostly he talked about dragons). I told him I wanted to be a knight one day. He said he wanted to ride the biggest dragon alive but the dream remained a dream , so he told to have a second option .
"If this prince thing doesn't work I will try to be a bard or stonemason," he said, grinning. "I am already preparing for that ."
That made me laugh , and his face made it even funnier , he is the funniest two nameday old
"You'll see," he said, like it was a promise. "We'll both be great one day."
I believed him.
As the feast went on, I couldn't stop thinking about the prince. He was different—strange, in a way that made you pay attention. I didn't know what kind of man he'd grow up to be, but I had a feeling I'd be seeing a lot more of him.
Maybe one day, I'd ride beside him.
Or stand against him.
But either way... I'd remember this night.
-Aemon POV-
Later, as the feast drew to a close, I scanned the room, searching for her—Princess Gael. She sat near the edge, watching quietly. With my heart pounding, I approached her with all the confidence a two-year-old could muster.
-Princess Gael Targaryen POV-
Feasts were always too loud. Too many voices, too many eyes. They whispered when they thought I wasn't listening—"the Winter Child," "the delicate one," "poor Gael." I heard them all.
Mother kept me close tonight, but her eyes were on the King. Always on the King. I was a shadow in their grand tapestry.
Then came the boy.
He was tiny, with hair like silver threads and eyes far too sharp for a child. Most two-nameday babes fussed and drooled. This one walked like he owned the room—and when he saw me, he came straight over.
"Good marrow, Grand-Aunt!" he chirped, his little voice full of mischief.
I blinked. No one had called me that before. "Good marrow... Aemon," I replied, a bit surprised.
He tilted his head, examining me like a maester might a puzzle.
"You look sad," he said bluntly.
That startled a laugh out of me. "Do I?"
He nodded. "But you're very pretty when you smile. So I came to fix it."
I chuckled again, heart warm despite myself. "And how do you plan to do that, little dragon?"
He stepped forward and raised his arms dramatically. "With a dance, of course!"
Before I could protest, he did a ridiculous little twirl that ended with him nearly falling over. He popped up with a proud grin.
I clapped, genuinely amused. "You've got the heart of a jester."
"Or a king," he replied cheekily.
I looked at him—really looked—and for a moment, the noise of the hall faded. The whispers, the stares, the ache of being overlooked... all gone. This little boy had cut through it with a smile and a silly dance.
"Thank you, little dragon," I said softly.
His grin widened, and without another word, he darted off toward a platter of lemon cakes.
And I was left with a strange, unfamiliar feeling. Hope, maybe.
Or just the memory of laughter.
-Aemon POV-
After the feast ended and the music began to fade into memory, my mother gently leaned down, brushing a stray lock of silver hair from my brow.
"The King wishes to speak with you, sweetling," she whispered with a soft smile, though I could see the hint of nerves in her eyes too.
Soon I was handed over to Ser Ryam Redwyne, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard—a towering man in polished white plate, his cape as clean as snow. His steps echoed as we walked through the quiet halls of the Red Keep. My small feet struggled to match his long strides, but I kept up, pride refusing to let me stumble.
As we approached the royal chamber, I felt my tiny heart pound in my chest like a battle drum. The weight of history pressed down on me—this was not just any man. This was the King of the Realm. Jaehaerys the Wise. Jaehaerys the Conciliator.
Sensing my unease, Ser Ryam glanced down and offered a rare smile. "There's no need to be afraid, young prince," he said gently. "Speak clearly, be respectful, and you'll do just fine."
I nodded stiffly, offering a weak smile of my own.
Then the great oaken doors creaked open, revealing a warm chamber bathed in the glow of hearthfire. And with a breath to steel myself, I stepped inside to meet the greatest man in the realm—my great-grandfather.
-Jaehaerys Targaryen POV-
The politicking at court has long grated on my soul. When I named Baelon my heir instead of Rhaenys, it was as if a curse had been cast upon me. I wronged my own blood—my granddaughter, my dead son—and the weight of that choice lingers even now. My beloved Alyssane has not been the same since. Her grief and disappointment are silent daggers, piercing deeper than any blade. But a king must sometimes make cruel choices for the good of the realm. Or so I tell myself.
The chamber door creaked open. In stepped Viserys's son—my great-grandson—and for a fleeting moment, I saw another boy in his place. Aemon. My Aemon. The memory of him still aches like an old wound.
"Greetings, Your Grace," the boy said, bowing with a poise far beyond his years.
I smiled faintly. "Come, Aemon. Sit with me. No need for 'Your Grace' when it's just the two of us. Call me Grandfather."
He nodded and approached with careful steps. "Yes, Grandfather."
"I hear you've already taken to writing," I said, intrigued, "and you're quite proficient at it."
"Yes, Grandfather. I can write with both my hands and I'm learning High Valyrian."
That surprised me more than I let show. "You can write with both hands?"
"Yes. Would you like me to show you?"
Without waiting, he took a parchment and a quill in each hand and began to write his name—Aemon Targaryen—once with his right hand and once with his left. The lettering was smooth, the strokes deliberate and elegant. For one so young, the precision was extraordinary.
I took the parchment, studying it closely. The curves of the letters had a foreign, artistic quality to them. "Beautiful," I murmured, genuinely impressed.
"So tell me, Aemon, for your nameday... is there anything you wish for?"
"I want to learn how to sing, Grandfather."
Now that caught me off guard.
"You want to sing? What songs have you heard, boy?"
"I don't know any songs yet... but I want to sing to my mother when she's sad."
That simple answer warmed my old heart more than any feast or triumph ever could.
"You shall have a music tutor, then," I said, smiling. "But you should know—your grandfather is heir to the throne. That puts you in the line of succession. A bard's life won't prepare you for a crown."
He didn't flinch. "Yes, Grandfather. I'll work hard and make our house the most powerful in the realm."
I chuckled. "Our house is already the strongest, Aemon. You should concern yourself with the prosperity of the realm."
"But should the prosperity of the realm come at the expense of our house?" he asked.
I stared at him, the question lingering like smoke in the air. It sounded innocent, but there was depth behind it—an unsettling wisdom for a child barely past two namedays.
And for once, I had no answer.