-Aemon's POV-
The letters kept coming like waves crashing on stone. One stillbirth. Then another. And now this—worse than the rest. I knew it was coming, I'd felt the weight of it in my dreams, in the shift of the winds. But knowing doesn't soften the blow. Grandfather Baelon was dead.
Named Hand of the King just a year ago… now, cold in the crypts. Gone. They say Queen Alysanne collapsed upon hearing the news and hasn't left her bed since.
It's been two years since I arrived at the Citadel.
Two years since Gael and I touched down on Oldtown's dragonstone roads under sunset light and Hightower stares. My reasons for coming were never only about learning—or repentance, as I claimed. I had work to do. Foundations to lay. Quietly. Deliberately.
I wasn't a healer in my past life. I wasn't a soldier or a king. I was an architect. An aspiring one, sure, but I understood structure—how to lay groundwork where no one's looking. Medicine? Surgery? Not my trade. I wasn't about to reinvent the field from scratch and draw attention doing it.
But I could build. Brick by brick. Man by man.
King's Landing was too exposed. Too many snakes watching snakes. But Oldtown? Here, I could be the rat in the wolves' den. Rats go unnoticed. And if a rat bites long enough, he carves tunnels through even the thickest walls.
In these two years, I've carved a few.
First, there's Baelor Flowers—bastard son of my grand-uncle Vaegon. He's only nine, no maester's chain yet, but the boy is sharp. His eyes catch details that grown men miss. He doesn't speak much, but when he does, it cuts through fog like sunlight.
But Baelor isn't even the sharpest blade I've found. That would be Theon. No surname, just Theon. A scribbler, an orphan—forgotten by the world. But he remembers everything. A living memory palace. I once saw him read a book cover to cover—over 300 pages—in less than two hours. Then recite it back to me, word for word. He calculates like a counting-house mage, five-digit numbers multiplied before you can blink. In another life, he'd be a maester in a fortnight. I'm betting on him for something far more dangerous.
Then there's Alister Florent. Fat, sweaty, always eating honeyed figs, but damn if he doesn't know his bricks and buttresses. Chain in history and architecture. The moment he starts talking about domes and aqueducts, his eyes light up like wildfire. He had an abusive father, which I suspect is why he's so loyal to me. He's hungry—for meaning, for purpose—and I intend to give it to him.
Perestan Tyrell is the odd one. Thirty, good with poultices and politics. Chain in medicine. One of the most open-minded men I've met in Westeros, especially for a highborn. He smokes gods-know-what in his pipe and speaks of "balance" like a Braavosi philosopher. Chill, as I'd have said in my past life. A rare man in this world.
Then, of course, Archmaester Vaegon. The coldest winter I ever met. He wore his scowl like armor when I arrived. Still does, mostly. But he's started to soften. A little. He talks to me now, not just at me. Maybe he sees in me what he never had in his own kin. Maybe he's just lonely and tired of pretending he's not.
And lastly... Septon Gourmand. The septon who drinks more than he preaches, fathered four bastards, and somehow still has the respect of the smallfolk. He's clever, sly, and ten times more honest than half the septs in King's Landing. He preaches to the poor, but his sermons have teeth. He red-pilled a group of commoners on the Seven in front of me once, masked in scripture and song. I laughed so hard I nearly choked.
These men—and boys—are mine. Quietly. Not through oaths or titles, but through loyalty earned the slow way: through trust, through shared burdens, through giving them something to believe in.
But now… now I must return.
My family is hurting. My sister, Rhaenyra—gods, she must be inconsolable. My father and mother? I don't even know if they'll recognize the boy I've become.
There's no fanfare in me. No grief-stirred speeches. I just sit by the window of my quarters, looking out over the still waters of the Honeywine, thinking of Baelon. He wasn't just the Realm's Spring. He was my spring too. The only man I ever felt truly seen by.
Before leaving Oldtown, I paid my respects to the people I'd grown used to seeing. Members of House Hightower lined up with the courtesy expected of lords, though many of them looked relieved to see me go. Otto wasn't among them—he'd already departed for King's Landing, summoned to serve as Hand of the King.
He believes I support him. That his children are my friends. That I trust him. Everything about his approach has been calculated—never pushy, always polite, always "coincidental." I've played my role well. I smile when he needs me to, nod at the right moments, say little. Let him think what he wants.
Then there was High Septon Bonifer, still trying to mold me into another Baelor the Blessed. His gaze follows me like a painter eyeing a canvas. I just keep pretending—quiet, agreeable, devout. But there will come a day when the Seven will find themselves turned inside out. For now, I let them believe I'm theirs.
Gael has been quiet since the news. Grief hits her harder than it hits me, I think. We'd flown back to King's Landing a few times during the two years here, but only briefly. This time, we weren't returning as guests. We were going home.
I'm almost six now—only two moons from my nameday. And he'll be waiting for me. The man without a face.
Zalrazar has grown fast. He's nearly ten feet long now, lean and sleek, with a wingspan like a young sailship. I've made his training stricter—more discipline, more structure. The whistle commands are more complex, layered, like a language only we understand. One day, when my body's stronger—when I can handle the pressure of dives and turns—we'll take our training to the skies for real.
Gael and Dreamfrey train with us. Dreamfrey's gotten protective of Zalrazar, especially around food. She growls at him like an irritated aunt when he tries to steal her portions. It's funny to watch. And Gael... she's become more than just a aunt. She feels like family in the truest sense. A mother. A friend. Sometimes the only one I trust without second guessing.
The flight back was quiet. Seven hours through grey skies, over rivers and forests, until the Red Keep appeared through the clouds like a memory coming back into focus.
As soon as we landed, they were there. Mother was the first to reach us—she broke into sobs the moment she saw me, and I couldn't hold back either. I cried into her arms, not out of shame, but because I'd held too much in for too long.
Father and Daemon stood behind her, looking older than I remembered. Tired. Rhaenyra approached last, walking slowly, unsure. I knelt down and opened my arms, and she fell into me, crying.
"Everyone says I can't see Grandpa again," she whimpered. "I saw him sleeping, and he won't wake up…"
"Grandpa's still with us," I whispered. "Watching. People only die when we forget them. We won't forget him, will we?"
She gave a small, teary nod.
Father stepped forward after that, his voice quiet. "We need to talk later, Aemon."
I nodded.
Preparations had already begun for the funeral. The halls felt heavy, like every stone in the castle carried a piece of Baelon's memory.
I went to see Queen Alysanne. I barely recognized her. The proud Queen of old was gone. What remained was thin, pale, hollow-eyed—a woman stretched thin by grief and time.
She took my hand and looked up at me. "Aemon, you've grown." Her voice was rough. "I don't have much time left, I can feel it. I wonder sometimes… was I a good mother? A good grandmother? Great-grandmother?"
"You were," I said quietly.
Her eyes watered. "You're a bright boy. One day, this family will lean on you. Use what you've been given. Protect them. Please."
"I promise I will."
The funeral was held at Dragonstone. They built the pyre with care, using driftwood from the shores and incense from the east. Vermithor lit it at the King's command. Flames caught quickly, rising high into the night sky.
As I watched my grandfather's body turn to ash, I said nothing. But in my heart, I made a vow.
Whatever legacy he left behind—whatever dream he had for this family—I would carry it.
Even if it broke me.