Valyria 310 AC
Jon Snow/ Aemon Targaryen
Underneath a sky painted in hues of blood and bruised violet, the great smoking sea of Essos stretched out endlessly, a churning cauldron of ash and embers. A dragon rider, perched atop a massive scaled beast with eyes like molten gold, surveyed the desolation below as an endless winter covered the once smoking land and a blizzard ravaged everything with endless ferocity. The air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and sulfur, and the once-great cities of Valyria lay in ruin, their spires and towers reduced to twisted, blackened remnants of their former glory.
Beneath the dragon rider, the ruins of Valyria sprawled like the carcass of a fallen giant, its once-proud towers reduced to heaps of shattered stone. The city, which had once been a marvel of architectural ingenuity, was now a labyrinth of crumbling walls and scorched archways. Vines twisted like black serpents around the remnants of grand palaces, their tendrils snaking through cracks in the stone as if trying to reclaim what was lost.
Amidst the devastation, the dragon rider saw glimpses of the city's former opulence: shards of stained glass windows, their vibrant colors now muted by time and smoke; ornate mosaics depicting long-forgotten legends, their intricate details marred by the passage of centuries; and fragments of marble statues, their proud faces eroded by the relentless onslaught of the elements. Each step through the ruins was a journey through history, a reminder of the majesty that had once been Valyria.
The smoking sea, a vast expanse of turbulent waters, bubbled and churned with an eerie vitality, at least, it did long ago, no the bubbles froze, the smoking sea was nothing but and snow, and endless mass of frozen water. Wisps of smoke rose from its surface, obscuring the horizon and casting a ghostly pallor over the scene as if the lands still knew that they were once fire and were to stubborn to be only ice, just like the rider himself. The sea itself seemed alive, its depths concealing mysteries as ancient and profound as the ruins that surrounded it. The dragon rider could feel the heat from the smoking sea, a palpable force that prickled his skin and made his eyes water and yet the cold winds stopped the heat form becoming over bearing, this was the only place of warmth that the dragon rider could survive in now.
As the dragon circled lower, the rider could see remnants of what was once a bustling harbor, now submerged beneath the ashen waves. The skeletal remains of ships jutted out of the water like the fingers of a drowning sailor, their masts and rigging tangled in a macabre dance. The sea, tainted by the cataclysm that had befallen Valyria, seemed to pulse with otherworldly blackened magics, a reminder of the terrible power that had brought about the city's downfall.
Even if the blood of the dragon was in his veins, the rider did not revel in his ancestors before the fall. They practiced magics blacker than sin, and all gods would condemn the magics that twisted flesh, magics of black, fire, and blood. The magic that twisted the great wyrms and mixed them with meek wyverns to make fire-breathing monstrosities that terrified both Essos and Westeros. The same creatures the rider rode upon now.
It was the blood of the First Men he claimed and honored the most. The blood of his mother, her father, and her father before him. Stubborn as they are, it was the First Men who claimed him, who fought for him, who died for him; his only regret was that he could not do the same for them a second time. The Freefolk claimed him when he was north of the Wall; the Northmen claimed him when he returned and brought the North against the true enemy, death.
But now there were no Valryians; there were no First Men, no Rhoynar or Andals, no Dathraki or Unsullied. All that was left was he; he was all that was left. The last dragon. The last dragon king. The last wolf. The last King in the North. The last man. He was merely Aemon Targaryen, one of the two last creatures with a beating heart and thinking mind. After he and his mount, there would be no more.
In truth, Aemon welcomed this; Aemon welcomed an end to years after his resurrection by the red priestess. Aemon understood the truest magics after spending time in the ruins of Valryia, searching for a way to end the Others. Only death could pay for life, and it was the death of Shireen Baratheon, burnt alive, that gave the witch enough strength in her craft to bring Aemon back to life.
He yearned to end this cruel joke from the gods if they were real. He knew not why he and Rhaegal, his mount, still lived through this horrible winter with no end. Even though their time had long since gone and their demise was certain, every time they met their enemies, they were released after suffering a little more damage. He had the impression that the Night King was amusing himself.
Both knew that only the other could end the existence of the other. Jon Snow had been killed at Castle Black and yet returned, later learning his true name and purpose. Arya had slain the Night King, and yet, as was said, only the promised prince can do such things; in the end, the Night King and his living dead returned once more, several years later after Westeros had fallen to Daenerys' madness.
The battle with the Lannisters and years of battle in the continent had drained the men dry of all things, and when Daenerys' armies came to fight in their stead, they were all slaughtered to gain the supposed victory granted by Arya. The Night King attacked when Essos' armies were weakened due to Westeros never fully rising to fight. Once Westeros fell, and Essos had no armies to fight back, it soon fell. And the world of men soon fell in quick succession.
There were moments when Aemon thought he should deny the Night King the win he'd long since earned in a game that would only conclude when he determined it would. He was ready to end his life at other times for various reasons. Sometimes, his suffering was unbearable, and he yearned to give in to the overwhelming impulse just to give up and go to them.
But he was unable to. Not only was he unsure a single heaven existed, let alone seven, and was waiting for him, but he was also uncertain if he would be accepted in such a place. In any case, why would the gods reward a failure like him? Why would there be a place for a man who was supposed to save the world and couldn't even save his family? A husband who failed to save his wife and a father who failed to save his kids. People such as that belonged in the seven hells that the earth had descended into, not the heavens; thus, he suffered life because he deserved to experience it.
The great-scaly creature roared a terrifying roar, ripping Aemon from his thoughts. His roar, a primal scream that echoed through the ruins of Valyria, sent shivers down the spines of even the bravest souls. It was a sound that spoke of ancient fury, a reminder of a time when dragons ruled the world, and all feared their wrath. The air seemed to tremble with the force of his voice, and those who heard it could not help but quiver in its presence.
Rhaegal, the emerald-bronze dragon, soared through the smoky skies with wide wings, casting a vast shadow upon the ruins of Valyria below. His scales gleamed in the fading light, each one a mosaic of emerald and bronze, catching the dying moonlight in a dazzling display. Aemon had not seen the sun in years, and thought it a sign that on this day he would bear witness to the first moonlight during the second Long Night. With eyes like molten gold, he surveyed the desolation beneath him, a predator searching for prey amidst the wreckage of a fallen kingdom.
Rhaegal, the Emerald Death, they once called his dragon—the last of his brothers, the last of Daenerys' three dragons. The Night King, once he had returned once more, had taken Drogon to mount like he did Viserion. Drogon hated Aemon with a passion once Aemon had killed his rider. But the dragon knew the dead were far worse, sparing his life, the dragon somehow knowing that the battle of the dead had not ended but was in a reprieve. Once the dead had returned once more, Drogon came upon the horde of dead and set them ablaze with never-ending flames. Aemon recalled the battle in which Drogon was lost; the last battle the living stood a chance.
In the depths of the darkest winter, when the world was shrouded in an eternal night, and the howling winds carried the icy breath of the Others, Rhaegal and Drogon, the last of their kind, soared above the frozen battlefield. Their scales, emerald-bronze and obsidian-black, gleamed like beacons amidst the endless expanse of white. Their eyes, burning with ancient fury and defiance, scanned the horizon, searching for the horde of the Others that threatened to engulf the world in eternal frost.
The endless army of Others stretched out before them, a sea of pale, frozen faces and glittering blue eyes. The air frozen with the malevolent winds of their presence, and their footsteps echoed like the drumming of a funeral march. But Rhaegal and Drogon were not deterred. They were dragons, creatures of fire and blood, and in the face of the endless winter, they were the last hope of humanity.
With a thunderous roar, Rhaegal unleashed a torrent of searing flames upon the approaching horde. The fire danced and twisted, consuming the White Walkers in its embrace. The frozen creatures, once so confident in their invincibility, shrieked in agony as the flames licked at their icy skin, melting them into puddles of water and steam. The smell of burning flesh and charred bone filled the air, a testament to the dragons' wrath.
Drogon, the largest and most fearsome of the two, followed suit, his mighty wings beating the air with a deafening roar. His flames were hotter and more ferocious, a white-hot inferno that turned the very snow beneath him into molten rivers. The White Walkers, caught in the onslaught, were incinerated in moments, their bodies reduced to ash and smoke.
Amidst the chaos, Rhaegal and Drogon moved in perfect harmony, their movements fluid and graceful despite their massive size. They circled each other, creating a deadly dance of death and destruction. The White Walkers, once a formidable force, were now nothing more than a smoldering ruin in their wake.
But the battle was far from over. The Night King, with eyes as blue as the frozen sea, emerged from the midst of his dwindling army. He raised his arms, and a blizzard of ice and snow engulfed the dragons, attempting to smother their flames. But Rhaegal and Drogon were not so easily extinguished.
With a defiant roar, Rhaegal unleashed a blast of fire that cut through the storm, his flames burning brighter and hotter than ever before. Drogon followed suit, his flames merging with Rhaegal's in a dazzling display of power. The blizzard melted away, unable to withstand the sheer force of the dragons' fury.
Under the shadowy veil of night, as the stars flickered feebly above, the Night King's malevolent eyes fixed upon Drogon, the mighty black-scaled dragon. With a cruel twist of fate, he hurled a spear of ice, honed from the frigid depths of winter, with deadly accuracy. The icy projectile sailed through the air, finding its mark with chilling precision, embedding itself deep into Drogon's neck. A deafening roar of pain and fury shook the very heavens, reverberating through the snow-laden landscape.
Drogon writhed in agony, his enormous wings beating the air in futile desperation. His obsidian-black scales, once impenetrable, were stained crimson with his own blood. The dragon's eyes, once alive with fire, now flickered with a hollow, soulless blue as the Night King's magic seeped into his veins, twisting his very essence.
With a gesture as cold as death itself, the Night King raised his hand, commanding the fallen dragon to rise. Slowly, agonizingly, Drogon obeyed, his movements stiff and unnatural. The dragon, once a creature of freedom and majesty, was now a puppet, a slave to the Night King's will. His wings, which had once carried him to the heavens, were now bound in servitude, and his roar, once a cry of triumph, was now a mournful wail that echoed through the night, more like crackling ice and the screeches of a banshee rather than a proud dragon's roar.
Under the Night King's control, Drogon took to the skies once more, his undead form a terrifying sight to behold. His eyes glowed with an eerie, otherworldly light, and his breath, once a scorching torrent of fire, now exhaled a chilling mist that froze the very air it touched. The Night King rode upon his back, a figure of death and despair, his icy touch sapping the warmth from the world around him. From there, the war was over, and it was now merely a game to him; it took two dragons to defeat the Night King with an undead mount, and it would be twice as difficult now with a dragon bigger than an undead Viserion, but an undead Drogon was far harder to defeat.
Aemon, his thoughts heavy with the weight of the past, spurred Rhaegal onward, the emerald-bronze dragon stretching his powerful wings against the howling winds. Together, they ascended into the storm-laden skies. The world below vanished beneath a shroud of relentless white as if the very heavens wept in icy grief.
The blizzard that engulfed them was unlike any other, a tempest of such ferocity that even the once-fiery volcanoes of Valyria had succumbed to the biting cold. The mountains that had once spewed molten fury into the sky were now frozen sentinels, their peaks adorned with icy crowns. The very winds were cold with frigid embrace of winter, and the world seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the storm to pass.
Rhaegal's emerald eyes glowed with an inner fire, a stark contrast to the desolation that surrounded them. His wings beat against the biting winds, carrying Aemon and himself through the heart of the blizzard. Aemon's fur-lined cloak whipped around him, its warmth a feeble barrier against the bone-chilling cold. Yet, he held on, his grip firm on Rhaegal's scales, his determination unwavering.
As they flew, Aemon's thoughts turned to the world they left behind. Valyria, the land of legends and forgotten mysteries, now lay buried beneath layers of snow and ice. The once-great cities, home to dragons and sorcerers, were nothing more than distant memories swallowed by the unforgiving embrace of winter.
The storm raged on, its fury unyielding, yet Aemon felt a strange sense of calm amidst the chaos. Perhaps it was the knowledge that he was not alone, that he had Rhaegal, the last of the great dragons, as his companion in this frozen wasteland. Or perhaps it was the realization that, even in the face of such overwhelming darkness, there was a flicker of hope, a glimmer of warmth that refused to be extinguished.
In the heart of the blizzard, Aemon's eyes narrowed with grim determination. He understood the Night King's strategy all too well. Valyria, the birthplace of dragons, the land where fire and magic once reigned supreme, was now threatened by the encroaching chill of the endless winter. The Night King sought to extinguish the very essence of what made Valyria legendary, turning its fiery heart into an icy tomb. It was a conquest that went beyond mere territory; the final nail in frozen coffin of the world.
With each beat of Rhaegal's wings, Aemon's resolve hardened. He knew the importance of their mission. As the last living beings with ties to the ancient Valyrian magic, their demise would mark the end of an era. The Smoking Sea, once a cauldron of fire and smoke, would fully freeze over, its depths becoming a lifeless expanse of ice. The world, stripped of its mystical essence, would succumb to the Night King's icy grasp, a realm devoid of the warmth that had once sustained life.
But Aemon refused to let that happen. Even if he was no longer a man of the Night's Watch, he was the Sword in the Darkness, the Shield that Guards the Realms of Men. He was the last of the Night's Watch, the defender of the living against the encroaching darkness. And Rhaegal, the last dragon, was his ally in this battle against the cold. With every breath, they defied the Night King's advance, pushing deeper into the heart of Valyria, where the Night King awaited, his icy tendrils stretching towards the ancient source of power.
As they neared the center of Valyria, the land of fire-made flesh now swallowed by the relentless winter, Jon's grip tightened on Rhaegal's scales. His eyes met the dragon's molten gaze, a silent understanding passing between them. They were the last defenders of the realm, the guardians of a dying legacy. They would face the Night King together, their courage a flickering flame against the vast, engulfing darkness.
The winds howled around them as they approached the epicenter of Valyria, where the Night King lay in wait. Aemon unsheathed his sword, Longclaw, its steel glinting dimly in the fading light. Rhaegal roared a defiant cry that echoed through the frozen wasteland. They were ready to confront the Night King, to stand against the endless winter and protect the world from being consumed by the cold.
As Aemon and Rhaegal approached the center of Valyria, they beheld a sight that chilled them to the bone. An endless army of White Walkers and undead stretched across the frozen seas, their lifeless eyes gleaming with an unnatural blue light. The sea of corpses seemed unending, a relentless tide that marched tirelessly toward the heart of Valyria. The ground trembled beneath the weight of their footsteps, echoing the ominous beat of a funeral march.
The closer they ventured towards the center, the harsher the snow blew, as if nature itself rebelled against the encroaching dragon. The winds howled with an eerie melody, carrying with them the whispers of the fallen and the cries of the damned. The air grew thick with an icy chill, cutting through Aemon's cloak and biting at his skin.
Aemon's eyes, once steely and resolute, now reflected a mixture of determination and dread. The magnitude of the threat before him was overwhelming. The Night King's army was a force of unyielding death, an embodiment of the endless winter that threatened to consume the world. The odds seemed insurmountable, and yet Aemon knew he could not falter. He was the realm's last hope, the beacon of light in a world submerged in darkness.
Rhaegal's powerful wings beat against the storm, carrying them forward into the heart of the approaching horde. The dragon's eyes blazed with an inner fire, mirroring Jon's determination. With a silent understanding between them, they prepared for the battle ahead. Jon gripped his sword, Longclaw, hard harder as the dark rippled Valyrian steel shimmering in the pale light. He steeled himself, drawing upon the courage of generations long past, the legacy of the Starks and Targaryens, and the bravery of the Night's Watch. Jon Snow's voice, raw with determination and fury, pierced the air as he screamed.
"Dracarys!"
The ancient Valyrian command sent a shiver down the spine of Rhaegal, the emerald-bronze dragon, who responded with a deafening roar. With a mighty beat of his wings, Rhaegal ascended into the sky, his scales glinting in the pale light before he unleashed a torrent of green and bronze flames upon the unending hordes of the undead.
The emerald inferno erupted from Rhaegal's maw, a searing cascade of fire that consumed everything in its path. The flames roared with a ferocity that matched the dragon's wrath, casting a brilliant light amidst the encroaching darkness. The army of the dead, once a relentless force, now found itself engulfed in a cataclysm of dragonfire.
Rhaegal circled above the battlefield, his eyes ablaze with primal power. With each pass, he sent waves of fire crashing into the endless ranks of White Walkers and undead, turning them into pillars of ash and smoke. The air was thick with the acrid scent of burning flesh and bone, and the ground trembled beneath the force of Rhaegal's onslaught.
The emerald-bronze dragon moved with unmatched grace and precision, his flames carving a path of destruction through the sea of the undead. His roars echoed across the battlefield, drowning out the screams of the dying and instilling fear into the hearts of those who still stood. Rhaegal's wings beat rhythmically, carrying him effortlessly through the night, his movements a deadly dance of fire and death.
The hordes of the undead, no matter how vast, were no match for the fury of Rhaegal's flames. The dragon's fire engulfed them, turning them into charred remnants of their former selves. The endless ranks that had once seemed unstoppable now withered and fell before the might of the last living dragon.
The emerald and bronze flames erupted from the skies, casting a brilliant spectacle against the inky darkness of the blizzard as the storms consumed the moon once more. They cascaded like a celestial waterfall, a mesmerizing torrent of fire and fury, their radiance a stark contrast to the unending cold that had gripped the world. The embers of Rhaegal's flames danced with an eerie, ethereal beauty, their green and bronze hues painting a portrait of destruction and defiance.
As the dragonfire descended upon the endless hordes of the undead, it created a tapestry of searing death. The flames engulfed the Others and their minions, reducing them to twisted, charred figures that disintegrated into ash. The screams of the dying and the crackling of the fire echoed through the night, a symphony of chaos and vengeance.
Amidst the flames and the chaos, the Night King emerged from the depths of the snowstorm. His malevolent presence, a dark figure clad in icy armor, seemed to materialize from the very heart of the blizzard. Atop an undead Drogon, he exuded an aura of dread and power, a harbinger of death and despair.
The two dragons, Rhaegal and Drogon, roared in unison, their voices echoing through the frozen skies. With a deafening roar, the two dragons charged toward each other, their enormous forms colliding in a titanic clash. The sky became a battleground, their massive wings casting aside the storm clouds as they grappled in a deadly dance. Their roars reverberated through the night, a primal symphony of power and determination.
The battle in the skies was a spectacle of elemental forces, a contest of fire and ice, life and death. The dragons clashed with a ferocity that shook the very heavens, their flames and frost entwined in a deadly embrace. Each pass, each attack, was a testament to the indomitable will of both sides, a battle that would shape the destiny of the world.
As the dragons circled each other in the frigid air, their riders, Aemon Targaryen and the Night King, locked eyes in a silent challenge. It was a moment of destiny, a confrontation between the champions of light and darkness, a battle that would decide the ultimate fate of the realm.
The clash of dragons reached a fevered pitch as blue flames erupted from the undead Drogon's gaping maw, casting an eerie azure glow across the snow-laden battlefield. The Night King's dragonfire crackled with an unnatural cold, an icy blaze that contrasted sharply against the emerald and bronze flames of Rhaegal. The two dragons roared in defiance, their roars echoing through the frozen air.
Rhaegal responded with a blast of his own green flames, the embers roaring forth with a fierce intensity. The emerald and bronze fire clashed with the Night King's frigid blue flames, creating a dazzling display of elemental power. The sky became a canvas of contrasting hues, a tumultuous symphony of fire and ice.
Amidst the clash of flames, the dragons locked eyes, their primal instincts driving them into a deadly grapple. With powerful beats of their wings, they soared towards each other; their claws outstretched like talons of death. The impact was thunderous as they collided mid-air, the force of their collision almost knocking Aemon off his mount. The two masses of dragons slammed into one another with enough force to collapse the Wall itself.
Their claws hooked onto one another, and they spiraled in a deadly dance, scales grinding against scales in a cacophony of fury. Rhaegal's burnt golden eyes blazed with determination, and Drogon's lifeless blue gaze glowed with an unholy malevolence. Their jaws snapped open and shut, attempting to rip at each other's necks with razor-sharp teeth.
The clash was primal and savage, a battle of titans locked in mortal combat. Each dragon fought with an indomitable will, their bodies twisting and contorting in the air as they grappled for supremacy. The clash of their jaws sent sparks flying, and the smell of burning flesh and singed scales permeated the air.
In the midst of their deadly grapple, Drogon's jaws clamped down on Rhaegal's shoulder, his teeth sinking into the emerald-bronze scales. The force of the bite sent shockwaves of pain through Rhaegal's body, eliciting a deep, primal roar of anguish. Rhaegal roared in agony. His roar was almost a defeated whimper, but his anger would not allow him to make such a pathetic sound. He roared thrice as loud as ever before. In retaliation, Rhaegal twisted his neck and was sinking his own teeth into Drogon's flesh. At the same time, he unleashed a torrent of his green and bronze flames directly into Drogon's wound, the searing heat intertwining with the cold of the Night King's creature.
The flames mingled within Drogon's wound, going into the almost hollow body of the dragon. For a moment, the undead dragon faltered, his grip loosening as the intense pain and heat surged through his body. Yet, Drogon's undead nature proved resilient. His eyes, once blue and lifeless, remained unfazed, devoid of pain or fear. He let go of Rhaegal, his jaws snapping back, and though the wound smoked with the dragonfire, it showed no sign of slowing him down.
"Sōvegon, Rhaegal! Jikagon eglikta! Eglikta!" 'Fly Rhaegal! Go higher! Higher!' Aemon roared to his mount in High Valryian, his accent far too Northern than was customary.
The emerald-bronze dragon obeyed, beating his powerful wings with renewed determination. They ascended swiftly, leaving the battlefield below and the Night King's icy gaze far behind. As they soared higher, the blizzard raged below them, obscuring their path from the Night King's view.
Jon's heart hammered in his chest as they climbed higher into the stormy heavens. He knew they needed the advantage of surprise if they were to stand a chance against the Night King and his formidable undead army. With each beat of Rhaegal's wings, they ascended further until the howling winds and the biting cold masked their presence from the eyes of their enemies. The winds ripping past Aemon's face as the roar of air stopped all other sound and the icy snow flakes flew past his face like small spears.
Higher and higher, they climbed until Rhaegal's wings carried them past the storm clouds that churned below. Higher still, they rose higher than any dragon dared to rise before. The roiling tempest, once an impenetrable barrier, now seemed like a distant memory as they soared into the pristine tranquility above. The vast expanse of space unfolded before them, revealing the twinkling stars that adorned the cosmos like scattered diamonds. Galaxies stretched out in infinite spirals, their colors painting the void with hues of ethereal beauty.
The full moon hung in the celestial tapestry, its silvery light casting a gentle glow upon the world below. Its radiance reflected off the emerald-bronze scales of Rhaegal, illuminating the dragon and his rider in a surreal, otherworldly light. It was a moment of surreal peace amidst the chaos of battle, a fleeting respite where time seemed to stand still.
Aemon, perched upon Rhaegal's back, took a moment to appreciate the serene beauty that surrounded them. The quietude of the cosmos enveloped them, and the calmness of the night washed over him like a soothing balm. He marveled at the vastness of the universe, the countless stars and galaxies that stretched out into infinity.
In the hushed stillness of the high heavens, Aemon found solace. He gazed at the stars, contemplating the mysteries of the universe and the enigma of life. His fingers brushed Rhaegal's scales, feeling the warmth beneath the emerald-bronze exterior. The dragon's presence was a comfort, a reminder that amidst the chaos, there was still a bond, a connection between man and beast.
It was a moment of reflection, a pause in the midst of the storm. The calm before the battle that awaited them. Aemon closed his eyes, letting the silence of the cosmos envelop him. He drew a deep breath, inhaling the crisp, cold air of the high skies. In that moment, he felt a strange sense of clarity, a determination that steeled his resolve.
Aemon, his knowledge of dragon-riding gleaned from the ancient Valyrian texts, understood the fundamental principles that governed these magnificent creatures. As he clung to Rhaegal's back high above the storm clouds, he knew that to defeat the undead Drogon, they needed speed and agility.
A dragon's flight was governed by this unyielding principle. To gain altitude and soar high above the battlefield, the dragon must sacrifice its speed. The massive wings, each beat a testament to the power of ancient Valyrian blood, could lift the dragon to great heights, offering a vantage point to survey the battlefield and strategize. In the silence of the high skies, a dragon and its rider could survey the vast expanse below, identifying threats and opportunities alike.
Conversely, to gain speed, a dragon must descend, using the force of gravity to propel itself forward. The dragon's sheer size and weight became an advantage in these moments, allowing it to hurtle through the air with breathtaking velocity. It was a maneuver that required precision and timing, a dance of gravity and power, as the dragon dived towards the earth, the wind roaring past its scales.
Understanding this delicate interplay of height and speed was crucial in battle. Aemon had honed his skills, learning when to ascend for a strategic advantage and when to descend for a swift attack. His command over Rhaegal was more than just a bond; it was a partnership built on knowledge and trust to kill death itself and bring fire and blood to winter.
With a firm grip on Rhaegal's scales, Jon leaned forward, his voice cutting through the silence of the cosmos. "Ropagon, Rhaegal!" Aemon ordered. His words were carried away by the wind. Rhaegal, sensing his rider's determination, obeyed without hesitation.
The emerald-bronze dragon responded with a powerful beat of his wings, tucking them close to his body as he began his descent, and he spun in the air to face the clouds beneath them. The rush of wind filled Aemon's ears as they plummeted downward, using gravity to their advantage. The world blurred around them, the twinkling stars and galaxies becoming streaks of light as they hurtled toward the earth below.
As they dove, Rhaegal's massive form became a streamlined arrow, his scales cutting through the air with increasing velocity. A green comment was striking down from the heavens. Their height and Rhaegal's size make every passage of seconds thrice as fast in speed as before. The descent allowed them to gain incredible speed, a vital advantage in their battle against the undead Drogon. Sacrificing height for speed, they became a force of nature, an unstoppable juggernaut hurtling towards their target.
Aemon could feel the rush of the wind, the pressure against his face, and the sheer power of the dive. He tightened his grip on Rhaegal's scales, his eyes fixed on the distant battlefield far below. The Night King's undead dragon was their prey, and they would use their speed and momentum to strike him down.
With a fierce determination, Rhaegal shot down from the ground towards the undead Drogon, his wings tucked close to his body. Drogon, aware of the incoming threat, unleashed a continuous stream of blue flames, a torrent of icy fire that lashed out towards the descending dragon. The searing flames struck Rhaegal, enveloping him in a curtain of blue and white, but the emerald-bronze dragon pressed on, his roar echoing through the battlefield despite the onslaught. The fires did not slow down the dragon faster than lightning.
Undeterred by the ferocity of the flames, Rhaegal bore down upon Drogon with unyielding resolve. With a thunderous impact, he slammed into the undead dragon, his powerful jaws closing around Drogon's neck. With a savage twist of his head, Rhaegal tore Drogon's head from its body, severing the connection between the Night King and his fearsome mount. Rhaegal let out a loud whimper as the killing blow to his brother left him vulnerable to Drogon's talons to spear through his chest. Even if Rhaegal were to survive the talons, he would not be able to survive the fall from this height.
The force of the collision sent Aemon hurtling through the air; his body was propelled off Rhaegal's back. Time seemed to slow as he flew, the world a blur of chaos and motion. His eyes locked onto the Night King, perched atop Drogon, a malevolent smirk playing on his lips.
Just as planned, Aemon's body arced through the freezing air, his sword, Longclaw, gleaming in the moonlight. With a fierce battle cry, he brought his weapon down upon the Night King, aiming for the heart. The Night King's eyes widened in surprise as he attempted to raise his icy blade in defense.
The clash of steel rang out as Longclaw met the Night King's weapon, a shower of sparks illuminating the night. Aemon's strength and determination surged through him, the weight of the world behind his strike over-head strike. The Night King fought back with supernatural speed and strength, their blades clashing in a deadly echo as the Night King's weapon came to his defense. The force of the two collided, sending both to topple over the beheaded Drogon, falling down to the ground hundreds of feet below.
In the heart of the chaos, Aemon and the Night King were wrenched from their mounts as the dragons collided, their weapons spiraling away into the abyss of the stormy skies. They grappled one another, two adversaries bound by destiny, falling hundreds of feet through the air.
Their bodies slammed into one another with bone-jarring force, the impact reverberating through them. Yet, neither yielded. They grappled and clawed, their battle an intricate dance of death and defiance. The sky became their arena, the stars and galaxies mere spectators to the clash of titans.
Their bodies twisted and contorted as they struggled, locked in a deadly embrace amidst the tempestuous winds. The Night King's eyes blazed with icy fury, his grip vice-like, while Jon fought back with every ounce of strength he possessed. The battle for the fate of the world continued, even as they plummeted toward the unforgiving earth below.
The wind roared in their ears, drowning out all other sounds. The world around them became a blur of snow, ice, and clouds. They were suspended between heaven and earth, their struggle a desperate fight for survival and supremacy. Each movement, each twist and turn, was a testament to their determination and willpower.
With a primal roar, Aemon managed to gain the upper hand for a moment, breaking free from the Night King's grip. He seized the opportunity, delivering powerful blows in rapid succession, aiming for the Night King's vulnerable points. The Night King, however, was not easily defeated. With a surge of supernatural strength, he retaliated, countering Aemon's attacks with calculated precision. The struggle continued, their bodies locked in a deadly ballet.
With the bitter winds of the high skies whipping around them, Aemon found himself overpowered, the Night King flipping him over so that he would fall first. Yet, in the face of certain death, Aemon's eyes glinted with a solemn acceptance. A sad smile curved his lips as he looked into the Night King's icy gaze.
"Killing you was the point," Aemon said, his voice carrying a weight of inevitability. "But living, living was a luxury." His fingers tightened around the hilt of the Catspaw dagger, the same weapon that had once been used in an attempt to assassinate Bran all those years ago.
With a sense of purpose that burned like wildfire, Jon whispered the words of the red priests, their ancient prayer of fire. The dagger responded to his incantation, its blade igniting with a bright green bronze flame, the fires of his dragon Rhaegal. The flames danced with a life of their own, casting an eerie glow across Jon's face, reflecting the fierce determination in his eyes.
In that moment, Jon Snow became a vessel of fire and fury, a beacon of hope amidst the encroaching darkness. The green bronze flames of his dragon, Rhaegal, found their manifestation in the blade of the dagger, a symbol of the bond between dragon and rider, life and death, light and shadow.
"Night gathers..." Jon began as the Night King tried to fight back the dagger, but the winds were pushing his arms back, making it easier for Aemon to push the dagger toward the heart of the Night King. "...and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come."
As the flames illuminated the freezing abyss of the skies, Jon drove the dagger toward the Night King with a force that defied his mortal limits. The blade struck true, piercing through the Night King's icy armor and into his heart. A shockwave of power reverberated through the air, a primal scream that echoed across the heavens. The screech of then thousand banshees and the sounds of glaciers cracking with icy winds.
The Night King's eyes widened in disbelief, his grip on Jon weakening. With a final surge of strength, Jon twisted the dagger, channeling the essence of Rhaegal's flame into the Night King's very soul. The Night King convulsed, his body consumed by the green bronze fire, his once-immortal form succumbing to the power of the living.
At that moment, the Night King's malevolent presence shattered like glass, his icy visage melting away into nothingness. Jon Snow and the Night King fell together, their fates intertwined until the very end. As they plummeted through the skies, Jon held onto the dagger, his grip unyielding, his spirit unbroken.
As the Night King met his end, his malevolent grip on the hordes of the undead was shattered. In the aftermath of his defeat, a powerful wave of energy rippled through the battlefield. The ground trembled, and the very air seemed to crackle with magic. All around, the Others and the undead, once formidable and relentless, began to crumble.
Their frozen forms disintegrated into dust, the essence that had bound them to the Night King dissipating into the wind. The night was filled with the sound of shattering ice and the echoes of the fallen as the countless undead creatures collapsed, their existence erased from the realm of the living.
The Night King's hold on his army was broken, and in their defeat, the hordes of the dead were no more. The battlefield, once a scene of chaos and terror, now lay silent, save for the howling winds and the whispers of the departing spirits.
He looked to Rhaegal, his dragon watching him in turn. While his dragon did not speak, it was cunning; it knew what was to happen. They would die here. They would fall to their deaths. How ironic that dragons would die from a fall. But they accepted this. Aemon welcomed this death, for maybe they could see their precious ones once more. The living had won, but no soul was left to celebrate.
"And now, my watch has ended," Aemon said. Aemon closed his eyes before he slammed into the ground.
Aemon once heard right before death, one sees their life over again. And this he can claim to be true. For at first, he saw Lyanna Stark caressing her freshly born son; the sheets too bloodied for an ordinary birth. Tears on her face, her breath haggard and shallow, she was going to die. Uncle Eddard, no older than he was when he took charge of the Wall, rushed into the room, sword drawn as he saw his sister dying. Making the promise to protect her Aemon Targaryen, whom he would name his bastard Jon Snow.
He saw memories of his brothers and sisters, cousins in truth, as they played. He watched the times he beat Rob, but Lady Stark's stern face and icy blue eyes would be quickly reminded that harsh punishments would be his reward for upstaging the trueborn son. He recalled how he loved his brother and envied him more than anything else.
He recalled going to the Wall for the first time and making the vows. He recalled hearing of his father's death and Rob's own. He recalled spending time with the Freefolk. He recalled falling for Ygritte. He recalled becoming Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. He recalled being killed for saving the Freefolk and aiding them south of the Wall. He recalled being brought back once more. He recalled fighting the Boltons and reclaiming Winterfell. He recalled bowing to Daenerys Targaryen for her dragons to win the Long Night. He recalled fighting the Night King, but his hordes of undead pushed him away when Aemon had the chance to end the fight. He recalled Arya killing the Night King for the first time.
Going down to King's Landing. Daenerys became the Mad Queen as she burned the city to the ground. Killing her. Being thrown in jail. Greyworm wanted Jon to join the Night's Watch, leaving the land once more. Sansa was arguing against it. The North rose for him. With them came the Vale due to Sansa's support and Rob Arryn being bound by blood to support his cousin. The Riverlands joined as well as Edmur Tully to support his niece. The Crownlands, led by the Velaryons, support Aemon, for they wanted a dragon on the throne once more, and a dragon willing to sully his honor for the good of the realm was more than honorable in their eyes, especially after the Mad King.
Willas Tyrell, with the same blunt tact as his late grandmother, offered the support of Highgarden and the Reach. Bluntly setting a royal marriage as the price. Claiming Margery, the only survivor of the Great Burn, as the explosion of wildfire in the Sept of Balor was being called, was still a maiden for Renly was a sword sallower, Joffery had other distractions, and Tommen was too young.
The Reach still had over one hundred thousand men to fight, and the Tyrells did not support Daenerys because for one reason or another; with their armies and being the richest family in the seven kingdoms after the fall of the Lannisters, Aemon needed their support if he was to rule after the battle of King's Landing. Similar to how Robert Baratheon was forced to do with Cersei Lannister to help keep the kingdoms in line.
The Martells had threatened to leave the seven kingdoms if not given a queen. To them, he was a bastard; even if his parents had married, they would never have recognized that Rhaegar annulled his marriage to Elia to marry his mother, Lyanna. Aemon knew that the Dornish survived multiple wars from his family even when they had more dragons than just his one, and knew he would be hard-pressed to take them back to the fold if they rebelled, especially since all the Westeroii forces were far too little to amount to anything.
Sansa, thinking quickly on his behalf, said that Aegon the Dragon had two wives, and so could Aemon. Both parties looking to one another agreed, with hesitation, the Reach and Dorne, not liking each other very much due to bad blood, supported Aemon. Tyrion agreed, as well as the new Warden of the West. All the seven kingdoms told Greyworm that if he wishes for the death of Aemon or his banishment, it is their wrath they would feel.
He remembered the first time he met his late wife, his betrothed at the time, Margery Tyrell. Aemon stood in the gardens of the Red Keep; he never spent time in the gardens and wanted to see them for himself. He had been the King of the seven Kingdoms, several of the free cities, and the Bay of Dragons for a year already, nothing but work plaguing his time.
Margery Tyrell stood amidst the blooming gardens of the Red Keep, her presence exuding grace and warmth. His brown hair cascaded down her back. Her light green gown, with golden stitches, was just low enough on her breasts to accentuate them. She had heard that the King had spent little time with women after his wildling lover, especially since he was a member of the Night's Watch and due to no noble woman in their right mind would spend time with a bastard; she wore the dress to help make sure his eyes were on her breasts.
Her golden-brown locks cascaded down in soft waves, framing a face that could launch a thousand ships. The sunlight filtered through the intricate latticework of her delicate crown, casting a warm, golden glow upon her flawless skin.
Margery's sky-blue eyes sparkled with a mix of intelligence and charm, reflecting the world around her. They were eyes that held secrets and dreams, eyes that could enchant even the most stoic hearts. Her lips, painted a subtle shade of rose, curved into a smile that could melt the iciest of souls. With every movement, she exuded grace and poise, her every gesture imbued with confidence and a hint of mischief.
Draped in sumptuous fabrics that seemed to have been spun from moonlight and stardust, Margery's gown clung to her slender figure in all the right places, accentuating her curves and enhancing her allure. Intricate embroidery adorned the fabric, depicting delicate roses in full bloom, a subtle nod to her noble lineage. The gown flowed gracefully as she moved, trailing behind her like a river of silk.
Her eyes sparkled with a playful charm as she looked at the newly crowned King of Westeros, Aemon, who appeared somewhat out of place in the elegant surroundings. He wore blackened clothes, nothing expensive; they looked sickeningly similar to the blackened jerkins of the Night's Watch.
Aemon, his dark gray eyes a blend of uncertainty and awkwardness, shifted uncomfortably under Margery's gaze. He attempted to find the right words, but they seemed to elude him. Clearing his throat, he managed a hesitant smile. "Lady Margery, it's an honor to meet you," he said, his voice tinged with a hint of formality.
Margery, ever perceptive, sensed Jon's unease and decided to put him at ease. "The honor is mine, Your Grace," she replied, her voice melodic and calming. "I must admit, I've heard many tales of your bravery and courage during the Long Night. They say you faced the Night King himself. A true hero of our time."
Aemon shifted his weight from one foot to the other, a gesture that revealed his discomfort. He was unused to courting, Ygritte had just told him she was his due to him stealing her when he had kidnapped her when they first met across the Wall, she was blunt and straightforward, subtlety was not her strength and she claimed him quickly. It did not help that he had not spent time with his betrothed, Margery or Arianne. "I... I only did what I had to do," he said, his humility evident. "We all fought together, and it was the unity of the realm that prevailed."
Margery smiled, her eyes softening with genuine admiration. "Modesty is a rare trait in a king," she said. "It speaks volumes of your character."
As they strolled through the gardens, Aemon's eyes fell upon a bust of Winter Roses, their delicate petals frozen, blue as the deep frozen oceans. He couldn't help but be drawn to the sculpture near them, a woman with a crown of roses, his gaze lingering on the intricate details.
Margery noticed his fascination and, following his gaze, spoke softly, her words carrying a touch of melancholy. "Winter Roses, the flowers of Winterfell. They're quite beautiful; this is the first time I have lain my eyes on them. A symbol of love and devotion."
"In Winterfell, I used to tend to the Winter Roses, far before I knew what they meant to my family, as a Stark or a Targaryen." Aemon nodded, his voice barely a whisper. "My parents... my mother loved Winter Roses. My father, Rhaegar, gave them to her."
Margery's eyes softened with understanding. "A love story for the ages," she said, her voice gentle. "It's said that Winter Roses are a reminder of the enduring bond between Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, your parents."
Aemon glanced at Margery, his eyes reflecting a mix of sorrow and pride. "Yes, a bond that changed the fate of the realm," he said, his tone tinged with a sense of reverence. "Love is the death of duty, Maester Aemon told me that. It would seem the case with my parents."
Margery reached out, her hand resting lightly on Jon's arm, offering him comfort in her touch. "Love stories like theirs are rare, Your Grace. It's a testament to the power of love, even in the face of challenges."
For the first time, Jon felt a sense of ease in Margery's presence. Her words resonated with him, and he found himself opening up, his stiff demeanor softening. "Thank you, Lady Margery," he said, his voice genuine. "Your words bring comfort."
Margery smiled, her kindness illuminating her features. "We all carry stories in our hearts, Your Grace," she said. "It's what makes us who we are."
When meeting Arianne, she had snuck into his chamber and somehow passed Aemon's guards; he had yet to establish King's guard since all had perished, and the ones before his reign were proven to be bought out by other lords and ladies.
Aemon stood in his bed-chamber, the dim candlelight casting flickering shadows across the walls. His mind was clouded with confusion and concern as he beheld Arianne Martell, his betrothed, who had seemingly appeared out of thin air past his guards and into the privacy of his chambers.
Arianne Martell, a vision of unmatched allure in the realm of Westeros, stood before him, a look of boarding anger on her face. Her presence commanded attention, her beauty the stuff of legends. Arianne possessed the kind of striking allure that could ensnare even the most indifferent hearts.
Arianne was short and gracefully built, her figure sculpted to perfection, accentuated by her gown that clung to her curves like a second skin. Her skin was bronzed, kissed by the sun of Dorne, smooth as silk, and adorned with a smattering of sun-kissed freckles across her nose and cheeks. Her eyes, a shade of deep, dark hazel, sparkled with intelligence and mischief, framed by long, thick lashes that brushed against her skin whenever she blinked.
Her lips, full and sensuous, carried a natural, inviting smile that hinted at secrets and promises whispered under moonlit Dornish nights. Arianne's hair, a cascading waterfall of glossy black curls, tumbled down her back, often adorned with jewels and flowers, enhancing her captivating charm. When she moved, her hair swayed like silk in the breeze, adding an ethereal quality to her already mesmerizing presence.
Arianne's dress, chosen deliberately to capture attention, was a masterpiece of craftsmanship and bold design. The fabric, a rich, deep crimson, clung to her body, leaving little to the imagination. The neckline plunged daringly, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of her ample bosom, while the slit along the side of the dress rose scandalously high, showcasing her long, toned legs with each graceful step she took. The gown was adorned with intricate embroidery, glistening with gold and silver threads, accentuating her curves and adding a touch of regal elegance to the daring ensemble.
His brow furrowed, Aemon regarded her with a mixture of surprise and wariness. "Lady Arianne, how did you get in here? My guards should have never allowed this."
"In Dorne, we Martells are a principality. I am Princess Arianne, your grace, not Lady," she returned flatly.
"Princess Arianne, forgive me. I spent only a year of my life south of the Neck; I do not know as much about Dorne as I would like," he admitted truly. Arianne had heard the King an honest man, and from what she saw, he could not lie to save his life; his words now were as true as one's words could be.
Arianne, her eyes ablaze with frustration, crossed her arms, her tone carrying a sharp edge. "Your guards proved to be rather accommodating, I must say," she replied, her voice cool and composed despite her evident displeasure. "I've waited nearly a year for this meeting, Your Grace. A betrothal is not a trivial matter to be ignored, and I demand the respect and attention that it deserves."
Aemon sighed, a heavy weight settling on his shoulders. "I apologize if it seemed that I was avoiding you, Lady Arianne," he said, his voice tinged with regret. "The realm has been in turmoil, and my responsibilities as king have kept me occupied."
Arianne's eyes narrowed, her frustration evident. "Responsibilities, yes. But surely a king can find a moment to meet his intended bride? I have traveled a great distance to be here, and I deserve more than an apology and an excuse."
Aemon ran a hand through his dark hair, his expression troubled. "You're right, Princess Arianne. I should have made time to meet you sooner. It was never my intention to make you feel neglected."
Arianne's demeanor softened slightly, her eyes searching his face for sincerity. "I need more than words, Your Grace," she said, her voice gentler now. "I need to know that you are committed to this union, that our marriage will not be a mere formality."
Aemon met her gaze, his eyes earnest. "I am committed to our marriage, Princess Arianne," he said, his voice steady. "I may be inexperienced in matters of the heart, but I understand the gravity of our union. I will do my best to honor our betrothal and the vows we will take."
Arianne studied him for a moment, her gaze assessing. Finally, she nodded, her expression softening. "Very well, Your Grace. I will hold you to your word. But know that I am not a woman to be ignored or taken lightly. Our union will be a partnership of equals, and I expect to be treated with the respect and consideration that I deserve."
Aemon nodded, his determination clear in his eyes. "You have my word. I will do everything in my power to be the husband you deserve. I will need help since I do not know much of Dornish customs."
Arianne Martell's eyes glimmered with a seductive allure as she moved closer to Aemon. She allowed her voice to lower, her words taking on a sultry tone. "Your Grace, perhaps there are some things about Dorne that I could teach you," she purred, her fingers tracing a tantalizing pattern along his arm. "Our ways are... different from those in the North."
Aemon felt the heat of her presence, her proximity sending a shiver down his spine. He was aware of her feminine wiles, the way she seemed to weave a web of desire around him. Yet, he remained steadfast, his honor and integrity keeping him rooted in place.
"Arianne, I cannot," Aemon said firmly, gently but firmly removing her hand from his arm. "I am an honorable man, and I cannot engage in such actions before our marriage. I will not dishonor our betrothal in this way."
Arianne blinked, surprised. It was evident that she was not accustomed to being turned down, especially not by someone as alluring as Aemon. But instead of anger, a spark of something different flickered in her eyes – a newfound respect, perhaps, or a curiosity piqued by the challenge.
She took a step back, her gaze fixed on Jon's eyes. "You truly are something different, Aemon Targaryen. Perhaps the Night's Watch has whipped you into shape more fiercely that I thought." she said, her voice tinged with a mix of admiration and something else, something akin to intrigue. "It's a rare quality in a man. Most would have yielded to temptation without a second thought."
Aemon met her gaze, his expression unwavering. "I may be a king, but I am also a man of my word. I will not betray our vows before they are made."
Arianne smiled a slow, genuine smile that seemed to reveal a depth of character beyond her seductive facade. "I like a man who can resist," she admitted, her tone suggestive. "It seems I have found a worthy challenge in you, Jon Snow."
With that, she turned away; her walk a graceful sway of hips that seemed to echo her confidence. Aemon watched her go, his thoughts a whirlwind of emotions. He knew that Arianne Martell was not to be taken lightly, that her allure was as dangerous as it was captivating.
The final memory he saw was of years later, after he was married to the two women.
Aemon sat in front of the fireplace, Longclaw, his ancestral Valyrian steel sword, gleaming in his hands as he meticulously cleaned its blade. His eyes were fixed on the flickering flames, his thoughts lost in the depths of his own musings. The warmth of the fire did little to chase away the chill that seemed to permeate his very bones.
Unbeknownst to him, Margery Tyrell and Arianne Martell, his wives, approached him from behind, their footsteps barely making a sound on the soft rugs of the chamber. They exchanged mischievous glances, silently agreeing to tease their husband out of his brooding state.
Margery, with her usual grace, was the first to speak, her voice light and teasing. "Ah, the King of the Seven Kingdoms, deep in thought once again," she quipped, her hand gently resting on Aemon's shoulder. Margery, her eyes sparkling with amusement, spoke first. "My love, are you brooding again?" she asked, her voice a playful melody. "I thought we agreed that there would be no more brooding after our marriage."
Aemon started at her touch, nearly dropping the sword, and turned to look at her with a mix of surprise and amusement. "I do not brood," he protested, though a hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
Arianne, equally playful, joined in, leaning in close to Jon on his other side. "He's right, Margery. Aemon doesn't brood. He...contemplates."
Aemon's smile grew, his eyes meeting Arianne's. "Contemplating is a noble pursuit," he replied, his voice filled with warmth.
Margery tilted her head and cast an appreciative gaze at her husband. "It's true, Aemon, you have a way of making even brooding look rather...dashing."
Arianne, her lips curving into a sly smile, chimed in, "Yes, but brooding is quite unbecoming for a king. Perhaps we should find a way to distract you from such dark thoughts."
Aemon looked up, his brows furrowing as he attempted to defend himself as he cleaned his blade. "I don't brood," he protested, his voice earnest. "I'm just... thinking."
Arianne moved to the other side, her touch just as gentle as she brushed a strand of hair away from Aemon's face. "Perhaps we can help you forget whatever troubles your mind," she suggested, her voice low and seductive.
Aemon cleared his throat, his cheeks flushing slightly under the combined scrutiny of his wives. "I appreciate your concern, but I don't need distractions," he said, his attempt at seriousness faltering under their teasing gazes.
Margery leaned in closer, her lips hovering near Aemon's ear. "Are you sure about that, Your Grace?" she whispered, her warm breath sending a shiver down his spine.
Arianne's fingers danced along Aemon's arm, her touch leaving a trail of heat in its wake. "We could make you forget all about your worries," she added, her voice a sultry invitation.
Aemon swallowed hard, his resolve weakening as he felt their proximity, their flirtatious energy enveloping him. "I... um, maybe a small distraction wouldn't hurt," he admitted, his voice betraying his uncertainty.
Margery and Arianne shared a triumphant glance before simultaneously pressing a soft kiss to either side of Jon's neck, their lips warm against his skin. Their laughter mingled with his surprised gasp, and in that moment, Jon found himself swept away by the playful affection of his wives.
The laughter of their children echoed through the chamber, and before Margery, Arianne, and Aemon could continue their playful banter, the door burst open, and their thirteen children tumbled into the room. The children bore a striking resemblance to their Valyrian heritage, with silvery-blonde hair and the legendary purple eyes of the Targaryens. Even if Aemon looked like his father and took after the Starks, Aemon was the only Valryain-blooded person for miles, and his children had his Valryain blood strong in their veins.
The sight of their offspring, so full of life and energy, brought smiles to their parents' faces. The children, ranging in age from the eldest to the youngest, raced around the room, their laughter a joyful cacophony that filled the air.
The room was a vibrant scene of family, love, and happiness. Baby dragons, the offspring of Rhaegal, circled above the children, their wings shimmering with different colors and intricate patterns. Each dragon was unique in appearance and personality, a testament to the bond between dragon and rider.
Aemon, his earlier brooding forgotten, watched with a sense of wonder as the children and dragons played together. His own dragon, Rhaegal, hovered protectively nearby the keep, a watchful guardian to the new generation of dragon riders as Aemon was stuck inside the castle more often than not.
Margery grinned, her eyes twinkling with affection. "My, my, it seems our little ones are having quite the time," she said, her voice filled with amusement.
Arianne's lips curved into a smile as she watched their children, her heart swelling with love. She wished to be angry at them; they had stopped her for the nightly return of taking her husband to bed, but one of the dragons popped by her head and flew back down to the children as they tried to catch one in a game of tag. "We told you not to let them free at this hour of the night," she added, her voice softening at the sight of the tiny creatures that flew around the room, their scales shimmering in a myriad of colors.
The eldest of their children, a tall and elegant girl, six years of age, with a crown of braided hair, stepped forward, her purple eyes almost dark enough to mirror Aemon's own. "Father, Mother, we were training with the dragons," she said, her voice bubbling with excitement. "They're getting stronger every day!"
Margery ruffled the girl's hair affectionately, her smile tender. "I'm sure you all did wonderfully, Alyssa," she said, her gaze sweeping over her children with maternal pride.
Arianne knelt down to the youngest of the brood, a curious little boy with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "And what were you doing with the dragons, Aenys?" she asked, her tone playful.
The boy grinned, his tiny hands gesturing animatedly. "I was playing catch with Ember, Mama! She's the fastest one!"
Aemon couldn't help but chuckle at his son's enthusiasm, his heart swelling with love for his family. "Well, it sounds like you had quite the adventure," he said, his eyes meeting those of his wives, gratitude and love shining in their depths.
Rhaegar, Jon's eldest son and heir, his eldest child with Arianne, now five year's of age, approached his father with eager eyes, his youthful energy practically radiating. He tugged at Aemon's sleeve, his voice filled with anticipation. "Kepa, when can I ride my own dragon? Snowfyre is too big to fit in the castle."
Aemon smiled down at his son, his hand ruffling the boy's silvery hair. "One day, Rhaegar, you will," he said, his voice reassuring. "But you need to be patient and learn how to care for them first. It's a big responsibility. They aren't just some horses you could ride; they are fire-made flesh, and they are far stronger and faster. You must understand before you ride them."
Rhaegar nodded, a determined expression on his young face. "I'll be the best dragon rider, just like you, Kepa"
Before Aemon could respond, his daughter Lyanna, the same age as Rhaegar and betrothed to him, his eldest daughter with Margery, chimed in with a pout. "Rhaegar promised we'd go on our first dragon ride together," she protested, her eyes narrowing in accusation.
Rhaegar turned to his betrothed, a sheepish smile on his face. "I did promise, didn't I?"
Lyanna's expression softened as she playfully nudged Rhaegar. "You did. And I've been waiting for it."
Aemon chuckled at their exchange, the affection for his children evident in his eyes. "Well, it seems we'll need to plan a dragon ride for both of you soon," he said, his tone indulgent. "But you'll have to be patient a little longer."
Aemon would now rest; he would welcome the darkness and see his family once more. He just prayed to whatever god was listening that his family knew that the reason he took so long was to make sure their deaths weren't in vain. He prayed they can forgive him for taking so long.
In the mere seconds following his death, Aemon found himself in a state of bewildering confusion. It was not his first encounter with death; he had faced it bravely before, most notably at the hands of the Night's Watch, only to be resurrected by the mystical powers of Melisandre. However, this time, the experience was vastly different. He had welcomed death and prepared himself for its icy embrace, but what he was feeling now was unlike anything he had ever imagined.
As his consciousness slipped away, Aemon felt his body being consumed by an overwhelming darkness. It was as if he was being swallowed by an abyss, his senses numbed, and his awareness shrouded in an impenetrable void. He was aware of the absence of sensation, his body feeling weightless yet confined as if it was being forced into the fetal position against his will.
Desperation gripped him as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. He attempted to open his eyes, but they remained stubbornly shut as if glued together by some unseen force. Panic welled up within him, and he attempted to draw a breath, but his lungs refused to cooperate. He felt intense pressure as if an invisible hand was crushing the air out of him, leaving him gasping for something that would not come.
Time lost its meaning in this disorienting void. Seconds stretched into eternity, and Jon's mind grappled with the paradox of existence and non-existence. Memories of his past life flashed before his eyes – the faces of the people he loved, the battles he had fought, the oaths he had sworn. Yet, these memories felt distant, as if they belonged to someone else, a person who no longer existed. As if he had only known of it from reading a book with all this knowledge, a book of extreme detail but he did not experience the book's event himself.
In the midst of his disorienting and suffocating ordeal, Aemon suddenly experienced a profound shift. The wetness enveloped him, and the cacophony of sounds filled his ears. He could discern the echoing cries, the chatter, and the soft murmurs that surrounded him. It was as if he was caught in a maelstrom of sensations and emotions, and the world outside seemed to be closing in on him, squeezing him from all sides.
The pressure intensified, and he felt himself being forcibly propelled through an unseen passage. In an instant, the oppressive darkness began to recede, giving way to a blinding, radiant light. The intensity of the light was almost unbearable, but amidst the brilliance, Aemon felt an inexplicable sense of peace and serenity. As his awareness expanded, he realized he was no longer trapped in the void; he was being born anew.
The sensation of movement enveloped him as he was propelled forward, emerging from the confines of his previous existence. With each passing moment, the light grew brighter, washing away the remnants of his past life, and cleansing him of the darkness that had consumed him moments ago. He felt weightless and pure, unburdened by the complexities of the world he had known. As his eyes struggled to adjust to this newfound brilliance, Aemon's confusion gave way to awe as he saw several people running around a small room.
Amidst the newness of his existence, Aemon felt an overwhelming sense of confusion and bewilderment. His consciousness, once burdened with the memories of his past life, was now that of an innocent infant, unable to comprehend the complexities of the world around him, at least it should have been, but his thoughts were plagued with the life had just left. Was he not the last living person? Were these survivors of the Night King?
He was utterly perplexed. Why was he small? Why was he born once more? Why was he a baby, unable to articulate the questions swirling in his infant mind? The faces around him were unfamiliar, caring, yet unknown. He longed to voice his confusion, to ask why this rebirth had occurred, but all that escaped his tiny mouth were cries – cries that seemed to echo the depths of his confusion and fear.
The adults attending to the birth, seasoned and experienced, continued their work, their faces etched with a mix of concentration and tenderness. Oblivious to Jon's inner turmoil, they checked the newborn baby boy, ensuring his health and safety in those precious first moments of life.
As Aemon's cries filled the air, he felt a profound sense of vulnerability, a realization of his newfound dependence on others. The world, once familiar yet now utterly alien, seemed vast and overwhelming. He was left to grapple with the enigma of his existence in the only way he knew how – through the primal language of cries and tears.
Amidst the cries of the newborn baby, the maester proclaimed, "It's a boy," his voice echoing through the chamber. He carefully handed the baby to the mother, whose dark black locks framed her pale face and steel-grey eyes. She looked young, far too young to be a mother in Aemon's eyes. She was about the age Aemon was when he joined the Wall, and a woman that young birthing a child was more likely to perish due to the birth. The maester, a wise and experienced balding elder of a man, received a warm smile from the mother.
"Thank you, Grand Maester Allar," she said, her voice soft yet filled with gratitude.
As Aemon lay in his mother's arms, he tried to make sense of the world around him. His eyes, still adjusting to the light, scanned the chamber, taking in the intricate tapestries and ornate furnishings. He felt a strange familiarity with his surroundings, a knowing that he was in the Red Keep, but it had been destroyed. The Night King had rode upon the undead Drogon and lain waste to all of King's Landing; the Red Keep was nothing but ruins.
Grand Maester Allar, a figure of authority and knowledge, approached the woman with a gentle smile. "Congratulations, Princess Lyanna. He's a healthy and strong boy," he said, his voice filled with genuine joy.
'Lyanna! Steel gray eyes like the storms in the North. Black hair in curls. Long Stark face. The woman was more beautiful than most. Lyanna Stark! I am being birthed by my birth mother once more!' he thought to himself.
Aemon's confusion deepened as he realized the inconsistencies in his surroundings. The familiarity he had felt with the Red Keep was shattered by the realization that he should not have been born here. His memories, now fragmented and muddled, clashed with the reality unfolding before him. He was born in the Tower of Joy.
As he lay in Lyanna Stark's arms, he struggled to make sense of the situation. She looked tired, sweaty, haggered, as she breathed with heavy breaths. 'But this can't be right,' he thought, his baby mind unable to articulate the words. He tried to recall the Tower of Joy, the whispers of the past, but the memories slipped away like sand through his fingers.
The name Grand Maester Allar echoed in his ears, but it did not align with the history he remembered. Pycelle was the Grand Maester during Aerys's rule, during the time of Aemon's birth. The pieces of the puzzle refused to fit together, leaving Aemon in a state of profound disorientation.
Lyanna looked down at Aemon, her newborn son, her eyes filled with a mixture of love and wonder. "He's beautiful," she whispered, her fingers gently brushing against Aemon's tiny cheek.
As he stared up at Lyanna's face, he saw a mix of emotions – love, concern, and unspoken sadness. He longed to ask her about the inconsistencies, to understand why his past and present seemed to be entwined in a confusing web of contradictions. But all he could do was gaze at her, his eyes searching for answers that remained out of reach. The woman was shriveled, sick, sweating, tired, and red in the face.
As a man with silver-blonde hair burst into the room, his Valyrian features immediately captured Aemon's attention. High cheekbones, ethereal beauty, and an aura of regality marked him unmistakably as a Targaryen. His body is tall, lean, and strong; he is a warrior, and his body and his movements are proof of it. He was handsome, being clean-shaven with long hair partially pulled back. His eyes, a shade of deep violet, held a mixture of relief and satisfaction as he inquired, "Lyanna, are you alright?"
Lyanna, still cradling Aemon in her arms, managed a weak but reassuring smile. "I'm fine," she replied, her voice steady despite the ordeal of childbirth, "meet our son."
The Targaryen man's smile widened at the sight of the baby in Lyanna's arms. His eyes, so similar to Aemon's, softened with a mix of paternal pride and affection. Aemon observed the intricate black and red jerkin worn by the man, adorned with the colors of the Targaryen family – a sight that further solidified his realization that he was in the presence of a member of House Targaryen.
Aemon's tiny fingers clenched and unclenched, his infantile mind trying to process the significance of the moment. He didn't yet understand the implications of his parentage, but he could sense the gravity of the situation.
As the Targaryen man approached them, he reached out to gently touch Aemon's cheek. His touch, though unfamiliar, felt strangely comforting. Aemon stared up at him, his wide eyes reflecting the mystery of his own existence and the enigma of the world he had been born into.
Grand Maester Allar, with his quill poised above parchment, addressed Daemon Targaryen, his voice respectful yet inquisitive. "And what shall be the name of your new son, Prince Daemon."
Aemon thought of the prince. Prince Daemon Targaryen, the name Grand Maester Allar, there were three eras in Targaryen history Aemon knew more than any other. The conquest of Dorne by Daeron the Young Dragon, the Blackfyre Rebellions, but more than any other, the Dance of Dragons. He had dreaded it over and over again to ensure he avoided the event before Night King returned. He had made sure the blood of Martells and Tyrells, from his children, married one another to ensure Hosue Targaryen had not divided itself as it did in the Dance. He had read the accounts after the events, during, and before. It took some time, but the name Grand Maester Allar was the second to last Grand Maester in the end of Jaehaerys', the Old King, reign and he called the prince, Daemon, the King Viserys' brother. This man, his father, was the Rouge Prince.
Daemon Targaryen, his gaze still fixed on the baby in Lyanna's arms, hesitated for a moment before speaking. "His name shall be Prince Aemon Targaryen, after Caraxes' first rider," he declared, his voice carrying the weight of a decision made long before this moment. "