Red Keep 103 AC
Jaehaerys Targaryen
In the dimly lit chamber of the Red Keep, the air hung heavy with the scent of age and impending departure. Jaehaerys, the Old King, lay on his ornate bed, draped in the regal trappings of a lifetime spent ruling the Seven Kingdoms. The room echoed with the whispers of memories dancing through his mind, a tapestry woven with triumph and tragedy.
How many times had he whispered jests and jokes to Alysanne in these walls? How many times had she told him of court gossip when he had just been crowned at four and ten years of age? How many times had they vowed to one another that the convent they vowed before gods and men would be the foundation that the Targaryen family would see as the greatest reign of King and Queen, dual dragon-riders, to ever be? How many days since he last heard his late wife's voice?
Jaehaerys had been a monarch of unparalleled insight, a ruler whose reign spanned decades, marked by accomplishments that left an indelible imprint on the annals of Westerosii history. He had unified a fractured realm, fostering peace and prosperity through shrewd diplomacy and strategic alliances. His fingers had deftly danced across the cyvasse board of politics, forging bonds that held the Seven Kingdoms in a delicate balance. While also forging the executioner's sword that now lay before his head. That is what king is now, isn't it? A man who forges the sword that protects his realm and yet is used to end his days. He had learned this lesson long ago: a man is the reason for his own death, whether by not knowing, not preparing, or making a mistake.
The Old King had faced threats from within and without, navigating the treacherous currents of courtly intrigue with a wisdom that earned him the epithet of the Conciliator. His rule had seen the construction of the mighty Dragonpit, a testament to the taming of the once unruly dragons that had wreaked havoc upon the land. The realm flourished under his just governance, and Jaehaerys had earned the respect and admiration of lords and commoners alike.
Yet, for all his achievements, the Old King's personal life had been a tapestry of sorrow. He had outlived most of his children, watching with a heavy heart as the torchbearers of his bloodline flickered and faded. The death of his beloved wife had cast a long shadow over the latter years of his reign, leaving him with the haunting echo of her laughter and the ache of her absence.
As the final chapter of Jaehaerys' life unfolded, the once vigorous ruler now lay frail and feeble on his bed. The oppressive weight of time bore down upon him, rendering his once-mighty frame a mere reflection of its former glory. The majesty of his regal attire and clothing could not conceal the inevitable truth – the Old King was no longer the invincible force that had shaped the realm's fate.
Each labored breath was a reminder of mortality, and the rhythmic pulse of a weakening heart echoed through the chamber. His once-commanding voice now a mere whisper, Jaehaerys could barely move his limbs, the once-mighty muscles now betraying him in his twilight hours. Trapped in the confines of his regal bed, the monarch was a prisoner of his diminishing vitality.
Amidst the shadows that clung to the room, the solitary figure of Stranger himself materialized. A venerable presence, he bore witness to the final moments of a storied life. The old man's eyes, reflecting the wisdom of ages, met Jaehaerys' gaze with empathy and reverence. Daily, he offered companionship to the dying king, a silent witness to the ebbing of a once-mighty flame. The Stranger was nothing more than death, and Jaehaerys had heard it had many faces, and yet it chose the face of a skull. Why would death be anything less than a skeleton? Yet another in his large closet. How he wished death greeted him with the face of his wife; at least then he could pretend it was welcoming, and at least then he could fall for its trap. But he stared at the empty sockets, the abyss with knowledge older than Jaehaerys's very ancestry; he looked at the Stranger and wondered how long the Stranger had been waiting to embrace the Old King.
As the Old King's awareness waned, he knew that today marked the culmination of his journey. The threads of his life were fraying, and the tapestry of his existence was unraveling. In the quiet of that chamber, Jaehaerys, the Old King, prepared to step beyond the veil, leaving the living and joining the dead. How many people in Westeros can say they died of old age? Lived a full life? Not many he supposed.
Jaehaerys I Targaryen is the name that resonates through the ages as the longest-reigning and perhaps the mightiest and wisest monarch in the storied history of House Targaryen. His ascension to the Iron Throne in 48 AC marked the beginning of a remarkable era that would see the Seven Kingdoms transformed under his sagacious rule.
One of King Jaehaerys' most enduring legacies was the construction of the Kingsroad, a monumental feat that connected the capital of King's Landing to the farthest reaches of the North. This engineering marvel facilitated trade, communication, and unity throughout the realm, solidifying Jaehaerys' commitment to fostering a cohesive and interconnected kingdom.
However, the reign of the Old King was challenging. In the aftermath of the Faith Militant uprising, Jaehaerys undertook the arduous task of reconciling with the Faith of the Seven. The scars of religious conflict ran deep, but through diplomatic finesse and genuine efforts at understanding, the king restored a semblance of harmony between the Iron Throne and the Faith.
The might of House Targaryen was most vividly demonstrated in the series of conflicts known as the Dornish Wars. Jaehaerys, with his formidable dragon Vermithor, rode into battle during the second, third, and fourth Dornish wars, securing victories that solidified Targaryen's dominance over Dorne. His strategic insight and the awe-inspiring presence of his dragon became legendary, leaving an indelible mark on the history of Westeros.
Vermithor, one of the largest dragons in Targaryen history, was the steadfast companion of King Jaehaerys throughout his long and illustrious reign. The bond between dragon and rider symbolized the Targaryen legacy and a testament to the power wielded by the ruling House. Jaehaeyyrs was sad he could fly his dragon. he wished he could fly with Aemon at least once in his life. The boy was better at riding than any man Jaehaerys knew, at least, going from Daemon's perception, and the man was more than certainly biased. But he supposed he would trust Aemon to help find Vermithor a worthy rider one of these days. Maybe Aemon could ride alongside his dragon's future rider like Jaehaerys wished Aemon had done with himself. It was selfish. But a dying man can do such things since he has no need to care for the backlash any longer.
Beyond the battlefield, Jaehaerys earned a reputation as a wise and just ruler. His court was a beacon of intellect and culture, drawing scholars and artists across the realm. His reign was marked by a commitment to justice and fairness, earning him the admiration and respect of his subjects.
Jaehaerys played a crucial role in saving the Targaryen royal family. From it's worst enemy, themselves.
As the years passed, Jaehaerys I Targaryen, the pinnacle of Targaryen rule, left an enduring legacy. The realm he shaped stood as a testament to the indomitable spirit of a king who reigned for over half a century. In the annals of Westerosi history, Jaehaerys' name echoed as a beacon of wisdom, strength, and a bygone era of Targaryen glory. And yet he was alone in this room. And yet he will die alone, just as he was born. Just like Maegor wished him to die. Just like his brothers had died, just like some secret part of him, deep inside his heart, he always knew he would die.
His eyes, once sharp and commanding, now reflected the soft haze of diminishing vision. In a quiet moment of introspection, the Old King called upon the Kingsguard to attend him."Lord Commander Ryam," Jaehaerys rasped, his voice carrying the gravitas of a lifetime of rule. The Lord Commander, resplendent in the white armor that symbolized their sacred duty, entered the room with a solemn bow. The man had not left the room since Jaehaerys had awakened, and Jaehaerys knew for certain the man did not see the looming figure Jaehaerys saw in the corner.
"Your Grace," Ser Ryam inclined his head, the respect etched into every line of his armored countenance. Beside him stood another Kingsguard, a silent sentinel ready to execute his king's will.
Jaehaerys regarded Ser Ryam with a steady gaze. "Where is my great-grandson, Aemon? I wish to speak with him."
The knight of the Kingsguard lowered his eyes briefly as if collecting his thoughts before responding. "Your Grace, Prince Aemon is currently training with Ser Harrold Westerling. They prepare for a training joust later in the day. The prince is attending to Ser Harrold's armor as we speak."
A nod of acknowledgment followed, and then Jaehaerys spoke with a measured tone. "Summon him to me. I have a desire for his company. I wish to read," Jaehaerys continued, his voice hinting at vulnerability beneath the regal facade. "My eyes are not what they once were, and I would have Aemon fetch a book for us to read together."
Ser Ryam nodded, understanding the king's desire for a simple pleasure in the final days. "It shall be done, Your Grace. Prince Aemon will be here shortly. " Without hesitation, Ser Ryam Redwyne issued an order to one of the Kingsguard standing vigilantly nearby. "Go to the training grounds and bring Prince Aemon to the king's chambers immediately."
As the Kingsguard hastened to carry out his command, Ser Ryam positioned himself beside Jaehaerys, a silent guardian in the twilight of the Old King's reign. Jaehaerys had dozed off several times, not knowing the length between each reawakening but knowing it was not the same moment as before.
A knock resonated through the chamber, echoing the impending passage of time. The door creaked open, and the Kingsguard, clad in the shining white armor of their sacred duty, stepped into the room. The announcement hung heavy in the air like the somber notes of a lament.
"Prince Aemon has arrived, Your Grace," the Kingsguard intoned, delivering the news with a gravity befitting the occasion.
Jaehaerys I Targaryen, the Old King, turned his gaze towards the door, and there, on the threshold, stood Aemon Targaryen – the great-grandson who bore the melancholy burden of lineage. The boy's features, more Stark than Targaryen, drew the Old King's scrutiny. The dark hair and eyes, a stark departure from the silver-gold mane and violet gaze that defined their House spoke of a convergence of bloodlines and histories.
The recognition of Daemon's features in Aemon's countenance was a bittersweet echo. As Aemon approached, book in hand, Jaehaerys beheld the shadow of a Stark on the young Targaryen's face.
Aemon's eyes, pools of solemnity, met Jaehaerys' gaze. The Old King sensed an unspoken knowing in those eyes, a silent acknowledgment that this encounter bore the weight of finality. Aemon's sad smile spoke of a farewell unsaid but deeply felt.
"How was your day, Aemon?" Jaehaerys inquired, his voice a timeworn melody that carried the weight of years.
Aemon's brooding countenance never wavered as he replied, "I spent time in the small council, rode my dragon with my aunts around the city, and sparred for the rest of the day before being summoned here."
Jaehaerys, ever the observer of skies and dragons, asked, "Did you have a good flight?"
"The skies were perfect for it," Aemon responded, a fleeting glimmer of the Targaryen spirit shining through the solemnity.
The Old King's gaze shifted, the longing evident in his eyes as he spoke words that carried the weight of unfulfilled wishes. "I wish I could have flown Vermithor with you, even if just for a brief moment. I suppose I will need to trust you with finding him a future rider." Aemon said nothing but his eyes said his answer.
Aemon Targaryen's countenance, a reflection of the shadows etched upon his young soul, bore the weight of an inherited seriousness. Jaehaerys I Targaryen, the Old King, observed the boy, noting the proficiency with which Aemon wore his brooding demeanor. In the dance of lineage and circumstance, it seemed that Aemon had mastered the art of contemplation at an early age. He had seen it a thousand times, for some reason, he felt as though he could forget if he looked away. He forced himself to remember every wrinkle of the nose, every twitch, every shift of the eye. He would need to tell Alysanne once he saw her again. She would like to know how great Aemon had become and could become once she had left the world.
The court's whispers, ever persistent, had cast their shadows upon Aemon's legitimacy. Born of tragedy, his mother's death in childbirth had fueled the rumors that questioned his true parentage. The disquieting murmurings persisted, attempting to shroud the young Targaryen in uncertainty until the day Aemon claimed Balerion as his own. Yet, the whispers endured, questioning the visual symmetry of Aemon's features with the Targaryen legacy.
In the face of skepticism, Aemon's exploits in the North during the Wildling Invasion faced doubt within the court. The truth of his courageous stand against the invaders was often met with skepticism, skepticism only silenced by the unassailable word of Lord Stark. The intricacies of courtly intrigue had weaved a tapestry of doubt, leaving Aemon to navigate the treacherous currents of perception.
Aemon, wise beyond his years, offered a tender question to the Old King. "Would you like me to summon everyone, Grandfather? To spend time with you?" The selflessness of the offer clashed with the underlying reality of the court's demands.
"No, Aemon," Jaehaerys replied with a soft yet firm conviction. "There is important business to attend to, and I must not delay it. But, if I may be selfish in these final moments, I wish it to be just you and me."
Aemon's lips curved into a melancholic smile, a silent acknowledgment of the intimacy in shared solitude. As the boy moved to sit by Jaehaerys' side, the Old King knew these moments were precious, the sands of time slipping away like grains through his weathered fingers.
Still present in the chamber, Ser Ryam Redwyne awaited further commands. Even amid farewell, Aemon, ever the gracious host, turned to the Lord Commander. "Ser Ryam, would you be so kind as to fetch a servant? We shall have tea and some sweets for the afternoon. I plan to spend the remainder of the day with King Jaehaerys."
The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, a stalwart figure in the room's shadows, bowed his head in acquiescence and left to fulfill Aemon's request. The servant, summoned by Ser Ryam, would soon arrive, bearing the offerings of comfort that accompanied moments of quiet contemplation and shared reflection.
As the scent of tea and the rustle of confections filled the air, Aemon and Jaehaerys settled into the final chapter of their shared narrative. The chamber, hushed in the ambiance of shared moments, held the promise of untold stories. Jaehaerys, his aged eyes discerning the shapes but unable to decipher the words, noticed Aemon's choice of companions for the afternoon. The boy had brought not one but two books and a cyvasse board nestled amidst the offerings.
A soft smile played on the Old King's lips as he recognized the familiar contours of the cyvasse board. Though his vision may falter, the strategic dance of the game was etched into his memory, a legacy of countless matches played in the halls of the Red Keep. Aemon's thoughtful inclusion of the game hinted at a desire for familiar comfort amidst the weight of impending farewells.
"What is the first book, Aemon?" Jaehaerys inquired, the anticipation evident in his voice.
"It's a collection of Valyrian stories and wives' tales," Aemon replied, his words echoing generations past. "One of them speaks about Jaenara Belaerys."
A flicker of recognition passed over Jaehaerys' features, a nod to a time long gone. "I haven't heard the tale of Jaenara Belaerys in many years," he admitted, his mind traversing the corridors of memory. "The last time I heard that story, Alysanne and I were, but children and my mother and father read it to us."
Aemon's smile echoed the shared nostalgia, and with a subtle agreement, he declared, "Then, we shall start with that one."
As Aemon prepared to delve into the Valyrian tales that had captivated the imaginations of Targaryen children for generations, Jaehaerys turned his attention to the second book, a shroud of mystery enveloping its contents.
"And what is the surprise in the second book?" Jaehaerys queried, his curiosity piqued.
Aemon, eyes alight with a mischievous glint, replied, "Ah, that is a secret for now, Grandfather. You shall find out in due time."
The Old King's smile deepened, acknowledging the boy's playful secrecy. As the tea aroma wafted through the chamber and the cyvasse board awaited its players, Jaehaerys embraced shared tales and the comforting familiarity of a game that transcended the boundaries of age and time.
As Aemon delved into the tale of Jaenara Belaerys, the air in the chamber became pregnant with the charisma of Sothoryos. The Valyrian stories painted a vivid tapestry of a dragon rider who ventured farther into the southern expanse than any had dared. Terrax, the dragon companion to Jaenara, became a mythical guide through jungles, over mountains, and across oceans that seemed to stretch into eternity.
The young Targaryen's voice wove a narrative that transported Jaehaerys to a world of unexplored wonders. Aemon recounted how Jaenara had soared over jungles teeming with exotic beasts, crossing landscapes that defied the expectations of even the most audacious explorers. Her journey took her beyond the known realms of Sothoryos into territories where no Valyrian had set foot.
The tale unfolded, revealing Jaenara's return to the Valyrian Freehold after three years of exploration. Her proclamation that Sothoryos was "a land without end" echoed through the chamber. Aemon's words filled the space, conjuring images of endless jungles, vast deserts, and towering mountains that stretched to the horizon.
Jaehaerys, with a wistful smile, envisioned the dreams he and Alysanne once harbored – the dreams of venturing together to Sothoryos and discovering the enigmatic cities hidden within the lush jungles. The desire to unveil the mysteries of the uncharted land had been a shared vision, a testament to the adventurous spirit that bound the Targaryen siblings.
Yet, fate had unfolded differently. The gods had ordained Jaehaerys as king, altering the course of his and Alysanne's lives. The dreams of Sothoryos had yielded to the crown's weight, the responsibilities of rule steering them away from the paths they had envisioned walking together.
As Aemon concluded the tale, the room held the lingering echoes of a land shrouded in mystery. Jaehaerys, though unable to see the words on the page, felt the story's contours etch themselves upon his heart. Sothoryos, a distant and unexplored realm, lingered in the recesses of his imagination, a poignant reminder of the paths untaken and the dreams deferred by the demands of kingship.
With a request from Jaehaerys, Aemon gracefully transitioned to the second book, its pages harboring the echoes of the Old King's own legacy. As Aemon read, the room became an intimate theater, where the deeds and virtues of Jaehaerys I Targaryen unfolded like scenes from a storied drama.
As Aemon detailed the accomplishments, the reforms, and the enduring impact Jaehaerys had on the Seven Kingdoms, the Old King listened with quiet humility. The narrative wove through the intricate tapestry of Jaehaerys' reign, casting light on the myriad ways he had touched the lives of his subjects. The story encapsulated the essence of a monarch whose decisions resonated far beyond the Red Keep, reaching into the homes and hearts of the common folk.
Aemon's words painted a portrait of a ruler who sought not only to maintain the Targaryen dynasty but also to better the lives of those who dwelled within the realm. The smile on Jaehaerys' face, though unseen by the world, reflected the acknowledgment of a life well-lived, of a legacy that transcended the fleeting passage of time.
Yet, in the quietude of the chamber, as Aemon spoke of the lives touched by Jaehaerys' benevolence, the Old King pondered the measure of his existence. He grappled with the dichotomy of a sovereign who, despite shortcomings as a father, had strived to be a benevolent ruler. The questions lingered – had he lived a good life? Had he, in the pursuit of a just and prosperous realm, found redemption for the complexities of his familial relationships?
In the depths of reflection, Jaehaerys found solace in the knowledge that, despite the personal tribulations, the broader strokes of his reign had left an indelible mark on the kingdom. The dichotomy of personal failings and the broader impact on the realm added nuance to the tapestry of his legacy.
As Aemon continued to recount the chapters of Jaehaerys' life, the room became a sanctuary of shared history. In the twilight of his days, the Old King found a peculiar peace in the resonance of a narrative that surpassed the boundaries of his own understanding. The book, a chronicle of deeds and aspirations, was a mirror reflecting the complexities of a life woven into the very fabric of Westerosi history.
In the timeless cadence of a cyvasse game, the chamber resonated with the click of pieces and the murmur of tales. Jaehaerys and Aemon engaged in a dance of strategy and reminiscence that spanned the chapters of a life well-lived. Jaehaerys could not sit up to move the pieces, but he knew the game well and had planned it for years. He would tell Aemon where to move the piece and ask Aemon to announce where he put his own so that the Old King knew the board. In his mind's eye, Jaehaerys knew the board, he could see the pieces, and he could even imagine the smile on Aemon's face when he made a wise move.
But Jaehaerys would not allow Aemon a simple victory; no, the older man would like to keep his victories firmly numbered on his side. Aemon had rarely won a game with him, and even in old age, Jaehaerys wished his great-grandson to remember that the king's mind was sharper than Valryian steel. And with every victory that day, Jaehaerys would hear Aemon curse in Valryian and drink some tea to soothe his nerves before continuing to another match, restarting the cycle all over again. It brought a smile to his face.
As the pieces moved across the board, Jaehaerys spoke of his youth, of the days when he and Alysanne roamed the Red Keep's halls, their laughter echoing through the ancient stones. The stories unfolded like pages of a cherished tome, revealing moments that time had buried in the recesses of memory.
Aemon, the eager audience to the tapestry of Jaehaerys' past, listened with rapt attention. The Old King, fueled by the warmth of shared moments, offered whispers of advice and pearls of wisdom. In the midst of the cyvasse battlefield, the lines between player and storyteller blurred, each move on the board accompanied by a tale from the annals of history.
Aemon's tales spun from the threads of his own experiences interwoven with Jaehaerys' recollections. The boy spoke of the exhilaration of flying upon Balerion's back, a connection to the ancient power that defined House Targaryen. He regaled Jaehaerys with stories of training, of victories won, and lessons learned on the sparring grounds.
The room, bathed in the glow of flickering candles. Jaehaerys, the sage recounting tales of bygone days, saw in Aemon the echoes of his own youth – a spirited, outspoken, and bold young Targaryen. The convergence of generations unfolded in the stories shared and the moves made on the cyvasse board.
In the flickering glow of the chamber, the cyvasse pieces bore witness to the tales of elder brothers and the imprint they left on a young Jaehaerys. As the pieces moved across the board, the Old King spoke of Aegon and Viserys, the elder siblings who shaped the contours of his youth.
"Aegon was a convincing soul," Jaehaerys mused, his voice carrying the weight of nostalgia. "He once persuaded our sister Rhaena to take me on a ride on her dragon. It was a daring escapade, and I felt the wind in my hair like I was flying free." The stories unfolded, each move on the cyvasse board a marker in the tale of Aegon's influence. Jaehaerys shared how Aegon, more than a brother, became a mentor. Aegon's teachings extended beyond the bounds of the courtly and ventured into the realms of swordplay and horsemanship. "He taught me how to swing a sword and ride a horse," Jaehaerys confessed, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "To me, Aegon was the greatest person in the world when I was younger. His strength and wisdom were beacons in my youth." The admission carried a weight of reverence, a testament to the profound impact Aegon had on Jaehaerys' formative years. The Old King, in his candor, acknowledged the qualities he revered in his elder brother. Speaking of their father, Jaehaerys cast a nuanced reflection. "My father, he was a good man, but he had his weaknesses," he conceded. "Aegon was the one who taught me much. How to treat a woman, how to navigate the complexities of our lineage." A quiet admission lingered in the air as Jaehaerys delved into the intricacies of love within House Targaryen. "It was Aegon who dispelled the misconceptions, who showed me that the Faith was wrong about how a Targaryen would love their sister. His wisdom guided me through the intricacies of our family's legacy."
Aemon seemed confused by something, Jaehaerys could not see his face, but he somehow knew. Aemon made a move to remove one piece, which Jaehaerys had quickly capitalized by removing the same piece in turn. "You loved grandmother even before marriage?"
Jaehaerys knew Aemon meant a romantic sort of love rather than familiar. "Aye," Jaehaerys said, mimicking a northern accent. Aemon chuckled. "We did not know if it was a moral thing or not. The faith had tried to damn us all for falling in love, not just Aegon. But Aegon was the one who reminded me that his namesake married both his sisters and that a dragon is drawn towards their own kind. Even if that means of the same blood due to how few of us there are."
The flickering candles in the chamber cast dancing shadows upon the worn tapestries, signaling the passage of time as Jaehaerys and Aemon wove their shared stories. The room, now bathed in a dim glow, bore witness to the ebbing hours that had slipped away unnoticed.
As Jaehaerys turned his gaze towards the dwindling candles, he felt the inexorable pull of time tightening its grip. The air in the chamber grew heavy with an unspoken understanding. Hours spent in the warmth of shared tales had given way to a moment tinged with a bittersweet finality.
Jaehaerys, ever keenly aware of the encroaching shadows, sensed the onset of his imminent departure from the realm of the living. Each breath became a labor, each word an effort. Weakness crept into his limbs, rendering him a prisoner to his own failing body. His body felt so cold, colder than ever he had thought possible. His almost blind eyes could focus on nothing at all, he forced himself to look at Aemon as his eyes dwindled and the lights dimmed. Jaehaerys was glad that the final thing he saw was the dark purple eyes of his great-grandson, the future of their House.
Aemon, the witness to the slow unraveling of the Old King, mirrored the grief in Jaehaerys' eyes. The passage of time had etched lines of sorrow on their faces, tears unshed but lingering in the unspoken spaces between them.
"I used to crave death after Alysanne died," he admitted. "Nothing felt as true. But now...I don't want die, Aemon," he whispered to his grandson.
Aemon poured water into a glass and pressed it to Jaehaeyrs' lips, but the king did not drink. "You lived a long life, and you will live another five decades, grandfather," Aemon replied. Aemon turned to Ser Ryam. "Get Uncle Viserys! Get my father! Get someone! Anyone! Get the damned Maester!" Ser Ryam rushed to the door and ordered the Kingsguard and the servants to get the royal family and the maester. Ser Ryam would not leave this room; a kingsguard swore to protect the king for the rest of their days, whether it was the end of the king's or the kingsgaurd's, and Lord Commander Redwyne had too much respect for the king to leave him in his final moments, Jaehaerys took solace in knowing that.
Jaehaerys whispered to Aemon. "Why is it that now that I am content that, I must lose it so quickly? You were all I could have asked for as my blood, Aemon. You are the Song of Ice and Fire. You are Aegon's dream. And I am so gladdened and happy to have glimpsed you before my death. Alysanne knew, she always knew that you were special. She did not know of Aegon's dream but she knew that you would be the best of us. You make us so proud Aemon. You know that, right? Please tell me you know that."
Jaehaerys could hear the forced reply, the choking back of the sob. "I know."
In the silent communion of shared tears, Jaehaerys turned to Aemon once more after tryint look around the room one more time, his voice a whisper that hung in the air like a fragile melody. "Will you protect our family, Aemon?" The plea, laden with the weight of legacy, sought reassurance in the eyes of the next in line. Aemon, tears glistening in his eyes, nodded solemnly. "I have your word, Aemon?" Jaehaerys pressed the urgency in his voice echoing the gravity of the moment.
"You have my word, Grandfather," Aemon vowed his promise a sacred oath was sworn amidst the fading candlelight.
Jaehaerys did not have much time, and he forced out his words with harsh breaths. "Protect our family, Aemon. Protect them from the green dragons; protect them from the black dragons and the stags and lions. Your visions scare me, Aemon, but I trust you. We trust you."
Aemon roared in frustration. "Get the fucking maester!" Jaehaerys did not like hearing such a small boy curse, but Aemon was never a boy, was he? No, Aemon was man-grown before he even took his first steps. How sad was it that Jaehaerys had to entrust the future of the House, not to Viserys or Daemon, but to Aemon, a boy of six.
"My daughters, protect them, Aemon," he said as he felt so weak. Tears streamed down his face as he felt so wrong pushing such struggles on a child. "Viserys is weak. Daemon is too harsh. The kingdoms would dig their claws into them and tear them apart. The dragons must be united. Promise me, Aemon. Promise me. Promise me," he urged with pain.
"On my honor as Stark. On my honor as a Targaryen. I swear this before the old gods and the new, I will protect our family, grandfather. I will protect your daughters. Anyone who dares to harm the dragons, I will show them fire and blood."
Jaehaery relaxed a soft smile on his face. He did not know he could as such. Aemon was their legacy. Aemon was Aegon's dream, he knew this. His daughters, Aemon, would protect them. Aemon would do right by them.
With a steadying breath, Jaehaerys shifted his gaze to the corner of the room, where Ser Ryam Redwyne, the ever-watchful guardian, stood sentinel. "Ryam," Jaehaerys rasped the effort to speak now a Herculean task. "Bring the sword from the corner."
Ser Ryam, stoic and resolute, acknowledged the command with a silent nod. The room held its breath as the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard moved towards the corner, retrieving the sword that would become both an instrument of legacy and an emblem of transition.
The air in the chamber grew colder, a harbinger of the inevitable. In the dance of shadows and the soft glow of the few remaining candles, Jaehaerys prepared to bid farewell to the realm he had ruled for a lifetime. The vows exchanged, the promises made, hung in the air like a whispered prayer, a testament to the unbroken thread of Targaryen honor and duty.
The chamber shrouded in heavy silence, bore witness to the passing of a legacy as Ser Ryam Redwyne solemnly presented the Valyrian steel sword, Blackfyre, before Aemon Targaryen. The air hummed with an unspoken acknowledgment of the weight carried by the ancient blade, its history intertwined with the destiny of House Targaryen.
As Aemon unsheathed the legendary sword, its distinct hum echoed through the room. In a voice that carried the weight of centuries, Aemon called it aloud, "Blackfyre." The name, resonating with the echoes of Targaryen history, lingered in the air.
The crossguard had small heads of a dragon on either side of it, with their mouths slightly opened, the skills and the etchings on the crossguard that lead to the center. The diamond-shaped ruby is no bigger than a thumb at the end of the pommel. The ripples of layers of metal on the blade itself, each ripple and wave almost a dark gray, so dark it made the blade nearly black. The handle has two separate locations for the user's hand, with a golden band to separate the black leather handle. The golden band, no bigger than an index finger, had the three heads of the dragons etched into it, one facing forward and the other two facing left and right, respectively. The bastard sword was almost long enough to be a two-handed long sword but was just an inch shy. Jaehaerys could no longer see the blade, but he had it for so long that he knew it better than his no-withering hand.
Jaehaerys, the Old King whose breaths grew labored, turned his gaze towards Aemon. With a voice that carried the weariness of time, he uttered the words, "Have the sword, Aemon. It is yours now."
Aemon, a young Targaryen standing at the crossroads of inheritance and responsibility, hesitated. "It should go to Viserys," he replied, a testament to the internal conflicts that weighed upon his shoulders.
In response, Jaehaerys, the sage on the cusp of departing the mortal realm, offered quiet wisdom. "The sword needs to be wielded by someone worthy, someone willing to protect the family. I know you will do just that. Kill the boy, Aemon Targaryen. Kill the boy and let the dragon be born."
Aemon, grappling with the gravity of the moment, fell silent. The air hung heavy with the unspoken acknowledgment of the mantle now passed to him. In the quietude that followed, Jaehaerys turned his gaze back to the cyvasse board, summoning strength from the wellspring of determination.
Forcing his weakened arms to move, Jaehaerys executed the final move, moving his dragon piece to triumph over Aemon's elephant. The proclamation of victory, a testament to the enduring spirit of the Old King, filled the chamber.
"I won," Jaehaerys declared, pride seeping into his voice.
Aemon, in response, offered a sad chuckle that resonated with the echoes of a passing era. In the space between moves on the cyvasse board and the unsheathed Blackfyre, the room became a tableau of transitions, a bridge between the living and the legacies left behind. Jaehaerys felt Aemon's hand grasp his own, and he could feel Aemon's warmth; Aemon was very warm; everything else was cold. But it was Aemon's eyes that were warmer than his hands.
Aemon's dark eyes made everyone think of the gray snowstorms. To Jaehaerys, they looked like a purple flame in the candlelight. Oh, how kind they looked. Alysanne would have loved to see the boy as he was now. Jaehaerys would have loved to see the boy turn into a grown man with children of his own. Would they have silver hair? Would they look Stark or Targaryen? These were secrets he would go without answering, but he was gladdened by this moment. He was glad that Aemon made an oath to protect Jaehaerys' legacy, Aegon's legacy, and their family's legacy. There never lived a Stark who had forgotten an oath, and Aemon was just as much Stark as he was Targaryen. Then he closed his eyes, and he could no longer see Aemon.
In the ethereal realm beyond the mortal coil, Jaehaerys Targaryen found himself in the company of kin long departed. The deathbed and the frailty of his form had given way to a vision of strength and vitality. Alongside his elder brothers Aegon and Viserys, his sister Rhaena, and his beloved sister-wife Alysanne, Jaehaerys stood tall.
Alysanne, with a warmth that transcended time, took Jaehaerys' hand, their bond enduring beyond the confines of mortality. The spectral gathering moved with an otherworldly grace, heading toward the dragons that awaited them.
As they walked, Jaehaerys turned to Aegon, his elder brother whose memory held the echoes of mentorship and guidance. "Mother is looking for you," Jaehaerys declared, a smile playing on his lips.
Aegon, with his distinctive purple eyes and silver hair, turned back with a mischievous glint. "We planned on riding our dragons together," he proclaimed, the camaraderie of siblings echoing through the vision.
However, Jaehaerys hesitated, a moment of introspection that caught the attention of Aegon and Alysanne. With furrowed brows, they inquired about the source of his contemplation. "Are you alright, Jaehaerys?" she asked him as she touched his shoulder.
"I had a dream," Jaehaerys confessed, his voice carrying the weight of revelation. "A dream where I was old."
The admission lingered in the air, a whisper of foresight that transcended the boundaries of time. In the dreamlike tapestry of their gathering, the vision of an aged Jaehaerys held a peculiar resonance. The dragons awaited, and the future stretched out before them, a realm where the boundaries between past, present, and dreams became blurred.
Daemon Targaryen
In a room heavy with the lingering presence of the departed king, Daemon Targaryen burst in, his urgent steps echoing through the hallowed halls. His eyes, filled with a mix of concern and sorrow, sought out his son, Aemon, the young Targaryen who had witnessed Jaehaerys' final moments.
As Daemon approached, he found Aemon holding the hand of the late king, the silent witness to the passing of an era. Without a word, Daemon enveloped his son in a tight embrace, a silent acknowledgment of the shared loss that bound them as father and son.
In the midst of the embrace, Daemon attempted to decipher the words that escaped Aemon's lips. Amidst the muffled sobs and the weight of unspoken grief, he discerned a peculiar revelation – Jaehaerys had beaten Aemon at the game of cyvasse.
The revelation, an unexpected anecdote in the midst of profound sorrow, drew Daemon's attention to the cyvasse board that stood as a testament to the final moments shared between Jaehaerys and Aemon. A brief inspection, however, revealed a subtlety that escaped immediate notice – Aemon could have won the game in numerous ways, many times over. The realization settled over Daemon like a shroud, an unspoken understanding.
In the silence that followed, Daemon, with a mix of pride and melancholy, recognized the depth of Aemon's sacrifice. The young Targaryen, in his quiet gesture, had allowed Jaehaerys the victory, a final act of love and respect that spoke volumes about the bonds that connected generations within House Targaryen.
In the aftermath of Jaehaerys Targaryen's passing, the Red Keep became a tumultuous sea of emotions, its waves crashing against the stoic walls that had borne witness to the rise and fall of kings. Among the somber echoes, the royal family grappled with the weight of grief, their individual tribulations etched upon their faces.
In the wake of Jaehaerys Targaryen's passing, the Red Keep became a hub of activity, a swirling mix of emotions that enveloped the royal family. Daemon Targaryen, though momentarily uplifted by the news of Aemon receiving Blackfyre, found himself navigating the complex currents of grief and familial duty.
The revelation that Aemon now wielded the legendary sword, Blackfyre, stirred a sense of pride within Daemon. The Valyrian steel, a symbol of Targaryen power and legacy, had passed into the hands of a new generation. In the midst of sorrow, Daemon's thoughts turned toward the potential for renewal and strength that such a symbol could bring.
The days that followed became a blur of somber rituals and hurried preparations. Viserys, amidst the debates and disagreements that swirled within the court, allowed Aemon to retain Blackfyre, citing it as the dying wish of the Old King. Otto Hightower, a voice of dissent, argued against the decision, but Viserys stood firm.
Daemon, observing the unfolding events, harbored mixed emotions for his late grandfather. While familial bonds compelled a degree of sympathy, Daemon's true concern lay with the preservation of Targaryen's strength and legacy. With Blackfyre in Aemon's hands, a new chapter seemed poised to unfold.
Daemon contemplated the ways in which he could distract Aemon from the weight of grief. The notion of sparring, of engaging in physical combat as a means of catharsis, crossed his mind. It became a potential avenue to channel the young Targaryen's emotions and redirect his focus towards the resilience of the family.
The somber hill outside the Red Keep, bathed in the muted hues of a gray sky, served as the stage for the farewell to Jaehaerys Targaryen, the Old King. A week after his passing, the lords and ladies of the Crownlands gathered to mourn the monarch who had ruled for decades. House Velaryon stood in solidarity, their presence a testament to the interconnected web of noble alliances. Daemon did not recall if Rhaenys shed a tear or not.
Clad in garments of mourning, the lords and ladies, Targaryens and their bannermen alike, donned solemn black attire. The air hung heavy with grief, an intangible veil that draped over the assembled mourners, each step on the hill bearing the weight of collective loss.
As the mourners surrounded the pyre, a silent procession of grief, the wind carried murmurs of shared memories and whispered tales. The Red Keep, a silent observer, cast a stoic shadow over the proceedings.
Amidst the somber assembly, a question of great import surfaced – who would be the one to ignite the funeral pyre? Daemon, recognizing the deep bond between Aemon and the Old King, suggested that Aemon be the one to carry out the solemn duty. Otto Hightower, ever mindful of protocol and succession, argued that it should fall to King Viserys, the rightful successor.
The debate, a subtle undercurrent in the mourning air, echoed the complexities of royal tradition and familial ties. In the end, Viserys, the newly-crowned king, stepped forward with a resolve tempered by the weight of his new responsibilities.
A subtle nudge from Aemon, Daemon's son, redirected his focus to the pyre where the Old King rested, a reminder of the solemnity of the occasion. Daemon, feeling the warmth of Aemon's presence, rubbed his son's hair and held him close, a silent assurance in the face of grief.
In the midst of the poignant scene, Aemon, grappling with the profound questions that death often evoked, turned to Daemon. "Why do the gods let good people die?" he asked, his innocent curiosity seeking solace.
Daemon wondered if he should be gentle with his son, but his son was strong; his son had won battles and a war, and his son could take the truth just as Lyanna would have. His son was strong like his late wife, and Daemon would not speak to him like a child but as a prince of the realm, a man grown, a man that Daemon knew Aemon was, even if he was in the form of a child.
Daemon, uncharacteristically blunt, responded with a raw truth that transcended the veneer of societal reverence. "Because the gods are all cunts, that's why they are gods," he declared a stark acknowledgment of the harsh realities that life, death, and the divine often presented. Aemon, perhaps finding a measure of comfort in the bluntness of truth, accepted the response with a silent nod.
Turning his gaze towards his grieving aunts, Daemon noticed Aemon's mirrored expression of sorrow. As Aemon asked if he could go to them, Daemon, with a gentle nod, granted his son permission. Aemon, now free to navigate the currents of familial grief, walked towards his aunts with a determined stride, ready to offer comfort and share in their shared pain. The silent conversations, the tears, and the unspoken connections were shown as the girls hugged Aemon and wept on his shoulder.
Viserys, now the reigning monarch, led Sheepstealer to the funeral pyre with a solemnity befitting the occasion. The dragon, a creature of earthy brown scales and formidable strength, stood in stark contrast to the more majestic and resplendent dragons of House Targaryen's history. As Sheepstealer loomed over the pyre, the air filled with a sense of anticipation.
With a voice just above a whisper, Viserys uttered the word "Dracarys," a command that carried the weight of ancient traditions and the legacy of Targaryen kings. The great dragon responded, breathing forth its muddy brown flames upon the pyre that cradled the Old King's body.
The flames, a fusion of earthy hues and the vibrant reds and oranges of fire, danced and crackled as they consumed the silks and memories of a lifetime. The pyre, now ablaze.
Daemon, his gaze fixed upon the pyre, watched as the flames flickered and swayed. The crackling of the fire seemed to echo the finality of the moment, a symphony of farewell to a king who had shaped the destiny of House Targaryen.
In the hallowed silence that followed, the hill outside the Red Keep held the remnants of the pyre and the lingering memories of an era now consigned to flames. The flames, carrying with them the essence of Jaehaerys Targaryen, cast a flickering glow upon the faces of those who had gathered to mourn, leaving an indelible imprint on the collective consciousness of House Targaryen.
The funeral pyre, now fully ablaze, cast a somber and ethereal glow upon the gathered mourners. As the flames consumed the pyre, the air became thick with the scent of burning wood and the visual symphony of flickering lights and shadows played across the faces of those in attendance.
The crowd, a sea of bowed heads and clasped hands, watched the transformative power of fire as it devoured the remnants of a once-mighty ruler. Each crackle of the flames seemed to echo the memories of a lifetime, the highs and lows of the Old King's reign, dissipating into the night sky.
Aemon, having sought solace among his aunts, exchanged embraces and shared silent tears, the warmth of familial bonds providing a fleeting respite from the chill of loss. The emotions were palpable in the air, a shared mourning that transcended the boundaries of noble lineage and rank.
The Targaryen dragons, perched stoically in the background, observed the proceedings with a regal indifference. Sheepstealer, having performed its somber duty, maintained a watchful gaze, its eyes reflecting the flickering flames. The dragons, ancient symbols of power, seemed to share in the collective sorrow that enveloped the hill.
Viserys, the newly crowned king, stood beside the pyre, his gaze fixed upon the flames. The responsibilities of leadership now rested heavily upon his shoulders, and the funeral served as both a farewell to the past and a heralding of a new era for House Targaryen.
The flames continued to dance, their orange and red hues blending into the inky night sky. The crackling of the fire became a backdrop to the whispered conversations and quiet sobs of the mourners. In the silence that followed, the remnants of the pyre became a poignant reminder of the impermanence of life and the indomitable spirit of House Targaryen.
As the last embers flickered and faded, the mourners, their hearts heavy with grief, slowly dispersed. The hill outside the Red Keep, now quiet and bathed in the moonlight, retained the echoes of a funeral that marked the end of an era and the beginning of a new chapter for the storied house of dragons.
As the flames continued to crackle and cast their warm glow, Daemon Targaryen found his attention drawn toward a soft, melodic sound that began to permeate the air. Turning, he discovered the source of the hauntingly beautiful music – his son, Aemon.
Aemon stood amidst the gathering, his voice carrying a tune that Daemon did not recognize, yet its haunting melody resonated with a poignant grace. It was a song known to his aunts and niece, one that held a significance that went beyond the notes and lyrics.
The verses of the song unfolded, a lament that spoke of love, loss, and the passage of time. Daemon watched as each of his aunts and his niece, one by one, joined in the chorus, their voices weaving a tapestry of shared sorrow and remembrance.
The hill outside the Red Keep, once the stage for the funeral pyre, became an impromptu amphitheater where the Targaryen women, bonded by blood and the weight of their shared heritage, lent their voices to the song. Aemon, standing among the women of his family, offered his own rendition, a testament to the resilience that youth brought to the face of loss.
Daemon, listening to the mournful strains of the song, felt a bittersweet pang in his heart. The music became a vessel through which the collective grief of House Targaryen found expression, a cathartic release amidst the embers of the funeral pyre.
As the last notes hung in the air, the hill fell silent once more. The flames, now reduced to gentle embers, provided a backdrop to the shared sorrow and the echoes of a song that lingered like a spectral presence in the night. The Targaryen family, bound by both love and loss, stood united beneath the moonlight, finding solace in the communion of their voices and the ageless melodies that transcended the boundaries of time. The flames crackled ever slightly as they mostly died out.
High in the halls of the kings who are gone
Jenny would dance with her ghosts
The ones she had lost and the ones she had found
And the ones who had loved her the most
The ones who'd been gone for so very long
She couldn't remember their names
They spun her around on the damp old stones
Spun away all her sorrow and pain
And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave
Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave
Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave
They danced through the day
And into the night through the snow that swept through the hall
From winter to summer then winter again
'Til the walls did crumble and fall
And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave
Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave
And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave
And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave
High in the halls of the kings who are gone
Jenny would dance with her ghosts
The ones she had lost and the ones she had found
And the ones
Who had loved her the most
Author's Note:
The version of the Jenny of Oldstones used was Jenny of Oldstones by Baltic House Orchestra. I recommend listening to this song instead of just reading the lyrics above to finish the chapter. (even has the crackling of the flames)
I tried to look it up and go off of the books for the description of Blackfyre and forgot that I have a limited-edition version of the sword, a life-size replica made of metal, with the same Valyrian steel ripple and everything. I have it hung on my wall and had to go upstairs and look at it to get a good description of how it looks. It even had a paper of authenticity signed by George R.R. Martin to confirm it looked like how I envisioned it. The reason I'm putting this in here is because I wanted you guys to know I do try and struggle to keep some things similar to the cannon stuff. Pain that it is.