Fair Castle 105 AC
Aemon Targaryen
In the wake of the Sea of Flames, the passage of time seemed to stretch on endlessly for Aemon Targaryen, dragging him through a seemingly unending procession of days and nights. The Greyjoy Rebellion, a storm that had erupted in the eighth month of the year 104 AC, continued its relentless onslaught into the depths of the following year, stubbornly persisting for seven long months, not including the time between Aemon leaving Harrenhal and reaching Summerhall. It was now the third month of the year 105 AC.
Eight months of strife and struggle had left Aemon weary to the bone, his spirit worn thin by the ceaseless demands of war. From his headquarters at Fair Castle, nestled upon the rocky shores of Fair Isle, he orchestrated the delicate dance of strategy and diplomacy that would shape the course of the conflict. And thought of plunding a dagger in his throat every time a lord acted more than child than he, a seven name day boy.
Beside him stood the stalwart Redwyne fleet, its ships a formidable bulwark against the encroaching tide of Ironborn aggression. Alongside them sailed the Velaryon fleet, its banners proudly bearing witness to its unwavering allegiance to the cause.
Once the battle of the Straits of Fair Isle, or the Sea of Flames as the soldiers and commonfolk had taken to calling it, had happened, it was clear that there would be no immediate damage to the Reach, with word from the Redwynes to the Hightowers, food was began being sold and being heavily garrisoned and protected to be sent to areas that needed it most. While word had reached the Tyrells, and they had tried to help, the Hightowers, under the guise of being stout supporters of the crown, had sent thrice as much food and negotiated with other Reach lords to send just as much. A letter from Saera confirmed that Summerhall and Summertown had already begun receiving the food, and for now, the common folk and the people of the castle were secured. Aemon was not looking forward to the increase in popularity of the Hightowers for their generosity, not that Aemon would ever call it that.
In the ensuing weeks, Aemon dispatched the Velaryon fleet to aid the beleaguered North, their swift return bearing tidings of triumph as the combined might of the Northern armies pushed the Ironborn back into the depths of the Riverlands. The North was secure without outside help; it only took so long for the lords to get through due to having to invade their land, but they were battle tasted after many fighting against the wildlings and were far more a proven and aggressive force with more experience than most of the other kingdoms.
Sustained by this newfound momentum, the Baratheons, resolute in their determination, launched a relentless assault upon the Ironborn forces, driving them ever deeper into the heart of the Riverlands with each passing day. The Stormlands were secured, and from what Saera's letter suggested over the last weeks, it seemed that the people of the Stormlands looked more to Summerhall and Summertown for guidance and leadership than Storm's End, especially since most of the Storland's forces were fighting back Riverlanders and Ironborn and Summerhall still had two dragons. Aemon knew his aunt and knew full well she would capitalize on this; she was a mission and greedy, and he did not like the similarities with the Lannisters of Jon Snow's time, more specifically Cersei and Tywin, most of all. Aemon refused to admit to himself that the parts of him that were honorable like Ned Stark were being replaced by the ambitions and cruelty of the Tywin Lannisters of the world, all to avoid the end, all to avoid the Long Night.
Meanwhile, the Lannisters, their forces finally assembled after months of painstaking preparation, marched forth to join the fray, their banners unfurling in a resplendent display of martial prowess and noble resolve. It was safe to say for the Stormlanders that reached Fair Castle, to the Riverlords, and the North lords, as well as any man wanting to fight against the Ironborn, the opinion of the Westerlands was low at best. One battle, it took one catastrophic failure by the Lannisters over something that should have never happened, the fall of Lannisport and destruction of half of Casterly Rock, and the Westerlands were reduced to nothing for six months, and they were subject to the whims of the Ironborn.
In the conflict that defined the Greyjoy Rebellion, Aemon Targaryen was embroiled in a maelstrom of chaos and carnage, where the whims of fate hung delicately in the balance. Unlike the skirmishes of his former life as Jon Snow, where battles were decisive and swift, the Greyjoy Rebellion unfolded as a protracted saga of shifting fortunes and bitter struggles. Jon Snow's wars finished in a single great battle. Aemon Targaryen's were battles of attrition and far more draining.
As Aemon surveyed the papers and notes, waiting for the next piece of news, he knew victory lay within his grasp. With two formidable fleets at his command, the Velaryons and the Redwynes. With five mighty dragons soaring overhead, Balerion, Vēttir, Viserra's marron dragon, Jēdar, Maegelle's sapphire dragon, Dȳñes, Aerea's silver-platinum dragon, and Averilla, Daenery's rich purple dragon. With the unwavering support of three entire kingdoms, the Westerlands, the Stormlands, and the North, the Ironborn stood little chance against the might arrayed against them. Especially when news comes about whether or not the forces from the North to help relieve the Riverlands alongside Aemon's father, Daemon, came back with favorable results. If that goes according to plan, it would be four kingdoms rather than just three that Aemon could use to end this rebellion.
Aemon did not dwell on the fact it was the same fleets, the Redwynes, and the Velaryons, though in Jon Snow's time, Stannis led it, and the same four kingdoms, the North, Westerlands, Riverlands, and Stormlands, that led the charge against the Ironborn in Aemon Targaryen's time.
For Aemon, this was the true essence of warfare—a relentless and unforgiving test of strength and strategy, where victory was not assured by the swing of a sword but by the careful orchestration of countless moving parts.
Reflecting on his past as Jon Snow, Aemon could not help but contrast the simplicity of battles like the Battle of the Bastards and the Sacking of King's Landing with the multifaceted conflict of the Greyjoy Rebellion. Where Jon had known the swift resolution of conflicts settled in a single confrontation, Aemon now grappled with the intricacies of a war that spanned entire kingdoms and had to find a way to make the smaller victories accumulate to results as important as one large confrontation. At the same time, he also ensured that he was not on the receiving end of one of those large confrontations that destroyed everything he had worked for. Aemon had to wonder how Rob Stark was winning his wars when facing someone like Tywin Lannister; he would have to label it as Rob was better than him and leave it as such, something Jon Snow had done as a child for many years.
The Greyjoys had struck with cunning and precision, their devastating assaults on Lannisport and Seagard as harbingers of the chaos. Aemon truly hated how perfect their timing was; this war was almost eight months long, and if it weren't for the timing, it would have been put down in less than two due to the Targaryen dragons. Still, only because all the lords were so naive and so used to peace that they had brought most of their forces to Harrenhall and not enough to garrison their keeps was this war lasting this long, and now Aemon had to clean up the mess, he was seven for god's sake. Yet, for every blow struck by the Ironborn, Aemon had answered with resolute determination and unyielding resolve.
The Black Burn, also known as the Fifth Dornish War, was a testament to Aemon's prowess on the battlefield, a solitary figure against the might of an entire kingdom's army. In unparalleled skill and valor, he had vanquished his foes and repelled the Ironborn invasion single-handedly. Aemon had read from letters from Saera that people had come far and wide while the Stormlands were at war to see the Dragon's Gate and see how the Red Mountain walls on either side of the gates were melted like candle wax; people had come to live in Summertown for safety and merely to live near such a great wonder of the world. A canyon that spanned miles, the only functional path leading two and from Dorne, after Daemon destroyed most the others and the fact that Dorne was not foolish enough to invade the Reach when they had a hundred thousand knights at the ready and the entire path was stone melted like it was liquid it's entire lifetime.
But Aemon's triumphs did not end there. With the aid of his formidable aunts, Aerea and Daenerys, he orchestrated the daring rescue of House Baratheon, now known as the Storm of Flames, a befitting name for the rescue of the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands at Stom's End. At the same time, the battle happened during a storm. The Storm of Flames was turning the tide of battle in their favor and securing another resounding victory that led to the battles that repelled the Ironborn and secured the Stormlands.
And finally, with the combined might of the Redwyne and Velaryon fleets, alongside the fearsome dragons of House Targaryen, Aemon unleashed the devastating Sea of Fire upon the Ironborn, sealing their fate and ensuring his legacy as a master of warfare.
Three of the five pivotal battles that had shaped the Greyjoy Rebellion course bore the indelible mark of Aemon Targaryen's triumph. In the crucible of war, he had proven himself a strategist without peer, his name destined for greatness. Aemon did hear some of the more cunning lords already speak of the fact if Aemon could do such things as a child then they should have named him Aegon, rather than Aemon, for the great king rather than the prince that died before gaining the throne. A child was enough to quill ambition, but the child grown would be a man to rip all future ambitions root and steam.
Daemon Targaryen
In the relentless dance of war that engulfed the Riverlands during the Greyjoy Rebellion, Daemon was enjoying this struggle against the Ironborn. Mounted atop his mighty dragon, Caraxes, he had sought to flush the reavers from their hiding places, to draw them out and meet them in open combat. Yet, the Ironborn proved elusive, skulking in the shadows like cowards, unwilling to face him and his fearsome dragon in battle.
As the days stretched into weeks and the weeks into months, Daemon grew frustrated with the elusive nature of his foes. It seemed as though the war he had envisioned was nothing more than a game of cat and mouse, with the Ironborn slipping through his grasp at every turn.
But amidst the chaos and uncertainty of war, tales of his son's valor and heroism reached Daemon's ears. Stories of the Black Burn, the Fifth Dornish War, the Storm of Fire, and the Sea of Flames echoed through the halls of his keep, each victory attributed to his son, Aemon.
Pride swelled in Daemon's heart at his son's accomplishments, but jealousy lurked beneath the pride. While Aemon had achieved great victories on the battlefield, Daemon could not claim the same. He longed for the glory and renown that his son had garnered, yet it seemed forever out of his reach.
In the end, the combined efforts of Aemon, who had organized it, alongside twenty thousand Northmen sent by his son, turned the tide of battle in the Riverlands. With Caraxes leading the charge and the Riverlords rallying to their cause, the Ironborn were pushed back, their grip on the region loosening with each passing day.
As peace settled over the war-torn lands, ravens bearing the sigil of House Targaryen flew to and fro, carrying messages of victory and triumph. Each letter bore the mark of Daemon's only son.
As Daemon Targaryen led the remnants of the Riverlander and Northern armies back from the front lines, the atmosphere was heavy with exhaustion and grim determination. The relentless toll of war had whittled down the once-proud host of twenty-five thousand men from the Riverlands, their numbers diminished by battles against the Ironborn, skirmishes in the countryside, and internal strife fueled by the chaos of conflict.
The journey back was fraught with challenges as the weary soldiers trudged through war-ravaged landscapes, their footsteps echoing the weariness of their souls. Along the way, they passed through villages reduced to rubble; the smoldering remains served as grim reminders of the devastation wrought by the Ironborn and the turmoil of war.
Despite the hardships, Daemon remained resolute, his leadership a beacon of hope amid the darkness of despair. With every step, he urged his men forward, his voice ringing out with commands and encouragement, rallying them for the trials ahead.
As Daemon Targaryen and his weary army approached Fair Isle, the sight of Fair Castle emerged on the horizon, its light gray stones standing solemn and strong. The castle, while not grandiose like Summerhall or Dragonstone, possessed a simple beauty in its design, with sturdy walls and turrets that rose against the backdrop of the sky.
Despite its modest appearance, Fair Castle held significance as a strategic stronghold in the region, its position overlooking the surrounding lands making it a valuable asset in times of war. As Daemon observed the castle from afar, he couldn't help but compare it to other great fortresses he had seen in his lifetime.
Summerhall, with its majestic towers and sprawling gardens, will always held a special place in his heart, a symbol of his family's legacy and dreams for the future. Dragonstone, with its imposing black walls and ancient history, exuded a sense of power and authority that commanded respect. With its towering spires and crimson banners, even the Red Keep inspired awe and reverence in those who beheld its majesty.
But Fair Castle, in comparison, seemed ordinary and unremarkable. Its simple facade lacked the grandeur and splendor of other castles, its walls weathered by time and conflict. As Daemon studied the sigil of House Farman, the ruling house of Fair Isle, he noted the arms of three silver ships on a blue field bordered by crimson and gold—a symbol of maritime prowess and wealth.
Amidst the sea of sigils that adorned the castle walls, Daemon's attention was drawn to the banners of House Lannister, their golden lions gleaming proudly in the sunlight. Each sigil spoke of the house's wealth and power, a reminder of their influence in the realm.
Similarly, the sigils of House Stark could be seen fluttering in the breeze, their grey direwolves one white field, symbolic of their strength and resilience in the face of adversity. Despite the distance from their ancestral home in the North, the Starks' presence at Fair Isle was a testament to their commitment to the cause.
Then, there were the banners of House Baratheon, their black stags on golden fields symbolizing their noble lineage and martial prowess. As Daemon's gaze swept over the familiar sigils, he felt a sense of kinship with his fellow lords and allies, united in their quest to end the Greyjoy Rebellion.
But above all else, the sigil of House Targaryen were ten times as numerous. three-headed red dragon on the black field, with its crimson scales and wings outstretched in flight, all in the shape of a spiral.
Daemon felt a surge of pride and determination welling within him as he beheld his sigil flying proudly amidst the others. For every other banner and sigil that adorned Fair Castle, there were three banners of House Targaryen—a testament to their strength and unity in the face of adversity. And with that realization, Daemon knew that victory was within their grasp if only they remained steadfast and unwavering in their cause.
As Daemon Targaryen and the head lords of the Riverlands entered the war room of Fair Castle, tension hung thick in the air like a suffocating fog. The lords' weary faces bore the weight of their losses and the hardships endured throughout the long campaign against the Ironborn. Their eyes, filled with resentment and distrust, followed Daemon's every move, their silent animosity a palpable presence in the room.
Daemon, for his part, cared little for the opinions of these men who dared to question his methods and authority. He had no patience for their petty grievances or their thinly veiled hostility. His focus remained unwavering on defeating the Ironborn and reclaiming the Riverlands from their clutches.
As they gathered around the war table, Daemon could sense the tension building to a breaking point. The head lords of the Riverlands, their expressions hardened with determination and defiance, stood opposite him like adversaries on the battlefield. But Daemon paid them no mind, his attention fixed on the maps spread out before them, each one marked with the movements of their allies and enemies alike.
As Daemon Targaryen stepped into the war room, the atmosphere was thick with the weight of countless grievances and conflicting agendas. Behind him, a posse of three dozen Riverlords trailed, their expressions a mix of weariness and defiance.
Nearly four dozen Northlords stood alongside them, their faces weathered from battle and their resolve unyielding. Behind them, Westerlords and Stormlords mingled, their banners fluttering defiantly in the breeze.
The war room was chaotic, tumultuous cacophony of voices and raised tempers. Maps adorned the walls, each marked with the intricate details of battle lines and strategic positions. Small figures representing armies and warbands dotted the surfaces, their placements scrutinized and debated by the assembled lords.
Daemon's eyes swept over the room, taking in the sea of sigils that adorned the banners of each House present. The lion of House Lannister, the dire wolf of House Stark, the stag of House Baratheon—all were represented, their presence a testament to the unity forged in the face of a common enemy.
Each Lord seemed intent on voicing their opinions and agendas, their voices rising in a chaotic symphony of discord.
Daemon walked towards the center of the room, his gaze unwavering as he surveyed the scene before him. He listened as the lords around the table shouted over one another, each vying for dominance and control of the discussion. Their words clashed and collided, a vortex of conflicting ideas and strategies that threatened to overwhelm the room.
As Daemon's gaze swept across the room, it settled upon the figure seated at the head of the table—his son, Aemon Targaryen. Beside him stood Corlys Velaryon, a stoic presence at the young prince's side. Despite his tender age of seven, Aemon bore himself with a gravity that belied his years, his expression grave and his focus unwavering.
Aemon wore black leather, and jerkin was stained black as coal. His son's hair was longer than he had last seen, almost seven months ago, and now reached further back his shoulders, tied in a half bun on the back of his head. His dark eyes were not leaving the papers and maps. The boy looked northern. What truly showed this was the black wolf cloak draped around his back, thick furs that no sane person would wear this far south from the North save for the Northmen themselves. Aemon's black fur cloak had the head of the wolf on the shoulder, and most of the pelt was on his shoulders and upper back.
Daemon's eyes narrowed as he studied his son, noting the seriousness of the boy's features. There was a maturity in Aemon's demeanor that seemed out of place for one so young, a solemnity that spoke of responsibilities far beyond his years. To Daemon, Aemon was not merely a child but a prince preparing for war—a realization that filled him with pride and concern.
Unlike the other lords gathered around the table, Aemon made no effort to flaunt his royal status. Gone were the trappings of luxury and opulence that adorned the other nobles—instead, the young prince wore a simple leather jerkin, his attire unassuming and practical. His gaze remained fixed on the map before him, his mind consumed by the weighty matters.
Daemon said nothing as he observed his son, a sense of unease gnawing at him. He had hoped to shield Aemon from the harsh realities of war, to preserve his innocence for as long as possible. But as he looked upon his son's serious expression, he realized that Aemon had been forced to grow up far too quickly—that the grim responsibilities of leadership had replaced the innocence of childhood.
"Prince Daemon Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, and heir to the Iron Throne," the herald screamed, but Daemon doubted anyone noticed. "Lord Grover Tully, Lord of Riverrun, Lord Paramount of the Trident."
The war room was a disharmony of voices, each Lord clamoring to make their voice heard above the others. Amidst the chaos, Daemon's gaze fell upon his son, Aemon once more with Ghost, his faithful direwolf, by his side. There was a weariness in the young prince's eyes, a burden that seemed too heavy for his tender years.
Aemon glanced briefly at Daemon, a silent acknowledgment passing between father and son before he turned his attention back to the room. With a weary sigh, he gestured to the assembled lords, a look of exasperation crossing his features. Daemon couldn't help but chuckle at the sight, a smug smirk on his lips.
"Well, it seems our young prince has grown tired of the bickering," Daemon remarked, his tone laced with amusement.
Aemon sighed, his patience wearing thin as he raised his voice above the room's din. "Quiet!" he called out, his command cutting through the noise like a knife. Slowly, the clamor died down, and all eyes turned to Aemon, their attention now fully focused on the young prince.
With a sense of authority that belied his years, Aemon addressed the room, his voice calm yet commanding. "Welcome, my father, Prince Daemon Targaryen, and esteemed Riverlords," he began, his words carrying a weight that demanded respect.
The tension in the war room was palpable as Aemon, seated at the head of the table, addressed Lord Grover Tully, his red hair began turning white with age, the stalwart Lord of the Riverlands, who stood by Daemon's side. Aemon's youthful confidence seemed to irk Lord Grover, who glanced at the young prince with disbelief and irritation.
Aemon cleared his throat, his eyes fixed on Lord Grover Tully, who stood at his father's side. "Lord Tully," he addressed the Riverlands lord, "how many men have you brought to bolster our forces?"
Lord Tully looked to Aemon for some time, and Daemon supposed he was waiting for one of the older men in the room to be the one to speak and take charge, instead of a boy not with hair on his balls.
The sound of laughter erupted from the other end of the table, where Lord Rickon Stark sat. "Ha! Seems the Tully trout mute," he jeered, his voice booming with amusement.
Lord Grover Tully's expression shifted, his brows furrowing in disbelief at being questioned by a mere boy. "And who are you to be giving orders, boy?" he retorted, his tone laced with disdain.
Lord Stark grew serious as he stood quickly from his seat; his gray eyes and large, ferocious body were enough to intimidate lesser men, and Lord Tully was a lesser man. Daemon had been waiting for this confrontation for some time; truly, he did. Lord Grover had set his grandson Elmo Tully to marry Lyanna Stark, the angry Stark's daughter, and the two had hated one another for the better part of a decade. Seeing the Stark and Tully fight would have been grand.
Lord Stark leered before speaking, "Careful know fish, that is my grandson and your prince. Next words you make, I will gut a fucking trout," he said with a level of rage that seemed almost cold. Something Daemon had never thought to see; Lord Stark was known to be a wild, reckless man, the opposite of his cold father, who was currently Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, from what Aemon had explained.
Lord Tully's face flushed with anger at the Stark lord's mockery. "You Northern mongrel!" he spat, his voice dripping with venom.
Lord Stark's eyes narrowed, and his temper flared in response. "Mongrel, am I? Better a mongrel than a fucking fish." he shot back, his words biting with scorn.
Lord Grover Tully's face contorted with fury at Lord Stark's insult. "You insolent Northern cur! You dare speak to me in such a manner?" he growled, his voice rising in indignation.
Lord Stark leaned forward, his anger fueling his words. "Insolent? Look who's talking, you spineless trout! I'd sooner trust a wildling than a Riverlander like you! Fucking shits couldn't even save themselves. Need our help to save their lands when they, unlike the rest of us, were actually in their kingdom. We had to march North, invade our lands, then find a way to push the Ironborn cunts out! You needed my men to save yourselves when you had never even left your kingdom like the rest of us!"
The room erupted into murmurs and gasps at the escalating exchange, tension crackling like lightning. Lord Tully's eyes blazed with fury. "You would insult the honor of House Tully, Stark? You who whose own daughter had no honor when she fucked another man when she was betrothed already." he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt.
Lord Stark roared, and a dozen men held him back as he rushed to Lord Tully. The rage of an angered father was far stronger than the strongest of a dozen men as they had difficulty holding the Lord back from killing Lord Tully. The number surged from a dozen to two dozen; they needed three dozen to stop Lord Stark fully. Daemon chuckled and smiled the entire time smugly, watching then entering until the man mentioned Lyanna. Daemon was going to kill the man right there, but one harsh glare from his son was enough to tell him to stop. Daemon disliked listening to his son's orders, but Aemon seemed to have had a handle on the men before this started, and he had to trust the boy to gain a grasp of the situation once again.
Lord Stark's furry was high, and their eyes were mad. "Speak of my daughter again! Say it again! Say it again! Come here and die like fucking man!"
Lord Tully spat on the ground near Lord Stark's feet. "Northern savage! You Starks are oathbreaking, honorless dogs, the lot of you!"
"Honor? Your house has as much honor as a rat in a sewer, Tully! You and your kin are nothing but cowards and oathbreakers! Disrespecting my fucking daughter! Come here! Worry not; I'll kill you quicker than a fucking blink. I'll crush your skull with my bare hands!"
The insult struck a nerve, and Lord Tully surged to his forward, his face turning red with rage. "You dare impugn the honor of House Tully, Stark? I'll have your tongue for that!" he roared, his hand reaching for his sword hilt.
But before the situation could escalate further, Aemon stood abruptly, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. "Enough!" he commanded, his tone firm and authoritative. "This bickering serves no purpose. We are here to fight a fucking war! Not each other!" Aemon then turned to Lord Tully. "Speak of my dead mother again, and I will have your tongue. Lyanna Stark was a princess of the realm."
The tension in the war room was palpable as Aemon's question hung in the air, his gaze unwavering as he awaited Lord Grover Tully's response. Lord Tully's expression darkened, his jaw clenched in defiance as he stared back at the young prince.
"I will not answer to a child," Lord Tully retorted sharply, his voice laced with disdain. "If the rest of you lot are content to follow the whims of a babe, then I shall take command and lead the assault myself."
Daemon clenched his fists at his sides, his temper flaring at Lord Tully's insolence. He shot a seething glare at the Riverlord, his disdain for the man burning like wildfire. Aemon remained composed, his features stoic as he addressed the defiant Lord.
"House Targaryen will lead the assault against the Ironborn," Aemon declared, his voice steady and unwavering. "And if you and your men refuse to follow the orders of a child, then you will answer to me."
At Aemon's side, Lord Corlys Velaryon spoke up for the first time, his voice carrying weight in the room. Daemon noticed Corlys looked angry towards Aemon for a reason or another but the man begrudgingly spoke. "Prince Aemon Targaryen has proven himself on the battlefield," Corlys interjected, his tone firm and authoritative. "His leadership has secured victories that none of us could achieve. We would be wise to heed his counsel." Daemon knew the tone of voice, the voice Corlys used, the man was not truly praising Aemon, no, just speaking a fact to make sure the boy thought Corlys was firmly on his side. Corlys disliked Aemon for one reason or another but knew he needed to submit to this.
But Lord Tully remained obstinate, his pride refusing to yield to reason. "My men will not take orders from a child," he insisted stubbornly, his voice dripping with disdain.
Lord Stark, ever blunt and direct, interjected with a sharp retort. "Your men listened to the Ironborn when they were burning our lands and slaughtering our people. You lot lost to the Ironborn, then decided to take down your pants and let them fuck you in the arse as they burnt your lands," he snapped, his words biting with venom. "If a child can win us victories against those savages, then I say we'd be fools not to follow him."
The room fell silent again, the weight of Lord Stark's words hanging in the air like a heavy shroud. Aemon's gaze remained fixed on Lord Tully, his determination unwavering as he awaited the Riverlord's response.
Prince Aemon's demeanor remained unyielding, his countenance a mask of icy resolve as he fixed Lord Tully with a steely gaze. The Riverlord's words dripped with contempt as he defiantly declared that he would not bow to the authority of a child, his pride refusing to bend to reason.
"If I am expected to follow the commands of a mere boy in this war," Lord Tully spat, his voice thick with disdain, "then I shall march my men back to the Riverlands where we belong."
Lord Stark, never one to shy away from a verbal skirmish, interjected with a sharp retort, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Ah yes, the mighty Riverlands," he mocked, his words laced with derision. "Surely your absence would be felt in this grand endeavor, especially considering the overwhelming might of the other three kingdoms present."
Prince Aemon's response was calm and measured, his voice devoid of emotion as he addressed Lord Tully. "You are more than welcome to take your army and return home," he stated matter-of-factly. "But know this: I will not forget your defiance when I emerge victorious in this Greyjoy Rebellion and the Ironborn threat is extinguished. I will return to Riverrun and root you out, then hang you and all those who march back with you as an oathbreaker."
The threat hung heavy in the air, the tension in the room thickening with each passing moment. Prince Aemon's words were a stark reminder of his authority and his unwavering determination to see his enemies vanquished.
Lord Grover Tully, his face contorted with rage, could no longer contain his fury. "I will not suffer insults from a child!" he bellowed, his voice echoing through the war room like thunder.
In a flash of fury and desperation, Lord Grover Tully's hand snaked towards his sword, his mind consumed by the searing rage that coursed through his veins. But before he could fully grasp the hilt, the monstrous form of Ghost, the dire wolf, erupted from the shadows like a vengeful spirit.
With lightning speed, Ghost pounced onto the table, his massive frame hurtling across the room in a blur of white fur and fangs. Lord Tully's eyes widened in terror as the dire wolf bore down upon him, jaws gaping wide.
In a savage frenzy, Ghost's jaws clamped down on Lord Tully's outstretched hand, his powerful bite-crushing bone tearing through flesh with unrelenting force. The sickening sound of snapping bone echoed through the room, drowned out only by Lord Tully's blood-curdling screams of agony.
Blood sprayed in crimson arcs as Ghost ripped Lord Tully's hand clean from his arm, leaving behind a gaping, crimson-stained wound that gushed with crimson lifeblood. The stench of iron filled the air as the metallic tang of blood mingled with the acrid scent of fear and pain.
With a final wrenching tug, Ghost tore the severed hand free, his teeth dripping with gore as he released his grip on the mutilated limb. Lord Tully writhed in agony on the floor, his anguished cries reverberating off the stone walls of the war room.
Silence descended upon the room as Ghost, his eyes gleaming with feral intensity, padded back to Aemon's side, the severed hand clenched firmly in his jaws. With a solemn nod, Ghost deposited the gruesome trophy into Aemon's waiting hands, a chilling testament to the dire wolf's loyalty and the brutal consequences of defying the authority of House Targaryen.
Aemon's voice cut through the tense silence of the war room, his words ringing clear and commanding. "King Jaehaerys Targaryen taught me that it is death to bear a sword against your liege lord or the royal family," he proclaimed, his gaze unwavering as he addressed the assembled lords. "I trust that Lord Tully was merely inspecting his blade in preparation for the battles ahead. Perhaps it suffered damage during the conflicts in the Riverlands."
The room remained still, the air thick with apprehension, as several of Lord Tully's men hastened to staunch the flow of blood from his maimed hand. With a pained grimace, Lord Tully rose to his feet, accepting the offered cloth with a nod of gratitude. His eyes met Aemon's, searching for any hint of judgment or condemnation.
All cunning men could see Aemon's words for what they were, an escape. The only chance for Grover Tully to come out of this confrontation without his head on a spike. Aemon would allow Grover to live if Grover admitted himself a fool who cut himself with his blade. Aemon claimed the man's hand and now he will force the man to either give him his head or his humiliation and submission in front of all other respectable lords, further pushing the entire Riverlands under Aemon's dominance.
"My apologies, Your Grace," Lord Tully spoke, his voice strained but defiant. "My sword suffered damage in battle, but it seems sharp enough for our upcoming engagements." He gestured towards his small contingent of men with his remaining hand, a wry smile on his lips. "The bloody thing was still able to nick me, though." Lord Grover shows the damaged arm as if it were the blade that cut his hand off rather than a dire wolf ripping it off.
A tense silence hung in the air as the other lords awaited Aemon's response, their eyes flickering between the young prince and Lord Tully. Then, to the surprise of many, Aemon's stoic facade broke, a soft chuckle escaping his lips.
"Well, Lord Tully," Aemon replied, his laughter mingling with the nervous tension in the room. "I would hate for this meeting to end on such a sour note. We must focus on some things, and we are already... short-handed. " His words elicited a ripple of uneasy laughter from the assembled lords, the tension in the room dissipating with each shared jest.
Daemon laughed loudly, several loud chuckles echoed across the room; Lord Stark laughed with reckless abandon. Aemon never jested; he was often a brooding, serious boy, and to make such a cruel joke right after that man had his arm ripped off by Aemon's dire wolf was probably the funniest thing he had ever seen Aemon do. There was hope for Aemon yet.
With a nod of acceptance, Aemon signaled an end to the confrontation, his decision to show mercy met with relieved sighs and grateful smiles from the other lords. At that moment, the specter of conflict was averted, replaced by camaraderie and unity as the realm's lords prepared to face their common enemy together. The tension in the war room slowly dissipated as Aemon turned his attention to logistical matters, his voice calm and measured as he addressed Lord Tully once more.
"Lord Tully, how many men have you brought with you?" Aemon inquired, his gaze fixed intently on the Riverlord.
His expression somewhat subdued after the earlier confrontation, Lord Tully cleared his throat before responding. "The Riverlands have mustered twenty-five thousand men, Your Grace," he replied, his tone respectful but tinged with a hint of defiance.
Aemon nodded thoughtfully before turning to address the gathered lords. "As of yesterday's counts, the North has fielded fifty thousand men, slightly more than during the Wildling Invasion," he announced, his voice carrying authority. "The Westerlands have raised forty-five thousand men, while the Stormlands have mustered forty thousand." Calculating the numbers in his head, Aemon continued, his voice unwavering. "Altogether, we boast a force of one hundred and sixty thousand men," he declared, his words resonating throughout the war room. "Then, with three hundred warships from Lord Redwyne, four hundred warships from the Velaryons, and eight dragons, this would be a victory, and the next battle will be the last."
Daemon, his eyes widening in disbelief, interjected, his voice incredulous. "Eight dragons? How is that possible? I only saw five when I arrived here on Caraxes."
Aemon's lips curled into a knowing smile as he explained, just a slight smile, so slight, for his brooding consumed most of his face, his demeanor confident. "With the Stormlands secured and ample resources to protect Summerhall and Summertown. There must always be a Targaryen in Summerhall and our dear maester is a Targaryen," he replied, his tone tinged with satisfaction. "Hence, the addition of three more dragons to our arsenal, including Caraxes."
The heavy wooden doors creaked loudly as they swung open, drawing the attention of all those gathered in the war room. Daemon's eyes shifted toward the entrance, where he beheld the figures of his young aunts, the Princesses Viserra, Aerea, Rhaella, Daenerys, Saera, and Maegelle, each one bearing the unmistakable features of House Targaryen.
"The Princesses Viserra, Aerea, Rhaella, Daenerys, Saera, and Maegelle of House Targaryen, the princesses of Summerhall!" the herald announced, his voice echoing throughout the chamber.
Daemon watched as his aunts, all nine years of age, strode into the room with an air of confidence that belied their youth. Their silvery-golden locks cascaded down their shoulders, shimmering in the flickering light, while their eyes, ranging in shades of purple, lilac, and indigo, sparkled with determination.
"Welcome, Princesses," Aemon greeted them warmly, his pride evident as he stood by the war table.
Saera stepped forward, her gaze meeting Aemon's with a nod of acknowledgment. "Thank you, Prince Aemon," she replied graciously, her tone poised and dignified.
Daemon observed the subtle shift in the room's atmosphere as they passed by the assembled lords. With the arrival of his aunts, each accompanied by her dragon, the tension seemed to dissipate, replaced by a sense of anticipation and power.
Daemon's smirk grew into a smug grin as he realized the formidable force they now commanded—a force that included eight dragons, a testament to the strength and unity of House Targaryen.
Daemon's mind wandered as he observed the contrast between his son, Aemon, and his aunts, the Targaryen princesses. Aemon, with his dark hair and eyes, bore a striking resemblance to the Stark side of the family. His features, though handsome, lacked the refined Valyrian elegance that defined his aunts.
His son's appearance was a stark departure from the traditional Targaryen look—those fair of hair and violet of the eye, with features so finely chiseled they seemed sculpted from marble. Aemon's Northern heritage was evident in every aspect of his appearance, from his long face to his somber expression.
Daemon couldn't help but compare Aemon's demeanor to that of his aunts. While the princesses exuded an air of ethereal beauty and passion, Aemon remained cold and solemn, his emotions carefully guarded behind a mask of stoicism. He was a brooding figure, starkly contrasting the fiery temperament often associated with their Valyrian bloodline.
Daemon pondered this discrepancy and realized that his son embodied the North's essence rather than their Valyrian ancestors' fiery spirit. Despite bearing the Targaryen name, Aemon was, at his core, a northerner—a fact that both intrigued and concerned Daemon as they prepared for the battles to come.
Aemon's gaze shifted to Lord Corlys, his expression unreadable as he asked, "How much damage was done to the Ironborn fleet?"
Lord Corlys, ever composed, met Aemon's gaze with his steady stare. "Most of the three to four hundred warships they possessed were decimated in the Sea of Fire," he replied evenly. "As for their numbers, they've dwindled from sixty-five thousand men, including sellswords, to a mere fifteen thousand."
Aemon nodded thoughtfully, his mind already calculating the implications of this revelation. "Seven islands make up the Iron Islands," he mused aloud. "If their forces are evenly distributed, that leaves roughly two thousand men stationed at each island."
Daemon, catching the drift of the conversation, smirked wryly. "Seems hardly fair, doesn't it?" he remarked, a hint of amusement coloring his tone. "We have a hundred and sixty thousand men at our disposal, while the Ironborn are left to fend with a mere fifteen thousand scattered across seven islands. They will send us back to our keeps if this lasts any longer."
The lords in the room chuckled at the jest, but Aemon and Corlys remained focused, their attention fixed on the maps spread out before them, their minds already strategizing the next move in their campaign against the Ironborn.
Aemon's voice cut through the room, crisp and commanding. "Lord Redwyne, Lord Velaryon," he addressed the two lords seated across from him at the war table, "how many men can your warships comfortably accommodate?"
Lord Redwyne, a sturdy man with a weathered face, replied first. "Two hundred men, comfortably," he answered, his voice carrying authority from years at sea.
Lord Velaryon nodded in agreement. "Much the same for our ships," he confirmed, his voice measured and precise.
Aemon absorbed their responses, his mind already racing with calculations. "We have seven hundred warships at our disposal," he stated matter-of-factly, "while the Ironborn, by estimation, have only fifty left."
He turned his attention to the maps before them, his gaze unwavering. "We'll deploy the Velaryon and Redwyne fleets," he announced, his tone decisive. "Fifty ships to each island, each carrying no less than two hundred men."
Lord Stark, seated nearby, interjected with a frown. "If fifty ships have two hundred men each," he calculated aloud, "that's ten thousand men dispatched to each island."
Lord Corlys, the epitome of composure, nodded in agreement. "Indeed," he confirmed, his voice calm and steady. "Which would mean only three hundred fifty ships are being utilized for this strategy."
Lord Boremund Baratheon, his brow furrowed in thought, spoke up next. "Seems unlikely that each island would have two thousand men evenly. Especially after what Prince Aemon had said publicly for the last number of days," he remarked skeptically, his tone skeptical.
Daemon, intrigued by the conversation, turned to his son with a quizzical expression. "What have you done, Aemon?" he inquired, curiosity piqued.
The newly appointed Lord Jason Lannister, his gaze sharp, explained, "Prince Aemon has proposed an attack on the main island of Pyke and said so many times over to the men outside this room, word is already spread among our ranks," he revealed, his words laced with a hint of dismissal.
Lord Grover Tully, his tone skeptical, interjected with a counterargument. "The Ironborn would concentrate their forces on Pyke to repel such an assault," he pointed out, his skepticism evident.
Lord Borros Baratheon, his skepticism evident, voiced his doubts. "If all the Ironborn are on Pyke, and we send only ten thousand soldiers to face fifteen thousand Ironborn," he argued, "it's a victory for the Ironborn."
Daemon observed his son, Aemon, with curiosity and pride, noting how the young prince's gaze swept over each of his aunts. The princesses, Viserra, Aerea, Rhaella, Daenerys, Saera, and Maegelle, returned Aemon's gaze with nods of affirmation and smirks of confidence. It was a silent exchange of understanding and solidarity that Daemon couldn't help but admire.
Aemon's cool and composed voice pierced the air as he addressed the assembled lords. "Yes, it's true," he began, his words deliberate and measured. "I openly discussed my plan to attack the main island of Pyke with everyone present here and with all the knights and men outside this chamber. I said my plans often, loudly, and publicly."
Lord Stark's expression shifted as he realized his intentions. "You wanted the Ironborn to know your intentions," he surmised, his voice tinged with a newfound understanding.
Lord Corlys nodded in agreement, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. "Indeed," he confirmed, his tone approving. "By spreading the word and allowing spies to relay the information to the Ironborn, we create the illusion that the Pyke is our primary target, leaving the other islands vulnerable." Aemon's stoic demeanor remained unchanged as he turned to Lord Corlys. "Please, repeat your calculation regarding the distribution of our ships," he requested calmly.
Lord Corlys obliged, his tone confident. "If we allocate fifty ships to each island," he began, "it means that only three hundred fifty ships are in use, leaving seventy thousand men deployed out of our total of one hundred sixty thousand. Meaning you would not use my four hundred ships"
Aemon nodded thoughtfully, his mind already several steps ahead. "With the Ironborn under the impression that the Pyke is our main focus," he elaborated, "they will concentrate their defenses there, leaving the other islands less guarded."
Lord Stark interjected with a realization of his own. "So, if four hundred ships are being sent to the Pyke," he deduced, "a significant portion of our remaining forces will be concentrated there."
Aemon's gaze remained steady as he outlined the next phase of their strategy. "Exactly," he affirmed. "We'll maximize the number of men on those four hundred ships, sending the majority of our remaining one hundred thousand troops to reinforce the assault on the Pyke. I promised you, Lord Corlys, revenge for your damaged fleet. Here it is. All of your four hundred ships are going to the Pyke." Aemon's voice resonated through the war room, commanding attention as he laid out the next phase of their strategy. "A dragon will lead each island," he declared, his tone firm and resolute. "With most Ironborn forces likely concentrated on the Pyke, most of the fighting will occur there. Therefore, I propose sending two dragons to attack the Pyke."
Before Aemon could elaborate further, Daemon interjected with his proposal. "Aemon and I will lead the assault on the Pyke," he announced, a hint of pride evident in his voice. "It will be a father-and-son partnership, striking fear into the hearts of our enemies."
Aemon, however, had a different idea in mind. "I would prefer for you to take Great Wyk," he countered calmly, his gaze unwavering. "It is the largest of the Iron Islands and likely swarming with Ironborn forces if they are not sent to the Pyke. It would be a crucial victory."
Daemon chuckled at his son's suggestion, dismissing it with a wave. "Most of the fighting will be centered on the Pyke," he insisted, his confidence unwavering. "As members of House Targaryen, we must lead the charge.
Aemon considered his father's words for a moment before nodding in agreement. "Very well," he acquiesced, a steely resolve in his eyes. "We will lead the assault on the Pyke together. "Turning to address the assembled lords once more, Aemon posed a question. "Are there any suggestions or thoughts?" he inquired, his voice commanding silence in the room. Silence greeted his query, the lords and knights alike recognizing the cunning and efficiency of the plan laid out before them. With a nod of satisfaction, Aemon acknowledged their assent. "Then it is settled," he declared, his voice ringing with authority. "We shall send ten thousand men to each of the six islands, and the remaining one hundred thousand will obliterate the main house that started this rebellion."
The war room fell into contemplative silence as Aemon's words hung in the air, each Lord weighing the implications of their next move. Boremund Baratheon, his voice filled with conviction, was the first to break the silence.
"As kin to House Targaryen, House Baratheon would be honored to fight alongside you on the Pyke," he declared boldly, his gaze unwavering as he addressed Aemon and Daemon. "Your princesses saved my lands during a siege; I wish to repay that kindness."
Daemon, seizing the opportunity to further undermine Lord Grover Tully, interjected with a sly remark. "I would have thought vengeance at the Pyke would be a fitting cause for you, Lord Tully," he quipped, smirking. After all, the Ironborn have left your lands in ruins."
Lord Grover Tully, his arm still dripping with blood and hastily bandaged, bristled at the suggestion. "I would never join you in battle after what you and Caraxes did to the Riverlands," he retorted, his voice tinged with bitterness. "You have shown nothing but disrespect to my people."
Rickon Stark, his voice calm and authoritative, spoke next, asserting the prowess of his Northmen in battle. "The men of the North have fought the Ironborn for generations," he declared, his eyes glinting with pride. "We are no strangers to war, and our warriors would be well-suited for the fight at the Pyke."
Lord Jason Lannister, ever the arrogant lion, added his voice to the discussion. "Lannisport and Casterly Rock demand vengeance," he proclaimed, his tone dripping with superiority. "I shall lead my men to the Pyke and ensure that justice is served for the atrocities committed against my lands."
As Lord Stark, Lord Baratheon, and Lord Lannister expressed their desire to fight at the Pyke, Daemon couldn't resist the opportunity to stoke the flames of discord further. With a subtle smirk playing on his lips, he subtly instigated the conversation, his words dripping with sarcasm and contempt.
"Ah, so the mighty lords of the North, Stormlands, and Westerlands all clamor for the honor of leading the assault on the Pyke," Daemon remarked, his tone laced with mockery. "How fortunate we are to have such brave and noble warriors among us," his words dripping with sarcasm and a lack of emotion. His face was smudged and satisfied. Daemon looked at his son Aemon and saw the level of disappearance he never thought he would see. His stoic face was more than enough to show dislike of Daemon trying to anger the lords.
His words were like fuel to a flame, igniting the tempers of the assembled lords. Lord Stark bristled at the thinly veiled insult, his jaw clenched in anger. "Do not mock us, Prince Daemon," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "The men of the North have spilled blood for generations to defend our lands from the Ironborn."
His brow furrowed in displeasure, Lord Baratheon shot a glare at Daemon. "And do not think House Baratheon lacks the courage to face our enemies head-on," he retorted, his voice tinged with defiance. "We have fought alongside House Targaryen and shall do so again."
Lord Lannister, his pride wounded by Daemon's words, stepped forward with a scowl. "House Lannister will not be insulted," he snapped, his tone sharp with irritation. "We have suffered greatly at the hands of the Ironborn, and we will not rest until justice is served."
As the lords exchanged heated words, the tension in the war room reached a boiling point. Insults flew like arrows, each more cutting and brutal than the last. Daemon reveled in the chaos he had incited, his smirk widening with each passing moment.
"Come now, my lords, surely we can settle this like civilized men," he taunted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Or are we to let petty squabbles tear us apart before we even set foot on the battlefield?"
But his words fell on deaf ears as the lords continued to argue, their tempers flaring uncontrollably. The war room descended into chaos, the air thick with hatred and resentment as each Lord fought to assert dominance. Amid it all, Daemon watched with amusement, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction at the discord he had sown.
Aemon's glare was something Daemon never thought he would see on the brooding boy. Aemon was often stoic, emotionless, and brooding, but never had he seen the boy disappointed. Aemon sighed and looked around the room at his aunts. Aemon looked like he was going to say something, but Saea and Viserra grabbed his shoulders and gave him a look. Aemon grunted in approval before leveling his anger and brooding gaze at all the lords as they argued. Daemon looked on, wondering why his son was not interrupting yet. His son had stopped every form of difference that happened in this room, yet now he would wait for this to come full circle.
As the Lannisters made their pompous comment belittling the Riverlords, Lord Jason Lannister's arrogance knew no bounds. "Truly, Lord Tully, you must forgive me for doubting the effectiveness of your forces," he remarked condescendingly, his tone dripping with disdain. "After all, what use is a mere handful of men against the might of House Lannister? Twenty-five thousand men would be such a large contribution to this war."
His words were like a spark to tinder, igniting the ire of the Riverlords, who refused to be spoken down to. Daemon looked at the red stub of Lord Grover Tully's arm; he wondered how long the man could fake his injury and pain to stay in this room. His voice dripping with sarcasm, Lord Grover Tully shot back, "Ah, yes, House Lannister, renowned for their bravery on the battlefield," he retorted mockingly. "I suppose one should not expect much from a house that hides behind their walls. One battle at your ancestral seat, and you were useless in the battles to come for seven entire months."
The insult struck a nerve with the Lannisters, who bristled at the implication of cowardice. Lord Jason Lannister's eyes flashed with fury as he retorted, "Better to be cautious and cunning than reckless and foolhardy, Lord Tully. But I wouldn't expect you to understand the nuances of strategy. Tell me, did it take much forethought for you to make your lords and people begin fighting each other once the Ironborn told you to do so?"
The Riverlords, unwilling to back down, fired back with their barbs, mocking both the Westerlords and the Northlords in equal measure. "You golden shits are like the ice-encrusted craven savages," one Riverlord sneered, his words dripping with contempt. "As for the Lannisters, one battle was enough to keep them cowering in their castles for years."
The Northlords, stung by the insult, erupted in anger, their voices rising in a chorus of outrage. "You dare insult the honor of House Stark, you cowardly cunts?" one Northlord thundered, his eyes blazing with fury. "At least we know how to defend our lands instead of cowering and needing the aid of better men like frightened children to save your lands."
"And what of you, Stormlords? Attacking us in our lands like cowards instead of facing us on the battlefield?" one Riverlord jeered, his voice dripping with scorn. "You're nothing but opportunistic traitors, willing to stab your allies in the back for a taste of power."
The war room became chaotic as insults flew like arrows, each faction hurling barbs and jibes at their rivals with reckless abandon. Amid it all, Daemon watched with a smirk, his eyes gleaming with amusement at the spectacle unfolding before him.
As Daemon observed Aemon, a fleeting sense of unease washed over him as he noticed a strange white, misty glaze in his son's eyes. It was as if a mist had momentarily obscured their dark depths, casting them into a ghostly hue.
Before Daemon could ponder further, the thunderous roar of Balerion the Black Dread ripped the air asunder, echoing through the stone halls of the castle with a ferocity that seemed to shake the fortress's very foundations.
The sound was deafening, a primal cacophony reverberating in every corner, causing the men within to stagger and falter. The sheer force of the roar was overwhelming, like a physical blow to the senses, and men cried out in agony as they fell to their knees, hands clamped tightly over their ears in a futile attempt to shield themselves from the ear-splitting sound.
Amidst the chaos, Aemon remained resolute, his expression stoic and unmoved by the torment that engulfed those around him. Though momentarily clouded, his eyes regained their steely resolve as he surveyed the scene before him with an air of detached calmness. Even as the lords writhed in agony, Aemon's demeanor remained unchanged, a silent testament to his unwavering composure in the face of adversity.
As the roar finally subsided and the echoes faded into the chamber's stillness, Aemon turned his attention back to the assembled lords, his gaze unwavering and penetrating. Despite the lingering pain and disorientation in the air, the young prince emanated an unmistakable aura of authority, a silent reminder of his formidable presence amidst the chaos of the war room.
As the tumultuous echoes of Balerion's roar subsided, leaving the war room in a stunned silence, Aemon rose to his feet with an air of commanding authority. His voice, clear and resonant, cut through the lingering reverberations, demanding attention from all who were present.
With a firm gaze, Aemon addressed each lord in turn, his questions ringing out unwaveringly. "A question for you, Lord Jason Lannister," Aemon began, his gaze fixed upon the Lord of Casterly Rock. "To whom does House Lannister swear their allegiance?"
Lord Jason Lannister, visibly taken aback by the sudden scrutiny, rose hesitantly to his feet, his expression betraying a hint of unease. "House Lannister is sworn to House Targaryen, my prince," he replied, his voice tinged with deference.
Aemon's piercing gaze then shifted to Lord Corlys Velaryon, his eyes probing and intense. "And what of House Velaryon, Lord Corlys?" he queried, his voice steady and unwavering.
Lord Corlys, ever composed and resolute, met Aemon's gaze with steely determination. "House Velaryon is sworn to House Targaryen, Your Grace," he declared, his words carrying the weight of solemn duty.
Turning next to Lord Grover Tully, Aemon's eyes lingered on the wounded lord, his expression grave yet unwavering. "And House Tully, Lord Grover?" he inquired, his voice carrying a tone of quiet authority.
Lord Tully, his arm still wrapped tightly in makeshift bandages, met Aemon's gaze with a steady resolve. "House Tully is sworn to House Targaryen, Your Grace," he affirmed, his voice firm despite the pain.
With a nod of acknowledgment, Aemon directed his attention to his grandfather, Lord Rickon Stark, a sense of pride evident in his gaze. "House Stark, Grandfather," he prompted, his voice tinged with respect and admiration.
Lord Rickon Stark's weathered features softened by a proud smile met Aemon's gaze with warmth and affection. "House Stark is sworn to House Targaryen, my grandson," he replied, his voice filled with pride and reverence.
Finally, Aemon turned his gaze to Lord Boremund Baratheon, his expression inscrutable yet commanding. "And House Baratheon, Lord Boremund?" he asked, his voice resonating with quiet authority.
Lord Boremund Baratheon, ever steadfast and loyal, met Aemon's gaze with unwavering resolve. "House Baratheon is sworn to House Targaryen, Your Grace," he affirmed his words a solemn pledge of allegiance.
Aemon's calm yet authoritative voice filled the war room as he addressed the assembled lords with unwavering resolve. "Every man gathered here today is sworn to the banner of House Targaryen," he began, his tone carrying the weight of solemn duty. "As Prince of House Targaryen, my word is law within these walls, unless overridden by my father, Prince Daemon Targaryen, or the King and Queen themselves." The lords and knights in attendance nodded in solemn agreement, acknowledging Aemon's authority with a sense of deference and respect. Aemon's gaze swept across the room, his dark eyes alight with determination as he continued. "But let us not forget that true loyalty is forged on the battlefield. Any man who fights alongside me shall be considered a friend, and I will not tolerate any conflicts among allies." The assembled lords murmured in agreement, their expressions reflecting a shared understanding of the importance of unity in times of war. "In the face of our common enemy, we must set aside our differences and stand together as one," Aemon declared, his voice resolute. The Ironborn have scarred and plundered our lands, but it is not each other we must fight, but those who have wrought such devastation upon us."
His words resonated with a sense of conviction, each syllable carrying the weight of unwavering determination as Aemon rallied his allies to a common cause.
As Aemon took control of the meeting, Daemon observed with a mixture of pride and awe. Despite his young age of merely seven years, Aemon commanded the attention of every man in the room with a presence that belied his youth.
Daemon's gaze lingered on his son, marveling at how effortlessly he guided the discussion, his every word carrying the weight of authority. There was an air of solemnity about Aemon, a seriousness that seemed far beyond his years, and it commanded the respect of all those present. Throughout the meeting, Aemon listened intently to the advice offered by the other lords, his dark eyes focused and unwavering. Daemon watched as his son carefully weighed each suggestion, considering its merits with a maturity that seemed almost unnatural for a boy his age.
When it came time to make decisions, Aemon responded with unwavering resolve, his voice firm and decisive. There was no hesitation in his words, no hint of doubt in his demeanor as he asserted his authority with a quiet confidence that left no room for argument.
As the meeting progressed, Daemon noted with satisfaction how Aemon's presence seemed to quell dissent among the assembled lords. A single glance from his son was all it took to silence any man who dared to speak out of turn, a testament to the respect and admiration that Aemon had earned through his actions on the battlefield.
At that moment, Daemon felt a swell of pride in his son, knowing he had raised a true leader, a boy with the strength and wisdom to guide their house through the trials ahead. As Aemon continued to lead the meeting with a steady hand, Daemon could not help but feel a sense of hope for the future, knowing their house was in capable hands.
Daemon's gaze lingered on his son, Aemon, with a mixture of admiration and contemplation. Clad in simple, dark leathers that seemed more fitting for a common soldier than a prince, Aemon stood out amidst the grandeur of the war council chamber. His attire was devoid of the lavishness that often adorned members of noble houses, save for the regal black fur cloak draped over his shoulders, a symbol of his royal lineage.
As Aemon led the war council with a confidence that belied his tender age, Daemon couldn't help but marvel at the sight before him. Despite his humble attire, there was an undeniable air of authority about Aemon, a natural-born leader who commanded the respect of all those in attendance.
Daemon watched with pride as his son deftly navigated the discussions, allowing the other lords to voice their opinions while firmly maintaining control of the proceedings. Aemon's demeanor was calm and composed, his every word measured and deliberate as he listened attentively to the counsel of his advisors.
Though still a boy of tender years, Aemon exhibited a maturity far beyond his age, his innate leadership qualities shining through with each decision he made. It was clear to Daemon that his son was born to lead, destined for greatness on the battlefield and beyond.
As the war council progressed, Daemon couldn't help but feel a swell of pride in his son, knowing that the future of their house was in capable hands. In Aemon, he saw not just a prince, but a true leader, ready to guide their family through the trials and tribulations that lay ahead.
As Daemon's gaze lingered upon his son, Aemon, a tumult of emotions swirled within him, each vying for dominance. For a fleeting moment, an unsettling image flashed before his eyes—a vision of Aemon as a grown man, standing tall and resolute, his features strikingly resembling the ancient Stark Kings of Winter.
To Daemon, the sight was both awe-inspiring and disconcerting. As a scion of House Targaryen, he hoped to see their noble lineage's fiery essence reflected in his son's visage—the unmistakable mark of a Dragon king. Instead, what he beheld was a countenance more reminiscent of the cold, stoic countenance of the North, an echo of the Stark blood that coursed through Aemon's veins.
Though Daemon felt a surge of pride at his son's regal bearing, a part of him couldn't help but harbor a twinge of disappointment. He longed to see House Targaryen's flame burning brightly within Aemon, a testament to their storied legacy and ancient lineage. Yet, as he observed the unmistakable Stark features etched upon his son's face, Daemon couldn't shake the feeling of discord that gnawed at his heart.
The realization of Aemon's stark resemblance to the Kings of Winter struck a chord deep within Daemon, stirring a complex brew of conflicting emotions. On one hand, he marveled at the thought of his son embodying the strength and resilience of the Northern lords, yet on the other, he couldn't help but lament the absence of the fiery spirit that defined House Targaryen.
As these thoughts swirled through his mind, Daemon was jolted back to the present by a sharp pang in his ribs—a reminder of his injuries in battle. With a grimace, he realized the pressing need to replenish his supply of medicine, a potent concoction brewed by the maesters and aptly named "Daemon's Dance" in his honor. As he made a mental note to seek out the maesters for more of the healing elixir, Daemon couldn't shake the unease in the depths of his soul.
That night the men feasted, they drank and whored. For none knew if they would be able to do so afterward. Daemon had thought it best to reach his son and spend time with the boy, but could not find him, nor his aunts. He passed men with more wine in their bellies than barrels could carry. Their faces were red with drink or laughter. He wanted to share a drink with his son, if not a full goblet for the boy then just a few sips.
It would be near the end of the night, when Daemon had drunk and whored himself into bliss, and argued with no less than a dozen other lords and watched as half a dozen fights ensued between the Houses and their knights that Daemon found his son, with his aunts. The girls resting with Viserra and Saera resting their heads on his lap while looking to the stars above.
Sitting near the weirdwood tree as they rested near the white bark Aemon sat down with a harp in his hand, leaning on the back of Ghost as the white wolf matched the white tree. The boy was singing, Daemon had not heard his son sing in quite some time and he would like to see it once more. Daemon would go to sit with them and join but the moment looked far too intimate for Daemon's drunk disturbance, he chose to hide by the wall and listen, out of sight. Let the children make a memories for dreams before they fight to make fuel for nightmares.
Daemon would like to know what song Aemon had begun singing, it was not one Daemon had not heard before. Yet, he knew it well. The sound of the strings being strummed, the hums of the girls as they made a chorus for the undertone of Aemon's voice singing the words. Daemon had never heard this song but he knew it better than Caraxes' saddle. For it was his song. A song of Daemon and Lyanna. The song that was always meant to be. A song of ice and fire.
In the heart of the Red Keep, where tales unfold,
A tale of love and courage, a story yet untold.
She was the She-Wolf, Lyanna Stark her name,
He, the Rouge Prince, Daemon Targaryen by fame.
Underneath the banners, where destinies align,
In the Tourney's fervor, their fates would intertwine.
A stolen glance, a fleeting touch,
A love so wild, it would mean so much.
Oh Lyanna, She-Wolf lovely, and fair,
In the dragon's gaze, you found love to share.
Daemon, the Rouge Prince strong and bold,
In the arms of a wolf, their story unfolds.
Rhae Royce standing tall in the tourney stand's veil,
But Daemon's heart had set sail.
No Queen of Love and Beauty for his future bride,
It was Lyanna to be crowned; it was her beauty he eyed.
A crown of winter roses, in her raven hair,
He chose her heart, without a care.
Forbidden love, a flame so bright,
Igniting passions in the Red Keep's sights.
Oh Lyanna, She-Wolf lovely and fair,
In the dragon's gaze, you found love to share.
Daemon, the Rouge Prince strong and bold,
In the arms of a wolf, their story unfolds.
They danced through whispers, 'neath the moonlit sky,
A love forbidden, yet they'd defy.
With every heartbeat, with every breath,
They chose a love that conquered death.
Promised to another, yet their hearts entwined,
In the shadows, a secret they'd find.
Flying through the night, hand in hand,
To build a future on love's soft sand.
Against the currents, against the tide,
They'd face the world, side by side.
A tale of passion, a tale of might,
In the Tourney's glow, they took their flight.
Oh Lyanna, She-Wolf lovely and fair,
In the dragon's gaze, you found love to share.
Daemon, the Rouge Prince strong and bold,
In the arms of a wolf, their story unfolds.
Whispers in shadows, their love took flight,
In the moonlit gardens, they met each night.
Wolves and Dragons, a kingdom at stake,
But for love, Lyanna and Daemon wouldn't break
Deep in the forests, where the summer winds blow,
A She-Wolf and Dragon, together they go.
In the echoes of history, their love will be sung,
Lyanna and Daemon, forever young.
Daemon did not know when he began crying. He did not know it until he began whipping the tears away. His Lyanna had been gone for some time and yet, she drew an ache in his heart. How unfair to care for a woman as much as she when he knew his son longer than he ever knew Lyanna. The gods are all cunts.
It was his song.
It was Lyanna's song.
It was the song that gave birth to Aemon.
It would be the last time Daemon would hear his son sing for years to come.