The pyre crackled and spat sparks into the sky. The funeral was held within Casterly Rock's ornate sept. Now, his father's corpse burned with only the sun and sky above.
Aemon Targaryen, standing beside his family, felt all alone. Draped in black and red attire, a cold emptiness gnawed at him and his faith. Jade eyes stared into the flames burning his father's body. No talk of burying Maegor. He was a Targaryen. Only fire would consume his mortal remains. The ashes would be interred in the Rock's sept, which had been Maegor's favorite place in this vast fortress.
The smell of burning wood and flesh filled the air, but Aemon barely noticed it. His thoughts were elsewhere, twisted and tangled in doubt. A strange sensation for one usually full of determination and conviction. This was not a problem to be solved, not a riddle to be answered. Day turned to night, and the family stood vigil. The wind from the sea was biting that evening, and it cut through his cloak and tunic like blades of ice.
More chilling were the thoughts stabbing into his grief-stricken mind.
Many faiths existed in the world. The Seven, the Old Gods of the First Men, the gods of Doomed Valyria, and countless others—how could he know which was true? The Septon had sermoned of the Father's mercy and the Mother's love, but all Aemon saw was a blackened sky, heavy with storm clouds that showed no sign of mercy. Maegor's death was no part of a grand design. No purpose could justify such a brutal and ignominious end. If the gods were true, if it was a cruel part of some divine scheme, and they condemned Maegor to an unworthy death, then they too were unworthy!
Aemon shivered as the flames reached their peak, turning the surrounding night into an eerie half-day. His gaze dropped to his boots, where the shadows danced and wavered in the flickering light. The thrumming of his heart was in tandem with the crackling of the flames. It's not right. None of this is right.
His fists clenched at his sides as grief and anger warred within him. He glanced toward his mother, Genna, who stood tall and proud, her face a mask of stoic dignity. Upon her brow, she wore a crystalline tiara nestled amongst lustrous blonde hair, a gift from her lord husband. Next to her, Visenya stood holding her hand, seemingly giving strength to the older woman. She will be a great queen. Daeron's face was a mirror of their father's, solemn and unreadable. He will be a great lord.
Jaime, standing on the other side of their mother, was uncharacteristically silent, his usual bravado dimmed by the heavy loss. Even Cersei, always sharp-tongued and quick-witted, stood quiet, her face pale in the firelight. Aemon felt a pang of guilt for his doubts. They had all lost something precious, and here he was, questioning the very gods his father worshiped so fervently.
But how could he not? Maegor had been a good man, a great man, a knight who had lived by the sword but never killed without just cause. From the King of the Seven Kingdoms to the lowest wretch of Lannisport, he was well loved. The gods should have protected him. Allowed him a graceful, meaningful end. Instead, they had let him die bleeding out in the gutter, trampled under the feet of an enraged mob. He suppressed a surge of black fury. Empty. Aemon's untested faith now felt as fragile as the snow forts father once taught him to build, ready to shatter at the slightest touch.
He kept his doubts to himself, though the weight of them bore down on his heart. As the pyre burned and the flames began to consume the last vestiges of Maegor's body, Aemon found himself silently making a vow. Never rely on the gods. I can only rely on myself. If the gods existed, they would find only the meanest of prayers from him. He would carve his own path, shape his own fate. He would act with unyielding will, and nothing—no god, no man—would stop him.
The fire continued to burn long into the night, and it seemed a pale and cold thing compared to the blazing inferno roaring to life in his heart.
When the pyre finally died down to glowing embers, the gathered family members dispersed. Aemon lingered for a moment, staring at the remains of the pyre. His father was gone. All that was left was ashes. But the world did not stop turning. There was still much to be done, and Aemon would not stand idle.
As he turned to leave, Jaime caught his eye. His milk-brother had been watching him, concern etched into his features. Aemon gave him a small nod, and Jaime returned it, though his expression remained troubled. The two brothers walked side by side back into Casterly Rock, their footsteps echoing in the silent night.
The days immediately after the funeral passed in a haze of grief and routine. Life at Casterly Rock moved on, as it always did, but there was a noticeable heaviness in the air, as if the very walls of the ancient fortress were mourning Maegor's passing. The servants had taken to wearing a black band of cloth about their upper arms. Aemon found himself lost in thought more often than not, his mind drifting back to the flames of the pyre, to the terrified, agonized, faces of the men he had killed in his quest for vengeance, and to the hollow ache that had settled in his chest.
Lord Tywin was assembling men. Aemon roamed restlessly when he was not weighed down by his duties.
The evening before the host would set out, Aemon found himself standing atop one of Casterly Rock's battlements near where his father's pyre burned. He stared out at the endless expanse of the Sunset Sea. Waves crashed against the cliffs far below, their rhythmic roar a constant reminder of the power of the elements at work in the dark. Aemon took a deep breath, letting the salty sea air fill his lungs. It was cold, but invigorating, a sharp contrast to the dull ache of grief that had settled over him.
"Aemon," came a quiet voice from behind him. He turned to see Jaime standing there, his golden hair catching the torchlight. "I…" Jaime hesitated, his eyes flickering between Aemon and the horizon. "I was looking for you. I-I'm sorry."
"There's nothing to apologize for." Aemon said, his tone sharper than he intended. His jade green eyes gleamed like gemstones in the torch's light.
"I-I should go." Jaime stammered.
"Stay." Aemon said.
An awkward silence descended upon the two cousins. It had been years since they'd sought each other out for anything beyond courtesies and duty. Before that night of murder and madness, they had been thick as thieves. Now, Cersei hung between the two like a thunderhead always on the verge of crashing across the horizon.
"Uncle Maegor was a good man." Jaime began, "He always had a kind word for me, for everyone. He believed in others when they did not believe in themselves. You know I'd always go to him with any childish problem I had. He's the one that encouraged me to give my all in the training yard. 'A life spent seeking after a man's dream can never be accounted as a waste.'" Jaime stiffened before continuing, "It's pathetic, but I remember listening outside your door when he sang to you at bedtime."
Aemon had not known that. Jaime swallowed loudly, "Sometimes, I-I wished he was my father."
"He loved you like a son." Aemon swallowed hard. Father tried to reconcile them both many times, but the two hardheaded cousins would have none of it, "The world is a bleaker place without him."
"Aye, that it is." Jaime answered.
There was a heavy silence then as both squires stared out at the forbidding night. How small were they before that endless darkness? Perhaps, there was meaning there. No matter how small, one must always rage against the coming of the night.
They stayed like that for a long time, and to Aemon it felt like years melted away. They were the boys Maegor put to sleep with a song, the cousins that shared everything. Closer than brothers. Together away from the rest of the world, they mourned.
For the first time since hearing of his father's murder, Aemon allowed himself to completely relax. He didn't have to be strong for anyone here. He didn't have to care about anyone's judgment at that moment. He cried like a babe, and Jaime wrapped a brotherly arm around his shoulder. The heir to Casterly Rock was weeping as well.
Eventually, the tears abated, and the boys separated.
"Let's go down to the kitchens." Aemon said with a shade of his old, mischievous self.
"I am starving." Jaime answered with a muddled grin.
Before the crack of dawn Aemon found himself summoned to Lord Tywin's solar. It wasn't unusual for his uncle to request his presence—Tywin had taken a particular interest in Aemon's education and training for many years. Aemon thought he lived up to his uncle's expectations, but the Lord of Casterly Rock held his emotions close to his chest. A tension lingering in the air made Aemon's skin prickle with unease.
The solar was as imposing as ever, its stone walls lined with shelves of books and maps. Lord Tywin sat behind his great oak desk, his fingers steepled in front of him as he watched Aemon approach. His gaze was sharp, calculating, and Aemon fought the urge to shift uncomfortably under that piercing stare.
"I appreciate vengeance, my boy," he said, as he wrote with his quill. "The hands that slew your father all died badly." He looked up sharply from his parchment, and nailed Aemon in place with his piercing green gaze. Aemon kept his face carefully blank, he gave nothing away. A moment later Tywin inclined his head, "We are off to make sure everyone involved in that loathsome deed pays the price. But, keep this in mind. A man must measure the consequences of their actions. When exacting vengeance, a lord cannot afford to jeopardize their position. The actions of the mighty always have unforeseen consequences. When we act it must be with deliberate forethought, either leave no evidence behind, or leave a lasting impression worthy of song."
Aemon nodded slowly, his mind racing. Lord Tywin suspected him, but no more. Or this talk would have turned into one of his sharp lessons. He valued family, ruthlessness, and results above all else. Tywin's approval was as much a warning as it was a compliment. Aemon would have to be careful in the future—more careful than ever.
"Good," Tywin said sternly, "Now, help me get my armor on."
A host of three hundred knights and men-at-arms assembled in the shadow of Casterly Rock. The banners of House Lannister fluttered proudly in the morning breeze—crimson and gold, lions roaring defiance against the world. At the head of the column, Lord Tywin Lannister sat astride his destrier, grim-faced and silent, his emerald gaze fixed on the distant horizon. His personal command was set, and beneath him, three hundred men awaited his orders.
Aemon was among them, serving as his uncle Tywin's squire. He stood next to Jaime and Daeron, who were also squires in the service of their uncle, Tygett Lannister. The ferocious knight was tasked with leading the outriders, his eyes keen as he surveyed the path ahead. Further back in the host were other notables—Ser Ilyn Payne, boisterous and confident provided a comforting presence. There was Ser Connor Clegane of Clegane's Keep, who stood head and shoulders over the next tallest man in the host. Aemon caught sight of the landed knight's two sons, Gregor and Sandor.
Gregor, at twelve years old, was already a squire, big as most adults. He displayed his ferocity and immense strength in the training yard. His younger brother, Sandor, just seven, spoke excitedly of being a great knight, his eyes wide with youthful ambition, eager to prove himself despite his small stature.
The men knew what awaited them in the mountains to the east. They had beaten the intelligence out of the two assassins before their deaths—heretics hiding in the hills, the remnants of the illegal Poor Fellows. The task was simple: eradicate them. And make an example while doing it.
Aemon's grip tightened on the reins of his horse as the host began to move, the thunder of hooves filling the air. He rode beside his uncle Tywin, shadowing every move, ready to serve, ready to learn. The sun rose high as they traversed the rocky terrain, the mountain path narrowing as they climbed higher into the foothills. The scent of pine and earth filled the air, but beneath it was something darker, something rotten.
By midday, Ser Tygett's scouts found traces of a recently abandoned camp in a lightly wooded ravine. The remnants of a fire, discarded gear, and half-eaten meals spoke of a hasty retreat. They were close. Aemon's heart pounded in his chest as they pressed on, every sense heightened. The thrill of the hunt was upon them.
The next day, as the sun dipped toward the horizon, the outriders sighted their quarry—a ragtag band of thirty heretic stragglers on the move in the foothills. Peasants armed with farming implements and hedge knights in poor gear, desperate and defiant. But they were no match for the might of House Lannister.
Tywin gave the order, his voice as cold and unforgiving as the steel in his hand. The Lannister host fell upon the heretics with thunderous fury. Aemon remained next to Lord Tywin at the rear of the host alongside Jaime. Daeron rode forth, lance couched and ready for war, the weight of expectations pressing down on him. He felt the thrum of battle in his veins, the clash of steel and the cries of the dying. The heretics were no match for them—slain to a man, their heads and hands collected in burlap sacks as grim trophies of victory.
In the days that followed, small skirmishes broke out as they hunted down the remaining pockets of resistance. The Poor Fellows were largely crushed, their heretical banners trampled into the dirt. It was during one of these skirmishes that Daeron earned the admiration of the men, slaying a hedge knight in open combat. His valor and skill were undeniable, and soon the men began to call him "Daeron the Dedicated." He rose early, led from the front, and inspired the host with his courage.
Aemon, though younger and less experienced, felt a surge of pride for his brother. Yet, in the quiet moments between battles, doubt gnawed at him. While his brother covered himself in glory, Aemon failed to fight an enemy. The Clegane brothers, even the seven year old, proved their valor on the battlefield. At least, he did not chafe under Lord Tywin's protection alone. Jaime seemed to be going mad, but they could not disobey the Lord of Casterly Rock.
On the fourth day, the host reached a small, isolated village nestled in the hills. The village's headman groveled before his overlord. The air was heavy with tension, and Lord Tywin ordered the men to rest and resupply. The climactic battle was drawing near, and the men needed their strength. Nothing would be left to chance. But rest did not mean complacency. Tywin ordered the village scoured for any signs of heretics.
Aemon moved through the village with purpose, his eyes scanning every face, every shadow. Ser Ilyn and Ser Connor shadowed his footsteps. The villagers were wary, their eyes downcast as the Lannister soldiers searched their homes. They seemed near to pissing themselves when they caught sight of the armored knights, and they did fall to their knees when they learned of Aemon and Daeron being Targaryens.
While passing the small sept at the heart of the village, a notion occurred to Aemon. These heretics were very nearly broken. Would their leader put their heads on the chopping block? Thus, he stepped into the holy building.
The septon who greeted him seemed ordinary enough—a man of middling age with a humble demeanor. He would have passed any cursory inspection, save for a strange fevered look that shone in his eyes upon their initial meeting. Aemon recalled the words of the assassins. This whole misshapen ordeal was fomented by a Septon Rogar out of a misguided belief that all Targaryens must be slain to forestall the end of days. Aemon recalled Rogar's description. Flowing golden locks, masculine beauty, and tall. This man had a clean shaven head and if he didn't slouch, he would be tall. His threadbare robes were ill-fitting, they might hide many things. If it wasn't for a layer of grime and dirt, he may well have been handsome.
Aemon's voice was steady as he addressed the man. "Honored Septon, may I have a word?"
"I can always offer a word to the Faithful, my son." The septon said smoothly.
"Do you stay in this village all year round?" Aemon asked.
"No, I travel to many of the surrounding villages. The poor and unfortunate folk of these lands cannot sustain a proper septon year round, so I go where I can best tend to the flock, my son. The Father's justice and the Mother's mercy must be spread far and wide. Without them, men are as beasts."
This wandering septon seemed awfully well spoken. Not proof, but it was enough. Aemon replied, "That is well. I'm sure my uncle would surely like to hear your tale."
"Perhaps, later." the vagabond septon said. "I would return to my prayers, my son."
"I insist." Aemon said coldly. Behind him, he felt rather than saw Ser Ilyn and Ser Connor looming with violence.
The septon's eyes flickered with resolve and in that moment, Aemon knew. Rogar's hand slipped into his voluminous robes. Before the man could act, Aemon lunged forward, grabbing a hold of the older man's wrist. After a moment of struggle, a small dagger was revealed.
Septon Rogar–Aemon was certain this was the man that ordered the murder of his father!--fought tenaciously, but Aemon was quicker and well-trained. He learned to fight open handed as much as he trained with weapons. With a swift and vicious motion, he broke the septon's wrist. The dagger clattered to the ground. Aemon smashed his forehead into the septon's nose, there was a thud and a crunch, and Rogar fell back as a torrent of blood poured from his face. At that moment, Aemon meant to beat this mad murderer to death with his bare hands, but Ser Ilyn and Ser Connor interceded.
"Let go of me!" Aemon howled. "I'll-"
"Little lord, I cannot." Ser Ilyn said placidly as he pulled Aemon away. Across the room, Ser Connor easily subdued Rogar, like a man handling a toddler. "Lord Tywin will want him alive. That was well done spotting him though."
Aemon stopped struggling, as his fury cooled. Taking several deep breaths, Aemon mastered himself. He stood as tall and regal as any prince despite the older knight holding onto him tightly. He snapped, "Bring him to Lord Tywin."
"As you command." Ilyn extricated himself from Aemon and offered a bow.
The septon was dragged kicking and screaming before Lord Tywin, who regarded him with cold indifference.
Under questioning, the man revealed his true identity—he was indeed Rogar, the lead heretic, a Reyne bastard who had taken the oaths of a septon but harbored a deep hatred for both Targaryen and Lannister alike. His confession spilled forth, names and locations tumbling from his lips as he cursed his captors. Further, he spoke of a gathering of many heretics in the Kingswood.
"Steffon must be notified." Lord Tywin said archly, "I'll not send your sister to King's Landing if it is surrounded and infiltrated by these madmen."
When the mad priest's usefulness had been exhausted, Lord Tywin ordered Rogar Hill's execution. Daeron lopped off his head himself. Aemon was not the only Targaryen that lusted for vengeance. Thereafter, the man was cut into seven parts, each piece sent to different parts of the Westerlands as a grim warning to others who might dare defy the might of House Lannister.
With Rogar dead, the remaining heretics were butchered, their resistance shattered. The host returned to Casterly Rock victorious, their task complete. A huge crowd of smallfolk from nearby Lannisport gathered to roar their approval.
As they rode through the gates of Casterly Rock, Lord Tywin gave a final order to a select few of his men—to investigate the families and origins of these heretics. There would be no room for treachery in the Westerlands. The Lannisters had paid their debt, and it was one written in blood.
Aemon, riding beside his uncle, felt the weight of the recent days settle upon him. He had seen death, had felt the rush of battle, and had tasted the triumph of victory. But beneath it all, he missed his father.
The days turned into weeks, and the weight of Aemon's responsibilities grew heavier with each passing day. He threw himself into his training, both martial and scholarly, determined to become the man his family needed him to be. But no matter how hard he worked, no matter how many victories he achieved, there was always a part of him that felt hollow, incomplete.
It was during one of these long, exhausting days that news arrived from King's Landing. A raven had come, bearing a message from Grandmaester Pycelle. The so-called Kingswood Heretics had been quite keen to hide in the vast wilderness of the Kingswood, so King Aerys ordered the forest burned down around them. A vast swathe of the royal forest turned into a raging wildfire, and the Kingswood Heretics were consumed, but the victory did not come without cost.
Lord Steffon Baratheon, Hand of the King, burned to death, and his heir, Robert, suffered severe burns as he narrowly escaped the same fate. Aemon recalled the kind lord from his time in the capital, and he mourned for the Lord of Storm's End, though there had been many other casualties.
The missive concluded by stating that Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, Visenya's betrothed, was named as his father's Hand. Though young and inexperienced, great things were expected of the Prince of Dragonstone. Even Lord Tywin thought he would rise to the occasion.
Visenya would soon sail to King's Landing aboard Vhagar. Aemon accompanied her partway, as he was sent to foster with the Hightowers in Oldtown. While he loathed to leave his family and his home, the prospect of studying at the Citadel quelled any thoughts of outrage.
Though he would never wear a maester's chain, never swear their oaths, he would study to forge a Valyrian Steel link. His experience with Maggy the Frog has shown him the existence of magic for certain. This was an opportunity he would not pass up for all the gold in Casterly Rock. Still, he would study a little bit of everything. Choose two other links to forge:
[] Black iron- Ravenry
[] Bronze- Astronomy
[] Copper- History
[] Yellow Gold- Accounting
[] Red Gold- Mathematics
[] Iron- Warcraft
[] Silver- Healing
[] Write-in. You may match the other known metals(Brass, Electrum, lead, pewter, platinum, steel, tin) with a plausible field of study to create your own option. Anything too outlandish will be vetoed.
Aemon would do many other things than study during his time in Oldtown. His mission was to help further strengthen ties between House Hightower and House Lannister before his cousin married the maiden, Malora. What would he focus on? Choose Two.
[] Training in the yard. He still dreamed of being a tourney knight, and the Reach is overflowing with chivalry. No doubt there are worthy warriors against which he can test himself.
[] Take advantage of the Silent Stone and previous adventures. Search for hidden ways in the ancient places, and covertly gather information. Knowledge is a form of power!
[] Explore all of Oldtown. It is the oldest and wealthiest city on the continent. Aemon has never truly had the opportunity to walk of his own accord through a city. Take this opportunity!
[] Sail the seas surrounding the great city. Aemon finds great freedom and relaxation while shipboard. Sailors also prove to be excellent sources of tales and entertainment.
[] Hunting for friends! One can never have enough friends. Strength lies in numbers. By championing frequent hunting parties, he will more easily find worthy acquaintances.
This motherfucker is gonna fuck it up somehow. Honestly, with all the visions people are having...Rhaegar is bound to be even more prophecy crazy than he was in the books. This is going to be a shitshow. I don't know if he believes himself to be the PTWP or if one of his children will be...but either way it'll lead to horrifically consequences for Westeros as Rhaegar does shit in terrible ways. I am not pleased to see Visenya go to KL especially with Rhaegar having even more power at the moment than in canon. On the bright side...the alliances that are setup via marriages are such that power is more split. STAB does not exist. It is STA which is a weaker force. So assuming that he does some shit with Lyanna...the Targ dynasty will be facing a weaker alliance than in canon. The question that remains is whether another force might join said alliances. Tyins plans...who knows what he will do in this scenario though I suspect that backing the Crown is what he will leans towards initially. Visenya is his niece and will be Queen. And from there he has a few options to secure even more power.