A favorable wind stirred the sails of Vhagar, Visenya Targaryen's prized ship cut through the azure waters of the Sunset Sea, The bright summer sun blazed down upon one and all. Seeming to ignore the heat, the veteran crew went about their tasks with precision and dedication. Visenya boasted they were the best crew in the world, and he could not gainsay the boast. Aemon adjusted the wide brimmed hat mother gifted him before setting out for Oldtown.
A vicious storm passed on the horizon leaving Vhagar and her crew untouched. The shadowy curtain of gales and thunder giving way at their approach was a splendid sight. Daeron would love to paint it, but alas he had responsibilities as the new Lord of Maegor's Hall. He chuckled as he imagined his older brother 'suffering' under the longwinded tutelage of the aged maester Lyman.
"My darling little brother, truly 'beloved by the sea'," Visenya said from beside Aemon. Hand's resting upon the ship's rails, he didn't need to look at his older sister to see her mischievous grin, it was all too apparent in the false awe of her voice, "The crew mutters that we should tie you to the ship's prow, and we shall have fair winds and following seas all the way to King's Landing."
Aemon gave a lazy shrug without taking his eyes off the horizon, "Uncle would put me to work under the Rock if I shirked my duty to the family. I'd be cleaning out the cisterns and sewers until I was old, grey, and toothless," he smirked wickedly, "but I would not be alone."
"I am to be wed to the Prince of Dragonstone." Visenya's voice rose shrilly. It was all too much like their cousin Cersei's, a mockery of her at her most haughty, "Lord Tywin would never set his favorite niece to cleaning sewers!"
A moment of silence, and then the siblings chuckled. Their laughter faded into comfortable silence that lingered for long minutes. They were not far from Oldtown, and soon they would be separated. For the first time in his life, Aemon would be apart from all his kin. The thought terrified and excited him in equal measure. A whole world awaited him away from the safety of the Westerlands and Casterly Rock.
"I'll see you at supper, then. A captain's duty is never done." Visenya stalked away to inspect her vessel and her crew. Aemon watched her go, watched the crew naturally straighten and salute as she passed, watched her command respect as easily as she breathed.
She will do well, Aemon thought as he went to his own cabin.
The sea breeze whipped through his silver-blonde hair as his sharp green eyes scanned the deck one last time. After spending so much time aboard Vhagar, Aemon knew the ship well. Everything appeared as it should be. The crew bustled, the familiar rhythm of ropes, sails, and seabirds surrounding him like a lullaby.
Nearby, the hulking figure of Gregor Clegane was green-faced as he spewed into a bucket. Not one for the sea. Nearby Lyle Crakehall laughed at the bigger boy's expense. The two squires had been assigned as Aemon's companions, and while Aemon did not find much joy in their company, they were not without purpose. Both were good sparring partners, knew to follow orders, and could look quite imposing when the need arose. A Targaryen cannot go without a retinue.
Within his small cabin sat Cedric Payne, his new page, sat on the floor diligently mending one of Aemon's tunics with a needle and thread. The boy did not notice Aemon's arrival, his fingers worked quickly, deftly weaving the torn fabric together. Aemon observed him quietly for a moment, appreciating the focus etched on Cedric's young face. The Targaryen had not noticed the shirt was damaged.
Good. Initiative.
"Impressive work, Cedric," Aemon said after a long pause, breaking the silence with an air of casual admiration. His voice was as calm as the sea, yet it carried an undercurrent of authority that Cedric respected.
Cedric jumped in alarm, he dropped the fabric as he popped to his feet. "My lord! I-"
Aemon made a soothing motion with his hands. "Quite alright. Do not let me distract you from your duties, that's one of my favorite tunics. I would not be without it, and it surely won't mend itself."
"As you say, my lord," Cedric nodded several times before sitting back down to complete his work. He sat a little stiffly, awaiting any further orders.
Aemon nodded in appreciation, as he moved to his bedside. There a very thick book bound in black leather was tied down by a thick rope. Heraldry of the Hightower: A History and Commentary on Oldtown had been a gift from his Uncle Gerion two months past.
Aemon relaxed on his bed as he picked up his reading. The rocking of the ship was a comfort. The contents of the book painted a picture of House Hightower meticulously building up Oldtown over the millennia, preferring knowledge and trade over war. Aemon clicked his tongue in annoyance. This book was written well after the Dance of Dragons. Simply glossed over House Hightower's role in helping to instigate the civil war that effectively crippled his house.
"Bloody propaganda!" Aemon seethed.
"Beg your pardon, my lord?" Cedric said, as he looked up from his sewing.
Ameon looked up, glad for the diversion. Cedric was not a handsome lad, but he had the Lannister coloring. The purple, gold, and white of his house's sigil was sewed upon his breast. "Can you read, boy?"
"I have been taught my letters, my lord." Cedric's head tilted upwards in pride. "Maester Lavar said I had a good head on my shoulders."
"Come over and read this." Aemon proffered the book.
Cedric walked over and accepted the book. His grin faded slightly as he tried to parse the words, a shadow of embarrassment crossing his face. His ears now a fierce shade of red, he looked up from the book, "I can't make three in four words of your book, my lord!"
"That is no failing of yours." Aemon gestured to the weighty tome. "This is quite advanced. The maester who penned it thought using large and ornate words would imbue his work with undue gravitas."
Cedric nodded hesitantly.
"Did you know your uncle was always good to me?" Aemon said with a smile.
"Ser Ilyn always said you were smarter than any three Maesters sewed together." Cedric added eagerly. No doubt he wanted to earn favor for his house, but he was also an open book. There didn't seem to be a shred of guile or deceit on the boy's face. That would come with time.
"I am sure he did." Aemon grinned. He terrorized the knight with pranks, willfully slipped away under his guard countless times. The young Targaryen would repay his debt by doing right by Cedric. His grin melted from his features, and he gave Cedric his best 'Lord Tywin' stare. The boy went as stiff as Vhagar's center mast. Abrupt silence filled the cabin, the boy began squirming like a worm on a hook, and Aemon pronounced, "You will be properly educated. I will not be shamed."
"Yes, of course, my lord." The boy croaked.
"Good!" Aemon let his facade slip away like a summer breeze, and he grinned broadly. "Work hard, and I am sure you will do well."
Cedric gaped at Aemon before rushing to assure him that he'd work harder than anyone.
Midnight wandered over and twined itself around Cedric's leg, purring softly. The page chuckled and scratched behind the cat's ears. Aemon had meant to leave Midnight at Casterly Rock to keep his mother company, but the tomcat showed up once Vhagar was well underway.
"It seems Midnight likes you, too," Aemon said with amusement, carefully watching the cat's affectionate behavior.
Cedric glanced up with a smile. "He likes anyone who feeds him, my lord. But I'll take it as a compliment."
Aemon's laughter mingled with the sound of the waves crashing against the hull.
Days passed. Oldtown loomed ahead at the mouth of the Honeywine River, the Hightower rising like a sentinel above the sprawling city. It was a beacon that had guided ships for an age, and now it guided Vhagar into port. The city's ancient walls were bathed in golden light as Vhagar approached the harbor, the salty air thick with the mingling scents of seaweed, fish, and the promise of adventure.
Once Aemon, Visenya, and their companions disembarked, the smell of Oldtown hit him like a wave—spices from Essos, the tang of salt air, the faint waft of smoke. Not so different from Lannisport. Definitely, cleaner than King's Landing. But it was the Citadel that called him most, an age old labyrinth of knowledge and secrets tended to by the Order of Maesters. As he and Visenya left the ship, Aemon wondered what wonders lurked in Westeros' oldest city.
The bustling docks of Oldtown, with their maze of sailors, merchants, and exotic goods, felt alive with possibilities. Cedric's eyes were wide, taking in the grand spectacle as they made their way toward the towering spire that had given the city its name.
"Welcome to Oldtown, Ser Baelor Hightower at your service, my lord and lady." The heir to the Hightower said as he approached at the head of a column of armsmen in the white and black of their house. He was a comely man with an easy smile, his blonde hair tousled from the wind. Lord Tywin would've instantly distrusted him.
Never trust a man who smiles too easily or too often. The smile seemed to reach his eyes, but some men were better actors than others.
"Thank you for the kind welcome, ser." Aemon clasped Baelor's arm in greeting, and then the knight smoothly kissed Visenya's proffered hand. She had exchanged the trouser and vest of a sailor for a suitable dress. Batting her long eyelashes, Visenya curtsied, daintily offered her own courtesies, and issued a musical laugh in response to the knight. She'd spent a full hour applying make-up, doing her hair up in a gold and amethyst hair net, and preparing her red and black gown. 'A lady must make a lasting first impression, Aemon. When you are not a child you will understand!'
Aemon just rolled his eyes. His sister loved playing these sorts of games, but he said nothing as Baelor stared at Visenya. He'd ruined her fun before, and she'd paid him by covering his face in her miserable makeup and trying to style his hair. That had been quite the falling out when he retaliated by burning all but one of her stupid stuffed animals. Now it turned into a fond recollection.
Some said his sister was the most beautiful woman in all the world, those that said it too often or too ardently found themselves on the receiving end of Aemon or Daeron's wrath. Their elder brother wasn't here, so he would have to shoulder the burden for now.
Visenya the Burdensome? He quite liked the sound of that.
Used to being the pretty one isn't he? If it wasn't for his blue eyes and the Hightower sigil on his armor, he might have passed for a Targaryen. Daeron is more handsome, and so is Rhaegar. Aemon added the last grudgingly. Perhaps, Aemon was handsome as well, but he didn't care one whit for that. A man is defined by what's in his head and his heart, by what he can do with his hands!
Ser Baelor eventually gained control of himself, a credit to the Hightower knight that he hadn't mooned over Visenya for longer, and turned to lead them through the city to the Hightower.
Aemon chuckled as Visenya gave him a covert wink. The two Targaryens and their companions followed him through the city toward the Hightower. The streets of Oldtown were alive with scholars, traders, and the common folk, the air buzzing with the hum of activity. Many stopped to stare at the young Targaryens. But as they ascended the spiraling stairs within the Hightower's stone walls, the noise of the city seemed to fade, replaced by the cool, austere atmosphere of the ancient fortress.
They were greeted formally by Lord Leyton Hightower in the tower's Great Hall. The surroundings were lavish, but Aemon was half Lannister, he'd grown up in Casterly Rock. No display of wealth could truly impress him. Unlike his heir, Lord Leyton seemed unsmiling and unmoved by his guests.
When Visenya retired for the evening. Aemon ended up speaking alone with Leyton in his study.
"Your uncle's Sunset Bank interests me. We must speak of business later." The Hightower patriarch said as he led Aemon into his private study near the apex of the building. So many steps, and no sign of the clever lift system used in Casterly Rock, but then again there was little room for such things here. The Targaryen pulled himself from his reverie, and focused on the room and his host.
Lord Leyton was an imposing figure, his silver-gold beard well-groomed, his eyes gleamed with untold knowledge. He sat at his weirwood desk. On a stand next to him stood a twisted and unlit candle. Aemon felt his breath catch in his chest. He'd seen an illustration once in a very old book. There could be only one thing like a glass candle in all the world.
"Oh, I see you recognize my glass candle, lad?" Lord Leyton Hightower seemed to come from very far away.
Aemon blinked, and licked his lips. He spoke without consideration, "I've read about them. Artifacts of a Doomed Age said they were all in Essos, but I guess it makes sense that they would be here if-" Finally gaining control of his mouth, he cleared his throat. "My lord, it is quite an interesting object, though I do note it is not lit."
"I had heard you are something of a scholar, lad, but it seems you are delving after particularly dangerous knowledge." Lord Leyton said, his gaze heavy as it pressed upon Aemon. The room was dimly lit, the crescent moon visible through an open balcony. There was no breeze in this room. Shadows danced on the walls as the fire in the hearth crackled quietly. Aemon could feel the weight of the man's presence, a deep well of knowledge and power that made the very air around him feel charged. There was a hint of the same power Maggy exuded here, a deep deliberate hum.
Aemon raised an eyebrow, "The world abounds with mysteries, both high and low. It seems only right to seek after answers, my lord. Ignorance is not a sin, but failing to correct one's limitations is a grave insult to the gods."
"Be wary of the answers you find, boy. Some knowledge can cost more than you are willing to pay. There is always a price. Keep that in mind, and I have no doubt a clever and motivated lad like you will do well in my city."
"Many thanks for your guidance, Lord Leyton."
From the moment Aemon set foot in the Hightower, he felt the weight of history around him. The towering structure stood as a testament to the ancient power of House Hightower. And yet, Aemon was more concerned with what he might learn from the Citadel, from the maesters, and from the vast library that awaited him. It was a treasure trove of knowledge, and Aemon, ever curious and sharp of mind, intended to unlock its depths.
There was not enough time.
Mornings in Oldtown were always the same. Before the sun rose above the horizon, he was already in the training yard, sparring with his retinue: Gregor Clegane, Lyle Crakehall, and his young page, Cedric Payne. Gregor, grim, relentless and hulking, tested Aemon's strength and skill daily. Lyle's boisterous nature eased tensions. Cedric dutifully worked through his own forms while swaddled in a thick surcoat. Under Aemon's attention, Cedric flourished, learning the art of both court and sword as the young page grew increasingly competent under Aemon's wing.
The warriors of the Reach refused to be outdone by the young Targaryen. The training yard became crowded with the nobles, knights, and men-at-arms of Oldtown. Aemon found himself often matched with Garth Hightower, a serious and focused squire who's temperament reminded him of Daeron. Garth's skill in arms mirrored Aemon's own, and though they began as sparring partners, they quickly became fast friends. Aemon's dreams of becoming a tourney knight lived on, bolstered by the constant competition and the conviction always burning in his heart.
But it was not simply the physical trials that defined Aemon's time in Oldtown. After his morning training and a hearty breakfast, Aemon delved headlong into his studies. The Citadel, with its endless shelves of books, was his sanctuary; the maesters with their clanging chains. Here, he found the answers to some questions, but also more questions than he had ever dreamed of. He studied everything: history, strategy, economics, and, more than anything, the higher mysteries of the world ensnared his imaginations. Under the tutelage of Maester Marwyn and the enigmatic Qyburn, Aemon learned of things both forbidden and arcane. With Marwyn, Aemon delved into the magical and the occult while Qyburn piqued his interest in the healing arts and the human body.
Aemon earned links that any aspiring maester would be proud of: Valyrian steel for the higher mysteries, iron for warcraft, yellow gold for accounting, and silver for healing. Though he would never don a maester's chain, the Archmaesters were impressed by his intellect and dedication. Aemon devoured the writings on logistics and war, reading biographies and histories regarding the greatest warriors of the past. His horizons were broadened by learning of combined arms and the tactics of the mercenary Golden Company, and the important intricacies of logistics. He found in warfare the ultimate gamble, a pursuit that required not only physical prowess but a mind sharp enough to predict and fluidly react to a foe's every move.
Long after he should've turned in for the night, Aemon explored the Hightower itself, seeking out its secrets. With Midnight, his silent sentinel, and the Silent Stone, Aemon discovered many hidden passages that allowed him to navigate the Hightower unnoticed. In a place as ancient as the Hightower, there were bound to be hidden ways, lost nooks forgotten in the passage of time. These secret corridors became his playground, but his curiosity led him further still. He became obsessed with the fused black stone foundation of the Hightower. There was scant writing about such stones. His dogged investigations eventually led him to a spot in the wall that was hot to the touch, yet never burned flesh. The strangeness of it gnawed at him. Certain that it was a door, though he could not open it, Aemon felt something hollow within himself, illuminated by the discovery. One day, he swore silently to return when he had the means to unlock the mystery.
Meanwhile, the letters from family kept homesickness at bay. Visenya wrote glowingly of her betrothed, Prince Rhaegar, but she remained silent regarding the king. Daeron, now lord of the completed Maegor's Hall, had taken Sandor Clegane as a squire. Tyrion, still suffering under Lord Tywin's ire and Cersei's cruel games, found refuge at Maegor's Hall, his letters filled with dreams of becoming High Septon. Aemon's heart ached for the bright and pious boy, knowing his future would be difficult. Ser Kevan wrote much advice, Kevan's hand but Lord Tywin's words. Lady Genna wrote frequently with suggested betrothals, which Aemon gently rebuffed or ignored in his correspondence!
Even Randyll Tarly, who had once been bullied, now regularly wrote of his success in suppressing bandits and a traitorous knight, a hardened battle-leader at just fourteen.
Socializing in Oldtown was easy for Aemon. He charmed nobles and smallfolk alike with his wit and intellect. With Garth, he enjoyed many an evening of wine and laughter, though Aemon took special care to befriend Malora Hightower, Jaime's future wife. The bookish girl kept to herself. However, Aemon noted the occasional flashes of her sharp intellect. She could deftly maneuver interactions when she chose, but she would find any excuse to seek solitude.
As the months went by and the young Targaryen matured, Aemon's indulgent nature came to the forefront, spurred on by a recent association Oberyn Martell, who arrived at the Citadel a year and a half after Aemon. The Red Viper and Aemon became fast friends, bonding over their status as second sons, their shared intellect, and their love of excess. Aemon learned the art of poisons alongside Oberyn, but also discovered an even deeper love for gambling. Luck was his constant companion, and he often walked away from the games of chance with far more than he had wagered.
On the night of Aemon's fourteenth nameday, Oberyn took him to the finest brothel in Oldtown, the Long Thorn Rose.
"Past time to make a man out of the Golden Dragon!" The older Dornishman chuckled. Aemon nervously followed the Dornish prince into the lavish building, his heart hammering in his chest. Oberyn said it was his duty as Aemon's elder to look after him. The Red Viper continued with a grin, "Mistress Jonquil keeps only the cleanest and most skilled girls."
Some might consider that damnable grin to be roguish, many women and some men fell for his friend's charm. If Oberyn wasn't fitting the bill tonight, Aemon would knock the grin right off the older man's face. He'd done it enough in the training yard after all, and he'd taken more than a little gold off the Red Viper in games of chance. Patience. Oberyn never disappointed, at least not when it counted.
A band of bards played the lute in accompaniment with a singer. The scent of perfume and wine filled the air, scantily clad tumblers performed impressive acrobatics on a raised dais. Drunken cheers echoed around the stage. Many eyes turned to Aemon, and many worthy men of Oldtown hailed him. He was not here to speak with the wealthy and powerful of the city, so he politely moved on.
The atmosphere became more subdued as Oberyn led the young Targaryen to meet the madam. The low murmur of voices mixing with the soft laughter of courtesans. It was there, in the dim light of a shadowed corner, that Aemon noticed something strange.
While waiting for the mistress of this brothel, a whore made eye contact with him. Something was off. He took a half- step in her direction.
Aemon Targaryen's blood whispered to him in a strange symphony.
There was something wrong, something both bloody and false. Another step. The whore's face blurred and bubbled at the edges, like looking at the bottom of a pot through boiling water. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from openly reacting. Aemon blinked, trying to focus, and then it hit him—the woman's face wasn't her own. Rather he was two completely different faces, one dead visage overlaid on top of a living.
Aemon's breath caught in his chest as thoughts stormed through his mind. Stories and rumors stormed through his mind. Smallfolk tales of witches and wizards changing their countenances as others change their shoes. Dusty texts spoke of using anchors to create glamours to fool onlookers. Those glamours were oft flawed, and perhaps this one was too. He glanced around trying to exude nonchalance, no one seemed to note the sorcery. Though the Citadel forbade studying bloodmagic, the fundamental idea of using someone's face as an anchor was both grotesque and solid.
Suddenly, he recalled the Faceless Men of Braavos. Acclaimed as the greatest assassins in the entire world, they were said to kill anyone anywhere if the client could pay their price. They were shrouded in mystery, but everyone knew they existed. Wouldn't taking someone's face and wearing their appearance as one's own be the perfect tool for an assassin? The more he thought on it, the more he grew to appreciate the dreadful idea.
Here and now he gazed through the disguise of a Faceless Man.
What does Aemon do?
[] Observe- Aemon decides to surreptitiously watch the Faceless Man. Observing without being noticed may uncover more about their intent and leave room to act. Additionally, they are known for their murderous trade, and Aemon might learn some skills from watching a professional.
[] Unmask- The Faceless Men are known to be world class murderers, they cannot be up to anything good. Aemon is not alone. Seizing and unmasking them is but a command away. Think of the repercussions. What advantage does that bring? What dangerous door opens?
[] Move on- Aemon has no interest in drawing the deadly attention of the Faceless Men. He is ill-equipped to handle such dangerous foes at this moment. Aemon crushed his curiosity, and carried on with the momentous night. He will leave with the knowledge that he can see through their guise.
