Brighter Flames (ASOIAF/AU)

Inside the tent, the air was thick with smoke, and the sharp, sweet smell of strange herbs filled Aemon's mind. Maggy the Frog sat in the center, hunched over a small fire, her gnarled hands working a mortar and pestle. Dressed in dirty robes, Aemon noted a knife at her belt. Maggy's yellow eyes looked up as they entered.

Taking a deep breath, Aemon stepped forward. He turned to his sister and his kin. "This old woman is far more than she seems, more dangerous than she seems."

"Dangerous? This old toad?" Cersei derided. "I'll-"

"Sister, let Aemon take the lead." Jaime said sharply. He looked meaningfully at Aemon, as he shifted not-so-subtly to stand between the maegi and Cersei. For once the sister listened to the brother, though Aemon could tell she was anything but mollified.

Visenya spoke quietly, her grip was on the hilt of her elaborately decorated but definitely deadly rapier "If she is dangerous, then be careful."

"Yes, mother." Aemon nodded with his usual insolent grin as Visenya tsked in annoyance. Then he shifted his focus. The grin became a grim line across his pale features.

Stepping forward, his movements were measured, deliberate. With a graceful fluidity born of many and more hours in the training yard, he performed a deep bow, his arms outstretched left palm up, right palm down in an archaic Essosi style—an ancient gesture of acknowledgement towards the maegi of the east.

"Valyrio mazȳrys," Aemon greeted her in pitch perfect High Valyrian, his voice calm but filled with intent. "I seek knowledge, not battle."

Maggy's lips curled into a crooked smile. She responded in the tongue of Old Valyria, "Ah, a boy with manners and knowledge of the Old Dragonlands," she croaked. Her eyes glinted with a mix of amusement and curiosity. "You honor me, scion of dragons, but I am no true maegi, only a half-trained dabbler. Still, the courtesy is acknowledged. Few are so considerate in these lands. What knowledge do you seek?"

Aemon held her gaze, unwavering. "I seek answers," he continued in High Valyrian. "There is much I wish to learn—things beyond what the maesters can or will teach." The boy's hands stretched wide as if to encompass the entire world, "There are so many mysteries, I hunger to see deeper. Any lesson you can impart, I will be grateful."

Maggy let out a throaty sound, halfway between a chuckle and a wet cough, her fingers tracing the edge of her mortar. "Lessons, you say? And what would you learn from a foolish old woman who abandoned her mistress for the empty words of a spice merchant?" She cackled obscenely when Aemon had no answer, and then leaned forward, her yellow eyes reflecting the fire, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "If you truly wish to learn, you must go to Asshai-by-the-Shadow. That is where you might find answers."

Aemon's heart skipped a beat. Asshai—he had heard whispers of it before, the city at the edge of the world, where shadows walked and strange magics thrived. He'd even seen it on a map of the world, but maester Lyman dismissed any discussion out of hand. The idea of journeying to such a place thrilled him. What other place could hold the answers he sought? The Citadel surely held a great deal of knowledge and lore, but would they freely share it with those that did not wear a chain?

He knew one thing, he would never wear a chain.

Maggy continued, her eyes never leaving him. "But perhaps, for now, I can offer you some lessons of my own. If you are willing to pay. You're half a lion, I'm sure you can afford my fee."

"I have no shortage of coin." Aemon nodded, absorbing every word. "What must I do?"

Maggy pointed to his left hand, where he unconsciously rolled the stone in between forefinger and thumb . "That stone, it sings a silent song. I have come across objects like your stone, they were all imbued with magic by skilled practitioners. I can feel it untethered. Bond it to your blood. Only then will you unlock its secrets."

Aemon's hand clenched around the Silent Stone. Magic! And in my hands all this time. Truly I am an ignorant fool! Even as he berated himself, his mind raced with possibilities.

"Thank you, honored maegi." Aemon said with a courteous nod as he tossed his coin purse over. "We will bother you no longer."

"Next time, bring Shade of the evening." the old crone said in clear dismissal.
Satisfied with the exchange, Aemon turned to his kin, gesturing for them to leave. "Come, we're done here. Let's get back before we are missed."

But before they could leave, Cersei's voice cut through the smoky air like a knife.

"That's it? Leave? Just like that? We came here to get our fortunes told. I shan't be going anywhere until I get an explanation." she erupted haughtily. "What did she say, Aemon? You gave her more gold than this poxy old whore has seen in her entire life!"

"We can talk later. Elsewhere." Aemon glowered at his cousin. "We shouldn't intrude on the good mistress any longer."

"Intrude? Good mistress?" Cersei said the words slowly, as if tasting them for the first time. "You are worried about offending this old toad? This is our land, she's a foreigner. She should grovel at our feet.."

Jaime frowned, sensing the tension. "Cersei, let's just go. Aemon might be right, we—"

"No!" Cersei's voice was sharp, cutting Jaime off. She turned to Maggy, her eyes narrowing with a dangerous glint. "I don't care what words you bandied about with my cousin, hag. I was told you could see the future-" Then, quick as lightning she grabbed the pot's handle, and she flung the boiling contents upon the old maegi. Even as Maggy started screaming in agony, Cersei's beautiful visage was twisted by a cruel, self-satisfied smirk, "Didn't see that coming, did she?"

The old woman's hands covered her already blistering face as she screamed and screamed. She rolled on the ground, and Aemon stood still in shock.

"What the-" Aemon began, but the room suddenly became deathly silent, even the crackle of the fire was absent. Maggy the Frog stood now, like an invisible mummer holding her strings. The front of her robes seemed seared to her skin. Her aged features, once merely warped by age, were completely ruined. She stared with one malevolent yellow eye, the other melted closed. The soft tossed of her nose was a grotesque suggestion of its former shape.

Then she held one arm aloft with a twisted dagger held tightly. Laughing madly, she plunged the blade into her heart.

Otherworldly sounds echoed from between toothless gums. The sickly sweet smell of the tent turned putrid, the light seemed to die. Aemon remembered tales of a maegi's death curse, but he was held fast, as were the rest of his kin.

A chill ran down Aemon's spine as Maggy began to chant. She should be dead. Words that should never come from a human were thick with malevolence. They were of no tongue he ever studied. The air around them thrummed with dread, as suddenly writhing shadows took on the shade and texture of blood.

He shivered strangely, an unknown light momentarily sparking in his heart. A perilous moment of tension. Aemon's desire to live pressed forward. Something other, something malign, gave way before the weight of his existence.

A wave of exhaustion slammed against his soul.

The spell was broken as the world righted itself.

The strings were cut as Maggy's still breathing body convulsed, her skin turning an unnatural shade of red. Crimson steam rose from her flesh, and then—before their horrified eyes—her skin started pulsating, like a grotesque mockery of the Sunset Sea's tides during a storm. Maggy's screaming was cut short as her veins burst, steam and blood spraying in every direction. Her body twisted, contorting in agony, until she collapsed into a puddle of steaming blood and charred bone. Flames roared up from her liquified remains as bones turned to ash, quickly consuming her tent in a fiery blaze.

"Run!" Aemon muttered, his voice breaking the spell of horror that had gripped them all. He wanted to run, but he couldn't find the energy. Visenya grabbed his hand and bolted, the others following close behind as the flames devoured the tent.

They didn't stop running until they reached the safety of the outer courtyard. Panting, they leaned against the cold stone walls, the adrenaline still coursing through their veins. Aemon felt utterly drained, a deep exhaustion settling into his bones.

Visenya clutched Aemon's arm, her eyes wide with shock. "What… what in the Seven Hells just happened?"

Aemon didn't answer. He couldn't. His mind felt like it was crawling through a mire. He only stared at Cersei Lannister. Under the moonlight, he truly saw her.

"How- how did she do that?" Cersei ventured. Aemon said nothing. He wasn't picturing the maegi's death curse, but that instant of vindictive cruelty. "Was that magic?"

"You stupid little chit." Visenya rounded on her younger cousin. "You must be mad. Throwing boiling water on someone? If Lady Joanna were here–"

The two bickered for long moments, but Aemon felt removed from the conflict.

Their argument escalated, voices rising as Jaime tried to defend his sister and Visenya turned on him too. But something had indelibly shifted in Aemon's mind. He looked at Cersei, truly looked at her, and for the first time, he saw her clearly—not as a cousin, not as a fellow mischief-maker, but as someone dangerous, manipulative, and ultimately selfish. A cruel and callow girl that would pour boiling water on an old lady without a care for the consequences.

"Enough!" Jaime finally broke them up, "This isn't helping. We need to calm down and get back."

But Visenya was already done. She purposefully steered a worn out Aemon away from the argument, leaving behind a stunned Jaime and an incensed Cersei.

"You see her now, don't you?" Visenya whispered, her voice soft yet sharp. "She's always been like this. I even caught her twisting Tyrion's little cock just after Auntie Joanna died." Aemon nodded mutely. She nodded emphatically, "As brilliant as you are, you can be utterly blind."

They walked in silence, the echoes of Maggy's screams an accompanying memory. Aemon knew that things had changed between them all—irrevocably. The bonds of childhood, once so strong, were beginning to fray. And as he felt the Silent Stone warm in his grip, he couldn't help but wonder what other secrets the world held—and how much he was willing to sacrifice to uncover them.

The days following Maggy the Frog's death were filled with an eerie quiet that lingered over Aemon, Jaime, Visenya, and Cersei. They spoke little of what had transpired, as if by remaining silent, they could somehow erase the horrifying memory of Maggy's fate from their minds. But the shadows of that day stretched long, reaching far beyond the cursed tent.

In the weeks that followed, strange reports brought by ravens and travelers alike reached Casterly Rock. Holy men and hedge-witches and many more besides began experiencing strange and troubling visions.

The most vivid of these visions were interpreted to foretell the arrival of a Second Long Night—an apocalyptic winter where the dead would march against the living, where darkness would cover the world. Some seers saw dragons flying forth, great winged beasts emerging from the shadow of the world's end. To some, the dragons were harbingers of the apocalypse, their fiery breath bringing destruction. To others, the dragons were guardians, destined to fight against the end of all things, to defend the realms of men.

But it was not only dragons that appeared in these visions.

Many saw a figure, blinding in its brilliance, standing amidst the storm. A crown of Seven Stars adorned their brow, a sword of pale fire blazed in one hand, and a ring of star-metal gleamed upon the other. The figure was a beacon of hope for some and a symbol of judgment for others. These dreams, filled with fire and ice, light and shadow, recurred with alarming frequency, disturbing those who witnessed them..

Aemon himself did not have these dreams, but he felt their weight nonetheless. The contents of these visions were relayed to him through the letters of Maester Lyman and the words of sailors and travelers who spoke in hushed tones of the nightmares that haunted the realm. The implications of these dreams troubled him deeply, and he found himself pondering the mysteries of the world more than ever before. The Silent Stone, ever-present in his possession, pulsed with an awareness of the world's growing unease, a subtle vibration that reminded Aemon of the unseen forces at work.

But even as these dark omens loomed, Aemon's life continued at Casterly Rock. He remained committed to his training, his body growing stronger with each passing day, his skill with the sword becoming more refined. His time on the Vhagar grew more frequent, the sea becoming a second home to him as he sailed alongside Visenya. The sailors now spoke openly of Aemon's strange connection to the western waters, openly wondering if the boy had been blessed by the sea gods.

Within the walls of Casterly Rock, Aemon became increasingly important to his uncle, Lord Tywin, particularly in matters concerning the Sunset Bank. Aemon's sharp mind and natural aptitude for numbers made him invaluable, and his influence in Lannisport's financial dealings grew steadily. Tywin, though never one to lavish praise, often noted Aemon's competence, recognizing the young Targaryen's potential as a pillar of House Lannister's future. Thus, he granted him more and more responsibilities.

However, his relationships with his cousins, Jaime and Cersei, remained strained. The bond they had once shared had not mended after the dreadful events with Maggy the Frog. Cersei grew resentful of Aemon's cold and distant manner, and she returned his forbidding posture in kind. The project to create a shared library strangled in the crib, both began amassing their own private collections. Jaime, ever loyal to his sister, followed suit, and though he did not share Cersei's open hostility, a quiet tension now existed between him and Aemon.

The young Targaryen quite adored his baby nephew Tyrion, and he enjoyed spoiling the babe.

In contrast, Aemon's relationship with Daeron grew stronger and more complex.

The elder Targaryen was a pillar of support for Aemon, offering wisdom and guidance where others faltered. Daeron was not only a burgeoning warrior and leader but also a talented artist. One evening, Daeron showed Aemon his private artbook, filled with sketches and drawings that revealed the depth of his talent. Encouraged by Aemon's enthusiasm, Daeron took on the challenge of painting a family portrait—a bold and successful endeavor that now hung proudly in their father's solar.

"Failure is just part of the process," Daeron would often tell Aemon. "You must examine your failures, learn from them, and find the path to success."

It was a lesson that Aemon took to heart, applying it not only to his training but also to his explorations of the hidden passages of Casterly Rock. The Silent Stone, now bonded to him through blood, had become an invaluable tool in these endeavors. It vibrated silently whenever a man or woman became aware of his presence, the sensation growing stronger the more people knew he was there. This newfound ability aided Aemon in moving unseen through the labyrinthine passages of the Rock, uncovering secrets that must have remained hidden for thousands of years.

Beyond Casterly Rock, Aemon began a correspondence with Randyll Tarly, the boy he became acquainted with at King's Landing. Apparently, Randyll had grown into his own since their last encounter, his confidence soaring as he became a force to be reckoned with in the Reach. The boy did not say as much, but Aemon could read between the lines. Through letters delivered by raven, the two boys shared details of their lives, offering each other insights and advice. Randyll wrote of his training under his father's stern eye, of the harsh Dornish Marches, and of the honor and duty he now embraced. Aemon, in turn, wrote of his experiences at the Rock, of his growing responsibilities, and of the strange dreams and visions that haunted the realm. Though separated by distance, their friendship deepened.

The days turned into months, and the years rolled by. Aemon Targaryen, no longer just a boy with a penchant for pranks, had grown into a young man of purpose and vision. The world around him was changing, filled with omens and portents of things to come.

Sometimes years pass without anything of great import occurring; other times it can seem years worth of events can take place in a scant few days
The sea had been calm that day, the waves gentle and the breeze carrying the scent of salt and freedom. Aboard Vhagar, Visenya's ship, Aemon felt a sense of peace he rarely found elsewhere. His sister, ever the capable captain, guided the vessel with ease as they made their way back toward Lannisport. The sun hung low on the horizon, casting a golden glow over the water.

Melancholy overcast the voyage. Soon, his sister would be called to serve as one of Queen Rhaella's ladies-in-waiting. This may very well be their last outing for a long while.

But as they neared the harbor, the sight awaiting them wiped away any hints of malaise. Plumes of black smoke rose into the sky, and the distant sounds of chaos—shouts, screams, the clang of Sept bells—echoed out over the open waters. The city was in turmoil.

"Visenya, look!" Aemon pointed toward the city, his heart sinking.

Visenya narrowed her eyes, her grip tightening on the ship's wheel. "Something's terribly wrong."

At the tender age of fourteen, Visenya skillfully commanded the ship as well as the crew's respect. Salty sailors and young apprentices both looked towards her automatically, awaiting command.

Aemon could feel the tension in the air, a nervous energy that set his teeth on edge. "We can't disembark here. It's too dangerous."

Visenya nodded in agreement, her usual confidence now tempered by caution. She gave the order, and Vhagar turned away from the city. They sailed north and westward, toward the safety of Casterly Rock's guarded harbor. As the fortress loomed larger, a lion watching the sunset, the anxiety gnawing at Aemon's chest only grew. There was a flurry of activity on the battlements. Something major was going on.

When they finally took a dinghy to the Rock's guarded dockside, Ser Kevan Lannister was there to meet them. His expression was somber, his eyes shadowed by grief. Aemon's stomach twisted. The moment Ser Kevan's gaze met his, Aemon knew something terrible had happened.

"Ser Kevan?" Visenya called out, disembarking first. "What's going on?"

"There's no easy way to say it," Kevan's voice was heavy with sorrow. "Your father is dead."

Four little words. Aemon's world tilted beneath him. Dead? His father, who had been so full of life, so strong and beloved by the people? He'd just promised to spend time in the garden with him! It couldn't be true. If anyone else said this, Aemon would take it for a cruel jape, but not from Kevan. He hoarsely pleaded, "Gods, it can't be."

"I'm sorry, my boy."

Visenya staggered, as if struck. Visenya whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of the waves lapping against the dock. "How? When?"

Kevan explained with grim efficiency. Maegor had been giving alms to the poor in Lannisport, as was his custom. He never had more than one or two guards accompanying him. There was no need. The lowest of the low would not think of laying a finger upon him. Despite his immense popularity, five men had set upon him with long knives and murdered him in the streets.
"Set off a bloody riot." Ser Kevan spat. "Your father was well loved. An angry mob tore three of the bastards apart. Two of the killers were taken alive, and Tywin is investigating."

Aemon's vision blurred as he was engulfed by numbness. "Put to the question, then."

"Aye, we'll have answers soon, but Seven take my tongue if this doesn't smell like a conspiracy."

"They will pay." Aemon said quietly.

Ser Kevan placed a hand on Aemon's trembling shoulder. Aemon looked up at him wide eyed, he hadn't realized he was shaking. "Genna's in her solar. Go to her. My sister will need you both now."

Thereafter, Aemon and Visenya rushed through the familiar corridors of the Rock. The looks of pity on servants and guards alike, the recollection of red rimmed eyes, deep bows, and heartfelt condolences as the pair passed, would stay with Aemon for the rest of his life. Maegor graced everyone with his kindness. He would not be forgotten.

In her rooms, their mother shrieked, her grief almost a physical thing. Absent was the vivacious and gentle matron Aemon saw everyday. Sitting on the edge of a couch, tears streaming down her bloodless face, she clutched father's favorite black cloak to her chest. The sable cloak, a gift from Lord Tytos Lannister before she and Maegor wed, was caked with blood. It had stained much of her golden dress red. Mother seemed to have aged a decade since he last japed with her before.setting out on Vhagar.

Visenya immediately went to kneel beside her mother, her determined mask shattering as she tried to comfort her. She whispered words meant only for their mother, and the two women collapsed into each other's embrace..

Aemon milled near the door. The sense of separation, of abnormality struck him then. Nothing felt real. Surely this must be a dream. He bit his tongue, and even that pain felt dull. No dream.

"Brother, come in and close the door." Daeron stood nearby, a stone pillar in a world of sand. Aemon did as he was bid. Peering at his elder brother, Aemon could see the signs of grief harsh upon his visage. He'd been crying only recently. Am I that unnatural of a son? Why can I not cry for my father? Daeron's voice was low, meant only for his ear, it cracked with emotion, "Thirty-two times. That's what Lyman said. Those bastards cut him thirty-two times, like they were carving up a turkey."

"We will avenge father." Aemon responded, as he embraced his brother. There had to be more involved in this plot, and they would pull them up by the roots. Together the brothers kept a vigil. Daeron had already taken charge as their mother sunk into grief. Meals would be brought to the rooms, and a maester was on hand to look after mother if there was any need.

Before long, the two brothers were pulled into a wordless embrace with their sister and mother. Aemon wanted to cry, but no tears would come. He could only make soothing noises and gently pat his mother's back..

Their father's corpse was being made presentable by the Silent Sisters. Aemon would have marched down to see it himself, but the thought of leaving his family alone was hateful. It felt like fleeing in the face of the enemy. Only the enemy was inside him.

Eventually, Daeron the Heir was called upon, and Aemon the Spare was left with his sister and mother. With their father dead, Daeron was now the Lord of Maegor's Hall. He had his duty while Aemon only had emptiness. For the first time in his life, Aemon envied his elder brother. He wanted to go serve Lord Tywin, but he was ordered to accompany his mother and sister.

A meal was brought to the room. Normally a voracious eater, Aemon had no appetite. The old servant insisted he eat, saying he was in shock. Eating by rote, it tasted nothing so much as ash in the young Targaryen's mouth. He only finished the plate because the old woman refused to leave until he ate every last crumb.

Aemon himself had no tears to shed. It seemed this whole thing was happening to someone else. Surely, father would come sweeping into his rooms, hale and healthy. It was a mistake, it had to be!

When he finally viewed his father's corpse, his last denials died. In the void of his heart, everything was gobbled up by a slowly building rage. Maegor the Kind. Dead. Mother. A widow. Wildfire throbbed in his heart, reducing everything else to ash. He longed for vengeance—swift and brutal. The fury gave him strength, and held onto it.

Three days passed in a blur as the murderers were tirelessly questioned. Aemon was excused from his duties, and judged too young to participate in the questioning. Daeron, older and allowed to observe, drank heavily as he recounted their words.

"Poor fellows, pfaw!" Daeron slammed a tankard on the table with a dull thunk. "That's what they said. 'Taken up sword and torch to cleanse the world of abominations in the name of the Holy Seven.' All this talk about slaying sinful dragons to stop the end of days. Hogwash! Do they think they know better than the High Septon or the Most Devout?"

This only stoked Aemon's rage. This violence was not aimed at Maegor, but at all Targaryens. Images of Visenya and Daeron ravaged and murdered were thorns and burrs in his mind. They had chosen the kindest Targaryen to ever live as a target.

At night, Midnight would curl up in his arms. The black tomcat had a shaggy mane that Aemon loved to run his fingers through, his blue eyes watching the Targaryen with abnormal intelligence. No common cat. Midnight tried to coax laughter out of Aemon, but that font was truly dried up. Still, Aemon appreciated the company.

Sleep eluded Aemon. During this time, he did not find even a moment of respite.
Beneath the surface, Aemon's rage only grew. It was mirrored by Lord Tywin and everyone else in the Rock, such was the place Maegor had carved out in their hearts. The murder of Tywin's goodbrother in Lannisport was certainly a slap in the face, though Aemon cared not at all for Tywin's reputation.

Aemon couldn't shake the image of his father's killers, still alive in the dungeons of Casterly Rock, clinging to the last threads of their miserable lives. He'd been allowed to see them after they'd been purged of their secrets. It wasn't right. They didn't deserve to breathe while his father's body lay mangled and lifeless, while his blessed soul awaited the Father's Judgment in the Stranger's Hall.

The murderers had been broken under torture, fully revealing themselves to be heretics of the Faith. They independently confirmed Daeron's news. Influenced by the ravings of a firebrand Septon, named Rogar, they and their ilk believed the Targaryens must be eradicated to stop the coming apocalypse. Further, they espoused the Faith Militant must be restored to police and protect the Faithful flock. In their testimony, they revealed the locations and numbers of their group—some hundred men holed up in the Westerlands mountains.

Lord Tywin intended to deal with them swiftly and decisively. Aemon vowed to be by his side.

The two surviving assassins were to be placed in cages and left to die of exposure. Some would say a fitting punishment for their crimes. But to Aemon, that was not enough, not nearly enough. He wanted them dead. Now. They had taken his father from him, and they did not deserve to live another moment. The sooner they burned in the Seven Hells the better. Moreover, he wanted to do the deed himself.

A man was entitled to his vengeance. Wasn't that how the First Men did it?

Aemon's mind burned away crippling grief, and it began to churn anew. The haze of so many sleepless nights fled like morning mist as purpose took hold. He knew Casterly Rock's secret passages better than anyone. He'd wager only Lann the Clever had known the hidden ways of the Rock better than he. Combined with the Silent Stone, he could move through the castle unseen, unnoticed. Would not be the first time he snuck about unseen. And he knew just where to find what he needed to act.

That night when most of the Rock slumbered, Aemon slipped out of his quarters. He moved nonchalantly into maester Lyman's vacant study, his movements precise and well calculated. At this hour, the maester would be giving Aemon's mother a tincture to help her sleep. She too had trouble sleeping, but unlike Aemon, she did not keep that a secret.

Aemon's heart raced, but his hands remained steady as he located the small vial of Lion's Roar—a rare substance pioneered and produced by Lyman. In small doses, it sharpened one's focus and enhanced their senses. But in large doses, it could be dangerous—agonizing, even. There were other side effects, like a gradual dulling of senses and dependence with repeated uses, or so the maester said.

The Targaryen pocketed the vial and made his way through the hidden passages of Casterly Rock, the Silent Stone quiescent as he moved with purpose. He easily descended through the massive fortress along winding staircases and narrow chutes.

Midnight scouted the way, his tail flicking in irritation. Aemon's cold rage, a simmering fury that guided his every step. Only when chained and channeled appropriately could rage be anything but a liability. The dungeons were heavily guarded, considered the most secure point in the entire Rock. Aemon knew how to slip past the sentries, how to avoid detection. A secret wall opened out between the gaoler's room and the cell.

When he finally reached the cell where the assassins were held, he picked the lock with nimble fingers. Years of sneaking about the fortress had helped him pick up the skill. He found the perpetrators in a miserable state. They had been systematically tortured, their bodies broken, their spirits shattered. Evidence of burn marks, broken bones, missing appendages, and barely bound lacerations crisscrossed their emaciated forms. They whimpered in their chains, unable to move or resist. Shadowed eyes followed him as he glided into the holding cell. Thick strips of leather gagged them. Aemon felt no pity for them—only a grim satisfaction as he quietly approached.

"A Lannister always pays their debts, and a dragon always takes their due." His voice was hard, jade gaze cold. These beasts wearing human skin ripped his father away. "Do not fear, we shall be sending the rest of your Poor Fellows to keep you company in the Seven Hells."

Hands covered in thick leather gloves–the gloves Maegor used to tend his garden!–Aemon meticulously applied the powder to their wounds, his touch careful and deliberate. The twelve year old's tired hands did not shake. The substance would take minutes to enter their systems. Aemon took his time. He sat and watched as it took effect. Their gags muffled the screams, and the heavy metal doors kept their death throes from carrying to the guards.

As muscles strained and tore, as the weight of their wounds magnified a hundredfold, bloodshot eyes widened. Aemon watched it all with clinical curiosity. They should be feeling the phantom of every torture compressed into these few moments. Though their suffering was extreme, it did not last long. Soon, their hearts burst one after another, and they took their last breaths.

Aemon indulged in the rush of vengeance. A man has a right to his vengeance.

Carefully, Aemon left the two corpses where they hung, and silently made his way back to his chambers. That night he slept well.

Word spread that the assassins died of wounds suffered during their questioning. Their carcasses were hung for the crows.

The next day was Maegor's funeral. Aemon sat beside his family as his father was laid to rest. Dressed all in black, his mother was remote and silent, as if all her tears had long been spent. Visenya sat by her side wearing a stoic mask. Daeron welcomed well wishers.

The Septon said some words, they washed over Aemon, and for the first time the teachings of the Faith offered neither solace nor guidance.

His father was dead.

As he attended his father's funeral...
[] Aemon solemnly observed the proceedings, his faith never waning. The designs of the gods were beyond man. Maegor Targaryen believed deeply, his father was a devout man that sought to bring everyone into the embrace of the Seven. Aemon would never be a saint, he could only act in accordance with their divine laws and his own conscience.
[] Aemon felt doubt eating away at his lifelong faith. There were many faiths in this world. How can he be sure the Seven are the true gods? Many learned men declared them all false gods. And this was another stone on the balance that questioned them. His father's death was not part of some grand design. It couldn't be. It was an unworthy death, and if the gods were true and they allowed it they too were unworthy.

During the funeral, Aemon Targaryen reflected on his actions. A full night's slumber gave him some measure of perspective. Suiting the occasion, he was unusually somber.
[] Though his actions were daring, they cannot be called valorous. He slew two men that killed his father, but they were trussed up like hogs awaiting slaughter. It is every man's right to take vengeance, but from now on he will mete it out in a straightforward and upright manner instead of skulking about.
[] Just because he could do a thing, doesn't mean he should. A man of conviction holds firm to his ideals and morals even in the face of the greatest desire. He should not be satiated by small gains when it may well hamstring attaining greater goals. Aemon shall steer a course and hold to it even if all the world opposes him.
[] Nothing in the world is free or safe, Aemon took what he wanted and savored it. No doubt a price will be owed. Pay it. As long as he acted according to his unyielding will, as long as he advanced with courage to act according to his own code, he would carve a true path for himself to walk all the days of his life.