Brighter Flames (ASOIAF/AU)

Rolls have been had. Discuss in spoilers until the update drops.

The great tournament in King's Landing was a riot of color, noise, and excitement, filling the air with anticipation and excitement as it approached its climax. The banners of numerous noble houses in the Seven Kingdoms flapped proudly in the wind, and the chatter of thousands of voices blended with the distant sound of swords clashing in the practice yards, iron shod hooves trampling through fields. Knights and lords, both familiar and foreign, strutted through the crowded grounds, their armor polished to a blinding sheen, as ladies in resplendent gowns fluttered about like birds of paradise.

Aemon Targaryen strode purposefully through the bustling throng, the weight of expectation pressing lightly on his broad shoulders. His mother's strident insistence that he meet the handpicked eligible ladies of the realm still lingered in his mind, along with Queen Rhaella's bright smiles. Humor them, he thought, adjusting the crimson and gold sash across his black doublet. He was, after all, a Targaryen, and certain inescapable expectations came with his esteemed bloodline.

He made his way to a shaded pavilion on the tourney grounds where many nobles gathered to escape the blazing summer sun. The scent of fresh flowers and spiced wine filled the air, mingling with the hum of laughter. Aemon greeted these gently born folks with a courteous smile, but his mind was distant, already plotting his next move in the tourney and considering the mysteries of King's Landing that occupied his thoughts.

As he mingled with the few ladies his mother and the queen arranged, two ladies stood out from the rest.

Lady Alyssa Rowan was the first to catch his eye, her golden hair catching the sunlight like molten gold. With her tall, lithe frame and bright blue eyes, she bore a striking resemblance to his Westerlands kinswomen. Well she might since Rowan lands bordered the West, and there were distant ties of blood between their families. Her gown, a deep green with gold embroidery, hugged her supple curves with sheer elegance. When she first approached him, Alyssa seemed starstruck, her rosy cheeks coloring prettily as she stammered through their introduction. Yet, after a few moments, her composure returned, and Aemon found himself engaged in a surprisingly stimulating conversation.

"I've heard much of you," Alyssa said, her voice smooth and cultured, "but I must confess, the tales hardly do you justice. Your performance in the swimming contest was most impressive!"

"It was a near thing. Ser Brynden must be half trout!" Aemon inclined his head slightly. "Tales are often exaggerated, my lady. I'm sure the bards have spun enough yarns to weave a tapestry of fiction."

Her smile was warm, her blue eyes twinkling with wit. "Perhaps, but I find myself curious nonetheless. I have heard you studied at the Citadel, and won much acclaim among the Maesters. I have always wanted to peruse the Citadel's collection, but my father said they do not allow women in their halls." She paused, glancing at him. "Do you happen to have a favorite poet, my lord?"

Aemon smiled, intrigued by the sudden shift in conversation. Most ladies he met at tourneys spoke only of knights and gowns. They did not have a care for books of any kind. Alyssa had a mind for the arts, and that pleased him. "I favor the works of Symon Silver Tongue as annotated by maester Joffrey, though some find his verses too melancholic."

Alyssa nodded thoughtfully. "A fitting choice for a dragon raised by lions. Melancholy is an essential part of what it means to be a child of the Seven. One must know sorrow to truly appreciate joy."

Aemon took a deep breath, and recited:

"Fear the Lion, his wrath the terrible night
Death for all men, stand with valor
Ice and shadow, terrible might
The roar leaving only pallor

Love the Maiden, her bounty the dawn
Life's eternal gift, embrace with compassion
Fire and light, venerable yon
The last sorrow turning ashen"

"That's quite moving, Aemon." Alyssa Rowan said after a long moment, her voice tremulous.

"I am afraid I am not the author, only a poor translator. Indeed, I fear it is quite incomplete." Aemon explained. This was a portion of an ancient poem he'd tirelessly translated from fragmented sources from the Far East. Still, it had always resonated with him, and he intended to find the rest one day. He continued with an exaggerated, long suffering air, "If you appreciated it, then all of my toil was truly worth it."

"I loved it!" Alyssa assured. Then she grinned, "You are incorrigible!"

Aemon matched her grin. "Guilty as charged."

A full hour passed in the young woman's company. Other ladies drifted awym but Aemon found time flew by. Alyssa was a fine conversationalist, and all too eager to please. She would make a fine companion, but not for Aemon, not now. His resolve to remain untethered and free to roam the realm was unwavering.

Finally, they said their goodbyes. Aemon was man enough to admit the parting was bittersweet, but he held onto his conviction.

Later Aemon supped with Lady Ashara Dayne. She stood a little apart from the others, seeming to glow with an ethereal beauty. Her long, raven locks cascaded down her back, and her violet eyes—those haunting eyes—met his for the briefest of moments before she turned away. For all of him, he could have drowned in that gaze. She was gentle, her manner kind. Her smile was bright and welcoming, but something about her spoke of a hidden strength, an unbending resolve.

Unlike the other maidens, she hadn't been flustered by Aemon's presence in the least. Lady Ashara took his Targaryen features as a matter of course. In fact, when they danced earlier, it felt as though there was an unreachable gulf between the two. Though he had no intention of being married, Aemon could not but envy the man that occupied that space.

Aemon sighed inwardly. Though Ashara captivated him with her quiet grace and beauty, she did not seem to return his interest. Polite and genteel. That is all. Yet, even as he conversed with other ladies, she lingered in his thoughts.

*No matter,* he reaffirmed, pushing the unfamiliar sting of rejection aside. He had a joust to win.

The tournament continued around him, its energy contagious and growing by the hour. Aemon's attention soon shifted as a drinking contest erupted nearby. Many thirsty men gathered. Notable among them were Lord Jon Umber, Lord Robert Baratheon, and Gregor Clegane. They guzzled ale faster than even the most hardened soldiers could stomach. By the time the dust settled, it was Gregor who stood victorious, his large frame towering over the rest, while Robert Baratheon slumped in a drunken stupor.

Lord Robert's drunkenness led to him being absent from his scheduled joust on the next day. The melee champion's forfeit was met with raucous laughter, and Aemon found himself grinning despite himself.

But the true focus of the tournament was yet to come: the joust. Three whole days were dedicated to it, each match more exhilarating than the last. Feats of chivalry echoed through the lists which would be remembered for a lifetime. Great names that would resonate through all the Seven Kingdoms in years to come came to attention here. Only the Ironborn on their inhospitable islands remained absent, though even they sent Rodrik the Reader of House Harlaw as a representative.

Aemon rode well under the sigil of Midnight on a crimson field, unseating opponent after opponent, earning cheers from the crowd with every tilt. A successful Mystery knight was always loved well by the audience, and Aemon stoically played up the persona.

His prowess on the field had not gone unnoticed, and by the time he faced the great Ser Barristan Selmy, the onlookers held their breath.

Seven tilts later, one in which Barristan's steed slipped in an unfortunate patch of mud, Aemon silently exalted in his victory. Barristan the Bold was a living legend, and Aemon could only think the knight was more impressive in person. His heart raced with exhilaration, but it was not long before he was pitted against another formidable foe—Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.

The joust against Arthur was a wake up call. Already battered and bruised from his earlier bout, Aemon rode forth without reservation. Each clash of their lances reverberated through his bones, their skill on full display. Aemon faced the dornish knight with grim determination, but never once did he gain the advantage. Ser Arthur Dayne relentless, form flawless, demeanor unshakable. They rode again and again, valiantly refusing to yield.

But in the end, it was Aemon who was unhorsed.

As he fell to the ground, the crowd erupted into a mixture of gasps and cheers. The bite of failure was bitter indeed, but Aemon gathered himself to rise with a forced grin, knowing he had given the legendary knight his best attempt. Despite his luck against Ser Barristan, Aemon truly had a long way to go before he could stand on an even field with the greatest knights of the realm.

"Ser, I would see the visage of such a worthy opponent." Ser Arthur said, as he reined his horse nearby. His pristine white cloak fluttered behind him. "I would know your name."

"Ser, I am no knight, but I do have a name." He surrendered to the Sword of the Morning, his helm was removed before the eager audience, his silver-gold hair glinting in the afternoon sun. "I am Aemon, son of Maegor Targaryen."

An intake of breath, silence. One heartbeat. Aemon worried that Uncle Tywin would truly have him toiling away under the Rock until he was Grey. Two heartbeats. Surely, mother wouldn't really force him to get married. Three heartbeats. Visenya could not be disappointed by his loss. He had-

Then the deafening roar of the crowd washed over him like a tide, and for a moment, Aemon staggered under the adulation. He looked around gobsmacked. The crowd were on their feet, both noble and common applauding loudly. In recognition, he pumped his gauntleted fist over head, and somehow they grew louder. For the first time in his life, he indulged in the love of the people. Their love for him, not for the Targaryen. For him.

He bathed in the heady feeling.

Aemon scanned the crowd. His heart swelled when he saw his kin standing and cheering alongside all the rest. Genna had her hands to her mouth. Daeron had a knowing smile on his lips. Visenya clutched Midnight to her breast. Though Lord Tywin was not smiling, he never smiled, he applauded fiercely, eyes shining with pride. Jaime mouthed some words that were lost in the din. Next to him, Cersei shook her head. He said them again, over and over, and then they spread across the crowd like wildfire until they filled all of Aemon's world.

"-n the Audacious! Aemon the Audacious! Aemon the Audacious!" The crowd chanted.

Aemon the Audacious. A certain ring to it.

"They named you true, lad. Audacious," Ser Arthur said as he dismounted. His keen voice cut through the crowd effortlessly. "Were you a year older I would knight you here and now." Not trusting himself to speak, Aemon could only nod. It was a rare thing for the young Targaryen to be speechless. The Sword of the Morning continued, "As it is, your sister would have my guts for garters if I were to name you a knight. Nonetheless, I anticipate the knight you will become."

"I shall not disappoint, ser." Aemon nodded seriously.

Aemon indulged in the adulation for a few more moments before going to join his family in the stands.

"You're a mad man." Jaime laughed, "You should've told me what you were up to, though." He cast a quick, sidelong look at his father. "It was brilliant! I would've loved to ride in the lists, too."
"Audacious? More like Aemon the Absurd." Cersei cut through Jaime's excitement. "You could have been crippled, and you would have deserved it! I was so worried."

"Oh do shut up," Daeron said. His purple eyes shone with a deliberate, furious light. "You loathe not being the constant center of attention, cousin, but that does not give you license to be an insufferable cunt. Let Aemon have his moment. He surely earned it."

Aemon felt his jaw drop further with each of his elder brother's words. Dour and dutiful Daeron never swore, he oft seemed to approach life with a fatalistic manner. Aemon grinned wide enough that his cheeks hurt. At this moment, he'd face down a hundred Arthur Daynes for Daeron the Dedicated.

"How dare-" Cersei swelled up, but Lord Tywin's cold voice interrupted, "Silence children. Unity in front of others." A moment passed, and they all put on their stoic facades. Lord Tywin was right, it was unseemly and unwise to show weakness before others. The Lord of Casterly Rock continued, "There will be time to bicker later, but your uncle rides next."

Lord Tywin was correct. Aemon leaned forward in his seat, his heart still pounding from his own match against Ser Arthur Dayne. His body ached as adrenaline fled his system, but his mind was sharp, locked onto the field where the next great clash was about to unfold. To his left, Visenya sat petting Midnight in quiet tension, while Cersei sulked next to Jaime on his other side. Below them, Ser Tygett Lannister, resplendent in his crimson and gold armor with a lion's helm atop his head, saluted the royal box. His uncle had the lion's pride about him today, though Aemon knew Tygett was more calculating than most ever saw.

Across the field, the White Bull of the Kingsguard, Ser Gerold Hightower, waited astride his massive destrier. His white armor gleamed like it was carved from marble, his lance steady as the hand of time itself. The man had been in service to the crown for decades. Many thought the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard lost a step, becoming a rusty and dull blade, but this day there was no rust in him.

The crowd hushed, the air growing heavy with anticipation. The joust between Ser Tygett and the White Bull had already stirred whispers among the nobility as the match of the tournament. Tygett's ferocious performance in particular made him the favorite, and Ser Gerold was a renowned tourney champion. Both men had unseated countless knights and warriors to reach this point, their names whispered with awe.

Aemon's grip tightened on the wooden railing in front of him as the two knights took their places at opposite ends of the list. The tension was thick enough to choke on. Even the wind seemed to pause, waiting for the thunder of hooves.

A horn sounded, and the stands beneath Aemon's feet trembled. Tygett and the White Bull charged, each moving with the power and grace of an unstoppable force. Lances lowered, shields raised. The first clash came like a clap of thunder. The impact of wood against metal rang across the field, but neither knight fell. The crowd let out a collective gasp, then roared with approval.

Aemon's heart raced. He could feel the raw energy coursing through the spectators, himself included. It was a battle between two titans, neither willing to give an inch.

"They're like two mountains colliding," Jaime muttered beside him, awe clear in his voice. He himself was Tygett's squire, but it seemed he never saw their uncle ride quite like this.

On the second pass, Ser Tygett's lance shattered against the White Bull's shield, splinters flying like rain. But the older knight held firm, his posture unyielding, as though the years had made him stone. The crowd was on its feet now, the tension reaching a fever pitch. Aemon glanced at Lord Tywin who sat impassive, eyes sharp and focused.

Again and again the knights clashed with supreme skill and unfaltering valor.
The seventh pass. The final pass. This time both knights raised fresh lances, and as they rode, the ground seemed to tremble even more. Every eye was fixed on the field. Aemon held his breath. The collision was thunderous. For a moment, it seemed as though time slowed to a crawl.

Then, as the dust settled, it was Ser Tygett who swayed in his saddle, his lance knocked wide. The White Bull rode straight and true, his lance striking just below the lion crest on Tygett's shield. The blow sent his uncle tumbling to the ground, rolling in the dirt before coming to a halt.

The crowd erupted in cheers, a roar that seemed to shake the very heavens. Ser Gerold Hightower, though victorious, struggled to dismount, his body betraying the years of battle. Even so, his back remained straight, his gait strong, the White Bull standing tall in victory.

Aemon's breath caught in his chest as he watched his uncle rise to his feet, covered in dust but undeterred. Tygett stood tall, unbowed, and walked over to the White Bull, offering a hand to clasp in respect. Words passed between the two knights. Those words would remain only between themselves.

Then they were both bade to attend King Aerys, and there and then, the king named Ser Tygett Lannister to his kingsguard.

The crowd erupted once more, their cheers ringing loud once more. Aemon watched, a deep swell of pride rising within him as his uncle stood, now garbed not just in the colors of House Lannister, but in the white cloak of the Kingsguard.

For once, Aemon allowed himself to be swept up in the moment. The joust would be remembered for years to come, and his uncle's induction into the Kingsguard would be spoken of in tales that stretched beyond Westeros. More importantly, Visenya would always have a protector of her own blood nearby.

But beneath the excitement of the joust, a darker realization flared within him.

He caught meaningful looks between Prince Rhaegar and Ser Arthur Dayne, and heard snippets of ill-concealed conversations. As he observed, he placed disparate pieces of information together. The improbable victory over Ser Barristan Selmy. The bracket being unveiled after that. Aemon' loss against Ser Arthur, widely regarded as the finest living knight.

Rhaegar's opponents were either undistinguished or underperforming. Even Ser Baelor Hightower rode poorly, and Aemon was personally aware of Brightsmile's puissance.
A certainty filled Aemon. Rhaegar would win this tournament. It was all arranged. Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Gerold Hightower—the White Bull—would throw their matches to ensure Rhaegar's victory. It was a smart political move, but it left a bitter taste in Aemon's mouth.

He had been played. A mere pawn in the Game of Thrones.

Still, Aemon was no fool to sit and stew in his own ire. Say one thing for Aemon Targaryen, say that he is a man of action.

He began moving through the stands. Channeling frustration into opportunity, using his former contacts to place substantial bets on Rhaegar to win against both Dayne and Hightower. And when the Crown Prince rode to victory and crowned Visenya the Queen of Love and Beauty with a crown of golden roses, Aemon's purse swelled with gold.

Aemon thought his sister looked the very picture of beauty and regality, but he dwelt on his successful gambit. The gold that would soon be in his purse would be all his own, earned by personal ingenuity. That thought banished his anger at being duped. Better yet, Aemon caught a glimpse of Rhaegar and those shining members of the Kingsguard. Outwardly, they projected the image of chivalry. Below, the surface they schemed like any other.

That was knowledge he could use.

At the feast that followed, the announcement was made: Visenya and her brothers, Aemon and Daeron, would be recognized as a princely line, their future descendants declared princes and princesses for all time. The hall applauded politely, and Aemon couldn't help but feel a swell of pride. A part of what should have been his father's legacy was duly returned. Further, Rhaegar's gift of the tourney winnings to Visenya, and her decision to donate it all as alms to the poor, only added to the admiration she garnered.

The following day, Rhaegar and Visenya were married in the Great Sept of Baelor. Daeron gave away their sister as she wore a golden gown with rubies artfully inset into the silken fabric. The sight of them exchanging vows moved many to tears, and spontaneous celebrations broke out throughout the city. Aemon, standing alongside his family, felt a surge of love and loyalty for his sister.

The wedding reception was a grand affair, held in the elaborately prepared and meticulously groomed gardens of the Red Keep. Mummers, musicians, and acrobats performed to great delight for all the nobility of Westeros. A formal line formed before the raised High Table where the king and his family all sat. Even little Viserys was present at the far end of the table, kicking his little feet as he toyed with a bowl of oatmeal.

It had been decided all gifts given to the newlywed royals would be given from this queue. That way one and all could recognize the grand gifts afforded to them, and applaud the gift giver. Aemon stood near the front of the line to present his gift, his eyes idly scanning the gardens as laughter and music filled the air. Lady Alyssa Rowan met his gaze meaningfully, and he also glimpsed Lady Lyanna Stark as she japed with her family and fellow Northmen.

He spied a gaggle of Red Priests flocking around Melisandre of Asshai distant from the king. Rhaegar had not wanted them here, but the king would not be without his 'Red Jesters'. Still, the Hand held great authority. They had been barred from attending the wedding proper, and been exiled to the outskirts of the reception. Only a few converts to their foreign faith interacted with them, but for the most part they were deservedly treated as pariahs.

Standing behind young Jonos Bracken, Lord of the Stone Hedge, he waited with gifts in either hand. A bard with a thunderous voice and excellent delivery recited an epic poem reciting the grand victory of Daeron II over the would-be usurper Daemon Blackfyre.

Something caught his eye.

A gazebo on the far side of the gardens was suddenly engulfed in flames. Black smoke drifted into the air. Panic rippled through the crowd, and men rushed to put out the fire.

The Kingsguard deserved their reputation, already moving to protect the King, Queen, Rhaegar, and Visenya. But Aemon's eyes narrowed as he dropped the book from one hand and unsheathed the Valyrian steel rapier with the other. There was more at play here than just fire.

Aemon's sharp gaze, however, focused on a group of unfamiliar knights and lords approaching the royal table. He noted the Redfort of House Redfort or the merman of House Manderlys upon their breasts.

Twelve of them, all wearing finery fit for the feast. Armed, purposefully striding through the panicking crowd.

Standing before him, Lord Bracken bore a gleaming Myrish crossbow carved with dragons, a masterwork no doubt. Narrowing his eyes, Aemon realized it was loaded. Chainmail peeking out from under long sleeves. The lord raised the bow. The Valyrian Steel punched through the back of Bracken's neck and out the front of his throat..

The man gurgled as he and the crossbow clattered to the ground.

Who does Aemon prioritize?
[] Protect Genna
[] Guard Tywin
[] Aid Daeron
[] Support Jaime
[] Attack Heretics

Rolls have been had. Discuss in spoilers until the update drops.