King's Landing, 269 AC.
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The sky above King's Landing was still smudged with the last wisps of morning mist when the black raven returned.
It came just after the eighth bell, gliding silently over the Red Keep's spires like a shadow on the wind. The rookery tower stood tall and still against the pale gold light of dawn—until the sound of wings broke the hush.
With a low croak, the raven landed on the iron perch outside the highest window, feathers damp with dew, eyes sharp with purpose.
Maester Pycelle was already awake, seated at his cluttered desk beneath a stained-glass dome. He looked up from his notes, squinting toward the narrow slit of the sky.
Then he heard the knock of talons on the ledge.
He rose slowly, robes rustling, and made his way to the window.
Pycelle shuffled toward the window, muttering softly beneath his breath as the morning breeze stirred his beard. The raven watched him with unblinking black eyes, its claws clicking lightly on the iron perch.
He unlatched the window with stiff fingers and gently extended a hand. The bird didn't flinch. It hopped onto his wrist with practiced ease—quiet, calm, knowing.
Pycelle's gaze fell to the scroll bound to its leg with a strip of dark leather. He squinted, leaning closer.
Two seals.
One pressed in deep crimson wax—the unmistakable three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.
The other, a stark black—unmarked, without sigil or flourish.
Night's Watch.
He let out a long breath through his nose. "So… he replied," Pycelle murmured.
His fingers moved with surprising care as he unwrapped the scroll. He didn't break the seals. Not yet. His thumb brushed the edge of the red wax, feeling the ridged dragon beneath his skin.
"From Maester Aemon… to Prince Aemon," he chuckled softly.
The old maester glanced at the bird before turning away, letter in hand.
He carried it with care across the rookery and set it gently on the smooth, grain-polished surface of his writing desk—well away from the inkpots and the rising heat of the brazier.
The parchment looked almost regal in the early sunlight. Regal… and private.
He returned to the window and coaxed the raven down into its cage, offering it a few slices of softened date and a shallow bowl of water. The bird drank with deliberate sips, wings twitching faintly as it settled.
Pycelle lingered for a moment, eyes drifting to the sealed letter.
Then, with practiced care, he took the letter tucked safely into the folds of his sleeve and began the slow descent down the narrow stone staircase of the rookery. Each step echoed faintly in the tower's chill, his shoes tapping a steady rhythm against the stone.
Though the morning sun had risen above the rooftops of King's Landing, Maegor's Holdfast remained cloaked in cool shadow. The courtyards below bustled with early activity—squires carrying armor, pages running messages, and gold-cloaked guards making their shift change with clinking boots and sleepy eyes.
But Pycelle paid them no mind.
He crossed the bridge between towers, wind tugging faintly at his robes, and entered the upper corridor of Maegor's Holdfast. Familiar scents met him: wax and parchment, lavender oils from passing servants, and the faint iron tang of freshly polished steel. He passed through the foyer, where household guards nodded their respect, and turned down the corridor towards the training yard.
Just ahead, he spotted Ser Jonothor Darry descending the stairs from the White Sword Tower, already armored at the shoulders and the sword belted at his hip.
"Ser Jonothor," Pycelle called, raising a hand to catch his attention.
The knight paused mid-step, brow rising. "Maester?"
Pycelle stopped before him and carefully drew the sealed scroll from his sleeve. "A raven arrived not half an hour past. It's from the Wall. I recognize the bird—it's the same one I sent north with Prince Aemon's letter. The reply bears two seals—one of the Night's Watch, the other of House Targaryen."
Jonothor blinked, his stance straightening slightly. "Maester Aemon replied?"
"It seems so." Pycelle offered the letter with both hands. "It should reach the prince without delay."
Jonothor accepted it with a quiet nod, his eyes drifting over the seals with a flicker of respect.
"He's in the stables, I believe—finishing morning drills with Prince Rhaegar, besides Ser Oswell and Ser Barristan."
Pycelle inclined his head. "Then I leave it in your hands, Ser Jonothor."
"I'll see to it."
As Pycelle turned to go, his footsteps retreating with soft shuffles down the polished hall, Jonothor stood for a moment longer—then looked down at the letter in his hand.
The red dragon and the black wax gleamed in the light from the stained-glass windows.
A message from one Aemon to another.
Without a word, Jonothor turned and strode toward the stables.
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The yard rang with the rhythmic beat of hooves.
Vermax trotted in a wide circle, his coat slick with morning sweat and his mane lightly tousled by the breeze. The young palfrey's gait was steady but still learning—occasionally too eager in the turns, ears twitching at every distant noise. Upon his back, Prince Rhaegar sat tall, hands firm on the reins, back straight, brow furrowed with concentration.
He was quiet as always, but the tension in his posture betrayed his focus.
"Lean with him," Ser Barristan called, walking along the inner circle of the yard. "Not ahead, not behind. Feel the rhythm. Make it yours."
Rhaegar gave a sharp nod and adjusted his balance. Vermax responded slightly, his stride smoothing and his breathing evening out. The pair moved together now, less boy and beast, more student and companion.
The two Kingsguards watched as Rhaegar eased Vermax into a canter, the horse's brown coat catching glints of sunlight as they rounded the yard. A dust plume stirred behind their trail.
"He's not afraid of the saddle anymore," Barristan noted. "That's something."
"Still afraid of speaking in front of a room, though," Oswell said with a half-smile. "I'll take the horse."
Barristan chuckled faintly, then cupped a hand around his mouth and called out, "Now ease him down, Prince! Let him settle! Loosen the reins—gently!"
Rhaegar obeyed. Vermax slowed, hooves transitioning from the canter into a smooth trot, then a walking pace. He reached down and gave the horse's neck a slow, graceful stroke. "Good boy," he murmured.
The morning sun had begun to climb, casting longer shadows across the training yard. The echo of hooves, the shuffle of hay, the murmurs of instruction—the kind of morning made for forging quiet discipline.
And from the look on Rhaegar's face—softened ever so slightly by his connection with Vermax—it was a morning he wouldn't forget.
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Across the yard, well out of the training ring's dusty bounds and tucked beneath the cool shadow of a broad wooden overhang near the stables, lounged a prince and his beast of burden.
Or, more accurately—two lazy bastards in the hay pretending they hadn't a single duty in the realm.
Aemon was stretched out on his back atop a half-collapsed haystack, one arm folded behind his head, the other lazily tossing an apple into the air. The apple arced high, caught the morning sun—and with a sharp crunch, vanished into the waiting jaws of Balerion.
The massive black destrier lay sprawled beside him, legs tucked, eyes half-lidded, chewing with the unbothered air of a horse who had absolutely no intention of moving today. Every few minutes, his ear flicked, or his tail gave a lazy swish at a fly. Otherwise, he didn't so much as twitch.
Aemon let out a low sigh, eyes fixed on the clouds drifting above the Red Keep's battlements.
"Do you ever look at them and just… want to be up there?" he murmured. "Not flying with wings. Just floating. Like a puff of lazy smoke."
Balerion gave a low huff through his nose and slowly nodded—once.
Aemon turned his head to look at him, brow slightly raised. "I was being rhetorical."
The stallion's only response was a pointed nudge to Aemon's ribs—followed by another apple dropping from his muzzle like a tribute.
Aemon groaned theatrically. "You are a bottomless pit wrapped in black velvet."
He sat up halfway, grabbed the apple, and gave it one last lazy toss into the air.
Crunch.
Gone again.
Balerion closed his eyes, satisfied.
Aemon flopped back with a sigh, brushing hay from his face. "Honestly, we should both be knighted for sheer effort."
The stallion gave no reply this time—just a slow exhale through flared nostrils as if in agreement.
"Ser Balerion the Black," Aemon muttered. "First of his name. Devourer of fruits and all ambition."
A breeze stirred the hay around them. Somewhere behind the stables, a bell rang softly for the hour.
And still, neither boy nor beast moved.
The clouds drifted on, and the realm spun gently forward without them.
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Ser Jonothor Darry strode into the training yard just as the clang of steel gave way to the softer rhythm of hooves on the sand.
Across the yard, Rhaegar Targaryen brought his brown palfrey, Vermax, to a steady halt. The young prince's silver hair clung slightly to his brow, and though his posture remained upright, there was a visible relief in his shoulders as Ser Oswell Whent stepped forward and took the reins.
"Ease your weight on the left next time," Oswell advised, helping Rhaegar dismount. "You ride well enough, but a stallion doesn't care about noble posture if it throws your balance."
Rhaegar landed lightly, patting Vermax's neck with a quiet touch, "Thank you, boy," as the horse gave a low snort and nuzzled his hand.
Ser Barristan stood nearby, arms folded, eyes calm and assessing. "Better seat than yesterday," he said with a slight nod. "Still stiff at the turn, but it's progress."
"Progress is all we can ask for," Oswell added, brushing dust from his cloak. "Even if it limps in like a Dornish mule."
Jonothor arrived just in time to catch the last remark. "A Dornish mule, is it?" he said with a smirk.
"Looked more like a Reach charger—smooth, proud, maybe too graceful for its own good."
Rhaegar turned toward him with a faint smile. "Good morning, Ser Jonothor."
"Morning, Your Grace," Jonothor replied, then gave a brisk nod to the other knights. "Ser Oswell. Ser Barristan."
"Jonothor," Barristan acknowledged.
"Didn't expect to see you all here so early," Jonothor continued. "Though I suppose it makes sense—training the heir to ride like a true knight." He glanced at Rhaegar. "Not bad, lad. Not bad at all. With some polish, you might even catch up to me one day."
There was a beat of silence.
"..."
Barristan blinked.
Oswell blinked.
Then, very deliberately, they turned their heads and looked at each other—expressionless, unimpressed.
Rhaegar cleared his throat politely, though the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed a smile as he busied himself brushing Vermax's mane.
Jonothor paused. "What?"
Oswell grunted. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing."
Barristan murmured, "Not a word."
Jonothor looked around the yard once more, squinting beneath the morning sun. "Speaking of prodigies—where's our other prince?" he asked. "Don't tell me Aemon's finally overslept. I was hoping to see him take the yard apart again."
Ser Barristan sighed—long, slow, and far too familiar.
He ran a hand down his face, then gestured vaguely across the yard with a flick of his fingers. "Your black stallion prodigy," he muttered, "is napping in a haystack—with his horse."
Jonothor blinked. "…He's what?"
Ser Oswell, smirking now, nodded toward the shaded edge of the stables. "There. Behind the feed racks. Been like that for hours."
Jonothor followed their gaze—and sure enough, beneath a patch of morning shadow, there lay Prince Aemon and his infamous mount, Balerion. The boy was reclined against a heap of hay like a feather bed, one leg stretched out, one arm tucked under his head. Beside him, the black stallion lay with its legs folded beneath its massive frame, eyes hooded with disinterest, occasionally twitching its ears at flies.
As Jonathon watched, Aemon casually tossed an apple into the air.
Balerion snapped it out of the air without lifting his head—then returned to chewing, unbothered by the world.
Jonothor blinked again. "Seven hells."
Barristan's tone was bone-dry. "Greatest warrior in training we've seen in decades. And he's up there acting like some country farmer on a festival day."
"Lazy bastards," Oswell added helpfully.
Barristan glanced skyward. "Don't encourage them."
Ser Jonothor crossed his arms and leaned casually against the nearest post, still watching Aemon and Balerion lounge in their private shade.
"Anyway," he said, a little louder now, "he's got a letter. Just came in this morning. From the Wall."
That caught Rhaegar's ear. He turned, brushing dust from his tunic. "The Wall?"
"Aye," Jonothor said, lifting the sealed parchment slightly. "Black raven, two seals—one for the Watch, one with the dragon. It's from his great-uncle. Maester Aemon."
Rhaegar blinked, surprise flickering behind his calm expression. "You mean… Maester Aemon? The older brother of my great-grandfather? King Aegon the Fifth?"
Ser Barristan nodded. "The same. He was a maester when his father died, but they still offered him the crown. Aemon refused—his vows bound him. And to prevent another Blackfyre war, he took the black too, making himself doubly ineligible. For peace, not power."
Rhaegar stepped forward slowly, thoughtful now. "I've read about him… but I didn't know he was still alive."
"He is," Barristan replied. "In his seventies now, I believe. Still serving at Castle Black. It's been years since he sent word to the court—or any of his kin."
Rhaegar glanced toward the haystack again. "Why would he write to Aemon?"
Barristan gave a light shrug. "Because Aemon wrote to him. Sent a raven four days ago. Maybe to check on him. Maybe something else."
"Well," Oswell said, brushing off his cloak, "we could stand here all morning speculating…"
"…or we could deliver it," Jonothor grinned. "Come on. Let's go wake the lazy prince from his royal nap."
Barristan sighed again. "He's going to pretend to be annoyed, but I swear he likes the attention."
And together, the knights began their slow walk across the yard, the morning sun catching the sealed parchment as it passed between gloved fingers—black and red, old and new, blood and duty, all wrapped in wax.
The four strolled across the yard leisurely, weaving around muddy patches and training posts until they reached the haystack nestled beneath the shade of a wooden awning. There, reclined like a prince without a care in the world, lay Aemon—hands folded behind his head, one knee casually bent, his silver hair glinting in the slant of the morning sun.
Beside him, Balerion lifted his head lazily at the sound of approaching boots. The black stallion's ears twitched, nostrils flaring once as he caught their scent. His eyes slit open, glancing at the intruders.
Then, with a long exhale through his nose that sounded suspiciously like disinterest, he flopped his head back into the hay with a satisfied snort.
Ser Jonothor raised an eyebrow. "Is that horse ignoring us?"
"Gods," muttered Ser Oswell, "he might be worse than the prince."
Aemon cracked open one eye, his tone dry. "He has high standards for conversation. Don't take it personally."
Ser Barristan pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're both shameless."
"Don't act like you're not jealous," Aemon smirked. "Some of us value the sacred art of rest."
"Sacred, is it?" Jonothor said, crouching and holding out the letter. "Well, rise, O holy one—you've got a reply."
Aemon sat up, brushing hay from his tunic. "Reply?"
"From the Wall," Jonothor said. "Maester Aemon."
The words snapped through the haze like a blade.
Aemon sat up straight, the easy slouch vanishing from his posture. His hand moved without delay, reaching out to take the letter. His fingers paused only briefly over the seals—one in blank black wax, solemn as the Wall itself; the other, deep red, stamped with the three-headed dragon of his House.
The shift in him was quiet—but absolute.
Balerion nosed closer behind him, resting his chin on Aemon's shoulder like he wanted to read it too.
Aemon looked down at the letter and murmured, "Didn't think he'd actually reply soon."
Barristan folded his arms. "Well… he kinda did."
Aemon broke the red seal first, carefully not to tear the parchment. The wax cracked with a soft snap, brittle from the cold of its long flight. Then the black one—its imprint blank, like the Wall itself, solemn and silent.
He unfolded the letter with care. The parchment was thicker than most, its ink faintly smudged from the northern damp. Yet the script remained elegant—each stroke deliberate and composed, the mark of a steady hand long accustomed to writing by candlelight.
His eyes traced the lines in silence.
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To My Great Nephew, Aemon.
It has been many years since a letter reached me from the blood of the dragon.
The last came bearing sorrow—the death of my niece, Shaera. A silence followed it, long and deep as the northern winter. No voice from our line has broken it… until yours.
And for that, I thank you.
Your words reached me in the evening gloom when the cold creeps slowly through stone and memory. To know that I am not forgotten by those who still carry the name—by those who still seek—warms bones that have not known the sun in many years.
Thank you for remembering this old one.
For reaching across leagues and silence.
For caring enough to ask.
The Wall is ever as it was. Cold. Vast. Eternal. Yet it lives still. The brothers here do their duty as best they can, though fewer each year remember why we wear black. The world forgets us—but I do not forget the world. Nor those who carry the blood of my brother. Of Egg.
Yes, I remember you.
A babe in swaddling clothes, with silver hair and quiet, starry eyes. Before Summerhall burned, in the final hours of peace, I held you—only once and only briefly. Yet even then, there was a stillness in you… something watchful. It seems that it has not changed.
Your letter reminded me of Egg. My brother was much like you—always seeking truth, always questioning what others called fact. Especially when it came to dragons.
He dreamed of them, too.
As do I.
Though I never rode one, I see them in my sleep. I see a red star bleeding in the sky. I see their shadows on the snow. I hear the crack of leathern wings, feel their hot breath. In dreams, they are not gone. In dreams, they are always just beyond the veil.
But dreams are dangerous things, Aemon. My brother's dreams crowned him—and killed him. They broke his heart. Broke our House. We stand on the edge of things half-remembered, ancient promises and warnings whispered in the dark. Most do not understand them. Fewer still survive them.
Even so… I cannot help but hope.
Dragons have ever been our glory and our doom. I have come to see them with both sorrow and reverence. Their return would shake the world—but the fire they bring burns bright and blind. Tread carefully should you chase them.
You asked about dragonlore.
Most of what is left are fragments—ashes of what once was. But there are truths buried in them. I have read the surviving parchments of Septon Barth's Unnatural History, and even one rare copy of Thomax's Dragonkin. They both offer glimpses, though dim and shrouded.
Barth believed dragons were neither male nor female—now one, now the other, as changeable as flame. He wrote that they were not just beasts of fire but creatures of purpose, perhaps even will. Most Archmaesters scoffed at him. But I believe Barth saw a truth others were too proud to face.
Even now, the chains of the Citadel grow heavier, and their minds narrower.
But I will tell you what I can.
The old texts speak of heat, of fire, of blood. Not merely spilled—but shared. The strongest bonds were forged not by force, but by sacrifice.
Not of flesh alone—but of soul. Of purpose.
Dragons do not obey. They do not yield. They are flame-made flesh and answer only to kinship—and need. If ever you seek to wake one, remember that.
Books and scrolls are your weapons, Aemon. Sharper than steel. With them, your mind can be honed to a blade as fine as Valyrian steel itself. Do not let the court laugh at your hunger for learning—feed it. Let it temper you. Let it sharpen you.
I will try to send you what I can—copies of Barth's notes, and Thomax's surviving passages. The Night's Watch sends men to King's Landing for recruitment. When the next one rides south, I shall entrust them with what may be of use to you.
But one more thing—perhaps the most important.
Do not bury yourself in this search. Do not let fire become your only path, as Egg once did. Knowledge can burn as surely as dragonflame. The world is more than prophecy and power.
Be wary of the cost.
And write again, if you will. I may be far, but I will always read your words. I will always answer while these old hands still hold a quill.
Perhaps one day, when you are grown, you will ride north—not to take the black, but to visit. The Wall has seen many things… but not often one who remembers it's cold and still chooses to come.
We are the blood of the dragon, you and I. That will never change.
May your fire burn bright, and your steps stay sure.
—Aemon,
Maester of Castle Black.
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The yard had quieted as if even the wind paused to listen. Balerion blinked beside him, chewing the last of the apple without hurry. Rhaegar, still near Vermax, glanced over but said nothing.
Aemon finished reading.
The letter rested lightly in his hands. His fingers neither tightened nor let go. His eyes lingered on the final line, unmoving—a memory echoing now in the silence.
He had been held once—long ago—by the man who wrote this before Summerhall turned to ash. Just once. Yet the words felt as familiar as blood.
A soft breeze stirred the hay.
Balerion shifted behind him, breath warm against his back. Not nudging, not impatient—just there.
When Aemon looked up, his eyes held a faint glimmer. Nothing more.
The Kingsguard noticed. No words passed between them.
Ser Barristan gave a quiet nod to Ser Oswell and Ser Jonothor. Rhaegar hesitated, then turned as well. One by one, they stepped away—giving Aemon the space to sit with what had been written.
He leaned back slowly, the letter still in hand, gaze drifting upward.
The clouds moved, soft and unbothered, across a pale sky.
He didn't think of thrones or power. Only ink and parchment. Dragons and memory. And the arms that once held him—briefly—before Summerhall burned.
And quietly, he read the letter again.
Until he could feel the fire in his bones.