Chapter 33 - Chapter 33: Ink and Ash

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Deep beneath Dragonstone, the crypts lay silent. The air was heavy with damp stone and lingering ash, the weight of history pressing down like a hand upon his chest.

The torches flickered low, their dim light casting long, restless shadows upon the ancient stone walls. Somewhere, hidden away, water dripped—a slow, steady echo that permeated the vast emptiness of the chamber.

Aemon stood before the latest addition to the royal tombs. His mother's remains had been interred beside her husband, Jaehaerys II, alongside the ancestors who had preceded her. Yet, despite their presence, the silence felt suffocating.

His fingers brushed over the cool marble of her tomb, tracing the High Valyrian inscription carved into the stone. Shaera Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Mother, Wife, Daughter. The words felt hollow—meaningless without the warmth of the woman who once bore them.

She had been more than a queen. She had been his mother.

The Targaryens did not rest beneath the cold marble of the Great Sept, nor did they sleep in the halls of Winterfell. They lay there, where the fire had shaped them, where the dragons once roared, and where the echoes of Valyria still whispered in the stone.

He had returned here, again and again, as if searching for something. Closure, perhaps. But each time, the only thing waiting for him was silence. His fingers curled into fists at his sides as he stared at the carved dragon sigil that adorned her tomb. The stone was smooth beneath his fingertips, yet cold—so unbearably cold.

His jaw tightened. Days had passed since the pyre, but the grief had not faded. If anything, it had sunk deeper, a quiet ache beneath his ribs

"Mother, I—" His voice faltered. He swallowed, exhaling softly before trying again.

"I came to see you."

The words felt small in the stillness, barely more than a whisper, but they echoed against the cold walls as if the crypt itself was listening.

"It still doesn't feel real. I keep expecting to see you waiting in your solar, reading by the fire, or humming that song you always sang when you thought no one was listening. I never told you, but I remember every word of it. I always will."

His grip on the locket at his throat tightened.

The silver was warm against his skin, smoothed by years of wear. It had been his mother's parting gift—a simple thing, delicate, with a dragon's eye gem embedded at its centre. He had worn it every day since she had given it to him, but now, it felt heavier.

His eyes flickered to the other tombs surrounding him—the long line of his ancestors, stretching back generations. His family was all around him, yet he had never felt more alone.

"Everyone says you're at peace now," he continued, his voice quieter. "That you've been reunited with your Husband and your family. I hope it's true. I hope you're happy there. I hope you found the peace you never had in life."

He tried to picture it—a world beyond the veil, where she was whole again, where sorrow could not reach her. But the image would not come. Only silence remained.

His gaze shifted to the tomb beside hers—Jaehaerys, his uncle, a ruler of wisdom who, in just three years, ended a war that threatened to tear the realm apart, only to pass away after securing its peace. What would he have thought of all this? Would he have found peace, knowing his wife was now laid beside him? Or was he, too, cursing the gods for their cruelty?

Aemon's lips pressed into a thin line. He did not know. He doubted he ever would.

"I don't know what to do now," he admitted.

The words tasted bitter. He had always had a path, a purpose. But now?

He only knew loss.

A shiver passed through him, though not from the cold.

"I will not fail you," he whispered, voice firm despite the grief. "I swear it. Not now. Never."

He stood there for a long moment, the silence pressing down on him like the weight of the crypt itself.

Finally, he took a step back. Then another.

He turned, casting one last glance over his shoulder.

"Goodbye, Mother," he whispered at last. "Until we meet again."

Then, he bowed his head to the rest of his family—the ghosts that lingered in the dark—and left.

His gaze lingered a moment longer before he turned.

The heavy doors closed behind him, sealing the dead in their slumber.

As he stepped beyond the crypts and into the world of the living, a single thought remained with him—this was not the last grave he would stand before.

The air was different here.

Where the crypts had been heavy with silence, the cliffs were alive—the wind howled against the jagged rocks, the sea roared below, and the sky stretched before him, vast and unbroken.

Aemon stood at the edge of the cliffs, his black cloak billowing behind him, his silver hair catching the breeze. The scent of salt and freedom filled his lungs, crisp and sharp, carrying the echoes of a past that felt just beyond his reach.

This had been her place.

She had loved it here—the way the wind carried whispers of the deep, the endless horizon that stretched beyond sight, the place where the sky met the sea in a quiet embrace. They had come here often, just the two of them.

Aemon closed his eyes for a moment, remembering.

He could almost see her.

Seated on the flat stone ledge, where she had always sat, her silver hair loose in the wind, her violet eyes soft with quiet contemplation. She had never spoken much during those moments—only watching, listening, as if hearing something in the waves that he could not.

He had never truly understood why she loved this place so much.

Now, he did.

Here, the world felt untouched by grief, by duty, by the weight of history.

Here, there were no kings or courts, no thrones or whispers.

Only the wind, the sea, and the sky.

He exhaled slowly, letting the salt air fill his lungs before unfastening the leather strap at his hip. His sketchbook.

With quiet reverence, he flipped it open, his fingers running over the rough parchment. He had drawn many things over the years—battles, landscapes, the faces of kings and warriors.

But never her.

Not like this.

Aemon lifted his charcoal stick, pressing it to the page. His hands did not hesitate.

A memory.

His mother, not as a queen, not as a ruler, but as she had been to him. Holding him as a babe, her arms cradling him close, a small, soft smile on her lips.

Warm. Loving. Real.

His strokes were slow, deliberate. He shaped the curve of her face, the gentle tilt of her head, the way her silver hair fell in cascading waves. Then, carefully, he traced his infant form in her arms—small, safe, content.

His fingers smudged the charcoal lines, softening the shadows along her face. He hesitated at her eyes—always the hardest part—before setting his jaw and continuing. The strokes were careful, and deliberate, as if drawing her back into existence with ink alone.

A ghost of a smile flickered at the edge of his lips.

He did not remember that time, not truly. But he remembered the warmth of it.

A sudden gust of wind swept over the cliffs, rustling the pages of his sketchbook. Aemon pressed a hand against them, anchoring the moment in place, as if afraid it would slip away.

He worked in silence, the only sound the distant crash of waves below and the wind threading through the cliffs.

Aemon barely noticed the wind tugging at his cloak. His world had shrunk to the lines on the parchment, to the face he refused to forget. If he could just get it right… maybe she wouldn't feel so far away.

For the first time since she was taken from him, he did not feel alone.

The wind carried the scent of salt and storm, curling through the cliffs as the waves crashed below. The sky above was a vast expanse of shifting greys, heavy with the promise of rain, but the storm had yet to break.

Ser Jonothor Darry stood a few paces behind Ser Barristan Selmy, both knights watching in silence, their white cloaks fluttering against the restless wind. They were guardians, sentinels of the past and present, but at this moment, they were simply witnesses to grief.

Prince Aemon sat alone at the cliff's edge.

Seated on the flat stone ledge where the land met the sky, he had not moved for some time. His silver hair, too long for a boy his age, stirred with the wind, but he remained still, his head slightly bowed, his shoulders rigid yet calm.

Jonothor studied him for a long moment before he finally spoke, his voice low, barely carrying over the sound of the waves.

"He has not wept, not once."

Beside him, Barristan exhaled softly. "No, he has not."

They had seen grief take many forms—loud, violent, drowning men in rage and sorrow. They had watched great lords scream their agony and had seen soldiers weep over fallen comrades. But Aemon's grief was silent. Measured. A storm held at bay.

Jonothor had expected anger. Expected a prince who would curse the gods, who would rage against fate for taking his mother from him.

Instead, Aemon had withdrawn.

No wails, no outbursts.

He mourned not with shouts, but with ink and memory.

His hands moved steadily over the sketchbook, charcoal pressing into parchment in slow, deliberate strokes.

Jonothor hesitated, then asked, though he already knew the answer. "What is he drawing?"

Barristan did not answer immediately. His sharp eyes, trained to notice every detail in battle, lingered on the prince's delicate movements, the way his fingers traced each line with purpose.

Finally, his voice was quiet, certain. "His mother."

Jonothor inhaled slowly. He should not be surprised.

"He does not grieve like most men."

"No," Barristan agreed, as if hearing his unspoken thought. "He grieves like a boy who has lost the one person who loved him without condition."

Jonothor's grip tightened around the hilt of his sword.

They had both failed.

They had protected her with steel, with duty, with the oaths they had sworn—but none of it had been enough.

Shaera Targaryen was gone.

And the boy she had left behind carried the weight of that loss alone.

Jonothor shifted on his feet, resisting the urge to step forward, to say something—anything. But what could be said? The boy was alone in a way neither swords nor crowns could fix.

Barristan's voice came again, thoughtful. "He is still a child."

Jonothor watched the way Aemon sat—his posture too still, too composed. The way he held the charcoal in his fingers like a warrior held a blade.

"Not anymore."

Barristan sighed, but there was understanding in his gaze.

"Even dragons mourn," he said. "But not forever."

They stood there in silence, watching as Aemon pressed his fingers against the sketch as if trying to hold onto something long gone.

Neither knight moved. Neither spoke.

They simply stood watch, as they always had, guarding a prince who grieved in the only way he knew how.

The wind howled softly along the cliffs, carrying the sound of the distant sea.

Then came the soft but measured clank of armoured boots against the stone path.

Ser Harlan Grandison, his silver hair cropped short and his aged face creased with the lines of experience approached with steady steps. His white cloak, though as pristine as theirs, barely stirred in the wind.

He gave them both a short nod before speaking. "Her Grace, Queen Rhaella, is looking for Prince Aemon."

Barristan turned slightly, his expression unreadable. Jonothor cast a glance toward the prince, still seated upon the cliff's edge, still lost in his quiet world of ink and memory.

Barristan exhaled through his nose. "He is there. Silent. Drawing." His gaze did not waver. "Give him some time."

Ser Harlan hesitated. "The Queen said it was important."

Jonothor frowned slightly. Rhaella would not pull Aemon away lightly.

Barristan remained still for a long moment, then finally turned toward Harlan.

"Tell her that we will bring him shortly." His voice was firm but respectful. "He needs this."

Ser Harlan studied the prince from afar. His gaze lingered on the lonely figure perched upon the cliffs, sketchbook in hand, the wind tugging at his silver hair.

Finally, the older knight gave a curt nod.

"I will inform Her Grace."

He turned and made his way back toward the keep.

Jonothor watched him go before glancing at Barristan. "Do you think she will wait?"

Barristan's lips pressed into a thin line.

"Yes," he said simply. " She will understand."

They turned back toward the sea, where a boy who had lost his mother clung to her memory, capturing her in ink before the wind could take her away.

They would let him have this moment, for now. But Barristan knew what Jonothor did not yet see—grief could make men wise, or it could make them cruel. And one day soon, the world would test which Aemon would become.