The wind followed me as I left the cliffs, whispering at my back, carrying with it the scent of salt and the quiet echoes of memories sketched in charcoal.
Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Jonothor Darry flanked me, their pristine white cloaks stark against the ancient grey stone of Dragonstone. They did not speak, nor did they need to. Their presence alone was a silent reassurance—a steady anchor in the shifting tides of grief.
Each step back toward the keep felt heavier, as if the weight of the past was trying to pull me back. My thoughts lingered on the drawing I had made—Mother, holding me as a child, the warmth of her embrace immortalized in delicate strokes. It was more than just a sketch. It was a tether, a shield against the emptiness that had settled in her absence.
As we approached the corridor leading to Queen Rhaella's chambers, I caught sight of Ser Harlan Grandison standing vigil beside the heavy wooden doors. His silver hair was cropped short, his weathered features composed but unyielding. Even in stillness, he radiated quiet vigilance.
The moment his gaze met mine, he straightened slightly, inclining his head in respectful acknowledgement.
"Prince Aemon," he greeted me, his voice both gentle and formal. "Her Grace awaits you within."
I paused, studying his face—looking beyond the armour, beyond the duty. Memories surfaced unbidden. The flickering candlelight of that night. The cold bite of steel. The assassin's blade meant for me and my mother—only to be intercepted by the knight before me.
A pang of something deeper than gratitude lodged itself in my chest. It had been years, yet I had never spoken of it. Never acknowledged the sacrifice made in that moment.
Now, I did.
"Ser Harlan," I said quietly, holding his gaze. "I have never properly thanked you. You risked everything that night. You saved my mother. You saved me. For your bravery, your honour, and your unwavering duty—I thank you."
A flicker of something passed through the older knight's eyes. Not a surprise, but something softer, something unspoken. He inclined his head, deeper this time, the gesture one of quiet deference.
"It was my duty and my privilege, my prince," he replied, his voice steady. "Your gratitude honours me, though it is undeserved. We are sworn to protect the royal family. I only regret that we could not do more."
A shadow passed over his features, something solemn and unguarded. When he spoke again, his voice had softened, heavy with genuine sorrow. "It pains me deeply that we could not save Her Grace. You have my eternal sorrow."
His words struck something raw within me. The grief never truly faded—it simply settled, waiting beneath the surface, reawakening in moments like this. I swallowed against the lump rising in my throat, forcing myself to nod.
"You did more than most would have dared," I said, my voice measured. "I shall never forget your courage."
Ser Harlan did not answer right away. Instead, he held my gaze, something unreadable shifting behind his weathered expression, before finally inclining his head in solemn acknowledgment.
He stepped aside without another word, his silence an unspoken understanding.
Beyond him, the doors to Queen Rhaella's chambers loomed tall, their polished wood bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. The crest was familiar, yet at this moment, it felt different—more than a sigil, more than history. A threshold between what was and what remained.
I hesitated, just for a breath, my fingers grazing the cool surface of the door. The weight of unspoken words pressed against my chest—words I had not spoken in years, perhaps words I feared speaking at all. It had been too long since I had stood before her, my cousin, my queen. Too long since I had spoken to the woman who had once cradled Shaera's body, who had mourned alongside me in silence. I exhaled, grounding myself.
Then, I pushed the doors open.
--
The chamber was bathed in golden light, countless candles casting a soft glow upon richly woven tapestries of dragons and fire. A faint breeze drifted in from the open balcony, carrying the salt-kissed scent of the sea, mingling with the lingering fragrance of burning myrrh. The air was peaceful—yet beneath the warmth, something heavier lingered, an unspoken grief that wove itself into the silence.
At the far end of the room, near an arched window overlooking the cliffs, sat Queen Rhaella.
She was poised, regal, yet worn by exhaustion that no crown could conceal. Her silver hair, unbound, cascaded over her shoulders, catching the candlelight like strands of spun moonlight. Even beneath the soft layers of her gown, I could see it—the small but unmistakable swell of her belly. Four months with child.
She was a daughter of kings, a wife to one, and a mother to another.
But in that moment, she was simply a woman in mourning.
Her lilac eyes lifted at the sound of my approach, the flickering light reflecting the quiet sorrow within them. For a moment, neither of us spoke.
I took a step forward, lowering myself into a deep bow. "Your Grace."
Rhaella sighed softly—a sound that carried more than just acknowledgement. It carried grief, affection, and loss.
"Aemon," she murmured, her voice threading through the silence like a whisper of something long unspoken.
She rose from her seat, her movements as fluid as they were restrained. There was grace in her every step, yet no rigid formality—only quiet familiarity. As she came closer, her gaze traced over my face, searching. Perhaps for familiarity. Perhaps for a reminder of the woman we had both lost.
Her hand lifted slightly as if reaching for something unseen—then, gently, she touched my shoulder.
"You need not be so formal," she chided softly, her tone one of quiet affection. Not a queen addressing a prince. But an older sister scolded a younger brother.
I hesitated. "I only meant to show proper respect, Your Grace."
She sighed again, softer this time, as though understanding the weight behind my words. Her fingers lingered lightly on my shoulder before she met my gaze fully, something warm flickering behind the grief in her eyes.
Her lips curled faintly, but there was sorrow beneath it. "You are my cousin first, Aemon. Not just a prince. Not just another subject of the court." She reached out once more, placing a hand against my arm, steady and warm, her touch grounding. "When it is only us, call me Rhaella… or Mandia, as it should be, in High Valyrian."
Mandia. Older cousin.
The word settled over me like something both foreign and familiar, a piece of our shared past I had nearly forgotten.
Slowly, I nodded. "As you wish… Mandia."
The smallest smile touched her lips, this time more real, more genuine. I could see the relief in it—as if, for just a moment, the weight she bore had lessened.
"Come," she said, gesturing to the cushioned seats near the hearth. "Sit with me."
I obeyed, lowering myself carefully onto the soft cushions. They felt strange beneath me, too gentle after the cold, unyielding stone of solitude.
For a moment, there was only silence—comfortable, unspoken, filled with understanding.
The fire crackled softly, its glow flickering between us. Beyond the balcony, the waves crashed against the cliffs of Dragonstone, distant and relentless.
And though neither of us spoke, the weight of our shared grief sat between us like an old companion.
"You have grown much," Rhaella finally spoke, breaking the silence with quiet observation. Her eyes studied me thoughtfully. "Too much, too quickly, perhaps."
I nodded slightly, unable to deny the strangeness of my rapid growth. "It feels… unnatural sometimes," I admitted softly. "Even the guards look at me differently now. I catch them whispering."
Rhaella studied me, her violet eyes searching mine as if weighing something unspoken. Her lips parted slightly, then closed again, hesitation flickering across her face. But when she finally spoke, her words were gentle.
"Change is difficult for those who do not understand it."
A simple truth—but was that all she thought?
A quiet pause settled between us, filled only by the distant crash of waves against the cliffs. Then, in a softer, more fragile whisper, she added, "Life rarely grants us time to make sense of the changes it brings. We endure, Aemon… because we must."
She turned away slightly, her gaze drifting toward the fire, but not before I caught the shimmer of unshed tears in her eyes. The room felt heavier, not just with grief, but with something deeper—uncertainty, perhaps, or fears neither of us dared name.
Her fingers twisted gently in her lap, betraying the sorrow she struggled to contain.
"She loved you dearly," Rhaella whispered, her voice trembling, raw with emotion. "More deeply than words could ever capture. Mother always spoke of you with such warmth… such pride."
My throat tightened. I could feel the grief rising, thick and heavy, pressing against my ribs. Meeting Rhaella's gaze, I bowed my head slightly, my voice barely above a whisper.
"She was more than a mother to me," I admitted. "She was my strength, my comfort. I owe her everything I am."
Rhaella's violet eyes shimmered with unshed tears as she turned to face me fully. "I miss her," she murmured. "Every day, every hour, I feel the absence of her presence. She was always there—when I needed her most, when I had no one else to turn to." Her voice wavered. "And now, she is not."
There was something fragile in the way she spoke, a quiet devastation she could no longer contain.
She had always been a queen first, a woman who carried her burdens with quiet dignity. But at this moment, she was neither. She was simply a daughter who had lost her mother.
"I miss her too," I said, my hands clenching into fists against my lap.
Her lips parted as if to say something, but she hesitated. Then, instead of speaking, she reached forward, taking my hand in hers—warm, steady, offering comfort even as she sought it herself.
"You were everything to her, Aemon," she whispered. "Do you know that?"
I looked down at our joined hands, my throat tightening further.
"I was like a son to her," I said softly. "She was my world and my guiding star."
A small, wistful smile ghosted across Rhaella's lips. "I saw the way she looked at you. It was different from how she looked at me, even when I was a child. It was more than love—you were her light, Aemon. Her greatest joy."
I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the weight of her words sink in, letting the grief press deeper into my bones.
"She was my light too," I murmured. "And now…"
The words trailed off into the quiet.
Rhaella understood what I could not bring myself to say.
The world felt dimmer. The shadows stretched longer in her absence.
Her fingers tightened around mine, a gentle squeeze, steadying, anchoring. "She would want you to remember her," she whispered, "but not to drown in her absence."
I swallowed hard. "How?"
"By living," she said simply. "By carrying her love with you. By making choices she would be proud of. She may be gone, but she is not lost to us. She is here." She pressed a hand to her chest. "Always."
Without thinking, my fingers brushed against the locket at my throat—the one she had given me, her last gift before she…
The pain flared again, sharp and sudden.
Rhaella saw it in my eyes before I could hide it. Without hesitation, she pulled me into a soft embrace.
For a moment, I stiffened, uncertain. Then, slowly, I let myself lean into her warmth. She smelled of lavender and firewood, of warmth and memory, something distant yet familiar—the scent of home long before I knew I had lost it.
She was not my mother.
But in that moment, she was family.
And for the first time in days, I allowed myself to grieve—not alone, but with someone who understood.
For a long moment, we simply sat there, the silence no longer pressing, but settling—like embers cooling after a fire, their warmth lingering rather than consuming. The weight of grief had not vanished, but it had softened, shared between us like an unspoken understanding.
The fire flickered, casting shifting shadows along the stone walls, their restless dance a quiet echo of thoughts unspoken. I let the moment breathe, let it settle in the space between memory and acceptance.
But grief could not be all we carried. There was still the world beyond these walls, beyond our loss.
I had spent so long looking back, drowning in memory. But memory alone could not shape the future. There was still a kingdom, a family, and a duty waiting beyond these cliffs. And so, when I finally spoke, it was not with sorrow, but with duty.
"And how is King's Landing?"
Rhaella sighed, adjusting herself slightly in her cushioned seat. Her fingers traced idle patterns along the embroidered fabric of her gown, her thoughts momentarily distant.
For a moment, she said nothing, then exhaled, a faint smile touching her lips—one that carried both warmth and restraint. She shifted, smoothing her gown with practised ease as if gathering her words.
"Surprisingly peaceful, actually," she said at last, her voice light with a hint of something almost wistful. "Aerys' reign has been calm. No rebellions, no real strife. It's been a rare few years of quiet. Tywin Lannister's efforts as Hand have seen to that."
Tywin Lannister.
Even as a child, I had recognized the power in that name. There was an authority about it, something unshakable—calculated, cold, and unwavering. Tywin Lannister was not a man who wasted words or tolerated failure.
Rhaella continued, her voice thoughtful. "Tywin—Lord Tywin—has served as Hand with diligence, tirelessly even. Truth be told, he is the main reason the crown's debts have finally begun to diminish. Trade flourishes and the lords have no major disputes to speak of. He is stern—perhaps overly so—but effective."
She paused, a brief flicker of amusement glinting in her eyes. "Though he and Aerys can be… difficult with each other, his presence is invaluable."
I couldn't suppress a small smile. I remembered the rigid, ever-composed figure of Tywin Lannister well. "I can imagine," I murmured, letting a trace of humour slip into my voice. "It's hard to picture Aerys and Tywin sharing a pleasant evening without one of them losing patience."
Rhaella let out a quiet laugh, the sound gentle, almost indulgent. For a brief moment, her expression lightened, the weight of grief momentarily lifted.
"Oh, they have their moments," she admitted, before hesitating. A shadow crossed her face—something more guarded, something she had not yet said. Her fingers stilled against the fabric of her gown.
"Aerys has grown… comfortable," she said carefully. "Perhaps too comfortable. There was a time when he was cautious. Now, he indulges more openly."
I remained silent, sensing there was more.
She sighed, finally turning her gaze toward the fire. "Sometimes, I worry he forgets the caution that brought us this peace in the first place."
I studied her closely. "You mean indulgent."
Her lips pressed together briefly before she nodded. "Yes. In his confidence, he has begun to favour extravagance—grand feasts, lavish gifts, costly renovations to the Red Keep." She exhaled softly. "It is… troubling."
"Why troubling?" I prompted.
She hesitated again, a flicker of something unreadable passing through her violet eyes—something deeper than just concern for Aerys' spending.
"A king must always be mindful," she said at last. "Not only of his coin but of the whispers around him. And there are whispers, Aemon."
I leaned forward slightly, waiting.
She exhaled, shaking her head slightly as if dismissing the thought. But I caught the tension in her posture, the slight way her fingers curled into her lap.
"There are some at court who see Aerys' growing indulgence as a weakness. Some who whisper that he is too trusting of Lord Tywin, that he allows his Hand to rule while he enjoys the luxuries of kingship."
I frowned. "And what do you think?"
Rhaella's gaze flickered toward the fire, watching the embers glow low. "I think… it is dangerous when a king becomes unaware of how others perceive him."
Her voice had changed. Softer, but heavier. She was speaking as a queen now, not as a grieving cousin.
"And Lord Tywin?" I asked carefully.
Her fingers tensed slightly against the fabric of her gown. "Tywin Lannister is loyal—so long as it serves him to be."
She hesitated again. Just for a breath, but it was enough.
"He is effective, but I wonder if he would remain so if he ever found the king unworthy."
There it was. The unspoken fear.
Aerys had peace now, but peace never lasted forever. And if he grew careless—if he allowed indulgence to dull his senses…
There would always be those waiting in the shadows.
I absorbed her words, letting their weight settle over me. Aerys was not yet the Mad King history would remember, but perhaps the seeds of his downfall had already been sown.
The Red Keep had always been a nest of power and shifting loyalties.
And if Aerys was no longer watching carefully… someone else would be.
For now, the realm was steady.
For now.
A gentle silence stretched between us, broken only by the soft crackle of the fireplace. My eyes drifted downward, settling on the subtle curve of her belly beneath the folds of her gown.
Rhaella's fingers brushed absently over the swell, a gesture so instinctive she likely didn't realize she was doing it. A quiet, protective touch.
She had done it throughout our conversation, though she had yet to speak of it aloud.
A warmth stirred in my chest, laced with a shadow of concern. I knew what this child meant to her—what hopes and fears it carried, especially after the sorrow she had endured the previous year.
I let the silence linger before speaking, my voice gentler.
"And you?" I asked softly. "How have you been?"
Her violet eyes flickered toward me, something unreadable passing through them.
"How do you feel, Mandia?" I added, offering her the space to be honest.
She exhaled slowly, her fingers still resting against the curve of her stomach as if grounding herself.
"I… I try to stay hopeful," she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "But it is difficult. There are nights when I wake and…" She faltered, gaze dropping away as vulnerability flickered across her face. "I dream of the last one. Of the child, I lost. And I wonder if this one will slip away just as easily."
The grief she had not spoken aloud. The fear that had never truly left her.
I hesitated only briefly before reaching forward, resting my hand gently over hers.
"This child is strong," I murmured with quiet certainty. "And so are you. You have always been strong, Mandia."
Rhaella's lips trembled slightly before curving into a soft smile. She squeezed my hand, the warmth of her fingers reassuring. "Hearing you call me that always brings comfort."
I held her gaze, my grip steady but gentle. "You are not alone in this, Rhaella. You never have been."
She parted her lips as if to speak, but no words came. Instead, she simply held my gaze, and after a moment, nodded.
"Thank you," she whispered, squeezing my hand before withdrawing.
A faint smile ghosted across my lips. "Muna used to say babies can sense the emotions of their mother. Maybe your hope and love will reach this child too." I paused, then added, "I believe it will."
Rhaella's eyes shimmered, emotion welling behind them. Her smile deepened, touched with both affection and sorrow. "Mother was wise. I will hold on to her words… and yours." She exhaled softly. "Perhaps you're right—my love will protect this child where I couldn't protect the last."
"You did everything you could," I whispered firmly, wanting to chase away the guilt lingering in her voice. "Sometimes things happen beyond our control, but it doesn't mean we failed."
She squeezed my hand once more, the corners of her lips curling slightly. "You have such a gentle heart, Aemon. Sometimes, I wonder who is comforting whom."
I smiled, my cheeks warming faintly. "We comfort each other. Isn't that what family does?"
Her laughter was soft, genuine—a sound I had not heard from her in some time. "Yes… exactly that." She studied me for a long moment before speaking again, her voice lighter. "And with you here, my heart feels lighter already."
"Then I'll stay as long as you need," I promised, my voice filled with quiet determination. "For both you and the baby."
Rhaella nodded gratefully, reaching forward to pull me into a gentle embrace. I rested my head lightly against her shoulder, and for the first time in days, we simply sat in silence. No words were needed.
We grieved together. We endured together.
The fire crackled softly, its warmth settling around us.
After a moment, I spoke again, my tone careful. "There are a few things that might help."
Rhaella pulled back slightly, studying me. "Oh?"
I hesitated, not wanting to overstep, but my concern outweighed my caution. "I've spent time studying medicine in secret," I admitted. "There are certain teas—raspberry leaf, nettle tea—that can strengthen the womb and reduce complications. Gentle stretches, and slow walks to ease your discomfort. And…" I hesitated, then added, "Rest. As much as you can. Keep warm. And try not to carry too much, not just physically, but emotionally too."
Surprise flickered across Rhaella's face, followed by something softer. "You sound so certain," she said, tilting her head slightly. "How do you know all this?"
I swallowed. "I— I learned it from the library," I said, a half-truth slipping through my lips.
She let out a quiet breath, shaking her head with something between amusement and affection. "The library…" she echoed. Then, with a small, knowing smile, "You are unlike any child I have ever known, Aemon. Sometimes, speaking to you feels as though I am speaking to an elder, not my little cousin."
Heat crept up my neck at her praise, but I met her gaze earnestly. "I only wanted to help," I murmured. "I know that last time… it was hard for you."
Her expression softened. She reached out, brushing her hand lightly over my hair in a rare, tender gesture.
"And you have helped," she said warmly. "My little healer."
A quiet warmth spread through my chest—not from pride, but from the comfort of knowing she felt at ease, even if only for a moment.
Rhaella leaned back, exhaling softly. "Grand Maester Pycelle has already given me thorough instructions, and he checks on me often. You need not worry yourself over that, sweet one. But knowing you're concerned… that alone brings me comfort."
I hesitated before nodding. "I know. But I still will."
She laughed then, light and warm, shaking her head slightly. "I should have expected nothing less."
The warmth in Rhaella's expression lingered a fragile ember in the dim chamber, before softening into something more wistful. She lowered her gaze slightly as if weighing her next words with care.
"Aemon," she murmured, her voice barely above the crackling fire. "Have you seen Rhaegar since you returned?"
I hesitated.
"Only briefly," I admitted. "At the funeral, but… he kept to himself. He seemed… withdrawn."
Rhaella sighed, her fingers absently tracing the embroidery of her gown. "He has always been that way," she said softly. "Even as a babe, he was quiet. Thoughtful. Always watching, always listening, but never quite… there."
Her words hung between us, carrying a mother's worry—the kind that never truly faded.
"He finds solace in books," she continued, her voice growing quieter. "They are his only company now. He speaks little, and when he does, it's of things beyond his years. The court whispers that he is strange, and even the children of the nobles keep their distance." Her fingers curled slightly in her lap. "He has no friends, no one to guide him."
I remained silent, sensing the depth of her concern.
"I fear he will always be alone, Aemon," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. "That he will lose himself in his thoughts and wake one day to find no one left beside him."
A mother's quiet fear—unspoken, yet ever-present.
I met her gaze, steady and unwavering.
"Aemon," she said gently, her violet eyes searching mine. "You've always carried yourself beyond your years. You're strong, kind, and wise. If it's not too much to ask… could you look after Rhaegar? Be a brother to him—not just in blood, but in truth? A friend he can turn to?"
There was something vulnerable in the way she asked, in the way her voice wavered ever so slightly.
I let her words settle over me.
Could I be what he needed?
Rhaegar had always been distant—lost in books, in thoughts too vast for his years. I had watched from afar, but stepping closer meant stepping into the unknown. And yet, what if I failed? What if, despite my best efforts, he remained alone?
Or worse—what if I was not enough to keep him from his fate?
But Rhaella's eyes held hope, and I would not take that from her.
I met Rhaella's gaze, my voice steady. "Of course, Rhaella. I will look after him as if he were my brother. You have my word."
Relief swept across her features, and her eyes softened with gratitude. "Thank you, Aemon," she whispered. "He needs someone like you—someone to guide him, to remind him he is not alone."
She reached out, giving my hand a gentle squeeze. The warmth of her touch lingered, reassuring and steady.
"Together," she murmured, "perhaps we can help him find his place."
For the first time since our conversation began, her shoulders seemed to ease, as if speaking of Rhaegar had lifted some of the weight she carried. Her hand lingered over her belly, fingers tracing idle circles over the fabric of her gown.
A faint smile curved her lips, fleeting but real. She let go of my hand, leaning back into the cushions of her chair. A candle flickered between us, casting golden light along the delicate planes of her face, accentuating the quiet strength beneath her grief.
"If you're free now," she said after a pause, "perhaps you should seek out Rhaegar. I'm sure he would be glad to see you… even if he won't admit it openly." A small, knowing laugh escaped her. "If he's not in his chambers, you'll certainly find him hidden among the shelves of the library."
I returned her smile with one of my own. "I'll find him."
Her gaze lingered on me for a moment longer, affectionate, thoughtful. "You remind me of her, you know."
The words caught me off guard.
"Of your mother?" I asked.
She nodded, her expression turning wistful. "In many ways. Your kindness, your strength. The way you see people—truly see them. It's something she always did."
A lump formed in my throat, but I swallowed it down, nodding in quiet acknowledgement.
"Rest well, Mandia," I said gently, rising to my feet. "I'll visit you again soon."
"I would like that."
She watched as I turned toward the door, her hands folding gently over her belly.
I stepped outside, closing the chamber door softly behind me. The warmth of her words lingered, wrapping around me like a distant embrace.
The ache of loss had not lessened, but something inside me felt lighter. Steadier.
A crisp wind met me, carrying the scent of the storm-churned sea. It pressed against me, sharp as a whisper of warning. Above Dragonstone, heavy clouds rolled in, their shadows creeping across the ancient walls like silent sentinels.
I pulled my cloak tighter, bracing against the chill. The air carried the weight of something unspoken—change, perhaps. Or fate.
Somewhere within the castle, Rhaegar was waiting—alone in his books, in his thoughts, in the sanctuary he had built to keep the world at bay.
But not for much longer.
I had spoken the words, and words, once spoken, bind more than oaths. They shape the paths ahead. They set destinies in motion.
With quiet resolve, I turned toward the library. Toward my cousin. Toward the beginning of something, neither of us could yet see.
---
.
.
Author's Note:
Want to read ahead? There are 10 advanced chapters available now on my Patreon!
patreon.com/Horcruz