The halls of Dragonstone were quiet, save for the soft patter of rain against the castle walls. The storm had settled into a steady rhythm, drumming against the stone like the heartbeat of the ancient fortress. I moved through the corridors with purpose, my boots barely making a sound against the cold floor.
Somewhere ahead, in the vast sprawl of the library, Rhaegar would be tucked away—lost in books, buried under the weight of words far too grand for a boy of six.
I exhaled softly.
Rhaella's words lingered. Look after him, Aemon. Be a brother to him.
Rhaegar Targaryen. The boy who would one day become a man of legend. The quiet prince who, in time, would stand at the centre of history's greatest tragedy.
But not if I had anything to say about it.
I did not know if the whispers of prophecy had already reached him, if those cursed words had begun to sink their claws into his mind, planting the seeds of a fate he could not escape. But I knew this—before he became the prince the world would remember, before the choices that would shatter House Targaryen, before his name became synonymous with ruin—he had been a child.
A lonely, bookish, painfully introverted child.
The quiet dreamer. The boy who had spent his days buried in ink and parchment, seeking solace in stories rather than the world around him. A prince who, one day, woke up and decided that fate itself had laid a crown upon his brow. Who stepped from the shadows of history and into the light—not as a boy, but as a man with fire in his heart and a destiny he believed was written in the stars.
A prince who would tear apart a kingdom.
Had Rhaegar ever truly loved Elia, or had he only ever obeyed his father's decree? He had married her, shared a life with her, fathered her children—yet, in the end, he had cast her aside. Annulled their vows as if they had never mattered.
And Lyanna Stark—was it love that drove him to her? Was it passion, the reckless, all-consuming kind that made men forget their honour? Or was it something far worse? The whispers of prophecy, the weight of destiny pressing upon his shoulders, convinced him that fate had chosen him for something greater.
Had he abandoned Elia for Lyanna, or had he abandoned them both for the dream of a song that only he could hear?
I did not know.
And that was what unsettled me most.
Because of all his intelligence, for all the words and wisdom he buried himself in, Rhaegar was still just a boy. A boy lost in books, drowning in thoughts too heavy for his small shoulders.
I thought I knew him—or at least, I believed I did. The histories spoke of him as the golden prince of tragedy, the man who was everything a king should be, but never was. But they also spoke of a change.
A shift, somewhere around the age of fourteen or fifteen, when the quiet, bookish boy who had no friends emerged from his solitude transformed. A prince of charisma, a leader who could command the hearts of men.
What made Rhaegar wake up one day and decide he was more than a prince—he was prophecy itself?
That was the question that gnawed at me.
What had turned Rhaegar from a quiet scholar with no friends into a prince so admired that men followed him to war?
Was it duty? Was it prophecy?
Or had it always been both?
I would not allow him to be led by the whims of fate. The Targaryen dynasty could not afford another ruler who mistook dreams for destiny—who chased shadows and crowned himself with prophecy while the world burned around him.
Not this time.
This time, I would be at his side. Watching. Guiding. Intervening. Ensuring that he didn't lose himself to visions of grandeur, and didn't drown in whispers of fate and prophecy.
No reckless infatuation with engaged noblewomen.
No civil wars were waged for love or legend.
No tearing House Targaryen apart over a dream he barely understood.
Not while I still drew breath.
I had time.
Time to guide him. Time to shape him into the leader our house needed, not the tragic figure history would mourn.
Because one day, whether he was ready or not, he would inherit our legacy.
And I would make damn sure he did not burn it to the ground.
I exhaled, shaking my head. Rhaegar needed more than books. He needed more than stories of past kings and long-dead warriors.
He needed a brother.
And if fate had left him to wither away beneath the weight of ink and prophecy, then I would be the one to drag him out—kicking and screaming if necessary.
Whether he liked it or not.
--
The library of Dragonstone was a grand, towering space—vast enough that even a whisper carried, bouncing off the high, vaulted ceilings. Dark stone walls stretched toward the heavens, lined with towering shelves carved from ancient oak, each packed with leather-bound tomes that smelled of parchment and time. The flickering glow of lanterns cast warm, golden light across the polished wooden floors, reflecting off dust motes that danced lazily in the air.
At the far end of the room, near a great arched window overlooking the storm-churned sea, sat a lone boy.
Rhaegar Targaryen.
For all his royal blood, he hardly looked like the future king he was destined to be. He was small and pale—more delicate than one would expect of a prince. His silver hair, slightly tousled, fell around his face, catching the dim candlelight like threads of spun moonlight. His violet eyes, wide and intelligent, were focused intently on the pages of an ancient book, utterly absorbed as if the world around him had ceased to exist.
His posture was stiff but composed, his small hands carefully turning the fragile parchment with a scholar's reverence. He sat with the stillness of a statue, lost in thought, oblivious to the presence looming beside him.
And that presence… was me.
I watched him for a long moment, resisting the urge to see just how long it would take for him to notice me. The way he read was almost tragic—like a lonely old man drowning himself in stories rather than facing the real world.
A sigh escaped me.
Yeah, this one needs saving.
I stood beside him for a long moment, arms crossed, waiting.
And waiting.
Nothing.
No reaction.
I exhaled slowly, glancing over his shoulder to see what could be this fascinating.
The Chronicles of Aegon's Conquest.
Of course, it was.
With a dramatic sigh, I leaned down, speaking right into his ear.
"You do realise Aegon has been dead for two hundred fifty years, right?"
Rhaegar flinched.
His small hands jerked, nearly upending the weighty tome in front of him. He turned, wide violet eyes blinking up at me in stunned confusion.
"Aemon—when did you—"
I smirked. "Oh, just about five minutes ago. You were just too busy drooling over Aegon the Conqueror to notice. Honestly, I considered testing if you'd notice if I set the library on fire."
Rhaegar frowned slightly, smoothing the page he had nearly crumpled. "I was not drooling."
"Right," I mused. "Just intensely staring, completely unaware of your surroundings. That's much better."
His frown deepened, but he said nothing, clearly not used to dealing with someone as annoying as me.
I plucked up the book and skimmed a few lines. "So, what is it this time? His groundbreaking decision to marry both of his sisters? Or perhaps his ingenious discovery that dragons are, in fact, really good at burning things?"
Rhaegar pursed his lips. "Aegon was a great man."
"Oh, undoubtedly," I agreed easily, tossing the book back onto the table. "But let's be honest, Rhaegar—he saw a continent full of bickering nobles, said, 'That's mine now,' and rode in with dragons. Not exactly the height of tactical genius."
Rhaegar bristled. "He united Westeros."
I smirked. "Through fire and blood. Which, don't get me wrong, is very on brand for us, but not exactly subtle."
He folded his arms, clearly not appreciating my lack of reverence. "You speak as if you do not admire him."
"Oh, I do admire him," I admitted. "I also admire a hungry man for figuring out he can eat bread. Doesn't mean I'll be writing epics about it."
Rhaegar huffed, clearly realizing by now that arguing with me was an uphill battle.
I sighed, shaking my head as I plopped down into the chair beside him, stretching my legs out like I owned the place.
"Rhaegar, you are the only six-year-old I know who can probably recite Aegon's tax policies but doesn't know how to climb a tree."
Rhaegar, still engrossed in his book, barely reacted. Without looking up, he corrected me in that maddeningly calm voice of his.
"Aegon the Conqueror didn't impose new taxes. He restructured existing levies to align with the governance of the Seven Kingdoms. The tax burdens were mainly increased under his son, Aen—"
I held up a hand. "Stop. Just stop."
Rhaegar finally glanced up, blinking at me with genuine confusion. "But you brought it up."
I groaned, pinching the bridge of my nose. "You could've just called me an idiot like a normal person, but no, you had to give me a fully cited historical analysis."
Rhaegar turned a page with the grace of a seasoned scholar. "Would you prefer I prepare a written essay next time?"
I stared at him for a long moment before throwing my hands up. "By the gods, he's already plotting my suffering."
Without missing a beat, Rhaegar flipped another page. "I would never plot against you, Aemon."
"Lies," I muttered. "You're just waiting for the right moment."
He didn't deny it.
Shaking my head, I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table.
"Now, tell me, little cousin," I said, ignoring the way he stiffened at the title. "Have you ever considered reading something… I don't know… fun?"
Rhaegar finally looked up again, his expression sceptical. "This is fun."
I stared at him, deadpan. "Rhaegar. You are six years old."
"So are you."
"Yes, but I'm normal."
Rhaegar gave me the flattest look imaginable.
I grinned, unfazed. "Tell me, do you ever leave this place, or are you planning on becoming a book ghost?"
"I go outside," he said defensively.
"Oh? When?"
He hesitated. "Sometimes."
"Sometimes," I echoed, nodding sagely. "And by sometimes, you mean never."
"I—"
"Let me guess." I held up a hand. "If I ask the servants, will they tell me the last time you left this library was because you got lost on your way back from the privy?"
Rhaegar's lips pressed together in the tiniest pout.
I cackled. "By the gods, it's worse than I thought."
He huffed, clearly deciding that ignoring me was his best option. He turned back to his book, but I snatched it away, holding it out of reach.
"Aemon," he said flatly.
"Rhaegar," I mimicked.
Rhaegar, instead of calmly demanding it back, actually scrambles onto the chair to try and grab it, flailing his arms like an indignant cat.
Aemon smirks. "Wow. Such royal composure."
Rhaegar glares. "Give. It. Back."
"I don't know, Rhaegar," Aemon muses. "You didn't even say 'please.' Are you sure you're studying history and not barbarian warfare?"
Aemon was ridiculous. Loud. Infuriating. And yet… there was something oddly reassuring about his presence.
Rheagar's small hands curled into frustrated fists. "You are the worst, I was reading that."
"And I am reading you," I said, flipping the book upside down just to see if it would annoy him. "And what I've gathered is that you're dangerously close to becoming a mole person."
He blinked. "A… what?"
I clapped a hand on my forehead. "Gods, you need help."
He crossed his arms. "And I suppose you think you are the one to help me?"
"Oh." I leaned forward, resting my chin on my palm. "You see, dear Rhaegar, you suffer from a tragic ailment known as chronic bookishness. Left untreated, it could result in extreme introversion, zero social skills, and, worst of all, a complete lack of humour."
Rhaegar stared at me as if I had just declared war on his entire existence.
I leaned forward, smirking. "That's why I have taken it upon myself to rescue you from your tragic fate."
His eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion. "…Rescue me?"
"Yes. From a life of solitude and dusty books." I tapped his forehead lightly, earning a startled blink. "As of this moment, I am your official big brother. And it is my sacred duty to rescue you from this terrible fate."
His eye twitched. "We are the same age."
"Yes, yes, you keep saying that," I waved him off. "But I'm wiser, more experienced, and frankly, much funnier. Thus, I outrank you in all matters of brotherly wisdom."
He scowled. "That is not how it works."
"It is now," I declared, slinging an arm around his stiff little shoulders. "From this day forth, I shall be your guide, your mentor, your cultural ambassador to the real world."
"I do not need a guide."
"You so do," I said, shaking my head. "You're on the fast track to becoming one of those wise old hermits people seek out on mountaintops. Which would be fine, except you'll never actually see a mountaintop because you refuse to go outside."
Rhaegar exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples. "You are impossible."
"And you are Vitamin D deficient," I shot back.
He frowned. "Vitamin… D?"
"Oh, Rhaegar," I sighed, squeezing his shoulder. "It's even worse than I feared. You don't even know what you're missing."
He gave me a long, deeply sceptical look. "And I suppose you are going to tell me?"
If I had to guess, he hadn't seen sunlight in at least a week. The poor boy probably thought Vitamin D was a foreign concept. Gods, if I let this continue, he'd become the first Targaryen to combust upon stepping outside. No, I had a duty to this realm, and that duty was to force my dear little cousin out into the world—kicking and screaming if necessary.
He didn't need another history book. He needed a brother. And since fate had seen fit to give him me, well… he'd just have to deal with it. But maybe, just maybe, if I did this right, he'd thank me for it one day.
I grinned wider. "From this day forward, you will call me 'Big Brother' "
His expression turned into something resembling horror. "I would rather call you a nuisance."
"Oh, that works too." I grinned, draping an arm over his small shoulders. "Because as your big brother, it is my solemn duty to torment you endlessly."
Rhaegar exhaled through his nose. "This is ridiculous."
"This is a brotherhood," I corrected. "And don't worry, Rhaegar. I will teach you the ways of the world."
I wasn't just saying it to mess with him (although that was a bonus). If Rhaegar was going to grow into the kind of man the realm needed, he couldn't do it alone. And if I had to annoy him into having a childhood, so be it.
I ruffled his hair, much to his clear annoyance. "First lesson: books are great, but they do not substitute for real-life experience."
He sighed, rubbing his temples like a child twice his age. "…And what exactly do you propose I do?"
I grinned mischievously. "Oh, we're going outside. The world is vast, exciting, and full of wonders. I refuse to let you rot away in this book-filled dungeon."
Rhaegar frowned. It was ridiculous. It was childish. And yet… the idea of leaving the library didn't feel as terrible as it should have.
Rhaegar's lips parted as if searching for an argument. When none came, he simply gave me a long, resigned stare.
"…You're not going to leave me alone, are you?"
I patted his head. "Not a chance, little brother."
His expression turned dramatic. "The gods have cursed me."
I laughed, throwing an arm around him. "Yes, yes, they have. Now come on, let's go before you start growing roots into the floor."
"Stick with me, little brother, and I promise I'll teach you all the important things in life." I ruffled his hair. "Like how to properly throw an apple at an unsuspecting target."
Rhaegar blinked, unimpressed. "Why would I ever need to throw an apple?"
"Rhaegar," I sighed. "You have so much to learn."
His fingers twitched toward the book—just for a moment, like an old habit fighting to reassert itself.
With exaggerated reluctance, Rhaegar let himself be dragged from the library, his books left behind for the first time in what I suspected was far too long.
The library was safe. Familiar. A world of ink and parchment where nothing ever changed. But as Aemon pulled him forward, something shifted. He hesitated for only a second before taking a step. Just one step. But for the first time in his life, he was leaving the stories behind—to follow something real.
And thus, the Great Rhaegar Rescue Mission had begun.
He didn't know it yet, but this was the first step—the first crack in the carefully built walls of his world. The first thread pulled from the tapestry of solitude he had wrapped himself in. And I would be there for every step after, guiding him, pulling him forward—whether he was ready or not.
Because whether he liked it or not… he had just gained a brother.
.
.
---
.
.
The corridors of Dragonstone stretched endlessly before us, the flickering torches casting long shadows along the damp stone walls. The air was thick with the scent of salt and burning tallow, the ever-present breath of the sea mingling with the fortress's ancient chill. My grip on Rhaegar's wrist remained firm as I led him forward, ignoring his occasional attempts to dig his heels into the ground.
"This is unnecessary," Rhaegar huffed, trying to pull away.
I snorted. "Oh, it is very necessary."
"Where exactly are you taking me?"
"To the gallows," I deadpanned.
His feet stalled. "…Excuse me?"
I turned, offering him a slow, wicked grin. "Or somewhere worse."
Rhaegar exhaled sharply, clearly debating whether or not to start screaming for the guards. He settled for glaring at me with the kind of unimpressed expression only a bookish six-year-old could muster.
I continued dragging him forward, my pace unwavering.
"Is this revenge for all the times I've corrected your historical inaccuracies?"
I scoffed. "No, Rhaegar. If I wanted revenge, I'd lock you in a room with septon for a week."
That earned me a faint look of horror.
"Gods," he muttered. "That would be worse than the gallows."
I smirked but said nothing, guiding us down the winding halls of the ancient fortress. The cool sea air whispered through the narrow windows, carrying the scent of salt and distant rain.
And then, as we rounded a corner, we nearly crashed straight into a wall of white.
Or, more accurately—three towering figures clad in pristine Kingsguard armour.
Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Jonothor Darry, and Ser Oswell Whent.
Their polished plate gleamed in the dim torchlight, stark against the darkened hall. Each of them stood in their usual state of perpetual readiness, hands resting lightly against their sword hilts, ever watchful. Their white cloaks edged with gold, rippled slightly as the sea breeze wound through the passage.
Rhaegar and I skidded to a halt.
Ser Barristan's steady gaze fell on me first, sharp as Valyrian steel, before shifting to the reluctant prince I still had in tow. His expression did not change, but I felt the judgment.
Ser Jonothor's lips twitched as if he was holding back amusement, his eyes flickering between me and Rhaegar with a knowing gleam.
Ser Oswell, ever the quiet observer, tilted his head slightly before speaking in a bemused tone. "Should we be concerned?"
"No," I said.
"Yes," Rhaegar said at the same time.
The three knights exchanged looks.
Ser Barristan exhaled, folding his arms across his chest. "Prince Aemon, would you care to explain why you are forcibly abducting the heir to the throne?"
I sighed dramatically. "Ser Barristan, my dear old friend, I am doing the realm a favour."
Rhaegar crossed his arms. "It is abduction."
"I'm taking you outside, not throwing you in a dungeon."
"That remains to be seen."
Ser Jonothor chuckled, shaking his head. "And where exactly are you taking him?"
"To my favourite spot."
Rhaegar frowned. "That is ominous."
I raised a brow. "You're acting as if I'm dragging you to your execution."
"You still haven't denied that possibility."
However, did not look nearly as entertained. "Prince Aemon—"
I raised a hand. "I swear on our family name, I am not leading him to his doom."
Ser Barristan eyed me for a long moment, then turned to Rhaegar. "Do you trust him, my prince?"
Rhaegar exhaled slowly, his gaze flickering between me and the Kingsguard. His arms remained stubbornly crossed.
"…Not entirely."
I gasped, clutching my chest in mock hurt. "You wound me, Rhaegar."
Ser Jonothor let out a chuckle. "Perhaps we should accompany you, just to ensure that Prince Rhaegar does not… mysteriously disappear along the way."
Ser Barristan nodded. "Agreed. Wherever you're taking him, we will be accompanying you."
I waved a dismissive hand. "Fine, fine. But don't slow us down."
Ser Barristan gave me an unimpressed look. "You are the ones standing here wasting time."
Touché.
I sighed, adjusting my grip on Rhaegar's wrist. "Come along, little brother. Our adventure awaits."
"Adventure," he repeated dryly. "That is certainly a word for it."
With that, the six of us—two reluctant princes and three vigilant Kingsguard—continued down the hall, heading toward the cliffs.
The path to my favourite spot wound along the edges of Dragonstone, where the sea carved jagged scars into the rock and the wind howled through narrow crevices like the whispers of old ghosts. The rain had eased into a soft drizzle, but the scent of the storm lingered, mingling with the sharp salt of the ocean below.
I strode forward with ease, but Rhaegar was hesitant, his steps careful, precise—like a scholar afraid to misplace a word in an ancient text. The Kingsguard followed in silence, though I caught Ser Jonothor casting a sidelong glance toward the sea, his expression unreadable.
Ahead, the cliffs loomed, a sheer drop into the abyss below. The wind carried the rhythmic crash of waves against the jagged rocks, a violent, ceaseless symphony. This was where the world ended and the sky began.
I exhaled, feeling the familiar rush of freedom. The endless sky, the open sea—this was what it meant to be alive.
For Rhaegar, however, it was foreign and unsettling.
He lingered a few steps behind, violet eyes darting toward the edge of the cliff, his small frame rigid. It was subtle, but I knew hesitation when I saw it.
"Are you going to just stand there like a statue?" I called over my shoulder.
His jaw tightened. "I fail to see the purpose of this."
I turned fully, tilting my head. "The purpose? Rhaegar, do you ever stop thinking like a scholar and just… be?"
He narrowed his eyes. "That is an illogical statement."
I sighed dramatically. "Of course it is." I spread my arms wide. "Breathe it in, little brother. The air. The sea. The world beyond the walls of the library."
He remained unmoving, his gaze shifting between me and the cliff's edge, barely a few feet away.
I smirked. "You look like you think I brought you here to throw you off."
Rhaegar folded his arms, dead serious. "…I would not put it past you."
Ser Oswell coughed into his hand, disguising a laugh.
Ser Barristan, ever the composed knight, gave a quiet but amused glance between us. "If the prince intended you harm, my prince, I assure you we would not have allowed it."
"Unless we were ordered to," Ser Jonothor added dryly.
I threw my hands up. "Seven Hells, you all make it sound like I'm plotting his murder."
Rhaegar, still sceptical, finally took a step forward, closer to the cliff. His gaze swept across the view, and something shifted. It was small—his posture, the slight parting of his lips—but I saw it.
He wasn't looking at me anymore.
He was looking at the world beyond the walls of Dragonstone.
"…It is vast," he murmured, almost to himself.
I grinned. "Exactly."
The Kingsguard exchanged silent glances. Ser Barristan said nothing, but I could tell he was watching Rhaegar carefully as if studying a puzzle he had yet to solve.
I reached into the leather satchel slung over my shoulder and pulled out my harp, its polished wood smooth beneath my fingers. The delicate strings gleamed under the breaking storm light.
Rhaegar's gaze snapped to it immediately.
"…What is that?"
I arched a brow. "A harp. Do you truly not know?"
His frown deepened. "I know what it is," he said, his voice tinged with irritation. "I fail to see why you have brought it."
"Because, little brother," I said, plucking a note, letting it ring through the open air, "for all your knowledge, you know nothing about music."
Something flickered across his face—offence, maybe even indignation.
He folded his arms. "Music is trivial compared to history, to books."
I scoffed. "Trivial?" I set the harp on my lap and strummed a slow, deliberate melody. The sound drifted into the wind, weaving between the crash of the waves. "History is words on a page. Prophecy is a whisper in the dark. But music? Music is something you feel."
He said nothing.
I smirked. "You can read about kings and wars all you want, but a song? A song can make men march into battle without knowing why. A song can make them weep for things they never lost."
I let that sink in before adding, "It's also a much better way to win a lady's heart than reciting Aegon's tax policies."
Ser Oswell outright snorted.
Ser Jonothor turned away to hide his smirk.
Even Ser Barristan, ever composed, looked faintly amused.
Rhaegar, however, did not look amused.
"I refuse," he said.
I grinned. "You don't have a choice."
He took a step back. "Aemon—"
"You swear to the gods an awful lot, but I've yet to see them come and save you."
Ser Barristan cleared his throat. "Prince Aemon, perhaps you should not force—"
"Sit, Rhaegar." I patted the flat rock beside me. "I'll make it easy. Just listen."
For a long moment, he didn't move.
Then, slowly, as if accepting his fate, he lowered himself onto the stone.
The wind howled. The sea raged. The Kingsguard stood as silent sentinels behind us.
I adjusted the harp in my lap, running my fingers over the polished wood, feeling the familiar weight of it settle against me. The wind whispered past, carrying the scent of salt and distant rain, tangling in the strings as if waiting for the first note to break the silence.
Slowly, I plucked a single string. A soft, humming vibration filled the space between us—a quiet, tentative sound, neither grand nor forceful, but enough to let the harp breathe.
I twisted the tuning peg slightly, testing another note, letting it linger before fading into the vastness of the cliffs. Another adjustment. Another note. The instrument was alive beneath my hands, waiting, listening.
Rhaegar watched, unmoving.
His gaze flickered between my hands and the harp, curiosity flickering beneath the usual wall of composed indifference.
I exhaled, letting my fingers settle. And then—
I played.
A slow, steady melody wove through the air, rising and falling with the rhythm of the sea. The notes were soft at first, almost hesitant, like a whisper in the wind. Then, gradually, they began to shift—deeper, fuller, wrapping around the space between us, filling the silence like the tide creeping onto the shore.
The sea stirred. The wind softened. And Rhaegar…
For the first time, he listened.