The sun hung high in the sky, casting sharp rays across the rugged landscape of Dragonstone. It was well past midday, and the heat of the afternoon clung to the air, turning the black stone beneath their boots uncomfortably warm.
Aemon wiped a bead of sweat from his brow as he and Ser Barristan made their way down the narrow trail toward the coastline. Their first meal of the day had been late, eaten in haste, but neither of them had the patience for a leisurely meal when there was a mystery to uncover.
Their search had taken them across the island.
First, they had ventured toward the small, isolated port where Dragonstone's few fishermen moored their boats. The smell of salt and rotting fish clung thickly to the air, and the wooden piers creaked underfoot. But the docks revealed nothing. No hidden caverns, no forgotten paths, only the slow, methodical work of men who had little care for ancient mysteries.
From there, they scoured the cliffs—treacherous, jagged formations of blackened rock where the sea foamed and howled below. Aemon studied every crevice, every shadowed indent where the waves had worn the stone thin, but found nothing beyond a few seabirds nesting between the cracks.
Then, finally, they searched Dragonmount itself—the great smoking peak that loomed over the island, its slopes a mixture of hardened lava and treacherous loose stone. The last time they had ventured here, they had nearly been buried beneath collapsed tunnels, and Barristan made no effort to hide his irritation as they climbed its ridges once more.
But again, the cave eluded them.
Barristan exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he brushed the dust from his tunic. His patience was wearing thin. "My prince, I say this with the utmost respect—but are you certain this cave is even on Dragonstone? Or is this another one of your feelings?"
Aemon, arms crossed, stared out over the island with unwavering resolve. "It's here."
"You sound sure for someone who has yet to find a single stone out of place."
Aemon smirked. "You doubt me, Ser?"
"I question you," Barristan corrected, rubbing a hand down his face. "And I question whether I should have brought more wine for this."
Aemon let out a short laugh but did not waver. "I know it's here. I can feel it."
Barristan sighed, folding his arms. "Then where do we look next?"
Aemon turned his gaze back toward the distant shore. He did not know where the cave was—but he knew it was waiting for him.
Somewhere on this island, the past was buried beneath stone and shadow.
And he intended to find it.
The afternoon stretched into the long hours of the evening, the sun beginning its slow descent toward the horizon. Shadows deepened across the island, stretching long fingers over the black stone cliffs, and yet Aemon and Barristan pressed on.
The search had been fruitless.
Barristan, though patient, had begun to mutter under his breath about wasted time and stubborn princes. They had scoured the coastline, climbed through uneven ridges, and even circled Dragonmount once more. Yet, nothing revealed itself—no hidden passage, no secret entrance, only the ever-present crash of waves against stone and the heavy silence of the island.
For the first time, doubt flickered at the edges of Aemon's mind. What if he was wrong? What if the vision had misled him? The hours of fruitless searching gnawed at the edges of his certainty, threatening to unravel it.
But then—
Aemon stopped.
The doubt was swept away in an instant, replaced by something stronger.
A pull. A certainty.
A strange sensation curled in his chest, an unseen force tugging him forward. It was not instinct, nor mere curiosity—it was something deeper, something undeniable.
Like an invisible thread wrapped around his ribs, pulling him toward an unseen truth.
His breath hitched, and without a word, he moved.
"Prince?" Barristan called, wary as Aemon strode past him, his steps certain, unhesitant.
Aemon didn't answer.
His boots carried him across uneven ground, past jagged boulders and weathered stone. The world around him blurred at the edges, his vision narrowing to the path ahead. He felt it—like a whisper at the edge of his senses, like the way fire beckoned the cold.
And then—
He saw it.
A massive stone archway, half-buried behind an ancient rockfall, obscured by time and nature itself. At a glance, it was nothing but another ruin—just another part of Dragonstone's harsh and unyielding terrain.
Barristan frowned at the rock. "This is what we've been searching for?" He ran a hand over the stone, finding nothing but a cold, rough surface.
Aemon, however, saw more.
The runes.
Faint, dormant, barely visible against the dark stone—yet to his eyes, they gleamed, soft and pulsing, as if they had been waiting for him. The symbols coiled along the archway like whispering embers, hidden from any ordinary gaze but glowing with purpose beneath his.
Aemon exhaled slowly, his breath barely audible over the crash of waves far below. The archway loomed before him, half-buried behind centuries of fallen rock, a forgotten wound in the island's skin. The moment his gaze settled on it, the world seemed to shift.
The air felt heavier.
Thicker.
Like the very space around him held its breath.
A faint pressure settled over his shoulders, pressing against his skin—not painful, but undeniable. The scent of salt and stone was laced with something else now, something faint and almost metallic. The runes, barely visible against the dark stone, pulsed in his vision—not with light, not with fire, but with a presence. As if they were not just carved, but alive.
Aemon stepped forward.
His fingers stretched toward the runes, drawn by something beyond conscious thought. The moment his fingertips brushed the cold stone, a shiver ran up his arm. The texture beneath his touch was smooth, impossibly so, as if untouched by time. And yet, beneath the surface, he could feel something—an energy, a faint warmth that pulsed like the slow, distant beat of a slumbering heart.
Barristan shifted behind him.
Aemon barely noticed, but the knight took a step back, his grip tightening slightly on his sword hilt. A frown settled over his face, deep and thoughtful.
"Prince?" Barristan's voice was steady, but there was something in it—an edge of unease. "I don't see what you do… but I feel something. I don't like it."
Aemon finally looked at him. "What do you mean?"
Barristan exhaled sharply, glancing at the stone, then back to Aemon. "I've stood on battlefields soaked in death. I've held the line in moments when steel and honour were the only things between order and chaos." His fingers flexed over the worn grip of his sword.
"But this… this feels different."
He shook his head as if trying to dispel an invisible weight. "The air is wrong. Too still. And the longer I stand here, the more I feel like something is watching."
Aemon's pulse quickened, but his resolve did not waver.
If even Barristan—who saw only cold rock and dust—could sense the wrongness of this place, then it was proof.
They had found something meant to stay hidden.
Aemon pressed against the stone, feeling the warmth pulse beneath his palm. Then, with a deep, groaning shift, the rock before them stirred. Dust cascaded from the archway as ancient mechanisms, long forgotten by time, heaved to life. A deep tremor rumbled through the ground beneath their feet as the fallen rock shuddered and split, revealing a narrow entrance beyond.
The cave beckoned.
Aemon exhaled slowly, then stepped forward.
Barristan hesitated for only a breath before following. "You realize," the knight muttered, "this is the part where every story warns of turning back."
Aemon smirked. "Good thing we're writing our own."
The moment they crossed the threshold, the darkness swallowed them whole.
The air inside was thick—dense with something more than just the weight of the earth. It was hotter than outside, an oppressive warmth that clung to their skin like the lingering breath of a slumbering beast. The scent of heated stone and something faintly metallic filled their lungs.
Aemon reached for the torch at his belt, striking flint against steel. The spark caught, and fire bloomed, casting flickering gold against the walls. A moment later, Barristan followed suit, his torch flaring to life.
The cave stretched forward into the darkness, its ceiling arching high above them like the ribs of some ancient, petrified leviathan. The further they stepped, the more the walls shimmered—not with moisture, but with dragonglass.
It was everywhere.
Veins of the obsidian-like substance ran through the rock, reflecting the torchlight in eerie glimmers. But unlike the black dragonglass Aemon had seen before, this was different. It came in shades—deep midnight blue, smouldering crimson, and even a pale, almost ghostly silver that gleamed like ice.
Aemon reached out, his fingers grazing a jagged shard protruding from the wall. It was smooth, polished by time, yet warm to the touch. He could feel something humming beneath its surface—a pulse, faint and distant as if the stone remembered fire.
Barristan eyed the glistening walls with wary curiosity. "Dragonglass," he muttered. "I've seen plenty in my time, but never like this."
Aemon nodded. "This place isn't natural."
The further they went, the stronger the feeling grew.
The tunnel sloped downward, the air growing denser with each step.
At first, the shift was subtle—a slow fading of warmth, a slight pressure against Aemon's skin. But the deeper they went, the more pronounced it became.
The heat of Dragonstone, ever-present even in its caves, was bleeding away, replaced by something unnatural. A chill that did not belong.
The flickering torchlight barely reached the cavern walls, where jagged veins of dragonglass ran like frozen rivers through the stone. They weren't just black—they pulsed with faint hints of colour, deep blues, eerie greens, streaks of violet shimmering in the shifting light.
It was almost… alive.
Aemon slowed.
The air pressed against him—heavy, charged as if the cave itself were holding its breath.
Barristan stirred beside him, shifting his grip on his sword. He had said nothing for a while, but Aemon could sense his unease. The knight had been in hundreds of battles and faced men and monsters alike, but something about this place was different.
Barristan could not see what Aemon saw, but he felt it.
The silence was thick, stretching between them like something unseen, something waiting.
Then—
A gust of cold air brushed past them.
Barristan stiffened.
Aemon stopped.
There was no wind.
They were deep underground.
His pulse quickened, and before he could think better of it, he lifted the torch.
The shadows leapt. The flames flickered wildly. And for a moment, the world shifted.
Then—his eyes caught it.
A torch cauldron.
Carved into the stone wall.
Purposeful. Waiting.
Aemon took a slow step forward.
Then another.
And the moment he neared it—
A chill slammed into him.
He sucked in a sharp breath, his body locking up as something primal coiled at the base of his spine.
The cold was not from the cave.
It was not natural.
It was something buried. Something left behind.
His fingers trembled as he lifted the torch toward the wall, toward the carvings he hadn't seen before.
The moment the light touched them, Aemon staggered back.
The wall was covered in etchings—figures locked in battle, twisting in an eternal war.
The First Men.
The Children of the Forest.
And their common enemy.
The White Walkers.
The carvings were crude yet hauntingly precise, telling a story older than written history. The First Men and the Children stood side by side, wielding weapons of fire and magic, their faces locked in grim determination.
And across from them—tall, slender figures with glowing eyes, wreathed in ice.
The Others.
Aemon's breath came faster.
It was real.
His heart pounded as he stepped closer, eyes tracing every detail. The Walkers were shaped from the Children's images, their slender, eerie forms eerily similar to their creators.
This…
He knew this cave.
The realization struck him like a physical force, his vision momentarily warping, past and present overlapping. He had seen this before. Not in this life—but in another.
His breath caught. This wasn't just any cave. It was the cave. The same one Jon Snow had found. The same place where history had been carved into stone—a warning, a testament, a glimpse into the past.
Visions blurred, past and future colliding, the weight of fate pressing down on his shoulders.
This was it.
The place where history was written—and where it would be written again.
The same place where Jon Snow showed Daenerys Targaryen the truth of what lay beyond the Wall.
Barristan exhaled sharply beside him. Aemon barely heard him.
His mind was racing.
The war had happened before.
And it would happen again.
It was inevitable.
Aemon swallowed, his throat tight, as he reached out, fingers grazing the cold stone of the carvings. The moment his touch met the ancient etchings, a deep, unshakable familiarity settled in his bones.
This wasn't just a discovery.
This was a warning.
And he was the only one left to heed it.
Barristan's voice broke the heavy silence, his tone sceptical but edged with unease. "What is all this?"
Aemon let out a slow breath, his fingers tracing the ancient carvings. The flickering torchlight danced over the stone, giving life to the battle frozen in time—the Children of the Forest and the First Men, locked in combat with the ice-clad figures of the Others.
"This," Aemon murmured, "is the first Long Night."
Barristan exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "My prince, these are stories. Myths are no different than tales of giants and merlings. Bedtime fables meant to frighten children into staying close to the hearth."
Aemon turned to him, the firelight casting sharp shadows across his face. "And yet dragons exist."
The white knight faltered, his jaw tightening.
Aemon took a slow step back, lifting the torch higher to illuminate the entire wall. The great wall of ice, stretching across the stone. The warriors standing against the dead. The runes, written in the language of the Children, whispering a warning across time.
"If dragons—beasts of flame and magic—are real," Aemon said, his voice measured, unshakable, "then why not the Whitewalkers?"
Barristan's silence was telling.
"This isn't just a story," Aemon continued, turning back to the carvings. "This is history. The proof is here, etched in stone, left behind by those who fought in the first war against the darkness." His fingers brushed against the carved figure of a White Walker, its glowing eyes eerily lifelike in the flickering light.
"The legends say the Others were defeated," he said. "But not destroyed." His grip on the torch tightened. "They retreated."
Barristan's expression darkened, his scepticism now laced with something colder—a sliver of doubt.
Aemon met his gaze.
"This isn't just the past," he said. His voice was quiet and steady, but heavy with certainty.
"This is a warning."
Aemon took a slow step back from the wall, exhaling sharply. His mind raced, thoughts intertwining—the past, the present, the uncertain future.
He turned to Barristan, the flickering torchlight reflecting off the knight's face, highlighting the deep lines of a man who had seen war but never the things Aemon had.
The weight of what he was about to say pressed down on him.
"What I'm about to tell you, Ser Barristan… must stay between us."
Barristan's expression remained unreadable, but there was a flicker of curiosity in his sharp blue eyes. "You're speaking as if the fate of the realm depends on it."
Aemon's jaw tightened. "It might."
That caught Barristan's attention. His stance shifted, no longer relaxed, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. "Go on, then," he said, though there was the faintest trace of amusement in his tone.
Aemon hesitated, then exhaled, gripping the torch tighter. "I had a dream."
Barristan let out a low chuckle. "A dream?"
"Not just any dream," Aemon insisted, his voice sharper than before. "This morning—before I even touched the books in the library, before I knew this cave existed—I saw it." He gestured to the ancient carvings surrounding them. "The First Long Night. The war between the Children of the Forest, the First Men, the giants—all of them fighting against the Others."
The air between them grew heavier.
Barristan's amusement faded, his brow furrowing slightly, but he said nothing.
Aemon pressed on. "I saw fire and ice colliding. The dead rose from the snow, their pale blue eyes burning like frozen embers. And then… I saw him." His voice dipped lower, as if speaking too loudly would summon the vision once more.
"A man?" Barristan questioned.
Aemon nodded. "A warrior clad in black armour, wielding a sword of fire."
Barristan frowned, his fingers curling slightly. "A flaming sword?"
"No." Aemon shook his head. "Not just a blade set aflame—it was fire. A sun burning against the darkness, carving through the Others like they were made of smoke." His throat felt dry.
"He fought alone. Holding the line. And yet… I couldn't see his face."
A silence stretched between them, thick and unmoving.
Barristan held his gaze for a long moment before exhaling through his nose. "Dreams are dreams, my prince," he said, but there was a slight hesitation in his voice.
"You've been reading too much of those old texts. Your mind is full of stories."
Aemon's expression hardened. "Then why did the dream I had in the library lead me here?"
His gaze burned with certainty. "Why did I find the very cave from my vision, standing before the same carvings I had never seen before?"
Barristan's jaw tightened. His grip on his sword's hilt was firmer now. He was a warrior, not a scholar, but even he could recognize the weight of something unnatural.
Still, his scepticism held. "You're telling me you saw the past?"
Aemon inhaled deeply. "I don't know," he admitted. "It could have been the past. Or…" He swallowed, the thought sinking into him like ice in his veins.
"…It could be the future."
Aemon took a slow breath, steadying himself. His thoughts were racing, but his voice remained firm. "You don't believe in prophecy, do you, Ser?"
Barristan scoffed, shifting his weight. "I believe in steel, strategy, and the strength of men. Prophecy is just a fancy word for luck."
Aemon smirked faintly. "Then tell me—was it luck that Daenys Targaryen dreamed of the Doom of Valyria? Was it chance that her father listened to her and brought House Targaryen to Dragonstone before the Freehold was swallowed by fire?"
Barristan's lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn't argue.
Aemon took a step closer, his voice lower now, edged with something deeper—something certain. "There is magic in Valyrian blood, Ser Barristan. It's in our bones, in our dreams. Some of us see more than others. Some of us… see what is yet to come."
Barristan's grip on his sword tightened, his blue eyes flickering with something unreadable. "And you think you're one of them?"
Aemon exhaled slowly. "I don't know. But if I am…" He turned toward the ancient carvings once more, the firelight casting flickering shadows across the painted figures of the Children of the Forest, the First Men, and the Others locked in battle. "…Then what I saw wasn't just a warning."
His fingers curled into a fist.
"It was a call to arms."
The torchlight flickered against the cave walls, casting long, shifting shadows over the ancient carvings. The battle of the First Men, the Children, and the White Walkers stood frozen in time, etched into the stone for thousands of years. Aemon traced his fingers over the images, his expression unreadable.
Then, he spoke.
"Aegon the Conqueror was a dreamer."
Barristan shifted beside him, crossing his arms. His scepticism was plain on his face. "Aegon was a warrior, my prince. A strategist, a conqueror. That was why he united the Seven Kingdoms—not because of some dream."
Aemon turned, meeting Barristan's sharp blue eyes. "You think a man like Aegon would cross the sea and risk everything on ambition alone? You think he built an empire only to rule?"
Barristan frowned, but Aemon pressed on, his voice steady.
"Aegon's dream was a vision of an impending darkness—a long winter, a great war originating in the North. He saw a shadow creeping across Westeros, a night that would not end, an enemy that would not yield."
Barristan's brows furrowed. "The White Walkers?"
Aemon nodded. "Yes. He saw them before they returned. He knew that one day, they would rise again. And he knew that if Westeros remained divided, it would fall."
Barristan scoffed softly, shaking his head. "If this were true, why has no record of this dream ever been found? Why did no king after Aegon speak of it?"
Aemon's lips curled into a faint smirk. "Because it was meant to be a secret."
Barristan tilted his head, waiting.
Aemon reached for his belt and unsheathed the dagger at his hip—a dagger of Valyrian steel, its dark surface gleaming in the dim firelight. He held it up for Barristan to see.
"This dagger," Aemon said, holding up the Valyrian steel blade, its dark surface gleaming in the firelight, "once belonged to my late uncle, Jaehaerys. But before him, it was passed down from king to heir—from Aegon himself."
He turned the blade slightly, watching the light catch along its ancient edge.
"It was meant to go to my cousin Aerys, but he cast it aside, never knowing its true significance. So my uncle, recognizing its importance, entrusted it to Muna… so that one day, it would find its way to me."
Barristan's eyes narrowed. "I've seen Valyrian steel, but what does a dagger prove?"
Aemon stepped closer to the torch. "Because Aegon left his dream behind. Not in books. Not in songs. But in the fire."
Slowly, he held the dagger over the flame.
At first, nothing happened—just the dull glow of heat against polished metal.
Then—
A shimmer.
Faint at first, like a mirage rippling across its surface.
The steel drank in the heat, turning dark as the fire licked against it.
The air around them shifted.
A quiet hiss filled the cave, like distant embers stirring to life. The torch flames flickered violently, their golden glow swallowed by something deeper—a heat that did not belong to the fire alone.
Barristan took a half-step back. This was no trick of fire. No mere craftsmanship of Valyrian steel. He had spent his life, fighting battles that could be won with sword and shield. But if this was true… if the enemy Aemon spoke of was real… then steel alone would not be enough.
The air crackled around them, charged with an unseen force as if something within the blade was awakening.
Then—slowly, almost imperceptibly—the metal began to glow. A faint shimmer ran across the blade, like embers stirring beneath a layer of ash.
First a dull red, then brighter—hotter—until the very letters etched beneath its surface burned into visibility.
Ancient Valyrian script.
Carved into the steel.
Seared into time.
Hidden for centuries, buried beneath the surface, the words began to shine red-hot, as if the dagger itself remembered the fire in which it was forged.
Barristan's breath hitched. He took an involuntary step closer, his gaze locked on the blade.
Aemon watched the old knight's reaction before speaking.
"Aegon had his dream inscribed into Valyrian steel by pyromancers. This dagger has passed through the hands of kings, carrying a warning that only the heir would know."
Barristan said nothing.
Aemon's breath caught as the words emerged, pulsing like molten iron.
"From my blood shall come The Prince That Was Promised, and his will be the Song of Ice and Fire."
The heat from the inscription radiated outward, causing the torchlight to waver. The runes along the cave's carvings flickered in response as if whispering their confirmation.
Then—just as quickly as it had come—the glow faded.
The heat vanished.
The blade, once alive with fire, cooled instantly in Aemon's grip, leaving only smooth, ancient Valyrian steel behind.
The cave was silent.
"Seven hells…" he murmured. "What have you just shown me?"
Aemon sheathed the dagger with careful precision, his violet eyes never leaving Barristan's.
"The truth."
Barristan stared at the dagger, the firelight dancing over its dark Valyrian steel. The words, glowing red-hot with ancient prophecy, burned themselves into his mind as surely as they had been seared into the blade itself.
And yet—
His grip tightened on his sword hilt, a habit ingrained from years of war and discipline. A knight lived by steel, by honour, by what he could see and hold. Prophecies? Dreams? They belonged to the maesters and the fools.
For his entire life, he had dismissed such things. He had served kings who ruled by law and blood, not whispers and omens. He had fought wars that were won with discipline and strategy, not fate.
And yet—
The dagger glowed in Aemon's hands, its inscription revealed only by fire, carrying words left behind by the greatest king Westeros had ever known.
Could it be true?
His breath was steady, but his mind was not.
Was he standing at the edge of something far greater than battles and crowns? Was the world he had fought for all his life built on a foundation of warnings left unheeded?
His gaze flickered to Aemon, to the certainty in his young prince's violet eyes. Not the arrogance of ambition, not the blind faith of dreamers—certainty.
The kind of certainty a man could follow.
Slowly, deliberately, Barristan exhaled, his fingers loosening their grip on his sword.
Perhaps…
Perhaps some things were greater than steel.
Aemon lowered the dagger, watching as the glow slowly faded.
"Now do you see, Ser Barristan?" he asked quietly. "Aegon's ambition to conquer the Seven Kingdoms was not solely driven by personal gain, but by his desire to fulfil his dream and protect Westeros from the impending darkness."
Barristan's jaw clenched, his eyes lingering on the dagger. "If this is true… then why has no king spoken of it?"
Aemon slid the dagger back into its sheath. "Because kings are men. And men forget. They grow complacent, they seek power, and they lose sight of what truly matters. But the dream remains. And now, it is my turn to bear its burden."
Barristan stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he gave a small, weary chuckle.
"I always admired Aegon," he murmured. "But now, I think I admire him even more."
Aemon smirked. "Then let's hope we don't fail where he did."
Barristan's gaze darkened, but he said nothing.
Because at that moment, he knew—this was no longer a legend. This was real.
And the true war had yet to begin.
Aemon exhaled, his gaze lingering on the ancient carvings before him. The dim torchlight flickered against the wall, casting restless shadows over the battle etched in stone—the First Men and the Children of the Forest, locked in an eternal struggle against the Others.
The weight of history pressed upon him.
Slowly, almost reverently, he reached out.
His fingertips brushed against the cold stone—
And something shifted.
A sharp jolt ran through him as if the very wall had come alive beneath his touch. A sudden pressure filled the air, thick and suffocating, wrapping around his chest like unseen chains.
The cave lurched.
The air turned heavy, pressing down on his chest like an unseen weight. The warmth of the torchlight flickered—then dimmed, swallowed by something colder than the grave. A sharp ringing filled his ears, distant at first, then rising, a piercing hum that drowned out everything else.
The dagger in his hand hummed.
Aemon's breath hitched as an unnatural chill slithered up his spine. The warmth of the cave faded too quickly, replaced by a sharp, creeping cold that had no place here—not in Dragonstone, not beneath a mountain of fire.
His vision wavered.
A whisper, distant yet deafening, curled through the edges of his mind.
'Aemon'
His heart thundered in his chest. He staggered, the torch in his hand flickering violently.
The glow of the runes blurred, the cave spinning around him.
He swayed.
A rush of cold wind howled past him—impossible, unnatural—cutting through the oppressive heat of the cave. His breath hitched, each inhale sharp and thin, as though the air itself had been stolen away.
Somewhere far away, he heard Barristan's voice.
"Prince? Aemon?"
His name felt like an echo, stretched thin by the void swallowing his senses.
He tried to answer.
Tried to move.
But then—
The ground tilted beneath him.
Or was it the world that spun?
His knees buckled, his body growing heavy as if something unseen had wrapped its claws around him, pulling him down, and dragging him into something vast and endless.
Barristan's voice grew distant—fading, slipping away.
For one fleeting second, there was only silence.
Then—
A whisper.
The whisper curled around his mind like smoke.
'Aemon'
Not a name. A summons. And beneath it, barely audible, something else. A word older than the language of men, echoing from the depths of time. A promise. A warning. A call to arms.
Aemon forced his lips to move.
"Ser—"
Darkness crashed over him, and he fell.