Author's Note:
Thank you for staying with me this far. As a first-time writer, I know the prologue and early chapters were long and slow at times—I was learning as I went. I'm truly grateful for your patience. From here, the story finds its pace. I'm excited to share what's coming next...
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Darkness.
A heavy, suffocating weight pressed down on him, thick as stone, rooting him in an abyss that refused to let go. His body felt distant, unresponsive—like he had been gone for a lifetime.
Then—a breath.
A sharp gasp, like a drowning man breaking the sea's surface.
The sharp and unmistakable scent of salt and charred wood filled his nose.
Dragonstone.
His chambers.
His eyes fluttered open, only to squeeze shut again as a blinding pain lanced through his skull. A slow, rhythmic pounding—the dull throb of something fractured and barely pieced back together.
He exhaled shakily, his throat raw.
Why did everything feel… so wrong?
A low groan escaped his lips as he tried to shift. His limbs ached as though he had fought a battle and lost—his mind—fogged, sluggish, like something had been scraped out and left hollow. Memories flickered at the edges, too fragmented to hold onto.
Aegon.
The Dragons.
The Night King.
He reached for them, but the moment he tried to grasp their meaning, they came apart.
Slipping through his fingers like wisps of smoke, dissolving into nothingness.
Then—a voice.
"He's awake."
Low. Steady. Familiar.
Aemon turned his head, though even that small motion felt like dragging himself through the mud.
Two figures stood by his bedside.
Ser Barristan Selmy—his sworn protector, his ever-watchful guardian—stood rigid as a sentinel.
The knight's face was carved from stone, but in his piercing blue eyes, Aemon saw it.
Relief.
But beneath it—something else.
A hint of unease.
Beside him, Maester Geradys leaned forward, his gaze sharp, assessing. His lined face was inscrutable, but his movements were careful and calculated. A practised hand pressed against Aemon's forehead, cool against his feverish skin.
"How do you feel, my prince?" Geradys asked, his voice calm but laced with quiet concern.
Aemon swallowed, his throat dry as dust. He tried to speak, but the words came out hoarse.
"Like I drank a whole cask of Dornish wine and got kicked in the head by a mule."
The Maester huffed a chuckle. "A fair description. You've been unconscious for two days."
Aemon blinked.
"Two… days?"
The words felt foreign. Unreal.
It had only felt like moments. His last memory was a storm of fire and ice, the roar of dragons, the echo of a prophecy centuries old—and then the void.
But two days had passed.
"Aye," the Maester confirmed, his expression unreadable. "Your body showed no wounds, no sickness. You simply collapsed. Exhaustion, most likely. Lack of food. Your body shut down before it could force itself any further."
Barristan exhaled through his nose, a deep, steady breath that did little to hide the tension still coiled in his stance.
"You frightened me, lad," Barristan admitted. His voice was steady, but there was an underlying emotion—something he wasn't expressing.
Aemon frowned.
Ser Barristan had seen war. He had faced death more times than most men lived to count. But now—standing here, looking down at Aemon, there was something unfamiliar in his gaze.
Fear.
"When you fell, you resembled a corpse," Barristan said. "Pale. Motionless. Barely breathing. I carried you back myself, and for a moment, I was afraid."
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't have to.
Aemon's stomach twisted.
"I am fine," he said, but even as the words left his lips, they felt empty.
A hollow lie.
"You will be," Geradys corrected, standing straight. "Once you eat. Your body is drained. A good meal, some rest, and you'll regain your strength."
Aemon exhaled, rubbing his temples as the dull ache in his skull pulsed again. His fingers trembled slightly.
He ignored it.
"Food sounds… good," he muttered.
The Maester gave a satisfied nod. "I'll have the servants bring something immediately."
Barristan, still watching Aemon closely, finally allowed the tension in his shoulders to ease.
"Thank the gods," he murmured under his breath.
Aemon, however, wasn't thanking any gods.
Because deep inside, beneath the exhaustion, past the sluggish haze that clung to his mind—
He knew.
Something had shifted.
Deep inside him, beneath bone and blood, something ancient and unfamiliar stirred.
And the worst part? He didn't know if it was part of him—or something else entirely.
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The scent hit him before he even saw the food.
Rich. Warm. Overwhelming.
Roasted meat. Freshly baked bread. A thick, spiced stew still steaming in its bowl. The tang of salted fish, the sweetness of honeyed figs.
Aemon's stomach twisted, a hollow, aching void demanding to be filled.
His hands shook as he reached for the first dish. He barely remembered lifting the spoon, but the moment the stew touched his tongue—his body took over.
He devoured it.
Meat vanished from the bone in seconds. Thick slices of bread disappeared between desperate bites. His hands moved on instinct, shovelling food into his mouth as though he had not eaten in months.
And, gods, it felt like months.
The hunger clawed at him, more profound than mere starvation.
He shovelled bread into his mouth between bites of stew, barely stopping to breathe, his body demanding more, more, more—
A chuckle.
Aemon barely registered it at first, too focused on inhaling the meal before him.
Then, through his ravenous haze, he heard it again.
"Gods, lad," Ser Barristan mused, leaning back in his chair. "I've seen men on the battlefield with less desperation in their eyes."
Aemon barely paused long enough to glare at him. He swallowed a mouthful of venison and muttered between bites, "I nearly starved to death in my sleep. I think I've earned it."
Barristan smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Just don't eat yourself into another collapse. I doubt I could carry you back twice in one week."
Aemon paused mid-bite.
The words settled over him, heavier than the meal in his stomach.
He looked up.
Barristan's expression had not changed—calm, composed, ever the knight. But his eyes…
His eyes told another story.
There was something there, something Aemon had never seen before. Not in battles. Not on the tourney grounds. Not even when facing death.
Unease.
Aemon set down his fork, swallowing—not food this time, but a sudden weight in his throat.
"Thank you," he said, voice quieter than before. "For bringing me back."
Barristan exhaled, running a hand through his greying hair. "Aye, well. I wasn't about to let you die in some cave."
Aemon snorted. "Would've made for a good story."
"Only if someone found your bones first," Barristan countered dryly.
A brief silence settled between them, comfortable yet heavy with unspoken thoughts.
Finally, the white knight pushed himself to his feet, rolling his shoulders. "It's nearly dusk. You should rest while you can."
Aemon exhaled, feeling the exhaustion creeping in beneath the meal's warmth. "I suppose I should."
Barristan nodded. "If you need anything, I'll be outside."
Aemon hesitated, then met his gaze. "Thank you, Ser Barristan."
The knight simply inclined his head, lingering for just a breath longer before stepping toward the door.
As he reached for the handle, Aemon spoke again.
"And… for coming with me to the cave."
Barristan paused, then glanced over his shoulder. There was something unreadable in his expression.
"I would not have let you go alone," he said simply.
He didn't smile. But for the first time since Aemon woke, the weight in Barristan's eyes seemed to ease.
Then, with a final nod, he left.
When the door clicked shut behind Ser Barristan, the silence returned—heavier this time, as if the chamber itself were holding its breath for what came next.