RED KEEP LIBRARY, 269 AC.
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Morning light spilled softly through the tall, narrow windows of the Red Keep's library, casting pale gold across shelves of ancient tomes and scrolls laced with dust. In the quietest corner, where light and shadow tangled like old secrets, Prince Aemon sat alone.
He hunched over a broad oak desk cluttered with empty inkpots, torn parchment, and books spread like wounded birds. Some wore the cracked bindings of Valyria, others the thick vellum of the North. Ink stained his fingers; sleepless nights rimmed his eyes.
Yet his posture held steady—poised, focused, and driven by something more profound than fatigue.
Around him, the quiet rhythm of knowledge pulsed on. Scribes glided between shelves like ghosts in grey, dusting spines and muttering to themselves. Acolytes scratched away at fresh parchment, quills whispering like rain. The scent of old leather, ink, and warm wax hung heavy in the air—part cathedral, part crypt.
Aemon barely noticed.
His world was narrowed to symbols and silence—fragments of fire and blood, whispers of truths long buried and half-remembered. A breath escaped him, fogging faintly against the cold glass beside him.
He leaned back, gaze drifting over the inked curve of a letter—meaningless now, just loops and lines.
Four years.
Years of this rhythm—sweat and steel by day, ink and candlelight by night. He trained until his muscles burned, then studied until his eyes did. He read nearly every book in the Red Keep's vast collection. Some twice. With S.E.R.A.'s help, whole tomes had flown into his mind faster than most could finish a cup of hot milk—each scanned, parsed, and streamed directly into memory with unnerving precision.
He absorbed history, prophecy, bloodlines, languages, cultures, treaties on magic, strategy, diplomacy, dusty old ledgers, and even shipping manifests from two centuries ago.
He had hoped—perhaps foolishly—that somewhere in those countless volumes, he would find the truth behind the birth of dragons.
But after all that effort, nothing.
No hatching secrets. No rituals.
Just charts of wingspans, notes on flame colour, dramatic battle recaps, and an unhealthy obsession with how loud a dragon could roar. They were beasts of war, wielded by kings and conquerors—never creatures with origins.
Aegon's Conquest. Harrenhal melting. The Field of Fire. The Dance. Glorious, terrifying, unstoppable. But never… alive.
Not one tale of how they came to be.
Not even a "How to Raise Your Dragon for Dummies."
The only reliable sources he found were a small handful of recent histories—dryly written and maddeningly incomplete, but at least semi-reliable.
The Dance of the Dragons: A True Telling by Grand Maester Munkun had its merits—detailed, gripping, and soaked in tragedy. Aemon learned plenty about bloodshed and betrayal and how dragons helped tear House Targaryen apart. But the flourishes were pure maester—speeches no one would ever say, and yes, they even wrote a ballad. Of course, they did.
The Princess and the Queen, by Archmaester Gyldayn, offered more of the same. Charts, names, casualties. Dragons burned cities, but they were background noise to the civil war.
The Rogue Prince was at least personal—Gyldayn again, this time charting Daemon Targaryen's chaos through conflicting accounts. Caraxes was there, fiery and fearsome, but mostly window dressing for Daemon's drama.
And finally, The Sons of the Dragon—another of Gyldayn's works, added more fire, blood, and silence where it mattered.
Just like the rest.
Every one of them told much about Targaryens—names, riders, battles—but dragons were just props. Oversized horses with wings and bad tempers.
He was tired of flaming skies and charred keeps. He wanted to know how they were born. But for all their blood and grandeur, the books offered nothing.
Burned castles, broken kingdoms… not one bloody clue.
Every closed book felt like a door slammed in his face.
What he wouldn't give to read Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns: Their Unnatural History by Septon Barth—the one book everyone seemed to agree had tried to understand dragons not as beasts of war, but as creatures of magic, mystery, and ancient power.
Barth had been more than just the Hand of the King to Jaehaerys I. He had been a scholar—man who asked dangerous questions and, worse still, sometimes found answers. They said he treated dragons not as weapons but as mysteries and creatures of magic itself.
But of course, Baelor the Blessed had turned all of it to ash.
The pious fool had ordered Barth's works burned—every last copy of Unnatural History erased in the name of purity. Not because they were proven false. Not because they were dangerous. But because they dared to question his beloved Faith.
Barth had written of dragons, magic, and the higher mysteries—things Baelor deemed heresy. To him, they weren't knowledge—they were corruption. Sorcery in ink. Blasphemy bound in leather. And so he purged them all in fire, believing the Seven would smile in his ignorance.
Aemon clenched his jaw and muttered, "All that fasting must've starved the brains right out of your skull, you holy fuckwit."
Only scraps remained of Barth's work. Fragments. Hearsay. A few scattered quotes in other texts, always incomplete, always half-remembered.
And then there was Dragonkin: Being a History of House Targaryen from Exile to Apotheosis, with a Consideration of the Life and Death of Dragons by Maester Thomax—a book whispered of with reverence, written during the reign of King Viserys I. A true chronicle, if the rumours were to be believed, filled with observations on dragon behaviour, their bond with their riders, and even the mysteries of their deaths.
No surviving copies were found—not in the Red Keep, nor any dusty corner, locked cabinet, or box buried under centuries of royal neglect.
One burned. One vanished.
And with them, perhaps, the very knowledge he sought most.
A soft chime flickered at the edge of his vision like a bell ringing underwater.
[Aemon,] came the voice—precise, serene, and maddeningly chipper for someone who never slept, [you have now read or scanned seven thousand, three hundred and ninety-two books about dragons, fire-breathing creatures, Valyrian and Westerosi history, and semi-related poetic nonsense. You have, in essence, exhausted the Red Keep's entire collection. Congratulations.]
Aemon groaned, slumping forward until his forehead touched the desk.
"I don't even know what day it is."
[Based on light angle and atmospheric conditions,] S.E.R.A. replied, [It is morning. Likely mid-second hour. Also, you've skipped breakfast. Again.]
Aemon lifted his head with a sigh, dark circles smudged beneath his eyes. "Is there anything I don't know at this point?"
There was a pause. [Yes,] S.E.R.A. said flatly. [Several key things.]
Aemon raised an eyebrow. "Of course there is."
[Beginning with Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns: Their Unnatural History by Septon Barth,] S.E.R.A. continued. [Destroyed entirely by order of King Baelor the Blessed. Based on the gathered metadata, his reasons were not theological but personal. Septon Barth's deep study of the higher mysteries likely unsettled Baelor's worldview.]
Aemon snorted. "Of course he did. Fucking Baelor. Locked his sisters in a tower 'cause he couldn't handle a hard-on, crowned some eight-year-old alley rat 'cause he thought the boy sneezed a miracle, starved himself for forty days 'cause his ex-wife got dicked by his nephew—then had the balls to burn the only real book on dragons. Fucking lunatic."
S.E.R.A. paused just long enough to simulate judgment.
[Passionate. Historically accurate. Mildly unhinged. Noted.]
" What about surviving fragments?" Aemon asked.
[Possibly,] S.E.R.A. replied. [Unofficial citations may survive in the Citadel's restricted archives. Less likely sources include the Night's Watch records at Castle Black or hidden codices in the Winterfell library, which are mostly inaccessible.]
"So… scattered to the winds," Aemon muttered. "Perfect."
[There is also Dragonkin: Being a History of House Targaryen from Exile to Apotheosis by Maester Thomax,] S.E.R.A. added. [Written during the reign of Viserys I. Known to include accounts of dragon life and death. However, the original manuscript may have been altered or selectively edited by maesters uncomfortable with its… less rational conclusions.]
Aemon gave a flat look to the empty air. "So edited by old men afraid of their shadows. That tracks."
S.E.R.A. responded evenly,
[Fear is not uncommon when facts defy understanding. Would you like a summarized comparison between unaltered sources and—]
"No," Aemon cut in, lifting a hand. "Just… tell me what I already know."
[You have reached the limit of this location's data set,] S.E.R.A. said. [If you wish to pursue the surviving knowledge of dragons, you must expand your search radius. The Citadel remains the most viable nexus of preserved intelligence.]
Aemon stared down at the closed book in front of him.
The Red Keep had given him all it could.
He turned to the window, where morning light streamed through the stained glass, casting soft colours across the drifting dust. It felt like snow—slow, weightless, without purpose. For the first time in years, he felt unmoored, uncertain what step to take next.
Then came the voice—soft, measured, almost kind.
[There is a better way.]
Aemon didn't move. "Is that your way of saying I've officially lost it?"
[No,] S.E.R.A. replied. [It's my way of saying you may be looking in the wrong direction.]
A pause.
[North, to be specific.]
That earned a sideways glance. "Cryptic and geographical. Go on."
[You should consider sending a raven. To your namesake.]
Aemon blinked. "Maester Aemon…"
[Your great-uncle. Residing at Castle Black,] S.E.R.A. confirmed. [He has full access to the Night's Watch library—one of the oldest in Westeros. Its records predate Baelor's purges and may hold surviving fragments of Septon Barth's work, also knowledge long lost to the rest of the realm.]
Aemon turned fully now, his interest caught. "You think he might know something about dragons?"
[He is a Targaryen,] S.E.R.A. said, almost gently. [A scholar. A kin. A man unbound by Citadel bias or courtly politics. If any relative of yours still remembers the old truths—or has hidden books preserved by blood and trust—it is likely him.]
Aemon leaned back in his chair, eyes distant, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
He remembered only a whisper of the man—an old figure in black, warm-eyed, with a gentle hand on his infant brow. Summerhall. One final visit. One last kiss goodbye.
"I haven't seen him since I was a baby," he murmured. "But he's… always been there. At the edge of the map."
[Now may be the time to bring him to the centre,] S.E.R.A. replied. [He may be the only living soul you can trust who still knows what dragons truthfully were. Or are.]
Aemon exhaled slowly, the decision settling like a stone in still water.
"Then I'll write to him. Today."
[Tone?] S.E.R.A. prompted. [Sincere? Diplomatic? Mildly desperate?]
Aemon smiled faintly. "Honest. And… personal."
He rose from his chair, moving toward the writing desk across the room. Ink, quill, and parchment awaited him like old friends. For once, he wasn't writing into the void.
He was writing to his family.
Aemon wrote in silence, the only sound in the chamber the scratch of quill against parchment. His handwriting was steady, though his thoughts wandered between memory and fire, between a forgotten hatchery and a frozen tower far to the North.
When he finished, he read it once—no edits, no second thoughts. Then he folded the letter carefully, sealed it with dark red wax, and pressed the three-headed dragon seal ring into it with deliberate weight.
The wax cooled quickly in the morning air.
He set the letter aside, placing it gently at the corner of the table.
A letter to a kin who still carried his name. And maybe, if the gods were kind, some of his answers.
Aemon stood momentarily, watching the sealed letter resting on the table.
Then, he turned away and let out a slow breath—the kind that marked the end of one chapter and the beginning of something else.
"Well," he muttered, rubbing his temples, "dragon research is on hold—at least until the reply from Castle Black returns."
[Correct,] S.E.R.A. chimed in, calm and precise as ever. [Which presents an opportunity to revisit the inquiry you first abandoned.]
Aemon blinked. "Which one?"
[The rune-covered book gifted to you by Maester Geradys,] S.E.R.A. replied. [Four years ago. The day you left Dragonstone.]
Aemon's eyes narrowed slightly, memory stirring. "The spiral-marked one."
[Yes,] S.E.R.A. confirmed. [You requested I scan and translate it. The language—an ancient variant predating the standardized Old Tongue—required approximately three months for complete linguistic parsing and symbolic alignment.]
Aemon winced. "Right. And by the time you were finished…"
[You had redirected your full attention to dragonlore,] S.E.R.A. finished. [And have ignored the runes ever since.]
Aemon gave a sheepish huff, scratching his jaw. "That… sounds exactly like me."
[The translation is complete,] S.E.R.A. continued. [But full comprehension requires physical reference points—objects inscribed with the same rune patterns. The text frequently mentions binding marks, resonance lines, and threshold symbols—likely indicators of magical function or ritual significance.]
Aemon didn't answer right away.
He leaned back, fingers tapping the desk in thought. For a moment, silence stretched—until a memory stirred.
"Wait," he said slowly. " Rhaella mentioned something once."
He sat straighter, eyes narrowing slightly as the memory sharpened.
"A year ago, in passing—she said the royal vaults held old relics. Crowns, cups… a sword, maybe a chest plate. All etched with what she called 'forest glyphs.' First Men markings."
He looked up, voice gaining certainty. "That has to be them."
[Ideal,] S.E.R.A. said. [Artifacts tied to the bloodlines of the early kingdoms. Precisely what we need for comparative rune analysis.]
Aemon was already moving, gathering his things with practised ease. He rolled the scroll carefully, tied it with fresh twine, and slipped it into his satchel.
"I'll send this first," he said, his voice sharper now with a renewed sense of purpose.
"Then I'll go to Rhaella. If I can get the key, I'll look inside the vaults myself."
He slung his satchel over one shoulder and paused at the library's threshold, casting one last glance toward the morning light spilling across the dusty shelves.
"Let's find out," he murmured, "whether those runes are just old scribbles… magical- or far more dangerous."
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The halls of the Red Keep echoed softly as Aemon made his way from the library, the sealed raven scroll tucked carefully beneath his satchel. Ser Barristan walked beside him silently, his white cloak trailing like a banner of quiet vigilance.
"Another morning spent buried in books?" Barristan asked, casting him a sidelong glance. "You missed fast again."
Aemon's lips tugged into a tired smile. "Books were more filling," he said, rubbing his stomach faintly as if even sarcasm could spark hunger.
"You also made me stand outside like a gargoyle for 3 hours."
"I assumed you were enjoying the peace," Aemon shot back. "Besides, you wear the stoic look too well."
Barristan gave a low chuckle, then tilted his head. "You seem lighter than usual. Dare I ask where you're headed?"
"To the rookery," Aemon replied without slowing. "I have a letter to send."
Barristan gave a curious nod. "And may I ask to whom this important message is bound?"
Aemon glanced over with a faint smile. "To my uncle. Maester Aemon. At Castle Black."
Barristan blinked, clearly surprised. "Maester Aemon? The one on the Wall?"
"The very one," Aemon said. "I figured it was time to hear the thoughts of someone older, wiser… and much farther from King's Landing."
Barristan chuckled softly. "A rare thing indeed."
Aemon and Ser Barristan climbed the narrow spiral stairs to the tower overlooking the eastern sea. The rookery sat at its peak. When they entered the stone chamber, the air stirred with the soft rustle of wings and low, throaty caws. The scent of parchment and feathers hung heavy, sharpened by the tang of straw and droppings.
To Aemon's surprise, Grand Maester Pycelle was already there, hunched beside one of the larger cages, fussing with a raven's perch.
"Ah, Your Grace," Pycelle said, turning at their approach. "What brings you to the rookery so early?"
"I need to send a raven," Aemon said, stepping forward. "To Castle Black. To my great-uncle, Maester Aemon."
At the mention of the name, Pycelle raised his brows slightly but said nothing. Aemon reached into his satchel and handed over the sealed scroll, the wax pressed with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.
Pycelle took the letter with surprising delicacy, examining the seal before nodding.
"Very well," he said. "This one will do."
He moved to a tall, iron-barred cage and coaxed out a sleek, dark-feathered raven. The bird blinked at him, surprisingly calm as Pycelle attached the scroll to its leg with practised ease.
He carried it to the open archway and lifted his arm. The raven flapped once—twice—then soared into the morning air, disappearing quickly into the pale sky.
"It will take two to four days to reach Castle Black, depending on the wind," Pycelle said, brushing off his sleeve. "If your uncle replies promptly, you may expect a return message in a week."
Aemon nodded. "That's all I need."
Pycelle brushed the last stray feather from his sleeve and turned to leave, but Aemon held up a hand.
"One more thing," he said. "Do you know of any objects inscribed with First Men runes?"
Pycelle blinked, surprised. "You're studying the runes, Your Grace?"
"I am," Aemon replied. "Or rather… I plan to. I'm looking for authentic objects—blades, tools, armour—anything etched with runes to compare with a translated text."
The old maester stroked his beard thoughtfully. "I do not possess such things myself," he said slowly. "But you might find a few in the Citadel's deeper collections or… possibly in the royal vaults. If you're serious about rune work, you should speak with Lord Andar Royce of Runestone. The Royces have worn bronze armour etched with runes for thousands of years. Ancient First Men craft. Their knowledge of such markings may be older than the Citadel's theories."
Aemon paused and then nodded. "Thank you. I'll see what I can find in the royal vaults for now. I'll look to House Royce in time."
He took a step toward the door, then paused. "Actually—Maester Gyldayn. What do you know of him?"
Pycelle's expression brightened. "Ah, yes,Gyldayn. I know him, he was the last maester stationed at Summerhall before the tragedy. A sharp mind, keenly devoted to the historical record. He penned The Sons of the Dragon, The Rogue Prince, The Princess and the Queen… all highly regarded among scholarly circles."
"I've read those," Aemon said, thoughtfully. "I was hoping to find more. Perhaps even speak with him, if he's still alive."
"Oh, he is," Pycelle confirmed. "He's now an Archmaester at the Citadel. Last I heard, he's been working on a complete history of House Targaryen."
That gave Aemon pause. His brow lifted slightly. "He's compiling the full history of our house?"
"So they say," Pycelle replied. "Though how far along he's come, few can say."
Aemon considered this, then glanced back at Pycelle. "Would you be willing to send a raven? Ask if he might be open to sharing any early drafts… or corresponding directly?"
"For you, Your Grace?" Pycelle gave a light bow. "With pleasure. I'll see to it this evening."
"Thank you," Aemon said with quiet sincerity. "I'd appreciate it."
With that, he turned and made for the stairwell, Barristan falling into step behind him once more. The rookery's stone door echoed shut behind them, and the tower grew quiet again.
The vault awaited. The runes waited. And so did Rhaella.
He descended the steps two at a time, cloak trailing behind like a shadow chasing purpose.