Arya Targaryen (101 A.C. Eleventh Moon)
Aemon's chamber.
Arya sat on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped loosely in her lap as she waited for her brother. The room was quiet, save for the soft crackle of the hearth fire and the distant rustles of leaves from the wolfswood.
Her mind wandered as she looked around Jon's chamber. 'Aemon,' she sighed as she corrected the name in her mind. Even after nearly four years of living this new life the strangeness of it hadn't fully worn off.
Aemon, that was his name now. Aemon Targaryen.
She still caught herself thinking of him as Jon, sometimes even saying it aloud by accident when they were alone. And each time he would frown, that quiet tension rising within his shoulders. He never scolded her, not exactly, but the message was always there. Jon Snow belonged to the past, a life buried beneath ashes, blood and grief. Aemon was the name he was given at his birth, and he had now claimed it as his own like a sword fits in a scabbard.
They didn't speak often of the lives they'd lived before. They did not want to think about the fates of their brothers, and Sansa often brought bitterness to both their mouths when thinking of the woman she had become. The memories still felt like open wounds, no matter how much they tried to bandage them, and thinking of their fates often felt like salt being rubbed in. The rare moments they spoke of their past lives were moments she both treasured and dreaded, filled with happy memories tainted by sorrow.
Lyanna had told her stories she'd never known; stories of their father, of the man he was before war and duty took him. Those tales had been honey upon a world she thought lost to her forever.
Her bond with her new older sister Visenya, had been a bright flame in this new world. At first, Arya had thought the girl would be like the other ladies of the court she had known, delicate and distant. But Visenya was a true mix of both her and Jon. Visenya was both brash at times and practiced the sword with Aemon. Yet her sister could also be a princess of the realm, doing her duty and acting like was expected of her. She seemed more mature than her age of seven would imply, and Arya tried to follow her example. Even if it killed her to do it, but acting like a toddler had been boring too and she had somehow managed.
Thankfully, ever since she had bonded with Grey Ghost, she had felt more content and free, like she once had, when she still dreamed of wolfdreams with Nymeria. Now, when she warged into Grey Ghost, it felt like tasting again the freedom she had long missed.
Lost in her thoughts, she barely noticed as the door opened with a quiet creak and Aemon stepped into the chamber. He had shed his cloak before entering, and the smell of sweat and burned charcoal clung faintly to him. Her brother had finally begun learning the ways of the forge, a smith's craft, with all it entailed. It had taken two moons of arguing with Lyanna and their uncle before he'd been allowed.
"A prince of the realm will not work a forge," their uncle had said more than once, stiff with disapproval. But in the end, Aemon won the battle.
He paused when he saw her, framed in the fire's glow, small hands curled in her lap and her legs not quite reaching the edge of the bed.
"Arya," he said softly, voice low and careful as if testing the mood. "I thought we agreed I'd come and get you."
She didn't rise, only turned her eyes to meet his. Eyes too sharp for her little face, eyes that held too many years.
"I know," she replied simply. "But you were late again, so I came to you."
Aemon exhaled through his nose a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
"I was in the forge," he said. Then Aemon began to ramble about how great it was to do."It's truly fascinating Arya. Shaping the ores until they become swords or tools. Then there is the heat the content heat. I don't really feel the heat. It's… nice, actually. I don't even when the metals glow or the coals are close to my skin."
"I know. I smell you," she replied with a grin. "You're taking a bath after we're done."
"Hm," he hummed, settling down beside her. "And? Have you given more thought to what we discussed last time?"
She nodded, her voice growing more focused. "It's a good idea. Something I'd enjoy doing, I can be stealthy yet high in status enough for people to know the work they do will be rewarded well. Especially if we start it at Seadragon Point. The harbor's already growing in importance, and information flows with the ships. A brothel where tales can be overheard and passed on would be useful. I know I can handle the administration, yet in the future, we also need someone to handle that side."
Aemon considered her words, his expression thoughtful. "Mother wasn't too pleased," he said, "but she understands. It's the way things work. Knowledge and control, if we use it wisely, we can steer the realm in the right direction. Although that will only be a small part of it."
He leaned back slightly, rubbing the heel of his hand over one brow. "I just hope our goodsister's child is born healthy. A boy, perhaps. Aemma needs rest. Peace. If the babe is not a boy, I'll write to Viserys. He needs to stop and give her time to recover. His remarrying, that's what led to the Dance or at least part of it. But now he has me, another possible heir. He could name me if he needs to. That is, if Daemon doesn't grow up. The man seems to love family, yet he despises outsiders. And use being outsiders and family both makes us the thing he loathes the most."
She nodded along as she listened. It was true; Daemon was a true and utter cunt. An arrogant prince, who truly only cared for his Valyrian heritage, Viserys, and by extension Rhaenyra.
Aemon's voice softened, "My children are already arranged to marry within the line, Jaehaerys was quite insistent on it. He couldn't let me succeed, he and I couldn't bring myself to usurp Viserys or Rhaenys either, just as much as I never could do the same to Robb. So, he has ensured at least that my blood will sit on the throne, even if it is a grandchild."
Arya's gaze dimmed for a moment, more somber. "I know it's probably a foolish hope, but I hope that Aemma's child is a boy. She deserves a break, and Aemma is a wonderful mother," she said. "I saw her pain once up close… not long after I was born. She held me in her arms and wept. She had just lost another babe. She spoke of him of the little boy with blue eyes and hair like Viserys."
"I can't even imagine the pain. Carrying child after child, and only one to live to survive infancy. It is probably similar how Rhaella felt during her marriage to Aerys." Aemon noted sadly.
She bit her lip, and Aemon looked at her thoughtfully. "Arya, what is it?" He asked. She sighed he knew her far to well.
"One of the things that truly scares me is becoming a mother and childbirth." She replied with a sigh. It was one of her greatest fears and insecurities, could she be a mother and birth a child? In her last life, she had barely survived after Waif had stabbed her in the stomach. After that moment, she never had her moonblood again, and the possibility of children had left her thoughts entirely. It had been part of the reason why she said no to Gendry when he had asked her to marry him, she knew she could never give him any children.
"Arya, it's something I fear too, the times you and Visenya were born. I was so scared to lose my mother, yet when I asked if she regretted having me, and that she died because of it. She said she would give birth to me a hundred times over, even if she knew she was to die.
"I fear what will become of Laena when she gets pregnant, and what will happen during the time she goes into labor. Unfortunately, that fear of uncertainty is part of life.
"As well, Arya, I think if you ever become a mother, you will be wonderful. I remember a time of a caring girl, who loved her family, and I know you will give all the love to your child if you are so blessed. If you are worried about marrying, I will burn your betrothed's keep down if you disapprove of the match." Aemon said as he enveloped her in a hug.
"Thank you, brother, and we make the best of it. As long as we are together as a pack as family." She added as she clung to him.
"Indeed, the Stark-Targaryen Pack," Aemon noted, and both chucked lightly.
Aemon Targaryen (101 A.C. Twelfth Moon)
Winterfell Forge
The clang of iron echoed beneath the stone towers, steady and sharp as the cry of a raven.
The Winterfell smithy was carved into the side of the outer bailey wall, open to the air but sheltered beneath heavy timber beams blackened by smoke. Small patches of summer snow piled up just beyond the forge's awning, slowly melting from the flames' heat. Cold bit at the edges of the stone yard. But inside the forge, it was heat, sweat, and steel.
Aemon Targaryen grinned as he looked toward the forge, using the bellows. He enjoyed this type of work. It was a straight line short of focus, where he didn't need to wrangle different angles or discuss things with other people. Here he could do his work, and work toward what needed to be done, a hammer, sword, or something else entirely.. Only the forge and the metals that he was working with were on his mind.
He wore a simple leather apron over black wool; sleeves rolled high, with thick leather gloves to protect his hands from the heat, even if he didn't need them. His boots were old, the soles scuffed and soot-stained, and his gloves bore the dark smears of coal. He looked like any apprentice if one ignored the curly golden-sliver hair curling damply against his head, signaling his Valyrian heritage despite his northern features.
And if one ignored that, the fact that he did not sweat in the heat would signal him as distinctly unique among the cold winds of the North.
He turned the billet in the coals with iron tongs, watching the metal glow a yellow-orange. The master smith, Jorick, a great bear of a man with arms like logs and a beard like a raven's nest, stood across the fire, arms folded over his chest and watching.
"Hot enough," Jorick muttered just loud enough for Aemon to hear him.
Aemon nodded, pulled the billet free, and placed it on the anvil. He shifted it slightly, picked up the hammer, and began.
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.
Each strike was crisp and deliberate. He wasn't very strong, not yet like the other boys, but his aim was sure and his rhythm unbroken. He worked with the kind of patience and determination that made a good smith, Jorick had said.
After a few hours of heating and hammering at metal, until an axehead began to take shape. It was a small, bearded blade; short and practical, and suited for a belt or a saddlebag. He flattened the cheeks, angled the beard and struck to taper the edge.
Around him, two younger lads worked a different anvil, one red-faced and puffing, the other wiping sweat from his brow with a sleeve. The fire baked the air around them.
Aemon just worked on, unbothered by the heat plaguing the others.
His face was calm and focused. His hands moved quickly but never rushed. When the steel began to cool, he set it gently back into the fire, adjusted the bellows and then stepped aside to sharpen another piece at the grindstone.
Jorick passed behind him, muttering as he did. "Not a word since sunrise. I've trained mute bastards with more chatter."
"I'm here to learn," Aemon said simply, working the grindstone with slow, steady turns.
"You're a bloody prince. Princes in the tales are always peacocks," Jorick said with a nod.
"I might be a prince," Aemon replied, "but I'm also a Northman. And here in the forge, I'm just an apprentice."
That made the old smith let out a low chuckle. "No, not even here. Don't think folk don't notice. You're the dragon's whelp, whether you wear a leather apron or fine courtly clothes."
"Hmm, a prince will always be a prince, I suppose. But I want to learn." Aemon replied. "I have plans for these skills, and even the people look at me with surprise. I know it will be worth it if I put in the work"
Jorick grunted. "Well, you know what you're doing, lad. Though you still need to work on your strength and stamina. But you've got the basics down, and quickly too. You knew some of what you needed to do before I taught you. Raw talent, that's what it is." He nodded at words as he returned to the billet.
The billet was ready again. Aemon lifted it from the coals and returned it to the anvil.
He worked the shape cleaner now, smoothing the blade's curve, trimming the beard, flattening the back spike. A proper woodsman's axe. Or a weapon, if it came to that.
"Hold there," Jorick said after a while. "Let it cool. Quench next."
Aemon nodded. He lifted the finished piece, still glowing faintly, and lowered it into the oil. Smoke hissed and curled around them. The sharp scent of scorched metal and burnt oil filled the forge.
Out of the smoke came a crisp, clean piece of steel. Thankfully, no cracks or warping blemishes the blade.
He had made pieces before, most of them flawed. Some cracked at the edge. Others bent wrong or cooled too fast. But this one was just right.
Jorick stepped closer, squinting through the smoke. "Well done. I think this is the first piece you've made without any true imperfections."
He nodded in approval, then looked Aemon over and shook his head. "Every time I think you ought to be sweating buckets, lad. But you're not. You just keep at it. I've seen you in this heat and you don't care."
"I'm warm," Aemon said. "But I don't mind it."
Jorick stared for a long moment. "You're a strange one. Must be that dragonblood of yours."
Aemon didn't answer. He pulled the axe head free from the quench and set it aside to cool.
Nearby, the four other apprentices paused their work to glance at the finished blade.
"Well done, my prince. A fine piece," said Jarem, and the others nodded in agreement.
"You all know," Aemon said with a tired sigh, "when I'm in the forge, I'm just Aemon."
Jorick turned away. "Tomorrow, we haft it. If it cuts clean, it's yours."
Aemon gave a small nod. "Thank you."
He allowed himself a grin as he looked at the blade. It was small, but it was well-forged, his first true piece, made entirely by his own hand.
"Boys," Jorick called out across the forge, "clean up your work. We'll continue on the morrow."
After nearly an hour of scrubbing tools, sweeping coals, and brushing down anvils, the sun had begun to set over the grey stones of Winterfell. The air outside was freezing, but the forge still pulsed with warmth.
As the work wound down, Jorick brought out a small cask and poured each of them a tin cup of ale. "Enjoy, lads."
They all drank eagerly. During the day, they drank only water, but the cold ale now was a rich, bracing treat after a long day of labor. They sat for a while, chatting in low voices as the forge cooled.
After a little talk with the other lads, Aemon rose, stretched his back, and excused himself. He headed straight to the bathhouse.
He needed one.
Winterfell Forge, The Next Morning
The forge was cold at dawn, the coals still black and sleeping, but Aemon arrived before the others as he always did. He lit the fires himself, slow and steady, just as Jorick had taught him, and fed the flames until the hearth glowed bright.
By the time the other lads arrived, yawning and rubbing their eyes, the forge was already warm. Jorick came last, carrying a length of ashwood and a small box of iron wedges.
"Right," the smith grunted. "Let's haft this blade."
Aemon fetched the axe head he had left to cool. It still gleamed faintly in the morning light, making his work shine.
They shaped the haft together, Aemon cutting and shaving the wood, Jorick occasionally offering a grunt of advice. When it fit snug and true, they slotted the head on and hammered in the iron wedge.
"She's ready," Jorick said.
Aemon turned the axe in his hands. It felt right, the balance of the axe was correct, and he tried a swing. 'Yes, just right,' he thought with a grin.
Outside, snow drifted lazily in the courtyard. A chopping block had already been set up by the forge door, with a stack of old logs piled beside it. Jorick pointed to it with his chin.
"Well, let's see what you've made."
Aemon stepped forward. He tested the swing once in the air, then brought it down clean into the wood.
CRACK. The log was nearly split in two, clean and smooth. The axe stopped about halfway down the wood, and Aemon pulled the axe out of the wood and went for another swing. CRACK. The second cut split the wood in two.
Jorick placed down another log. "One more, and the axe is truly ready."
He struck true, and the axe split the log in one clean stroke.
"Wow," one of the other boys muttered. "That thing bites hard."
Just then, they heard boots crunching over fresh snow. A young voice called out, "Aemon!"
Rickon Stark came bounding through the yard, cheeks flushed from the cold. He was bundled in a heavy black cloak trimmed with white fur, his hair a dark tangle beneath his hood. At seven, he was already wiry and sharp-eyed, like a young wolf.
"Oh, are you testing the axe?" his cousin exclaimed.
Aemon turned, lowering the weapon. "Indeed. We hafted the axe just this morning, and it works like a charm."
Rickon came up to the chopping block, eyes fixed on the blade. "Is that the one you forged yourself? Let me see!"
Aemon handed it over carefully. "Be careful. It's sharp."
Rickon took it with both hands, nearly overbalancing from the weight. "It's heavy."
"It's not a toy," Aemon said, gently steadying his cousin's grip. "But when you're stronger, I'll make one for you that you can use."
Rickon beamed. "I want one just like this. Maybe with some of the old runes we saw like the ones the First Men carved."
"Maybe. But engraving is one thing I've yet to learn." He gave Jorick a small grin.
"Indeed, my lord," Jorick cut in with a grunt. "The dragon-whelp hasn't yet learned that trade, but he shows promise." The big man added a wink in Rickon's direction.
Rickon blinked up at the smith with a small smile, then handed the axe back to Aemon, a little reluctantly.
"Three clean cuts," Jorick said, rubbing his beard as he turned to Aemon. "Good balance, clean edges. I'd say it's yours, lad. You've earned it."
Aemon gave a quiet nod. "Thank you."
"You'll want to sharpen it after each use. And oil the haft," Jorick added, then glanced down at Rickon. "You've got your own lessons, my lord?"
At that, Rickon's cheeks burned bright red. "I do, just the maester was going on about some boring houses down in Dorne," he said, clearly unhappy.
Aemon grinned at his cousin. "Hmm. Doesn't excuse skipping your lessons. Still, let's have it this way, if you go now, I'll take you on a ride on Balerion."
Rickon lit up and jumped at him, throwing his arms around Aemon in a hug.
"Careful," Aemon murmured, chuckling as he embraced Rickon back.
Soon enough, they watched as the boy ran off toward the keep, eager to finish his studies.
"Hmm," Jorick said, watching him go. "That lad'll be a good lord one day. Lord Benjen was similar at that age."
"I think so too," Aemon replied quietly.
Later that day.
Aemon and Rickon had just dismounted from Balerion's back when Aemon saw her, his mother, waiting in the field. Her face was shadowed with sorrow.
"Aunt Lyanna!" Rickon called out brightly, still flushed with excitement. "It's amazing, isn't it? Flying! Did you and Uncle Baelon ever fly together on Vhagar?"
Her lips twitched into a faint, distant smile. "We did. Once, all five of us flew together." But her voice was quiet, her gaze distant. Then her tone shifted. "I'm sorry, but I have something to tell you both."
Aemon stilled at her words. "What is it, Mother?"
He saw it in her eyes before she spoke, something heavy.
She turned to him gently. "Your cousin, Princess Aemma, has given birth… but the boy did not live."
Her voice was low and sorrowful. The wind around them seemed to be still them as if holding its breath.
Aemon lowered his head and closed his eyes. "I see."
Another loss for the family, and hope dying out with the child gone, another heir gone. He thought as he inhaled deeply.
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