Aemon Targaryen (102 A.C. Second Moon)
Winterfell – Aemon's chambers.
A loud knocking roused Aemon from sleep.
He groaned and rubbed his eyes, still heavy with sleep, the chill of the morning creeping even into the warm walls of Winterfell. As he looked around, he saw the hearth fire had long since gone out, and the chill was even more explained as he looked outside the window. Snow was falling, the beginning of winter, the past half year, as autumn had begun to show in the North, and during their journey to Winterfell, some summersnows had fallen. His mother's words were always true: winter is coming. The snow cast his room in a gray, pale light. Slowly, he threw off the thick fur blankets and padded barefoot across the stone floor. The floor was warm, heated stones of Winterfell, never falling their purpose.
As he unlocked the heavy wooden door, he barely had time to blink before a sudden whirlwind of motion knocked him back. "Aemon!"
Two small figures launched themselves at him, a flurry of Visenya's raven hair and Arya's brown, mixed with their infectious laughter. Visenya and Arya tackled him with all the might their little arms could muster, clinging to his waist and shoulders like cubs to a bear.
"Happy nameday!" they shouted together, their voices high and bright, echoing off the stone walls.
Aemon staggered back a step, more from surprise than force, a groggy grin tugging at his lips. "Bye, Old Gods, save me," he mumbled, still half-asleep, though the warmth of their embrace had awoken him. He groaned theatrically as they peppered his face with kisses, one on each cheek and another right on the tip of his nose.
Visenya's braid slapped against his shoulder as she clung to him. Arya clung to his leg, just as she used to when she was smaller, though, at nearly five, she was growing faster than Aemon could keep track of. As he looks down upon Arya, he is transported back to the past, when she, together with Robb and Sansa, until she began following her mother, surprised him for his nameday. Later, Bran and Rickon also came along, even if Sansa no longer did.
"You're ten now!" Visenya said proudly, breaking him out of his musing. As if it were some great accomplishment of hers as well. "That means you're finally really old."
"I'm not that old," Aemon muttered through a smile. Although I'm thirty-two for true, he thought as he ruffled her hair. "Thank you, both of you."
A soft laugh came from the doorway. "It seems your sisters have already awoken you, my boy."
Aemon looked up and saw her as his mother.
She stood framed in the hall's light, tall and stately in a deep gray mantle trimmed with silver fox. Her black hair was braided back from her face. Her eyes, sharp and kind, softened as she looked at him.
"Mother," he said with a bright smile. These moments, with her and his siblings. There was something he still treasured even now.
He crossed the chamber in a few strides as his mother knelt, and he hugged her in a tight embrace, burying his face in her shoulder for a moment.
"Happy nameday," she said warmly, kissing the top of his head. "Ten years... I still remember the day you were born." She chuckled at the memory. "You were so small and loud, gods, you wailed like a dragonling."
He laughed into her shoulder and whispered, "I remember that."
"I know," she whispered fondly, cupping his cheek.
Then, gently, she turned to the girls. "Come, little wolves. Let your brother dress. We'll all have a nice breakfast together in the hall. I'm certain your uncle has something prepared."
Visenya pouted. "I wanted to give him a present now."
"We will give his gifts during breakfast with the rest of the family and staff." their mother replied, ushering them gently toward the door.
"But I want to sit beside him!" Arya insisted, giving him a cheeky grin. She is still taking advantage of being a small child. He thought as he shook his head.
"You shall," Aemon promised, kneeling to kiss her brow. "Right beside me."
That satisfied her. The girls gave him one last round of hugs and reluctantly skipped out of the room.
By the time Aemon finished dressing in a warm, black wool tunic stitched with red thread, with a Targaryen sigil upon his chest. He wore the same color for his britches, and stitched with grey direwolves this time.
As Aemon stepped out of his chamber, he found Ser Harrold waiting in the corridor, ever dutiful in his white cloak and polished mail.
"Good morning, Aemon. Happy nameday," the knight greeted him with a respectful incline of his head.
Aemon smiled. "Thank you, Harrold. And good morning to you as well."
Harrold gave him a nod, and together they left for the mainhall. He continued down the winding staircases of the inner keep. The warm stones were familiar beneath his boots, worn smooth by generations of lords and kin who had walked these same halls. Along the way, he passed old tapestries faded with old tales of the Starks and even a few of the Conquest itself.
When he reached the heavy oak doors of the Great Hall, they were shut tight. He paused, noting the soft murmur of voices behind them. Something was afoot.
He pushed the doors open.
The moment they creaked inward, the voices within fell silent, just for a beat.
Then, in a burst of cheer, the gathered voices cried out, "Happy nameday!"
The warmth of the hall washed over him, banishing the last traces of sleep. Fires crackled in the hearth, casting a golden glow over the stone walls and long tables. Banners of House Stark and House Targaryen hung on the sides of the hall, the proud direwolf and the three dragons united.
Aemon stood there, blinking in surprise before a wide smile spread across his face.
His mother sat near the high table with Visenya and Arya, both of whom were already half-standing on their benches, waving at him excitedly. His grandmother sat beside his aunt, Lysa, who cradled baby Bennard in her arms. The infant looked startled by the sudden noise, eyes wide, then gave a high-pitched giggle that made everyone nearby laugh.
To their right sat Rickon, who gave him a bright smile.
At the center of the high table sat Lord Benjen Stark, his uncle and guardian. Beside him, a seat stood empty, clearly left for Aemon.
As he stepped further into the room, his family rose to meet him. One by one, they came forward.
His grandmother gave him a kiss on each cheek, and he returned a bright smile. "Ten years. You're growing into your name, my sweet boy."
"Thank you, grandmother." He said as he hugged her tightly.
Lysa pressed a kiss to his forehead and placed Bennard's tiny hand in his for a moment. " This little one has a good sense of timing."
"Indeed, he does," He chuckled as he tickled Bennard softly. As he moved on toward Rickon. They embraced each other with a brotherly firmness. "I will miss you when you depart. But don't worry. I will look after your sisters for you." Rickon noted.
"On that, I have no doubt, cousin." He added, with a grin.
As Aemon glanced down the length of the Great Hall, his gaze drifted past the high table to the lower ones, where the rest of the morning gathering had taken their seats. At one table sat his sworn swords, Ser Jeffery, Dollard, Maldor, and Ser Harrold, who had joined them, the four men clustered together in easy camaraderie. They were already deep in conversation, though Harrold looked up and met Aemon's eyes, offering a warm, quiet smile.
Beyond them, the other tables were filled with familiar faces: servants and handmaids of the Targaryen household. Further down sat a few of his fellow apprentices, near them sat his old master, Jorrick.
These were the people who had surrounded him day after day. They had watched him grow, sparred with him, served him, taught him, and protected him. They had seen him succeed, fail, laugh, bleed, and rise again.
Aemon smiled softly.
Tonight, the Great Hall would be filled with lords and ladies from across the realm. Nobles from the North, and even some from the South, had traveled to Winterfell to witness his nameday and bring their gifts to the Northern prince who rode a dragon. That celebration would be a formal affair, grand and full of expectation.
But that was for tonight.
This morning was different. This morning was for those who knew him not as "Your Grace" or "Prince Aemon" but simply as Aemon. The boy who trained in the yard until his arms ached. The boy who snuck honeycakes from the kitchens for his sisters. The boy who stayed up too late reading by firelight, forgetting how quickly dawn came.
As he took his seat beside his mother, Arya and Visenya giggled and suddenly darted off, vanishing toward the side doors.
He watched them go with growing amusement.
They were up to something.
And lately, Aemon had found himself smiling more and more where Arya was concerned. Winterfell had given her something back, something she had lost in the chaos that swept Westeros. She had only been ten when it all began, and too much of her childhood had been stolen by the chaos of his father's death. But here, among the familiar stones and silent snows, she laughed again.
A tray of lemoncakes sat before him, still warm. He picked one up and took a bite. The taste, sharp and sweet, made him close his eyes and sigh with quiet pleasure.
They were just as he remembered; they were plentiful in Red Keep and Dragonstone, but in the North, they were a delicacy.
He had shared the fondness for Lemoncakes with Sansa before she began following in her mother's footsteps. Yet that was a different time under a different name.
"I hope you're enjoying them. Your mother mentioned your preference," Uncle Benjen noted from beside him.
"I am, Uncle. Thank you," Aemon replied, still smiling faintly.
Benjen gave a satisfied nod just as the side door creaked open. Visenya and Arya came bolting through, laughter in their voices and footsteps, with Clement following close behind, struggling to keep a serious face.
They hurried toward the high table, arms full with what appeared to be a folded cloak.
"Brother," Visenya declared, her voice high with excitement, "since you'll soon ride west and take your seat among the lords of the realm, we thought you should have something to wear that shows the pride of both our houses."
Clement helped them unfurl the cloak. It was made of fine grey wool, the top lined with thick black fur. As they turned it around, the hall gasped and murmured.
Embroidered on the back was a white direwolf with red eyes. Its wings are like a dragon's, the same as the long tail curled into the folds of the fabric.
Aemon stared at the beast, transfixed. It was Ghost. Ghost… I missed you, my friend.
The eyes stared back at him, crimson threads gleaming in the firelight.
He smiled broadly. "A wonderful gift. Did you both come up with the design or did you stitch it too?" he asked, turning to them with a teasing grin aimed at Arya. The hall chuckled, and he caught his mother giving Visenya and Arya a knowing look, her expression soft and proud.
"I did part of the stitching," Visenya said with pride, "and Arya helped me. She's a good apprentice."
Then, quite suddenly, she kissed Arya on the forehead. Arya flushed bright red and looked down shyly. Praise was rare for her. Encouragement, even more so, especially after years under the cold eyes of septa Mordane, who offered more scorn than softness.
"Well, it's excellent work," Aemon said firmly. "Come here and give your brother a hug."
Clement carefully took the cloak from them as both girls ran forward and threw their arms around him. The hall laughed and clapped as the prince was momentarily smothered in silken hair and giggling affection.
"It was my idea to make the wolf white," Arya whispered as she hugged him tighter. "I don't know why… I just thought it fit you." He smiled at her knowing grin.
Aemon's arms were closed around her. "Thank you," he whispered back.
The rest of the morning passed with a steady rhythm of warmth and celebration. Aemon received more gifts. Each one was accepted with quiet gratitude, though few stirred him as deeply as the one brought forth by his fellow smiths and his sisters.
They approached as a group. Jorrick walked among them, carrying the bundle with care. Wrapped in thick cloth and bound with a simple leather cord, the gift was unassuming at first glance, but when unveiled, it revealed a smith's hammer, beautifully forged.
The head was polished to a clean shine, with detailed engravings winding along the sides, dragons and wolves intertwined in curling patterns, representing both sides of his blood. The handle was wrapped in dark leather, its texture rough and honest. Near the base, stamped into the steel, the sigil of House Targaryen.
Aemon turned the hammer in his hands, feeling the weight of it. It wasn't just the steel or the craftsmanship. It was what it meant. The time they had spent on it. The pride behind the gesture.
Outside Winterfell
Aemon had returned briefly to his chambers after the morning feast, receiving warm congratulations along the way for his nameday. But his thoughts were already elsewhere, he had promised Rickon and his sisters a ride, and the skies were calling.
He changed quickly into his riding leathers. This set was thicker than the ones he wore in the South, specially commissioned after he had arrived in Winterfell. He remembered the freezing flight on Rhaegal that first day back in the North, and he had known then he'd need something more suited to northern skies.
Soon enough, he stepped out into the snow-covered yard. Arya, Visenya, and Rickon were already waiting for him near the dragons. Not far behind them stood a sizeable gathering, lords and ladies who had traveled to Winterfell for the nameday celebration. It seemed they had gathered to witness the dragons take flight. Few could resist the pull of such a sight.
Balerion loomed nearby, black wings tucked close against his sides. As Aemon approached, the great dragon lowered his head, nostrils flaring with familiar warmth.
"Well, congratulations, young hatchling." The great dragon rumbled at him.
Aemon reached out and rubbed his snout, his gloved fingers brushing the warm, ridged scales.
"We have something for you," Balerion continued, his thoughts echoing with gravity. "For the future of your house. Keep them safe. I know you will hatch them when the time comes."
At that moment, Vhagar shifted her massive bulk aside, revealing a small mound between her legs, one of dirt and dragon droppings. Her bright yellow eyes fixed on Aemon, calm and knowing.
"You don't mean," Aemon began, breath catching.
"Indeed," Balerion replied. Dragon eggs. "For your future. For ours."
Aemon turned to glance at his siblings. Arya was already walking toward Grey Ghost with excitement in her step. Rickon and Visenya waited further back, their expressions curious. Beyond them, the lords and ladies looked on, unaware of what was unfolding.
"Wait a moment more," he called to them. "It seems the dragons have given me a gift."
He approached the mound slowly, reverently. Using a branch to remove some of the dirt and the droppings, he revealed three eggs resting within. Aemon had to steady him self not to puke, the stench of the mount was almost unbearable.
The first was blood red, veined with streaks of deep violet.
The second shimmered in a mix of sea green and soft blue, like frozen waters.
The third was black as coal, with golden highlights that glimmered faintly in the winter sun.
Aemon took a breath, overcome with wonder. His hand hovered over them before gently brushing across their warm, hardened shells. "Thank you," he said through his bond. "I will take care of them."
Then Vhagar began to rumble, a deep growl echoing from her throat, low and thunderous.
"Dohaeras, Vhagar." Aemon's eyes widened as he heard the words and saw who had spoken them.
Visenya stood before the great dragon, her posture tall, her voice steady. She had approached Vhagar without hesitation.
Aemon felt a jolt of conflict twist in his chest—part of him wanted to step in, to protect her if things went wrong. But another part, the wiser part, knew she had to face this herself. If she truly wished to claim the dragon, she had to do it on her own.
"Lykir," Visenya commanded again, louder this time, unflinching.
Rickon and the others stood frozen, their eyes wide as they watched the girl confront the ancient she-dragon.
Aemon raised his voice. "Command her, Visenya! Claim your birthright—if that is what you desire!"
Vhagar's mouth opened slightly, and Aemon saw the telltale glow deep within—faint, but growing. A warning. A test.
"Do I need to step in?" Balerion asked, his presence tense.
"No," Aemon replied firmly. "It's her decision. If I interrupt now, she may never claim one again."
Visenya's voice rang out once more, clear and calm despite the tension thick in the air.
"Dohaeras, Vhagar."
Vhagar's glow faded. Her mouth closed. Then, with a great sigh that stirred snow across the ground, the mighty dragon lowered her head until her snout rested before the girl.
Aemon exhaled in relief. His heart pounded in his chest.
"Now make the bond, sister!" he called.
Visenya stepped forward, eyes bright with awe, and placed her hand gently on the dragon's massive snout. A stillness passed through the field, and then something shifted, quiet and unseen but felt by all.
"Ride her," Aemon said, smiling now. "And we will join you."
As Visenya climbed onto Vhagar's back, her small figure was dwarfed by the massive saddle, which still sat on Vhagar's back. Yet she moved with purpose, her hands steady, her eyes forward. The bond had been made, the dragon had accepted her, and now came the flight to make it true.
After he gathered the eggs in his cloak, he turned to Arya and Rickon, helping each into the second and third seats strapped behind his own on Balerion's saddle. Arya's and Rickon's eyes were wide with excitement, their hands gripping the harness with eager energy.
Once they were secured, Aemon pulled the thick leather straps over his chest and gave a tug to test their hold.
Then he leaned forward, laying a hand against Balerion's warm black scales.
"Fly after her."
With a thunderous beat of wings, Balerion rose. Snow swirled beneath them as the air was swept clean by his ascent. The ground shrank rapidly, Winterfell becoming a pattern of gray stone and white roofs below. The cheers of the gathered lords and ladies echoed up faintly, swallowed by wind and sky.
Above, Visenya had already taken flight.
Vhagar moved with the might that a dragon like her commanded. Except for maybe the Vermithor and the Cannibal could maybe match her might. Even if Balerion was still mightier than Vhagar, or any other thing that he had ever been known. Except for maybe the Night King, the gods, and the horrors, Balerion told him that now reside in Valyria.
"She's doing amazing, just like the first Visenya, if not with the sliverhair." Arya gasped behind him.
Aemon smiled. "Indeed"
The sky was theirs. For a time, the North lay beneath them, vast, wild, and quiet. The dragons wheeled above the forests and fields, their shadows racing across the snows below. Even Grey Ghost joined them at a distance, smaller and swifter, responding to Arya's quiet thrill as he swept through a spiral beneath them.
Eventually, they began to descend. Balerion dropped lower, circling the godswood once, then coming to a thunderous landing in the open fields beside Winterfell. Rickon let out a breathless laugh as they touched down, and Arya was already unstrapping herself before the saddle had even stilled.
Vhagar landed moments later, her great wings folding in with a gust of wind that sent snow flying. Visenya climbed down from her saddle, her cheeks flushed from the cold and the thrill of flight.
But before her boots had fully hit the ground, he saw their mother was there. Even from Balerion, he could see that her face was one of worry and anger. His sister would be in for it.
After they all had dismounted and given the dragons their thanks. Aemon had secured the eggs, and they walked over to Visenya.
"Visenya Targaryen," she said, voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. "You acted without permission. You approached a dragon older than the Wall without so much as a word."
Aemon saw his sister freeze, shoulders tight.
But then Lyanna strode forward and cupped her daughter's face in her hands.
"And yet... You stood tall. You stood tall, and you proved your blood and your courage." She leaned in and kissed Visenya's brow.
"I am proud of you. Reckless, but brave." Visenya blinked, not quite believing it. Much like herself, when she was the knight of the laughing tree. Aemon thought as he looked at them. Visenya looks so much like their mother, although his sister still had the valyrian cheekbones, and the purple eyes.
Then Arya broke the quiet with a gleeful whoop and ran to her sister, throwing her arms around her from behind.
"That was incredible, Visenya! Just like the first Visenya."
"Thanks," Visenya said softly, still catching her breath. "I was ready. I felt it when I saw Aemon with the dragons. I looked at Vhagar, and… I felt something. A connection. Why it happened now, I don't know. Maybe…" Her voice caught, and tears welled in her eyes. "Maybe she wasn't ready yet to let Father go."
Aemon stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her in a quiet embrace.
"Father would be proud of you," he said. "As am I. And he'd be grateful you took care of his old lady."
As if in agreement, Vhagar rumbled a deep, resonant growl that echoed beneath the stone walls.
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Notes: So, Visenya has claimed a dragon, and Aemon has celebrated his tenth name day. The claiming of Vhagar and the eggs will have wider consequences for the world. The eggs will play a part, and Visenya's claiming of Vhagar, I have some fun plans for that. Next up, Aemon travels and arrives at Seadragon Point.
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