Aemon stepped closer to get a better look at the swaddled baby.
"Let me hold her. Her brother ought to see her properly."
Alicent looked faintly amused and a little exasperated as she took the bundle from the maid and passed it over.
Before Aemon could even brace himself, the baby was in his arms.
"H-How do I even hold her?" he stammered, body going rigid like a statue. He feared she might slip through his arms and shatter on the floor.
"Just support her bottom. Don't be so tense," Alicent chuckled, letting go with no hesitation at all.
"Oh. Right."
His brain short-circuited as he gently adjusted his grip, handling the newborn like she was made of glass.
Surprisingly, the tiny creature felt soft and warm, wriggling with gentle weight.
"Eyyyaaa~"
The baby squirmed in his arms, a head of soft, silver-gold hair lolling side to side before bumping right into his shoulder.
She was clearly annoyed by the swaddling—her arms and legs bound tight, like a pupa struggling to break free.
"I think she's trying to bite me," Aemon said uncertainly, turning his face away as he felt a sudden wet warmth near his neck.
Alicent burst into a quiet laugh, covering her mouth as she leaned in to pat her daughter's chubby waist. "Helena likes her big brother. She's not even crying."
"That's because she's busy gnawing on me."
"Eyyyaaa~!"
Little Helena didn't appreciate the accusation. Her tiny fists broke free of the loose swaddle, and she grabbed Aemon's face with shocking strength, mouth open and determined.
He flinched. She might've been small, but her grip was vicious.
"She'd make a great weeder," Aemon muttered to himself, trying to pry her off.
BANG!
The moment of peace shattered as a loud knock thudded against the door.
Standing in the doorway was a rotund, bald old man dressed in scholarly linen robes. His tone was slow and measured, as if reading from a scroll.
"Your Grace, Prince Aegon is crying again. He refuses to stop. Your attention is required."
Alicent's face tightened with irritation. "Grand Maester, where are the maids? Isn't that what they're for?"
"They tried. It didn't work," Maester Mellos replied with a shrug that said: not my fault.
Alicent stood and smoothed down her skirts, offering Aemon an apologetic smile. "Watch Helena for a bit. I'll be back soon."
"It's fine. That's what babies do—cry," Aemon replied as casually as he could, though Helena immediately launched into another jumpy squirm, nearly headbutting him.
Alicent called over her shoulder to the maids. "Bring pastries and tea. Look after them."
Then she was gone, off to tend to the other shrieking child.
Maester Mellos, however, lingered a moment longer, studying Aemond with unreadable eyes.
Aemon looked right back, unflinching.
"The King must be busy," Aemon said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
Maester Mellos gave a grandfatherly nod. "Indeed. His duties never end."
And then, without another word, he turned and left, giving the prince no chance to ask anything further.
Aemon's brow furrowed.
Weren't they supposed to be holding a royal council today? Shouldn't the Grand Maester be attending that?
Something's off, he thought, but decided not to dwell on it.
He wasn't yet deep in court politics, but he wasn't blind either. Mellos had been appointed through the Citadel, which leaned heavily toward Oldtown—and the Hightowers. Still, with Alicent being a Hightower herself, that shouldn't have been a problem.
Unless… the issue was him.
"Tch. Look, let's agree on one thing—you don't bite me."
Aemon shifted Helena to one arm and plucked a warm tart from the tray delivered by the maid.
"Eyyyaaa~"
Her pink little face turned crimson with effort, lips smacking, eyes glinting with baby rage.
Aemon smacked her lightly on her nappy-clad bottom. His expression turned instantly stern. "Oi. Behave. Mum's not here. Don't think you can get cheeky with me."
He wore his most serious expression, which on his round young face was unintentionally adorable—but Helena seemed to get the message.
She pouted, eyes shiny, and kept her mouth shut. For now.
Aemon gave a satisfied nod. "That's better."
She was warm in his arms, quiet now, clearly dozing off again. It made him wonder—how did Alicent manage to make this look so easy? He'd assumed all babies cried non-stop, but this one wasn't so bad.
No wonder she kept having more.
As evening drew in, shadows lengthened across the nursery.
Aemon sat cross-legged on the carpet, drowsy, Helena slumbering peacefully in his lap.
Beside him, the tea tray was half-empty, crumbs and cups left as remnants of a quiet hour.
Suddenly, he jolted awake with a snort. "She's still not back?"
His groggy head tilted in confusion.
Did Aegon cry himself into a coma or something?
"This isn't right. I need to check."
Gently, he laid Helena into her cradle. She stirred slightly, scrunching her face, a tiny frown settling between her brows even in sleep. Tear stains clung to her lashes.
"I'm off," Aemon told the maid, rubbing his eyes and stepping into the hallway.
The corridor was empty, dimly lit with flickering candles in wall sconces. He wrapped his cloak tighter.
"Spring in King's Landing is still bloody cold," he muttered, teeth chattering. "Wind's sharp enough to cut."
Outside, the sky had gone dark. The last light of sunset was fading fast.
"Right then. No more delays."
His eyes gleamed with mischief and intent.
Runestone had a few treasures, but I've squeezed that place dry. If there's magic left to find, it'll be here—in King's Landing.
He'd made up his mind. His little legs carried him fast through the halls, navigating like he'd lived here for years.
His destination: the King's own chambers.
A flash of silver hair darted past a maid's line of sight.
BANG!
The door slammed open with a sharp kick.
"Prince, wait—!" a servant gasped, blanching at the sight.
Aemon turned calmly, put a finger to his lips. "Shhh. Just lodging a complaint."
He stepped in like he owned the place.
King Viserys' chambers hadn't changed in years. Aemon moved through them like they were his own.
The door remained open. Let them look. Viserys was the lenient sort—always smiling, almost sycophantic. If he hadn't punished Daemon for years of chaos, he wasn't going to punish Daemon's son for poking around.
"Get in, get out."
Aemon started rifling through the room. Furniture, chests, drawers—nothing of note.
But his eyes settled on something above the fireplace: a longsword in a black sheath, mounted proudly.
The blade was long and straight, its cross guard forming the shape of a Seven-pointed Star. The pommel shimmered faintly.
"Blackfyre," he murmured, eyes wide. "My great-grandfather's sword."
He dragged a chair beneath it, climbed up, and carefully unhooked the weapon.
The moment his fingers brushed the hilt, a chime rang softly in his ear.
"Magical item detected. Magic Essence +10."
"Knew it," he whispered, smiling to himself.
He ran his fingers down the blade reverently.
When he was little, his great-grandfather used to chase him around with it—teasing, never serious. But it had weight. Legacy.
He eyed the hilt, scowling slightly.
"Uncle Viserys, you sod. You replaced the rubies with that gods-damned star. Trying to please Oldtown, were you?"
It looked wrong. Not Targaryen. Not them.
He snorted.
He didn't know it yet, but that sword—Blackfyre—was the first piece in a much larger game.
And he had just taken his first move.