Chapter Text
Prince Aemon Targaryen is born to the furious wailing of his older sister, who has demanded a little sister of her parents. Alysanne, strung out from the birth, cannot help but burst out laughing at her daughter's plight. This only enrages Daenerys further.
"Mama!" she yells, stomping both her feet. "It's not funny!"
"Unfortunately, little dragon," Jaehaerys says direly as he bites back his own grin, "it is, very much so."
Daenerys blinks, forgetting she is supposed to be very upset. "Why?"
"You're the big sister now, little dragon," Alysanne soothes. "Big sisters don't make baby dragons cry."
Daenerys claps her hands over her mouth until Aemon stops squalling. It doesn't take long, for he latches onto Alysanne's breast with no trouble at all. Daenerys pulls a face but looks on in morbid fascination. It does not take her long to muster up the courage to crawl up onto the bed too. Jaehaerys grins over her head as he helps her up.
Daenerys frowns critically down at the red, wrinkled thing in her mother's arms. Aemon mewls in protest when she pokes his chin. "Where's his shell?"
"Dragons don't hatch, Daenerys," Alysanne explains patiently, for the thousandth time since she announced Daenerys was to be a big sister. "They're born the same as any other babe."
"Be a dragon," Daenerys demands her baby brother.
"Can you be a dragon yet?" their father retorts.
"No, Papa. Not yet." After a pout Daenerys juts out her chin defiantly. "But I will be one day, really soon."
"Of course," Alysanne demurs. Her and Jae's father was only three when he found his fire. Why can't their firstborn be just as prodigious?
"Then can I have a little sister?"
Jaehaerys tries smiling at his sister. With their latest effort only hours old, she scowls grumpily back. "...We'll see, princess."
Aemon grows into a striking babe, with lilac eyes and hair like white gold. He soon discovers his favorite word.
"I'm a big enough girl to go flying all by myself on papa, Aemon, but you need someone to hold you!"
"Why?"
"Because you're a baby that can't hold on by yourself yet. So we have to tie you onto Papa because Mama can't ride with us right now."
"Why?"
"Because she gave up her wings for now to give us our baby sister."
"Why?"
"Because one little brother is all I can take, Aemon."
When baby Baelon is born instead, Daenerys pouts. Aemon is too guileless to hide his grin that no stupid girl will steal his big sister away, but she is too upset to notice. Over their heads Alysanne and Jaehaerys grin at each other.
In the end Daenerys is relieved for a second brother. Aemon, now a big brother himself, stops whacking her with tree branch swords so that Baelon can hit him instead. He's too little to fight properly yet, so Baelon lets him win like a good big brother. Daenerys puts her foot down on them fighting for first turns at dragon rides. She can only carry one of them at a time. Aemon might be her oldest brother, her future husband, but Baelon is the baby. For now he gets to go first, because Aemon will have Daenerys the rest of their lives.
But Aemon isn't upset. Daenerys isn't a real dragon yet, not like their parents. Until she finds her own fire she can only put on a leather cloak and play pretend, running and spinning them around the nursery. His sister has already promised him the first real ride on her back when she's big and strong enough.
She makes her vow her last night in the nursery, before she moves into a room all her own. It cheers Aemon up enough to stop his crying. He promises to himself it's the last time he will ever cry. He's a prince and a dragon. Tears are for little babies like Baelon.
Aemon doesn't keep his promise very long. Within two days, the Shivers steal his sister. First she's too sick and then it's too late for goodbyes.
No one lets Aemon attend the funeral. Papa forbids it in a voice that growls like thunder. Mama has never left Daenerys' side since she got sick. The servants keep Aemon locked up with Baelon. Even if he's the future king now no one obeys him. They insist he can't get sick like Daenerys, though all Aemon wants to be is where she is.
Only once does Daenerys fly all on her own, when their parents scatter her ashes to the winds.
The gods laugh at Aemon. Early in the year they take Daenerys to grant him a new one at the end. Some whisper that Alyssa is the lost princess returned, but Aemon knows they're blind. Daenerys had hair like silver gold and eyes like amethysts. Alyssa is dirty blonde, one eye mismatched green.
Aemon ignores Alyssa those first few years, when the ache for Daenerys is strongest. That's why he has Baelon, to spar and play with now that their big sister is gone. At first it's easy to avoid the baby penned up in the nursery. Then she grows big enough to climb up trees after them, large enough for her wooden sword to hurt when she whacks it against their shins. Those that whisper she'll be Aemon's bride one day ignore how she trails stubbornly after Baelon instead.
Aemon is all too happy to let Alyssa have him. His princess died a long time ago. She'll have no replacement.
Besides, for all the adults insist otherwise, Alyssa is just another baby brother.
Aemon is seven years old when he is named Prince of Dragonstone. He's the oldest child now so the island is all his. A part of him stubbornly whispers it should belong to Daenerys, that it should be hers to share with him, but the voice is quieter today than it was two years ago.
For all Aemon is now a future king he still can't choose who he sits next to. He wants Baelon by his side or at the very least Uncle Boremund, with his booming laugh and miniature mace, because he is ten and now is lord of all the stormlands, with Lord Rogar dead some moons ago. Grandmother rules for him but that doesn't stop Uncle Boremund of boasting of all the decisions he has already helped contribute to.
Instead Mother insists he sit next Jocelyn Baratheon. Aemon can't think of her as his aunt. She's only a year older than him him, though far taller than he is, with thick black hair. She sits primly next to him. Her expression is the polite, distant one Grandmother makes when Lord Rogar rambles on about foolish things.
Bored stiff by the speeches and ceremonies passing over his head, for all he is the guest of honor, Aemon makes it his mission to make Jocelyn laugh. He thinks she hasn't since before Lord Rogar died, after moons of fighting the injuries he received out on the Dornish Marches.
"We're lucky my little sister isn't here," he whispers conspiratorially to her, "or something would be on fire by now."
Jocelyn's dark eyes go very wide. Up close he can see they're a blue deep as the midnight sky. "Alyssa is two, isn't she? Even your grandfather was three when he found his wings."
"Oh, Alyssa doesn't have wings yet, just a very strong arm. When she's at the table we can't have any candles out. She likes throwing rolls at them too much."
Jocelyn giggles. "One of my cousins isn't much older. We can't trust her with porridge anymore. Everyone winds up washing it out of their hair."
Aemon grins back. "Alyssa tried porridge once. Only once, because every other bowl she gets is thrown up to the rafters..."
The night passes in a blur. Jocelyn has a small army of Baratheon cousins, each a miniature storm. But Baelon and Alyssa are both dragons, so of course Aemon has enough horror stories to keep up with her.
Over their heads Mother and Grandmother exchange one of their secret, all-knowing smiles. Having grown up with them Aemon pays it no mind. They are as much a mystery to him as the stars above, simply a fact of life.
Some days later, when they must all sail from Dragonstone, Jocelyn doesn't set forth for Storm's End with Grandmother and Uncle Boremund. She returns to King's Landing with them, because Mother and Grandmother think it's a grand idea for Jocelyn to better know her royal half-siblings. Aemon is overjoyed to have her.
Their Baratheon aunt isn't one for running and roughhousing like Daenerys. Instead she weaves stories like some of Mother's ladies do tapestries. Having grown up on only dragon stories of Old Valyria, even Aemon finds himself waiting with bated breath when Elenei turns aside the divine wrath of her sire and one some Durran slays the King of Giants. Dragon stories are all about fire and blood. Those of the stormlords have much more adventure and backstabbing.
Jocelyn also has an etched deck of cards made all the way in Lys. She knows a thousand and one games with them. She lets Alyssa and Baelon win some, but Aemon is close to her age. On him she holds nothing back.
When their mothers announce their intentions to betroth them some years later, Jocelyn Baratheon is a maid of fourteen and near six feet tall. Aemon is thirteen and five inches shorter.
Neither of them protest the prospect of eternal matrimony. Jocelyn bites back a grin at the announcement. Aemon, who has long prayed for and expected the same, can't bring himself to share in her excitement. His long-practiced smiles of course feel the court but not those closest to him. Mother's all-knowing gaze bores into the back of his head when Jocelyn excuses him with her to speak in private. Only affable Ser Lucamore Strong follows to serve as chaperone.
"Are you nervous, Aemon, or something else entirely?" Jocelyn manages a small, sick smile. "Our marriage might be years away if we don't feel ready for it. On that day you'll most certainly at least be able to look me in the eye, if a tall wife is what worries you."
"Not in the slightest!" he blurts out immediately. "You could grow a foot more and me not an inch more, and I'd never love you less. It's just..." He swallows thickly. "You might never fly, Jocelyn, not like I should be able to carry you. You might never be queen at all, if Baelon or Alyssa find their fire first. If I'm a dragon at all."
His parents had been six and eight when they proved themselves dragons, and Grandfather Aenys only three. Not a single one of Aemon's siblings has shifted yet. For all he is the nominal heir Aemon has no doubt the realm would turn against him if Baelon or, gods forbid Vaegon, woke where he did not. Every year that passes for him the whispers of his uncle, Aegon the Uncrowned, the Dragon Too Late, grow harder for Father to stifle.
"Oh, you absolute idiot," Jocelyn sighs. "I'm not marrying a crown or a dragon. I'm marrying you, the big brother with an army of siblings, the prince who can't play cards to save his life."
Their first kiss is quick and clumsy, all Jocelyn mashing her face against his. Aemon gapes and lets her in. Something hot and wonderful wakes in him, and he wonders if tonight is when he finally flies.
Aemon flushes hotly when he realizes only one part of him has gotten the message. Jocelyn flinches back, worrying at the strands of hair that have escaped her plait.
Ser Lucamore, back turned to them, never looks away from the tapestry before him. "What a lovely scene," he muses aloud. "Why have I never taken the time to admire such beauty before?"
"Yes," Aemon agrees faintly, staring heroically at the threads of color as Jocelyn at last makes her return to the feast. "Absolutely beautiful."
Two years later, Dragonstone at last gains a princess when Aemon and Jocelyn are wed.
Once King's Landing had two great septs, astride both Visenya's Hill and the Hill of Rhaenys. But the Sept of Remembrance has long been razed, the Dragonkeep raised in its place so that Maegor might have had a fortress befitting his true bestial form. The Dragonsept raised by a High Septon in the Conqueror's time is dwarfed by both it and the Red Keep, but upon Visenya's Hill still towers above the lesser shrines of the city.
Aemon and Jocelyn's wedding is said to be even grander than the Golden Wedding between her parents twenty years before, in a sept dripping with opulence and two complete keeps to host the endless guests and celebrations. The day is extravagant, knowing no problems but those logistical problems expected of feeding and housing so many people at once.
Perhaps it helps Jocelyn is but Aemon's half-aunt instead of a full sister, that they are born of different houses and little physical similarity. Their smallfolk celebrate with them and do not huddle to each other with dark whispers of incest and abominations.
At fifteen Aemon is almost tall enough to look his bride in the eye. What chafes him is the iron fact his feet are bound to earth, that his arms might never become wings to raise Jocelyn high above the city, so that everyone might behold the dragon and his bride. Aemon is no dragon at all.
Yet Jocelyn never darkens with disappointment or glance enviously up where the Bronze King and his Good Queen circle above the revelry to remind the realm of the legacy their son springs from. Her eyes are only for him. So are her hands, stealing under the table during the feast to drive him away from his dark thoughts and into another a realm entirely.
That night they soar together in mind and spirit, to lofty heights Aemon cannot lift them to. For now her arms and her bliss are enough, so he swallow his resentment and settles at her side, conceding to all the gods have granted him.
But Aemon is born of dragons. In him the fire stirs and refuses to settle. Two years later at a tourney in Duskendale. His blood sings when he beats down all other squires in the list, claims the prize from his own brother. So does he excel in the lists. Aemon has trained only upon horses of the royal stables, accustomed to the birth to the scent of dragon upon their riders. They carry him confidently to victories while other coursers balk at the power of his blood.
When his skill earns him a knighthood, Aemon's spirit soars higher and then higher still, to heights no other could carry him. Only as a knight, standing tall in his own prowess rather than in the shadows of his predecessors, does he understand.
Ser Ryam Redwyne is sworn to the Kingsguard, no stranger to dragons. When he pulls his sword from Aemon's shoulders, his eyes widen at the heat even Aemon cannot yet sense. His quick thinking and the wide open tourney grounds prevent Aemon's first fire from causing more damage than a few minor burns and a scorched patch of dirt.
The crowd gawks back at the dragon in the tourney grounds where there had not been one before. The dragon gawks back. He's still gawking when they erupt into cheers.
Father is willing to declare it a sign of the Seven, declaring his true heir at last. It is mother who sweetly suggests Aemon is merely revealing his true nature at long last, who implies her son is merely revealing a secret long known to his family, that certainly he has been a dragon since long before becoming a grown knight of seventeen.
So Aemon draws himself draws himself proudly and pretends too. Despite the unfamiliarity of this form he has long witnessed his parents like this, has felt their muscles move beneath him when they carried him as passenger. He swaggers forward slow, basking in the crowd's adoration so he won't trip over his own tail in his haste. He brushes off pointed comments that his eyes were violet up until that very morning, convinces all he can his eyes have surely been sunny gold for years now. They've just deluded themselves into thinking otherwise.
From Duskendale Alysanne sails forth with her son and good-daughter to Dragonstone, to intimately enjoy their company while they establish their own household on the island and Jaehaerys proceeds with his grand court and their younger children back to the capital. The Conciliator ensures songs of the Red Prince spread far and wide, and all sneers of Aemon the Late stamped down before they truly take root.
Dragonstone is as private a retreat a dragon can hope for. Beneath his mother's tutelage Aemon learns to fly and master his flame, skills that should have been his years ago.
For all Dragonstone has long been declared his domain, Aemon is never allowed to fly except beneath his mother's watchful eye. Considering the dark shadow that hounds his every move, Aemon does not protest beneath Alysanne's steely eye.
Aemon has never exchanged a word his Cousin Aerea, has never the seen the face she was born to. He was a babe when she flew off to Valyria and came back... changed. She is black as obsidian and far closer to his mother's size than his relative puniness. Her hide is gouged with red, violent scars from the beasts of Valyria and from frequent fights with her mother, for Aunt Rhaena has never given up on reaching through to the lost little girl she believes somewhere beneath the scales.
Aemon sees only the molten eyes that follow his first wavering flights like a hawk watches young rabbits. She retreats some when he becomes more confident of his abilities, but he stays a respectful distance from the back of the Dragonmont where she lairs. He is not like Aunt Rhaena, to provoke her incessantly.
As Prince of Dragonstone Aemon helps manage the spiked roofs and dumping of rancid scents that discourages Cousin Aerea from preying upon the villages as she does their flocks, ensure the Dragonguard keep the shepherds far down the volcano's slopes. From his own coffers he pays the traditional amounts for sheep and goats taken, for quiet funerals and retrieval of the bones that can be reached. Not even he can silence the hisses of 'Cannibal.'
When Aemon fully masters himself he and Jocelyn take their second marriage in the traditional Valyrian rite. Her gown is rich gold, black, and red, complimenting the colors of his house and hers, that of his crimson scales and golden wings. They fly seven times around the lower portion of Dragonstone and make love beneath an open sky, upon the Stone Drum. Cousin Aerea never swoops that close to the castle, and so she remains only a distant shadow in his mind.
Within two years of him finding his fire, do Aemon and Jocelyn at least conceive their first child. Rhaenys takes near two days to be born. Jocelyn survives the birthing bed that could not take her mother, but the maester solemnly warns them trying for another child may kill her.
Aemon is not a greedy man. Their Rhaenys is a blessed child, born on the seventh day of the seventh moon. She is born clever and capable, fierce and fearless. Long before her pale violet eyes spring up orange Aemon knows her a born dragon, a queen to be. By Andal and Valyrian law, Rhaenys is his undisputed heir and wholeheartedly worthy of the title.
Fast as Corlys Velaryon's fleet may be, a dragon is far faster. Not even for his good-son can Aemon hold himself back from landing first. The Red Prince is a few years shy of forty, still in his prime, large enough to raze a small fleet all on his own. And he is no stranger to doing so, for before Myrish pirates threatened Tarth he, Baelon, and their sire won a war without losing a single man when they burned Morion Martell's fleet.
Aemon has every right to be confident, every right to rush this latest little war to its inevitable conclusion. Rhaenys has announced her first pregnancy after weeks of stewing without her wings. He wants to welcome his first grandchild into this world and not be stuck on Tarth flushing out pirates like rats.
Keen dragon eyes have no trouble sighting Lord Tarth's camp in the central islands. Beneath his shadow the men hastily clear room for him to land. In dragon form one his age might fear no man on the battlefield, but Aemon transforms without fear. His other form is shit at communication. The quicker he picks Lord Tarth for information, the sooner he and Corlys might sail home to their family after burning out the Myrish. Armed his own shed scales of red and gold, standing among allies, a dragon prince has nothing to fear.
Tarth is a beautiful island, its interior rugged and wild as its peoples cleave to the coasts. Engrossed in conversation and too arrogant for his own good, even a dragon might miss two scouts on higher ground.
Perhaps they aim for Cameron Tarth, who stands at the Red Prince's side, and simply miss. Perhaps they recognize the dragon before them and do not realize the true consequences of their recklessness.
One moment the Red Prince stands tall and proud. The next he falls back as a Myrish cross bolt blooms in his throat.
In their shock men blunder away from the dragon's ineffable wrath. Lord Tarth, who is not so foolish, falls at his prince's side and screams for a maester, for him to transform, to do something.
Aemon Targaryen cannot hear him. The Prince of Dragonstone dies moments later, choking on his own blood, golden eyes bewildered and terrified until their spark fades forever.
The Gold Prince makes no such mistake. He falls upon Tarth and its invaders as only a beast, for he needs no words to teach them the true meaning of fire and blood.
Tarth is a wet and fertile isle. It recovers. Eventually.