Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8866528.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      F/F, F/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin, Game_of_Thrones_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Jon_Snow/Melisandre, Jon_Snow/Rhaena_Belaerys, Jon_Snow/Rhaena_Belaerys/
      Melisandre, Jon_Snow/Melisandre/Whores, Cersei_Lannister/Jaime_Lannister,
      Tyrian_Lannister/Sansa_Stark_(mentioned), Daenerys_Targaryen/Daario
      Naharis_(mentioned), Bran_Stark/Meera_Reed, Edmure_Tully/Roslin_Frey,
      Brynden_'Blackfish'_Tully/his_longbow, Sansa_Stark/Petyr_Baelish_
      (onesided), Samwell_Tarly/Gilly
  Character:
      Jon_Snow, Melisandre, Rhaena_Belaerys, Dragonlord_Aurion_Emperor_of
      Valyria, Bran_Stark, Three-Eyed_Raven, Meera_Reed, Arya_Stark, Gendry,
      Davos_'Fookin'_Seaworth, Tormund_Giantsbane, Sansa_Stark, Cersei
      Lannister, Jaime_Lannister, Tyrion_Lannister, Yohn_Royce, Margaery
      Tyrell, OC's, Varys, Petyr_Baelish, Daenerys_Targaryen, Sand_Snakes,
      Doran_Martell, Arianne_Martell, Ellaria_Sand, 'Aemon_Targaryen'
  Additional Tags:
      Incest, Teen_Pregnancy, Murder, Rape, gameofthrones_-_Freeform,
      Sexposition, unfaithful, Oral_Sex, underage_somewhat_noncon_sex, Anal
      Sex, Threesome_-_F/F/M, violation_of_slaves, heavy_au, timetravel,
      Valyria, Mix_between_books_and_show, The_Tully_Train_continues, Sansa
      must_Sansa, Jon_Snow's_'true_name'_is_Aemon_Targaryen, Jon_Snow_is_a
      Targaryen
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-12-16 Updated: 2016-12-19 Chapters: 3/? Words: 20855
****** From the Ashes a Dragon ******
by Daemon_Belaerys
Summary
     As Jon's fateful stabbing ends differently, so does history change
     for better or worse. Timetravel, Heavy AU, Focus on Magic, Valyria.
     Both show and books driven. Usual warnings apply for GoT/ASoIaF:
     Smut, Incestuous Wincest Extreme Violence, Character Death, Davos
     being awesome, Rape, Littlefinger being his usual cuntish self.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
***** And from the Ashes the Dragon woke *****
Disclaimer: My old disclaimer starved to death so I've managed to breed a new
one: I do not claim any ownership of this piece nor the works it is inspired
from, with the exception of any OC's, they're MINE!
"Blah": High Valyrian.
"Blah": Common Tongue.
'Blah': Thoughts
 And from the ashes the Dragon woke.
Castle Black: Ser Alliser.
Ser Alliser Thorne looked down at the cold bloody corpse of Lord Commander Snow
with smug satisfaction. He may be a man of the Watch, but in his heart he had
always, and would always remain a Targaryen loyalist. He had held off killing
the twice over traitor's bastard as long as he had solely out of respect for
Maester Aemon, but Maester Aemon was dead, and Alliser Throne had refused to
follow Jon Snow one more day, lest he get them all killed.
"Fetch wood and oil for a pyre," he barked at the other mutineers.
Soon after the men left the blasted direwolf started howling.
"Go in there and kill that wolf," he ordered the others who glanced between
themselves.
"The wolf won't be 'appy whi'us after this he won't," one of the older lads who
had been a relatively loyal dogsbody for Alliser for years said.
"Fook me," another muttered.
"Ain't no way I'm gonna go inter the same room as that bloody wolf, not me," a
third man protested.
"I'll do it," Olly, the young lad who had stabbed Snow in the heart said.
"It's a shame when a lad of two and ten has more guts and bigger balls than the
rest of you twats combined," Alliser mocked them just as a few of the men
returned with armfuls of wood, straw, branches and oil.
While the rest of the men certainly didn't appreciate Alliser's insults, they
let them lie, 'anyfing to stay away from tha' wolf,' more than one man thought.
A quick pyre was hastily cobbled together and Snow was unceremoniously dumped
atop of it and oil poured over him afterwards.
"He was my Lord Commander," Ser Alliser started. "And he was the bastard son of
a whore and a traitor who would have destroyed the Night's Watch, but now his
watch is ended."
"And now his watch is ended," the others muttered.
Dropping the torch onto Jon Snow's chest, several things happened at once. A
panicked agonizing scream and accompanying vengeful snarls signified Olly
meeting what sounded to be a gruesome end. Flames started to lick over Snow's
corpse as wildfire amongst a field of dry grass. The sound of doors slamming
open all around them as brothers of the Night's Watch poked their noses out to
figure out what all the fuss was about. And lastly the Red Woman was looking
towards them with a look of horror in her eyes as she held out her arm as if to
try and stop them.
"YOU FOOKIN TRAITORS!" Ser Davis and Dolorous Edd shouted simultaneously
Alliser was about to take control of the situation, truly, he was. But just as
he was prepared to shout the others into submission something happened.
The Red Woman groaned as if in pain. Falling to her knees, the entirety of
Castle Black watched in shock as the ruby around her neck glowed. The brighter
it glowed the older the woman looked until she looked like an ancient crone. As
this happened the fire consuming Jon Snow's corpse shone just as strongly and
grew to such prominence and intensity that the top of the flames flickered
above even the tallest tower in Castle Black. The heat was so unbearable that
several men collapsed, even Alliser barely held his tongue as he felt his skin
blister all over.
"WHUS 'APPENIN?" Chell, one of the mutineers screamed.
'Whatever is happening it can't be good,' Alliser thought worriedly as the
flames grew brighter, until they were so bright that everyone had to avert
their eyes. A mere moment later every inhabitant was blown off their feet at
the cataclysmic explosion of heat and light.
Waking up, Alliser vaguely noted that not a single speck of snow could be seen
inside the castle. A perfect crater fifteen feet across and six feet deep stood
where Jon Snow's body had burnt. Of the Red Woman there was no sight, with the
exception of her ruby necklace that had cracked in two and rested upon a pile
of ashes. The last observation Alliser made was that his fellow mutineers had
all been tied up or burnt to ashes if they had stood too close to the pyre.
Standing above his fellow mutineers were the friends of the bastard who must
have come to their senses first, turning his gaze to the right he was just
quick enough to see the sole of Dolorous Edd's right boot introduce itself to
his face.
 *G*R*A*T*U*I*T*O*U*S*L*I*N*E*B*R*E*A*K*E*R*G*R*A*T*U*I*T*O*U*S*L*I*N*E*B*R*E*A*K*E*R*G*R*A*T*U*I*T*O*U*S*L*I*N*E*B*R*E*A*K*E*R
Somewhere: Jon Snow.
"Why?" Jon whispered as he opened his eyes, only to look around in
astonishment. A mere moment ago he had been stabbed numerous times in the
chest, finished by his own steward who plunged a dagger into his heart. By that
time he had been ready to just give in, the pain so great, and he was tired.
Tired of his brothers, tired of the Free Folk, tired of this or that argument.
Tired of not having a single good night's sleep as dreams of the dead woke him,
but instead of rest or seeing his family again he was…here.
'For that matter, where is here?' he thought. Looking around he found could see
that he was in a rocky uneven terrain. Hills and rock formations all around.
Sand was everywhere, along with the odd bush here or there, and some patches of
grass, not to mention the heat of the sun that was boiling down on him. A small
tower could be spotted in the distance, perhaps an hour or two of walking from
where he stood.
With a target in mind he had barely taken three steps before a bright flash of
light from behind him made him turn around.
"Lady Melisandre," he said with a hoarse voice as he averted his eyes. She
looked as inhumanly beautiful as always with her crimson eyes and blood red
hair, and she was currently clad in nothing but her nameday suit.
"Who are you?" she asked, curiosity and wonder alike tinted her voice.
Jon frowned, he had spoken with her mere hours before. "Jon Snow, My Lady," he
told her patiently, perhaps whatever had caused her to end up in the afterlife
had made her confused.
'Impossible,' she whispered, before she laughed. She laughed as she hadn't done
in years.
"My Lady?" he questioned.
"Who did you say your mother was 'Jon Snow'?"
"My father never told me," Melisandre smiled victoriously as he replied in
perfect High Valyrian, likely he had never even noticed that they switched
languages. If he replied instinctually in High Valyrian when proffered, the Old
Blood was indeed strong in him.
"Would you like to know?" she asked him.
"How could you know? Did you meet her?"he asked her suspiciously.
Melisandre shook her head. "No, but I've heard the tales, and during my years I
have seen enough of your kin from near enough to recognise the truth,"she told
him, while something showed in her eyes that Jon had never seen before…pity.
"Tell me," he sighed, this time replying in the common tongue.
"Lyanna Stark."
Jon gaped, 'surely she isn't suggesting?'"How dare you?" he hissed. "My father
would never lay with his own sister," Jon was fuming at what she suggested,
somewhat due to outrage, but also out of guilt. He had seen both the statue of
his aunt Lyanna as well as drawings, and from what people said, Arya was Lyanna
come again, and more than one lonely night had been spent dreaming of a far
more grown up Arya, 'stop it, that's wrong,' he reminded his treacherous mind.
"I can assure you," Melisandre's voice had a definite amused timbre to it.
"That if your father had a sister of the right age he would most definitely had
lain with her, whether he would still have taken or courted your mother is a
mystery."
Jon sighed as he shook his head to try and wake from whatever nightmare he was
in, the Red Woman made no sense what so ever, and it was wearing on his already
frayed temper. "Speak sense My Lady," he spat, "Enough of your riddles."
Melisandre bowed. "Look at your hair?" she stated simply causing Jon to furrow
his brow, of all the things she could ask him, she wanted him to look at his
hair.
Still if it would make her start to make sense he might as well indulge her. He
should have known better, he dimly noted as he stared in shock at the lock of
almost pure whitehair with strands of silver amongst them that he held in
between his fingers. Frantically he tried to find more locks of hair, all for
it to look similar to that first lock he found. Looking down he yelped as he
realized for the first time that he was wearing just as little as Melisandre,
and that the hair around his cock seemed to match the hair on his head.
"Your father, was Rhaegar Targaryen," Melisandre continued. Thankfully she
ignored his sudden embarrassment, and was even helpful or kind enough to not
deliberately look at his manhood.
Jon vaguely felt himself collapse to his knees. 'Why?' he asked, 'why would my
father lie to me all these years?'
"To protect you from the truth," came another voice, and Jon whirled his head
around. Where the voice had come from stood an old man. Long snow white hair,
with a wrinkled face, one of his eyes were missing, while the remaining one was
as red as blood. Slung over his shoulders was a mottled old cloak, an almost
perfect copy of the very same cloak Jon had worn until very recently, and even
more importantly was that the young man standing beside the older one was
someone knew well.
It had been over five years that Jon had last seen him, but his younger brother
'or is it cousin,' would never be a stranger to Jon. First of all, Bran was
standing, and looking just as amazed if not more than Jon. He had grown taller,
and cut his hair it seemed. Bran who had always had his dark Tully red hair
down to his shoulders in a hopeful attempt to imitate Jon, something which had
not pleased Bran's Lady Mother.
"BRAN!" Jon shouted as he threw his arms around his younger brother.
"I missed you Jon," Brans sniffled as he clung just as hard to Jon
Reluctantly Jon parted from Bran and looked at the stranger. "What is going
on?" Jon demanded.
"You died," the old man said abruptly, and Bran gasped, seeing the horrible
wounds on Jon's chest for the first time. The wounds had already scarred over,
leaving no less than eight nasty looking scars. "You were supposed to die," the
old man continued, causing Bran to narrow his eyes angrily at him. "But the
aftermath was not how I had…"
"You what?" Bran snarled. "Are you saying that you deliberately caused my
brother's murder?" that certainly got Jon's eyes to narrow into slits as well
and his hand reached for Longclaw, only to snarl at its missing presence.
"Your Brother," the old man started. "Should never gone to the wall in the
first place. I did what I had to do to free him."
"And how exactly, will killing me make me free?" Jon snarked.
"You are no longer bound to your vows," the old man said succinctly. "And as
such free to fulfil your destiny."
"What do you mean destiny? What does all of this have to do with Rhaegar
apparently being my father? What the HELL IS GOING ON!" Jon was shouting the
last words, and Bran didn't seem to be more in the know than Jon, even
Melisandre seemed to be somewhat confused.
The old man looked at Bran before laying his hands on Bran's shoulders. "That
is enough for today Brandon Stark," and to Jon's amazement, both Bran and the
old man disappeared quite literally from the empty air with the old man
returning in the blink of an eye.
"You know the tale of Lightbringer?" he asked Jon and Melisandre.
"Lightbringer was the sword of Azor Ahain," Melisandre said. "Blessed by
R'hllor as he drove the still hot blade through the heart of his wife."
Jon nodded in assent, though in the North R'hllor was never mentioned in the
tale, but it was known that Azor Ahai had forged the blade by plunging it into
the heart of his wife Nissa Nissa to use to defeat the Walkers and beat back
the Long Night.
"Wrong," the old man said, and if Jon wasn't mistaken there was a hint of
smugness in his tone.
Melisandre certainly seemed to take it as a personal blow as her face screwed
up in indignity.
"Lightbringer was never a sword," the old man continued. "Lightbringer was, and
always will be a person, a child to be specific."
"Years upon years ago, it was prophesised that the Prince-Who-Was-Promised
would be bourn from the line of Aerys and Rhaella, this Prince would be the
Song of Ice and Fire, destined to beat back the Long Night. For years Prince
Rhaegar believed it to be first himself, and then his son Aegon, but he
eventually realized the truth, that the child would have to be born from Ice
and Fire both, that is why he sought out Lyanna Stark."
Jon's mouth felt dry like a desert, no matter how much he wanted to deny it he
couldn't help but hang on to every word.
"He explained it to your mother, who agreed to his proposal, even knowing her
fate," at this the old man seemed both sad and impressed.
"Her…her fate," Jon questioned.
"As with Nissa Nissa, giving birth to Lightbringer would doom her own life, no
Maester, woods witch or shadowbinder could have saved your mother, giving
creation to such power comes at a price, a price that was extolled even heavier
on your father who paid with not only his own life, but the lives of his
parents, wife and children."
"What power?" Jon asked, "I have no power, I don't even have a name."
The old man laughed. "No power? You may not have the greensight, but you are
most definitely a Warg. When you were but a babe you rode out a plague for
weeks that laid down nine and thirty grown men and women in Winterfell, coming
out of it without so much as a mark while the others who survived were forever
marked by the pox scars. You had the power to, even in death reach out to me.
You drew on the power of the Red Priestess to save yourself."
Jon blinked while Melisandre looked at him curiously and even somewhat
hungrily. "But, I've never consciously used that power that you speak of, I
cannot enter Ghost to see through his eyes, or control his actions.
"Have you ever tried?" the old man asked, to which Jon shook his head. "You
have a power that is beyond the ken of mere mortals, even your cousin Brandon
whose greensight I've never seen nor heard the like of cannot compare, the
blood of Old Valyria and Winter Kings combined is truly a marvel, and once you
learn to control it, only then will you be prepared to stand against the
Night's King and his armies, and even so it may not be enough."
Jon shook his head in denial. "But I am dead," he said. "I cannot do anything."
"You are not dead," the old man shot back. "You are merely in between, cast
adrift on the eddies of time and space, but come, our time is short and there
is something you must see before we both return to the real word."
Confused both Jon and Melisandre followed the old man towards the tower in the
distance. A tower guarded by three men with white cloaks, facing seven others
and as they got closer Jon was shocked to recognise the lead figure of the
seven as his father or was it uncle? Ice was gripped in his hands.
"Father," Jon shouted, to no avail, none of the ten men there could hear him,
and he doubted that they could be seen either, as neither Jon nor Melisandre
could draw their gaze. Melisandre at the very least should have drawn a few
appreciative glances.
"I looked for you on the Trident," Ned said to them.
"We were not there," Ser Gerold answered.
"Woe to the Usurper if we had been," said Ser Oswell.
"When King's Landing fell Ser Jaime slew your king with a golden sword, and I
wondered where you were."
"Far away," Ser Gerold said, "or Aerys would yet sit the Iron Throne and our
false brother would burn in seven hells."
"I came down on Storm's End to lift the siege," Ned told them, and the Lords
Tyrell and Redwyne dipped their banners, and all their knights bent the knee to
pledge us fealty. I was certain you would be among them."
"Our knees do not bend easily," said Ser Arthur Dayne. "Ser Willem Darry is
fled to Dragonstone, with your Queen and Prince Viserys. I thought you might
have sailed with him."
"Ser Willem is a good man and true," said Ser Oswell.
"But not of the Kingsguard," Ser Gerold pointed out. "The Kingsguard does not
flee."
"Then or now," said Ser Arthur. He donned his helm.
"We swore a vow," explained old Ser Gerold. Ned's companions moved up beside
him, with swords in hand. They were seven against three.
"And now it begins," said Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. He
unsheathed Dawn and held it with both hands. The blade was pale as milkglass,
alive with light.
"No," Ned said with sadness in his voice. "Now it ends.
Even though he knew the outcome, Jon still watched with anxiousness as the
fight raged. Ser Arthur was indeed as good as the legends claimed, and Jon
could see that he would be lucky if he could have kept up with him, though he
felt a small amount of pride that his own skills exceeded what skills his
father appeared to have, which confused Jon as he knew that Lord Eddard Stark
was the one who had killed Ser Arthur, and as Howland Reed plunged a dagger
into Ser Arthur's neck from behind Jon knew why.
To ease the suffering of the greatest Knight Westeros had seen in hundreds if
not thousands of years his father picked up the pale blade and in a single
stroke removed Ser Arthur's head from the shoulders.
"We must follow," the Old man said, shooing both Jon and Melisandre up the
stairs, right behind Ned and Howland until they came to a room with a single
bloodstained bed, a pair of maids stood to either side of the bed, a bed which
held who the old man and Melisandre claimed to be his mother.
Lyanna Stark was indeed beautiful as most people had proclaimed. There had been
those of course who claimed that her death, and the fact that a war had been
fought over her had caused people to exaggerate her beauty, but Jon would like
to think them wrong.
Even having gone through the rigours of childbirth there was an undeniable
beauty in the young woman. While not a 'classical' beauty in the sense that
Queen Cersei Lannister was or Margaery Tyrell was rumoured to be, Lyanna Stark
had an undeniably wildness to her. Her features were the best that the North
could produce, just like Winter could be beautiful it was also deadly, that was
the sort of imagery produced by Lyanna Stark.
"Listen to me Ned," Lyanna spoke with a weakening voice, the pain almost
overcoming her. She leant close to whisper to her brother, causing both Jon and
Melisandre to do the same. "His name is Aemon Targaryen, if Robert finds out
he'll kill him, you know he will, you have to protect him…promise me Ned," she
leant back as her brother accepted a small child into his arms, a child that
Jon could see was undeniably him, even so shortly after having been born the
babe had the same dark eyes, seeming almost black or dark indigo in the right
lighting. "Promise…me…" Lyanna muttered again, her eyes opening and closing at
their own accord, the presence behind them, the sparkle that was usually
present in anyone's eyes diminishing more every second.
"I promise," Ned sobbed and Jon felt his heart clench painfully.
Even as the life left her Lyanna, his mother, opened her eyes one last time and
Jon knew, he just knew that she could see him, as her eyes seemed to drink in
every detail on his face, and he felt himself give a trembling smile as he laid
eyes on his mother for the first 'true' time. 'Be strong my son' she whispered
so low that no one could hear it, but Jon was good enough at reading her lips,
and expression that he knew what she said.
"I will mother," Jon said as he tried in vain to dry the tears away from his
eyes.
A pained sob brought Jon's attention back to the face of the man he had called
'father' all his life. Ned Stark's shoulders were shaking as he held his only
nephew, orphaned before he could even walk.
"Ned," Howland Reed who Jon had forgotten completely spoke suddenly, causing
both Jon and his uncle to startle at the slight Crannogman who was holding a
hand at his bleeding side. "What will you do?"
His uncle held his silence for a moment before he laid a last kiss on his
mother's brow. "I'll raise him at Winterfell," Ned said. "I will not let Lya's
boy grow up without family…to the world he'll be Jon Snow, my son."
"He'll be a bastard," Howland said carefully. "Your wife will not like it."
Ned nodded sadly. "He'll have a hard life, but he will be alive, I'll not have
him share the fate of his brother and sister," and Jon felt a sudden stab of
pain in his heart.
He knew what had happened to Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys, to think of
them as siblings was strange, even more so was the fact that if his uncle had
not done what he did then Jon 'or is it Aemon?' would have shared their fate.
Would he have been strangled by a pillow? Or would the King have split his
skull open on a wall like Clegane did to his elder brother?
He didn't even notice that he had fallen to his knees weeping until the hand of
both Melisandre and the old man touched upon his shoulder. All the revelations
of the last few hours, including his own death. Not even the death of Ygritte
had been as painful, nor taken such a toll upon him, worst of all, Jon knew now
that all of the pain was his own fault, it was the price for his birth, for
which he could never repay.
"Now you know," the old man said. "You are the last male heir of our House. The
world is yours to save, and the Iron Throne yours to take."
"Our House?" Jon questioned.
"Once, long ago, before I became the Three-Eyed-Raven, I was Brynden
Bloodraven. Hand of the King, son of Aegon IV Targaryen. The future prosperity
of our House rests now upon your shoulders."
"But, what about the Targaryen across the sea?" Jon asked as he searched for
her name. "Daenerys," he finally said as he remembered the name.
"Perhaps she has a part to play, perhaps not. I cannot see the path that lies
before her."
Bloodraven turned to Melisandre. "You are older than you appear, and powerful
besides," he said. "You must teach him. Train him to use his powers, even if
they do not correlate to the Red God, if he cannot master the power that
resides in his blood, the world is doomed to eternal darkness."
Melisandre nodded. "He is R'hllor's chosen, I will not fail him."
"Good, now remember…" and before they could hear what Bloodraven had to say the
world turned to flame and ash. Winds of scorching heat turned and twisted until
both Melisandre and Jon 'Aemon,' he reminded himself tumbled out of a roaring
fire amongst hundreds of men and women.
The army that surrounded them were dressed in impeccable, albeit strange
armour. Their arms and legs were protected with intricate plate, richly
decorated with strange imagery of fantastical beasts and glyphs. A few wore
either single wholesuit plate cuirasses while others had armour of segmented
plates, while the vast majority wore long protective shirts and mid-thigh
length skirts of scale, what every armour had in common was the distinctive
smoky ripples of valyrian steel, for that matter every man and woman alike had
flowing manes of hair ranging from the almost pure white that he himself had
acquired to a more golden white, and purple eyes of all nuances shone in the
firelight as they stared at him and Melisandre. Standing closest were twelve
men, armoured just like the others, but with elaborate robes on top of the
armour, in hues of red, green, blue and purple, and right in front of Jon
'Aemon' he told himself yet again, stood the man who could be no other than the
leader of the army they had encountered.
Standing tall at well over six feet, he was clad from head to toe in silver
plate that had been worked into a piece of art. Pictures of ancient battles to
writings in High Valyrian and glowing gems, all of it had been engraved and
incorporated into the armoured plates. Serrated edges, ran along his bracers,
and his dragon shaped helmet held a flowing plume of bright yellow horse hair.
Like his helmet's plumage, he wore a flowing cloak that just barely touched the
ground, this in the same yellow colour. His shield was yellow, with a single
swooping dragon dragon in black above a chevron in red.
Looking at the man's face Aemon barely held himself from gulping. There was
intelligence in those eyes, but also cruelty, and if how Melisandre's eyes
glowed slightly when she performed her magics was anything to go by, the man
was also a skilled sorcerer. And as if things could not be worse, the man was
flanked by the largest monstrosity Aemon had ever laid eyes on.
The dragon, for what else could it be was so large that its mouth alone was
large enough to allow three men to stand side by side inside without hitting
their heads at the roof of its mouth. The black curved teeth were the length of
longswords while the dragon's yellow eyes were the size of dinner plates.
Scales the size of Aemon's fists covered the entire dragon like a suit of
armour in tones of deep red to blazing orange. If this dragon was anything
close to what Balerion had been, he understood perfectly why Torrhen Stark had
knelt before Aegon, and he was amazed at the balls 'or stupidity' of the
Lannisters and Gardeners who had actually engaged Aegon's forces.
"Who are you, whom deem yourself worthy to appear before me?" the Dragonlord
questioned, his voice was harsh and brooked no argument.
As quick as he dared, lest he lose his life to the maw of a dragon, Aemon knelt
and lowered his head, and he breathed out a short sigh of relief as Melisandre
copied his actions, though she prostrated herself even further by letting her
forehead rest on the ground with both of her hands stretched out before her.
"Let me handle this," Melisandre whispered to him.
"My Master is Aemon of the House Targaryen," she spoke, almost causing Aemon to
protest at her calling him Master, but he figured that Melisandre understood
better than he.
The Dragonlord frowned for a moment. "Ah yes, the ones who fled to the west a
few years ago, to settle a small island. I remember how we all mocked them when
they warned us all of what was to come," he sighed deeply. "How I wish now that
we had heeded their warning."
The Dragonlord grabbed Aemon's chin and lifted his head so that he could stare
into his face. "Where is your dragon? For that matter, why do you appear before
me naked?"
"Great Lord," Melisandre said, still prostate on the ground. "My Lord Master's
majestic beast was slain as near was he by a jealous freedman whom guested him
in Myr, only instinctual magics kept my Master and I safe."
The Dragonlord narrowed his eyes as he studied both Melisandre and Aemon,
noting the numerous scars he had picked up over the years, including the
recently healed ones on his chest. "The same has happened everywhere recently.
Lys was the first, and then, one after the other the Free Cities rose against
us. What few of us survived the doom were murdered alongside our dragons."
Turning his head towards Melisandre he continued. "And who are you? Who
presumes to speak in my presence?"
Melisandre took it in stride though, and Aemon was once more impressed at how
almost nothing, not even death by dragonfire could unnerve her. "I am my
Master's most loyal, I perform whatever My Master needs or desires, whether it
be to act as his tongue, or be his instrument of death," Melisandre answered,
and Aemon had to give her points for audacity and ingenuity.
The Dragonlord turned to one of the robed men who stood closest. "Is it
possible that this young man's attempts at sorcery interfered with the ritual?"
"My Lord Emperor," the robed man started. "Anything is possible, perhaps he is
indeed what we came for. We prayed to Urrax and cast our spells in the hope
that the way forward would be made clear, and he showed up. It cannot be
happenstance."
Jon gulped, the only Emperor Aemon had ever heard of in the vaguest terms would
be Aurion the Dragonlord who led his army into Valyria only to disappear. In
the Smoking Sea.
"Well, Aemon of House Targaryen?"the Emperor questioned. "I am assembling a
great host to retake our homeland, are you the one who can help me find the
way?"
Perhaps Aemon was. If there was one thing Valyria was full of it should be
Valyrian steel, which would be needed against the White Walkers, and Valyria
had said to be the centre for all magical teachings in the known world, but to
enter it…a risky undertaking, but as it was he had little to lose.
"I know the way Your Grace," Aemon replied as he bowed his head again.
"Then I shall offer you the honour of joining me. While never amongst the most
influential of families, House Targaryen always enjoyed a position of wealth
and prominence in Valyria, other than mine own daughter and what few relatives
you have far to the west there are no more Dragonlords in the world. Swear
yourself to me, and I shall reward you unlike no other. For your undying
loyalty and aid in reclaiming our home I shall give you the chance to accept a
new dragon for you to ride, and the chance to lead my armies into battle."
Aemon swallowed. A dragon of his own. Ever since he and Robb were children he
had dreamt of riding a dragon, and after the one incident when Robb broke his
heart by saying that he could never be the Lord of Winterfell due to his
bastardry, Aemon had always proclaimed to be Aemon the Dragonknight or Daron
the Young Dragon, and now, now he could barely hold his chuckles as he realized
that he was related to both of his childhood heroes, descended from one of them
even if the rumours about the Dragonknight and his sister Naerys were true.
"He is the Dragonlord Aurion of House Belaerys," Melisandre whispered, just low
enough that only Aemon could hear.
While it was certainly strange to suddenly find himself in a whole other place
in the world, and hundreds of years before he had even been born, he knew that
he must accept the situation for what it was, if he had to stop the Long Night
before it could even begin he was fine with that
"I, Aemon of the House Targaryen hereby swear myself to you His Grace, Aurion
of House Belaerys, First of his name as Emperor of Valyria. I swear to uphold
his command, the be his sword and shield against the darkness, from this night
and all nights to come." Aemon barely managed to stay serious as he took the
oath of the Night's Watch and changed it as he saw fit.
Aurion took out his knife and made a shallow cut in the palm of his hand before
offering the blade to Aemon, who took the hint and repeated the gesture and
clasped his new Lord's hand in his own. "As your Lord and Emperor I hereby
accept your oath of fealty, and do swear that if you stay loyal and true, I
will reward you with greatness, and if you prove to be false I will wreak upon
you righteous vengeance."
Aemon got his first personal taste of magic as he felt his blood boil, and
something take hold in him. 'blood magic,' he realized with trepidation. Blood
magic had been used as he swore his oath, and he knew that any attempt at
raising his blade against his new Lord would be futile. His own blood and magic
would see him dead before he could finish the attempt.
A pair of servants wandered over, 'slaves' Aemon thought with disgust as he
spotted the collars on their necks. Next to all the Valyrians around him they
looked positively plain, with dark brown hair, skin and eyes. "These slaves
will show you to a tent where you and your…pet can rest for the night. We ride
for Qohor on the morrow to gather more or our Valyrian kin."
Aemon nodded. He remembered enough to know that Aurion had started his army
from Qohorik colonials, increasing his small army of perhaps a thousand to
several thousand. He also knew that Aurion had with him thirty thousand men to
Valyria, so most likely they would have to visit each of the Free Cities in
turn.
"What should I do with the…slaves Your Grace?"Aemon asked Aurion.
The Emperor waved the question away with a gesture. "They are slaves, do with
them what you will."
Aemon tried his best to hide his grimace. He knew that the east had practiced
slavery since time immemorial, the Valyrians just as cruel as the ones who came
before and after, but he had never thought he would be mixed up in it all.
While the temptations to protest slavery or let them go he wasn't stupid. Sure
he may have tried just a little bit too hard to emulate his uncle, managing to
get himself killed for it, but he knew enough that if he was truly the one to
beat the White Walkers, he would need every advantage he could get, and the
civilization of Old Valyria had seen no equal in the annals of history, before
or since, so he would bite his tongue and play along. He had done so amongst a
hundred thousand Free Folk, all whom had wanted him dead and would have killed
him at the slightest sign if his duplicity, he could do so again.
"Show me to my tent," he ordered the two slaves who bowed deeply, leading him
with all haste through the small camp to a generously sized tent that had been
erected with all haste, a single bed stood inside with blankets and pillows of
luxurious silk. Upon a small ebony nightstand stood a candlestick of Valyrian
steel, three candles burning merrily on it, other than that the tent was empty.
Before he could dismiss the two slaves however they had grabbed his arms and
made him pose as they started to take quick measurements of anything and
everything, causing him to squirm in discomfort when their hands came close to,
or accidentally touched his cock, the sight of a naked Melisandre who was given
a similar treatment was not helping his restraint at all.
Eventually they finished and disappeared swiftly, backing away with surprising
speed and grace as they bowed over and over. He turned to the bed where
Melisandre was already laying down, the seductive pose she held her body in,
resting on the side with her head supported in one hand while the other hand
laid comfortably at ease on her thigh. "Come My Prince," she said as she
gestured to the space beside her and Aemon could see that it would be a tight
fit. The bed was just large enough for a pair of lovers to share in comfort.
"Tonight, we rest, and tomorrow we begin a new game." Weighing his options,
Aemon sighed before joining her on the bed, barely restraining himself from
cursing as Melisandre draped herself over him as if they had been lovers for
all their lives. While Melisandre dozed off swiftly it took Aemon some time,
helped in no way by his manhood that was more than eager to engage the woman
who rested atop of him. He had almost given in to her once in Castle Black, and
if things continued the way they had done so far during this crazy day, he knew
that he would give in to her charms soon enough."
***** Chapter 2 *****
 Scouts after disclaimer which has hidden itself in the crows nest, obviously
not interested in making an appearance.
Camp of Aurion Belaerys, Emperor of Valyria. 9 moon turns ADV (After the Doom
of Valyria).
Aemon awoke with a start. His sleep had been marred by nightmares, and as soon
as he felt the lingering pain in his chest from the scars he knew that it was
no dream. His entire life had been one lie after another. His uncle Ned Stark
whom had pretended to be his father all his life had never once considered
telling him the truth, even his name 'Jon' was a lie.
Every time he had asked Lord Eddard Stark about his mother he had been met with
excuses or stone cold rebuttals. Even the last time they saw each other, just
before Jon was about to swear away his life for good in the Night's Watch his
uncle lied to him. When Lord Stark said, 'Next time we see each other, we'll
talk about your mother,' Aemon had spotted the lie at once. The trembling of
his face, the emotional placating tone, just the same as it always was at the
earlier occasions he'd asked about his mother.
It bothered him, to know how little his uncle must have thought of him. That he
was willing to let his only nephew by blood to be mistreated and mocked to the
point where he felt worthless and without a place in the world. Not only that,
but he, and Aemon's uncle Benjen, Sers Rodrik and Jory Cassel, Maester Luwin,
every adult who had played some part in his upbringing had led him false.
Reminding him every so often that the Watch treated men equally, bastard or
otherwise. They certainly didn't mention the thieves, rapers and murderers who
made up the majority, nor even the fact that almost a full quarter of the
current members had been sent there for no other reason than following who they
saw as the lawful King during Robert's Rebellion, Ser Alliser had certainly
been one of them.
'If only Ser Alliser knew who he stabbed to death,' Aemon thought with a
chuckle. He would almost be willing to pardon the man if it meant that he could
see the staunchest Targaryen supporter on the Wall realize that he had just
plunged his dagger into the chest of the last male Targaryen.
"You are awake my Prince," Aemon turned his head and realized that Melisandre
was already awake, and judging by the dusk outside the sun still hadn't risen.
"Bad dreams," he murmured. "You are up early yourself."
Melisandre shrugged slightly. "The Lord of Light sustains me, I need little
sleep."
As good an answer as any, Aemon certainly had nothing to prove her wrong, and
he had seen some of her power at first hand, having little need for sleep was
hardly the most impressive thing. Studying the Red Priestess he noticed that
she seemed far less self certain than she used to be. When he first met her she
was as proud and certain as Prince Joffrey, her faith in the Lord of Light
making her into a bastion of confidence and vitality, now...
She looked tired. Her scarlet eyes were dim, brows furrowed and she kept biting
her lips in worry, albeit the fashion in which she did was certainly having an
effect on his lower extremities, and he offered a silent prayer of thanks to
the Old Gods that she appeared before him in clothes this time. She was dressed
in a flowing strapless dress of red silk, with a sash of the same colour thrown
over her right shoulder, held in place at her waist with a utilitarian leather
belt.
"The slaves have finished your own garments my Prince," she said as she slowly
walked over to the table and picked up a pair of trousers made from black
leather that would be laced up on the sides.
"Ah right," Aemon said as he glanced about. "Would you…mind waiting outside?"
Melisandre smiled as he blushed. "I must be the one to dress my Prince," she
said patiently. "We are now in a time shortly after your people were at the
height of your power, and with the exception of your ancestors who live in
Dragonstone at this point in time, you are one of three remaining Dragonlords
left, and as such you must play the part."
Aemon sighed. He had of course had to do this before, during the year or so he
spent along the Free Folk, but that didn't mean he had to like it, and yet,
perhaps it was here he did belong. He had never felt as if he truly belonged,
when he lived in Winterfell or on the Wall, always the feeling as if something
was missing. The occasional dreams he had about his cousin Arya, whom he
thought to be his sister at the time certainly hadn't helped him feel like a
proper Northerner.
"Wait," Aemon said suddenly as he was struck by a realiziation. "There are more
than just three Valyrians in the world," he said accusingly. "The Velaryons,
Celtigars and Sunglass families are all of Valyrian heritage, Lys and Volantis
is crawling with those who have the Old Blood."
"Very good my Prince," Melisandre said as she seated herself on the bed. "But
while they are certainly of the Old Blood, they are not of 'The Blood'."
Aemon frowned, "What is the difference?"
"'The Blood' as it is or was known, are those who descended from the original
forty families who tamed and rode Dragons. Every single dragonrider have come
from one of those forty families, they were the nobility and ruling class of
Valyria, they were the ones who ruled. So while the Velaryons are Valyrian, and
quite rich at that as skilled merchants and seafarers they never had a voice in
politics. They were sworn to the Targaryens, whom in return for fealty and
tribute, repaid the Velaryons in the conclave where they had a voice as one of
the forty."
"So the Targaryens championed the Velaryons causes in the conclave in return
for…profit?" Aemon asked, somewhat disappointed.
Melisandre laughed. "You make it sound much worse than it was."
Aemon grumbled. "I don't like politics," politics did nothing more than get
people killed.
"You make it sound as if the Velaryons got nothing for their trouble. Their men
and ships were sworn to the Targaryens, but as they were sworn the Targaryens
also had oaths of their own. Oaths that compelled them to represent the
interests of their vassals in the conclave, and if needs must defend them with
their dragons should war come their way."
Aemon nodded, that made much more sense, and also nearly identical as to how
the House system in Westeros worked. "How do you know all this?"
A shadow stretched over Melisandre's features. "I grew up in this," she
whispered. "I was nine when the doom came, by that time I was already sold into
slavery in Volantis, so while I may not have grown up as nobility, I grew up
when Valyria was at its zenith, everyone knew these things."
Aemon gaped. "But…that's…you must be hundreds of years old."
"Yes," Melisandre whispered. "For hundreds of years have I walked this earth,
alone, with nothing but the flames and the Lord of Light to keep me sane. I've
served as a bedslave and a maid alike, I was tortured in Asshai by the Shadow
by my master who performed vile experiments of dark magicks, but the longer I
stayed with him, the more I learnt as I snuck into his chambers to read his
books and scrolls at night. I performed my spells and rituals on small animals,
until I was ready to break free. The Lord of Light guided me, and I killed my
master, then I left Asshai behind…changed, but more devoted than ever to
R'hllor's ways."
Aemon's mind went a thousand paces a second as she revealed more of her past.
"So, how have you managed to live so long as you have? You should be nothing
more than a pile of bone by now."
Melisandre shuddered slightly and hugged herself as if trying to ward off a
cold wind. "The magic of the shadowbinders is powerful, immensely so, but not
without cost." "When I killed my master, I offered his soul, along with the
souls of my unborn children, in return for life."
Aemon frowned. "What do you mean?"
"The Shadowbinders from Asshai are not truly alive, nor are they dead, and
their experiments often strip their subjects down into some form of half life
as well. I sacrificed my master's soul, as well as my ability to birth living
children, in return for eternal youth, or something close to it."
"You'll never have children?" Aemon asked.
"Never," Melisandre whispered. "The only children I can give birth to are mere
shadow and vapour, a from of dark vengeance hungry for blood."
Aemon shuddered, he had heard the muttered rumours of how Melisandre had dealt
with Renly Baratheon. "And do all red priests know these things?"
"No," Melisandre said. "The magics from Asshai are a blight on the world, and
an affront to R'hllor, and if not for the fact that the Great Other still
stares hungrily down at the world from the north, biding his time, we would
have brought flame and death to Asshai a long time ago."
He was impressed, as much as he would like to remain unimpressed, there was
something about the religious zeal that was worthy of admiration. Not that he
would ever convert to her faith, but he could see that she still trusted her
god deeply. "And yet," he started. "I hear that you have been using your shadow
magics to serve Stannis."
Melisandre winced at the reminder. "I have, and if I can serve R'hllor's will
by defeating the Great Other, I will gladly damn my soul for eternity in
death."
"Truly?" Aemon asked with a raised eyebrow. "You'd accept being burned in a
lake of fire for all eternity by using tools that your God have declared to be
anathema?"
Melisandre's eyes seemed to be burning again as fervour and determinations wept
trough her. "If you wish to win the war for the soul of man, the war for life
itself you must be willing to sacrifice everything. THAT is the resolve you
must have Aemon Targaryen, do you have it? Can you keep defying the great cold
and darkness even as it strips away everything you have ever loved and held
dear?"
"I don't know," he whispered. "I have already given and lost so much. In a
single night I lost my life, I lost my father, mother brothers and sisters all
over again. I learned that all my life has been one lie after another, I learnt
that both my uncles didn't care for me enough to warn me about what the Watch
truly was…if they had loved me, would they not have told me the truth? About
the watch at least?"
Melisandre looked at him with both pity and understanding. "And how does that
make you feel my Prince? How does it feel that everyone you ever looked up to
let you live this lie?"
Aemon looked down at his hand that was resting over the covers. It was clenched
together in a fist and shaking badly. "It makes me furious," he hissed. "The
only crime I ever did to Lord and Lady Stark was to be born."
Melisandre gently put her hand over his. "Then use that fury," she said. "The
fury of the Dragonlords was legendary, besides their dragons it was their
greatest strength."
"Explain!" Aemon barked.
"Magic my Prince," she said. "Magic is dangerous and powerful, some say it is a
sword without a hilt, but it is more than that. Magic is a beast as ferocious
as the great beasts of war that your ancestors rode, a force of unfathomable
power that have to be broken in, dominated to your will, and emotions are the
key, and love and fury are some of the most powerful emotions there are."
Aemon nodded, thankful at the little nugget of information. "Then perhaps we
should start my education."
Melisandre smiled. "Good, but first I must dress you."
"Oh…right. Remind me again why it must be you who dress me."
"Your new Emperor, and everyone else here believe I am your slave. As your
slave it is my task to dress and undress you, to wash your clothes, fetch your
food, and pleasure you when you desire it, a role I will be happy to play if it
lets you stay here in a position of power rather than as a slave."
Aemon stroked his chin thoughtfully for a moment, it made sense to a certain
point of view. "So as long as we play along, we should be safe?" he asked as he
stood up, trying his best to not show any discomfort at his nudity.
"For a short time at least," Melisandre answered as she started to lace up his
trousers.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"Did you not find it strange that Aurion accepted you so eagerly?"
"No…" Aemon replied unsurely. "I wasn't exactly at my best last night."
"I thought as much," Melisandre said as she started to lace up his other leg.
"You are nearly his social equal, in that you come from Dragonlord stock. In
his eyes, you are already better than anyone else in the world, and he would
not have to fear you either."
Aemon frowned. "What do you mean he wouldn't have to fear me?"
"Dragonlords were too proud, or too afraid to try and kill each other. They
valued the 'dragonsblood' the flowed through the various families, far better
to publicly shame a Dragonlord than to destroy the precious blood and seed he
represented."
Aemon shook his head in amusement. "So instead of killing their rivals, they
just…embarrassed them?" he asked while trying his best not to laugh.
"Indeed. Depending on how it was dealt with a Dragonlord might even choose
voluntary exile for a few years before returning, though it had to be quite the
scandal for a Dragonlord to go into a voluntary exile for so long. Most just
holed up in their tower for a few weeks before returning to normal life."
Aemon shook his head at the strange ways of his ancestors, though he had to
admit that public shaming and exile was far better than cutting down an entire
family, root and stem along with all their servants and smallfolk, like Tywin
Lannister had done to the Reynes and Tarbecks. "And what does this have to do
with not fitting in?"
"At the moment you are without coin, weapons or a dragon, but it will be
expected that you amass the first two relatively quickly, a dragon of your own
I am less sure of. But with wealth comes other expectations."
"What expectations?" he asked.
"Slaves my Prince. As a member of one of the forty you will be expected to have
slaves, to not have them would prove far more troubling than to have them."
"No," he growled. "I won't have slaves, it is against everything I stand for."
It was against the Old Gods themselves to keep slaves.
"And if you don't take them we will be watched with suspicion, maybe even
killed, not to mention that should you refuse someone else will take them,
someone who might not be as kind a master as you."
Aemon closed his eyes in fury while Melisandre threw a short-sleeved light
brown shirt over his head followed by a sleeveless silk tunic. Far lighter than
any garment he had ever worn in his life, but perfect for the heat in the
current climate. The edge of the collar was trimmed in gold while the main
colour was soft cream, the only other decoration was the three-headed dragon of
House Targaryen that had been embroidered over his heart. "I do not like this,
Melisandre," he admitted, as he held out his right arm so that she could fit a
leather vambrace to it.
"You do not have to like it my Prince, but it must be done all the same," she
replied as she started fitting a vambrace to his left arm. After the vambrace
had been fastened she guided his legs into a pair of dark brown boots and
secured a leather belt around his waist. "Our first lesson should require a
sword my Prince," she said. "Mayhap we can find one in the camp."
Aemon and Melisandre walked out of the tent and he was almost immediately blind
struck at the beauty he saw. He had seen enough auroras in the far north that
the majesty of them had started to wear thin, but never had he seen a sky such
as this. Shifting between light and dark pink, with thin white puffy clouds
scattered. The sky seemed to sparkle ever so slightly as the brightest stars
still shimmered slightly, while the occasional shooting star sped across the
sky, though far closer than he had ever seen before.
"A remnant from the doom," Melisandre whispered to him. "The sky appears to be
on fire sometimes, and bolts of flame will continue to mark the sky for years
still."
"It's beautiful," he said as he continued to stare, that is until his ears
caught the faint sounds of steel clashing against steel. "Come," he commanded
as he started to walk towards the noise, dodging tents which contained still
snoring occupants. The majority of men and women in the camp still slept, with
the exception of the sentries and the slaves who were already hard at work.
Eventually he came to the clearing where the fire he and Melisandre had
stumbled from still burned brightly, and to his amazement the flames were
burning in a clear purple tone, rather than orange. Not too far from the fire
stood a small gathering of men and women in various forms of armour in a small
circle, while two men stood in the middle, sparring swords in hand and doing
their best to strike one another.
Aemon didn't have to spend more than a few seconds observing them before he
knew that if they were the quality of the majority then he would be in for a
long and hard road. "Stop!" his voice rang out clear and loudly, causing the
combatants to halt while the spectators whirled around.
Walking briskly forward he entered the circle. "You," he said, pointing at the
man to his left. "Your guard is too low, that is why you are constantly too
late to block his strikes when he strikes high," turning to the man on his
right who was smiling somewhat smuggle he tore into him. "You on the other hand
are too uncoordinated. Your swings are wild and without guidance, and your grip
is poor."
Both men grumbled angrily but refrained from commenting.
Aemon on the other hand looked around and found a sparring sword that he
grabbed and held out, showing both of them the proper way to not only hold a
sword but also how to stand.
"I don't like holding it like that," muttered the man who's grip he had
corrected.
Aemon swung, and took a certain amount of satisfaction at striking the sword
right out of the man's hand. "Learn to like it, or I'll break your hand next."
Looking at the gathered men and women around him he sighed in frustration. Near
all of them seemed to be impressed by the relatively simple move he had just
performed. "Anyone of you ever swung a sword before?" he asked as he planted
the blade between his legs with his hand on the pommel.
Three people held up their hands. "At someone?" he continued, and all the hands
disappeared, and he was somehow reminded of his first real meeting with Jaime
Lannister.
"It's a strange thing, first time you cut a man. You realize we're nothing but
sacks of meat, blood and some bone to keep it all standing. Now the first thing
you need to know about swords, can anyone tell me?"
Silence met him before one of the younger ones spoke up, a girl who reminded
him painfully of Arya from the grin on her face and the fact that she wore
dirty shirts and breeches instead of dresses, that and the sword she had on her
side. "Stick em with the pointy end," she grinned, causing a round of laughter.
Aemon laughed himself. "Aye that is the gist of it," he admitted with a laugh,
remembering telling Arya the same thing. "But the most important thing to
remember is that a sword is no toy. In the hand of a trained wielder it is a
tool of death, and even in the hands of someone unskilled it can be dangerous,
one wrong move and your lying on the ground with your blood pouring out."
Looking around he saw that he had the attention of everyone now. "We'll start
with the basics first. How to hold a sword, how to stand, and how to swing it.
You'll be out here every morning," he said almost growling as the majority of
them groaned.
"For how long?" one of them asked.
"Until I say otherwise," he barked. "It is clear than none of you know how to
hold a sword, and I don't know about the rest of the men and women in the camp
either, so until I am satisfied you're mine, unless the Emperor says
otherwise."
"And what makes you so qualified?" one of them snarked, foolishly doing so
while Aemon could see him.
Aemon pointed his sword straight at him. "Come here and I'll show you."
The man paled slightly at being singled out, but did as asked and raised his
sword while gripping his shield comfortingly. "Now, try to hit or disarm me,"
Aemon ordered him.
The man didn't need to be told twice as he surged forward and swung hard, only
to overextend and trip as Aemon had taken a single step back. "Again," Aemon
ordered as he waited patiently for the man to get to his feet.
The man swung twice more, Aemon easily avoiding both strikes by leaning to the
right or to the left. The third strike he blocked and forced both of their
blades low, before he suddenly grabbed his sword by the blade and hilt and
rammed it up so that the pommel struck the man underneath the chin, sending him
to the ground with a curse. "The blade isn't the only part of a sword."
After he was certain that he had their attention again he continued his
lecture. "My father started me on sword lessons when I was a boy of five. Since
then I have practiced every day for the last five and ten years. I've fought
the barbarians of Westeros, led men into battle and even fought the living dead
and their demonic masters in the far north beyond Westeros' great wall of ice,
that is why I am qualified to teach you."
Suddenly everyone went down on one knee, and as soon as Aemon heard the voice
behind him he knew why. "Do not forget that he is also one of The Blood," came
the voice of Aurion.
"Your Grace," Aemon said as he also knelt before the last living Dragonlord
beside the Targaryens of Dragonstone.
"You may rise Archon," Aurion said, causing Aemon to hurriedly search his
memory for the title before he remembered. Archons were the elected leaders of
the Valyrian conclave of Dragonlords and Aemon supposed that as the only other
man in Aurion's forces with the potential to ride a dragon it made sense that
he retain the title.
"You know your craft well," he said.
"I do Your Grace," Aemon replied. "You never know when you might find yourself
in a situation without your dragon at your side."
Aurion nodded. "Just so, though I must confess that I am curious, I was not
aware that your family had been in a war lately."
Aemon kept his face cool and emotionless, a feat which he had apparently
perfected before his sixth nameday. "I was always one to crave adventure Your
Grace. I served for four years on the Wall in Westeros, I fought the wildlings
beyond the Wall, and I fought in defence of the Wall when a wilding army
attacked it."
Aurion smiled slightly. "Most impressive, tell me, what sort of men are these
that live in Westeros?"
A test Aemon knew. "They are men Your Grace. Petty Kings fight over borders,
men fight over wine gold and women. Worshippers of the empty idols of the seven
fight against the men who worship the trees, a primitive folk compared to the
might of Valyria."
"As I thought," Aurion said with a firm nod. "But they do know how to fight at
least, if your own skills are a result of their teachings."
Aemon shrugged slightly. "I've picked up a trick or three during my time
there."
"Very well. I must agree with you, you should continue this every day."
"I will do as you command Your Grace," Aemon said as he bowed.
"Good, build me an army worthy of Valyria."
Aemon looked at one of the Emperor's advisors who was wearing flowing robes of
purple. "If I might make one request Your Grace?"
Aurion nodded and gestured for Aemon to speak.
"My family was never the most accomplished of sorcerers, and what little
knowledge we had was for the most part left in Valyria when we left. Might I
request that your sorcerers can continue my burgeoning education in the arts of
sorcery?"
Aurion laughed. "You lack not for ambition Archon," he said while turning
towards the sorcerer at his side. "What say you Baelarr? Can he be taught?"
The man called Baelarr studied Aemon deeply, his indigo eyes shining ever so
slightly as he stared at Aemon and Aemon barely kept himself still as he
felt…something caress him, causing goosebumps to appear on his skin.
"I think so Your Grace, a small test first perhaps," he told Aurion who nodded.
Turning his gaze back at Aemon he smiled encouragingly. "Perhaps a simple spell
to summon a small flame in the palm of your hand, do you think you can do
that?"
Aemon smiled. He could do more than that, as Melisandre had taught him one of
the spells she knew just before they came across the impromptu sparring
session, and while he hadn't tested it out yet, he felt certain that he could
do it. "I require a sword," Aemon said as a reply, causing the sorcerer to
furrow his eyebrows in confusion, while Aurion looked at him sharply, before
nodding to one of his personal guards who swiftly drew a longsword of Valyrian
steel.
Aemon held the blade lightly, testing its weight and balance as well as taking
a few practice swings. It was certainly light, lighter and also shorter than
Longclaw which Aemon believed lost to him forever, but certainly a fine example
of smith work. Taking a knee he laid the blade in the palm of his left hand and
made a slight incision, the blade so sharp that he didn't even feel the pain as
it drew blood. Doing as Melisandre had suggested to him he imagined a roaring
flame, consuming everything, his thoughts, his troubles, anything and
everything and then he felt it.
The power of magic filled him. A roaring firestorm, a cataclysmic thunderstorm
with hurricane winds buffeting him, while monstrous seas tried to drown him,
all these sensations hit him simultaneously, and as the red priestess had
thought him he focused on his fury. With the wellspring of pain, betrayal and
suffering he had experienced in his life it was easy and he 'felt' himself grab
the power that threatened to overcome him by the scruff of its neck as if it
was a wild beast to dominate.
With the magic firmly under his control he stood up while simultaneously
dragging his hand alongside the flat of the blade which burst into red hot
flames and as he looked down he could see that the cut he had made had already
healed over, the only sign of it were a few specks of dried blood in his palm.
"By Syrax," the sorcerer gasped as Aemon held the still burning blade. "I'll
say that we are going to enjoy teaching you Archon," he said breathlessly.
Aurion too looked impressed. "You will teach me this," he told Aemon simply.
"Of course Your Grace," Aemon replied. "It will be my honour."
"Good, now continue your lesson, I wish to…observe for now."
Aemon continued the lesson for another hour and a half, the majority of the
time spent on the basics, teaching them for the most part how to hold a sword,
shield or spear. How to stand and how to handle basic care, since the majority
of the soldiers weren't armed with Valyrian steel, but good steel nonetheless,
every day he would spend one to two hours teaching them, aided by the few
personal guards of Aurion who thankfully had at least some amount of military
training. He learned quite a lot during the next week actually. The majority of
the four hundred and thirty-seven men and women were from Aurion's personal
household. They had been traveling towards Qohor where Aurion had a large
estate in order to celebrate the birth of his son.
Then the doom had happened. The majority of Aurion's family and holdings were
in Valyria, Aurion himself as a third son had never expected to be the head of
his family. The tragedy had expanded when his sister wife had flown her dragon
back in order to try and save their children, only to perish in a blast of
flame, he had thought himself cursed when his son had died later that very day
from a mystery illness that had laid low over half of Aurion's household,
leaving him with less than five hundred men and women, a dead son, a living
daughter, his dragon and a pair of dragon eggs.
Fortunately his dragon was large, very large, so large in fact that he and his
dragon alone would be enough to discourage anyone from attacking them. And when
word reached him of how the few remaining Dragonlords had been butchered in
their sleep along with their dragons he had known enough to be careful. Fellow
Valyrians wouldn't betray him, member of the Forty were worshipped as
representatives of the Gods themselves, having a small amount of their divine
essence in the form of the 'Dragonblood' flowing through their veins.
Aemon had at first been treated with some small amount of suspicion but was
quickly accepted by the men and women who made up Aurion's small army. The vast
majority of them had been something simple as merchants, cooks, carpenters,
fishers or sheepherders, well they had been the ones in charge of the slaves
who did the dirty work, though most of them had worked side by side with the
slaves to a point at least. There was no way that a Valyrian shepherd would be
cutting the wool or cleaning up the droppings, but he or should would still
participate watching the flock during the night or day, and a crewmember of a
ship would still help carrying sacks or crates of produce off a ship. It was
strange to Aemon who had at first thought that slaves did literally everything
in Valyria, but he was disabused of that notion quickly enough, there were far
too many Valyrians to support all of them just sitting on their arse, though
the number of men and women who spent years or decades pursuing the arts was
impressive, it also seemed to be almost something of a pilgrimage for a
freedman, which was the average Valyrian to travel the world to seek his or her
fortune for a few years, very few in comparison to the rest of the world
decided to try their hand at soldiering.
What use did Valyria have for armies? At the height of their power, shortly
before the doom there were according to Aurion no less than eight hundred
Dragonlords with mounts large enough to be ridden for the purpose of war. House
Targaryen itself had five dragons when they left Valyria, and had more than
enough dragon eggs to hat ten more for sure. The very few men and women who
participated actively in a 'soldiers' life, were usually personal guards,
mostly there for show as a show of status, though they did have some purpose
outside of Valyria if a Dragonlord ever decided to visit one of the colonies or
other cities.
"I imagine there are few of us left now," Aurion said. It was nine days since
Aemon and Melisandre had appeared and he had been permitted to dine with Aurion
for the first time, a relatively simple meal of spiced horsemeat, rice and
various dried fruits, and they were currently discussion the current state of
the Valyrian people. "Every single one of the colonies have rebelled, even
Volantis have rejected the rule of the Dragonlords and instead proclaimed to be
the heir of Valyria."
Aemon nodded thoughtfully, he had learned quite a lot about this subject from
Maester Luwin who had always seemed to share Aemon's fascination with Valyria
and its people. "With all luck we will find more of our people," he said.
"We've always been in the minority in all of these so called 'Free-Cities', so
with all of the Dragonlords seemingly dead, or the majority of them I cannot
say I am surprised that they all decided to rebel."
"Don't I know it," Aurion sighed. "Though Volantis at least wasn't a surprise.
They've been arrogant for almost a century already, up jumped merchants with
gold and greed instead of wits."
"They'll come to regret it," Aemon said. "We can start in Qohor, and from there
we head west and then south. Stop at each one of the cities and get as many of
our people to rally to your banner, until we've gathered enough to rebuild
Valyria anew."
Aurion looked thoughtful. "Your idea has merit. I was going to go to Qohor and
raise a host there and reclaim Valyria first before doing anything else."
Aemon didn't know if Aurion actually did that or not, all he knew was that
Aurion had led a great host into Valyria. "I think caution would be best for
now Your Grace. There are several disturbing rumours about Valyria, so a larger
host wouldn't hurt, nor would waiting."
"Waiting?" he questioned.
"Yes, even now, almost a year later, Valyria is shrouded from view in great
clouds of steam and ash, the heat can be felt across the newly created smoking
sea all the way to Oros. Letting the calamity take a bit longer to settle
wouldn't be a bad idea."
"No it wouldn't," Aurion admitted. "If we go west and then south we will come
to the narrow sea soon enough," Aurion said.
"Yes…" Aemon half questioned.
"We need more dragons, while my daughter has but an egg it has yet to hatch."
"What are you getting at Your Grace?" Aemon asked.
"When we arrive in Pentos we can spend time there to rest and recuperate,
during that time I wish for you to travel back to your kin on Dragonstone, see
if you cannot convince your family and their vassals to provide aid for our
endeavour. Men, ships, produce, all will be welcome, perhaps even a new dragon
for you."
'Fuck,' was Aemon's first thought. He wasn't particularly keen to show up on
Dragonstone and try to convince his ancestors that he was a Targaryen, let
alone ask for something as big and important as men, ships or a dragon, but at
the same time what choice did he have? If he refused Aurion would no doubt be
displeased and suspicious, he would just simply have to accept the command and
hope his ancestors didn't kill him when he showed up. "It will be good to see
home again," Aemon said as he inclined his head slightly
"Father, Archon," Came a new voice from behind Aemon, a voice he hadn't heard
since that first morning when he was training the new 'recruits'. Apparently
the young woman/girl who had reminded him so much of his former sister Arya,
was actually Aurion's daughter.
"Daughter," Aurion said imperiously. "Archon," he said as he turned to Aemon.
"My Daughter Rhaena Belaerys, Princess of Valyria," turning to his daughter he
gave a rare smile. "Daughter, this is Aemon of House Targaryen, Archon and Lord
General of Valyria," Aemon felt his eyes widen at that last sudden title.
"Your Grace," he gasped. "You honour me."
"Your blood and skill alike is superior to any of the others we have here
amongst us. Yu may be young, but you have the right blood and name and a mind
for battle, Valyria could do little better currently for a General."
"Thank you Your Grace," Aemon said before standing up so that he could give a
proper bow to the Princess. "Might I add that it is a pleasure to make your
acquaintance Princess."
The Princess was dressed much in the same fashion as her father and Aemon were.
Her garments were of thin almost see through silk in creams, light blue or soft
pink, and Aemon cursed his eyes as they seemed to automatically drift towards
the young woman's bosom. Her dress was distracting enough, held up by straps
over her shoulder so thin that they seemed to be non-existent. Her back was
left bare while the plunging neckline was wide and deep, just barely hiding her
nipples though with how sheer the material was he could still see them just
barely. Over her shoulders she carried a richly embroidered shawl of cream and
gold while her flowing silvery gold hair had a hair clamp the size of a hen's
egg studded with sapphires. She was beautiful, especially for a girl her age, a
far cry from the dirty eager little warrior he had kept an eye on during the
daily practice sessions, she was certainly one of the more eager ones, the fact
that she reminded him so of Arya was not helping at all. Now though the only
thing the allowed him to connect the eager little warrior to the inhumanly
beautiful princess before him was the humorous glint in her lilac eyes and the
sweet voice she carried.
"The pleasure is mine Archon," she replied as she sat down next to her father
who was looking quite pleased as he looked at them both.
"I expected you here some time ago daughter," he said sternly. "It is unseemly
to be late when I have invited a guest to dine with us."
Princess Rhaena had the good grace to blush slightly in shame at the rebuke. "I
wanted to appear properly dressed for once," she said as she shot Aemon a quick
look.
Aurion arched an eyebrow, causing Aemon to laugh.
"Your Grace surely knows that the Princess has partaken in my lessons."
Aurion nodded, "I do, and how goes her progress?"
"She is progressing well, she has promise with a shortsword for the moment,
though her shieldwork is still somewhat sloppy," he said honestly.
"It is heavy," she grumbled, causing both Aemon and her father to laugh.
"It is supposed to be heavy daughter, were it not, it would not defend you and
you'd have your head bashed in."
Aemon smiled reassuringly. "You show promise Princess, and as long as you
continue the exercises I teach then I have no doubt that you will become a
skilled warrior soon enough."
Rhaena smiled at that. Aemon had actually been surprised to learn that his
ancestor Aegon's wife Visenya being a skilled warrior as well as a sorceress
was actually the norm rather than a rare occurrence. Valyrian society was very
liberal when it came to gender roles, nobility in particular eagerly encouraged
sons and daughters alike to master at the very least one weapon, somewhat
understandable he supposed as they could all be called into war service if they
had a dragon large enough to be flown into battle, and when the nobility did it
then so did the commoners try to emulate them as best as they could. The only
thing he had discovered so far that had clearly defined roles for gender was
the marriage ceremonies of the Valyrians, ceremonies that would surely cause a
septon or septa to faint in shock, even the Dornish would probably be shocked.
"I intend for her to wed soon," Aurion said suddenly, shocking Aemon somewhat.
It seemed to be a bittoo soon, how old was she even? Aurion must have seen the
look on his face as he laughed. "She is already three and ten, and started her
moonblood a year past," he continued, ignoring how his daughter went red at the
mention of that.
"Begging your pardon Your Grace," Aemon said uncomfortably. "But isn't it a bit
early for that? You would have to find a proper husband for her, and she is
young yet to bear children."
Aurion narrowed his eyes slightly. "My physicians have assured me that she is
healthy, and it is quite common to wed at her age as you well know," actually
Aemon didn't know. Sure it happened often enough in Westeros that a girl was
wed shortly after she bled for the first time, but most of the time one waited
until the girl turned five or six and ten, three and ten was seen as too early
for most Lords. "Besides," Aurion continued, not having seen Aemon moment of
deep thought. "I am the last of my line, my daughter the only progeny left to
me. Her brother who should had taken her to wife burned along with the rest of
our kin in Valyria."
Aemon lowered his head slightly. "My apologies Your Grace."
"No need," Aurion said. "You are all that I need."
"Your Grace?" Aemon questioned, surely he couldn't mean?
"You are young enough, and you are of The Blood same as my daughter and I. Once
we have retaken Qohor you will wed my daughter."
Aemon felt his heart miss a beat. "Your Grace," he protested, completely lost
for words.
"I will not have my line die out with my daughter," he snarled. "My daughter is
young and healthy, she will bare you strong sons and daughters alike, I will
require a son and daughter from you to carry my own name."
Aemon certainly couldn't refuse either, no matter how much he wanted to. He was
seven years older than her. It would have been easier if she looked like a girl
rather than a woman. She was young yes, and it showed, but at the same time her
hips had already started to develop a swell, and her bosom while not large was
more than big enough to turn his head and send his blood boiling, the fact that
she reminded him so of Arya was the final nail in the coffin as some men said.
"You honour me Your Grace," Aemon said, what else could he say? Especially when
Rhaena was looking at him like that, she certainly liked what she saw, and they
had conversed enough during the past week to develop a liking to each other.
"I trust you are pleased daughter?" Aurion asked Rhaena who smiled.
"Very pleased father," she said. "I feared you would have me marry one of the
commoners, pretty to look at and charming in their own way, much like dogs or
horses, but not real men."
Once again Aemon was reminded of the fact that while the Valyrians had
certainly been the most advanced society in history, and depending on your
birth, the most free and liberal as well, there was a certain arrogance
prevalent in them, arrogance that had for the most part been well earned.
Didn't mean he had to like it though, as it was attitudes like that, which gave
Aemon painful flashbacks to the Lannisters, with the exception of Tyrion who
had been more of the 'sarcastic, snarky arrogance' of someone who knew that the
world was shit and didn't give a fuck.
At hearing his daughter mention marriage to a commoner Aurion actually spat on
the ground. "I'd sooner wed you to a horse than let a commoner wed mine only
daughter. You are of The Blood of the Forty, nice of your ancestors have served
as Archons in the conclave, only the blood and seed of a fellow Dragonlord will
do," he told her, and Aemon wisely decided to never mention to Aurion that he
was only half Targaryen, and from a line of Targaryens who had more than once
wed into so called 'lesser' blood.
One of Aurion's sorcerers entered the tent suddenly. "My pardons Your Grace,"
he said. "It is time for the Archon's studies."
"Of course of course," Aurion said, waving him off.
"I thank you for the meal Your Grace," Aemon said as he stood up. Turning to
Rhaena he gingerly clasped her hand and raised it to his lips to lay a soft
kiss on it. "Again, it was a pleasure to finally be proper introduced my
Princess."
"The pleasure was mine Archon," she replied with a smile and a slight bow of
her head.
Giving her hand a last gentle squeeze Aemon followed the sorcerer out of the
tent toward the edge of the camp where they usually practiced.
He had, according to his tutors come quite far for such a short amount of time.
Already he could summon living flames in his hands, he could purify any drink
or food for foreign substances. He could lock and unlock simple locks and had
started ever so slightly on increasing his strength, though that last one was
something that would take a long time to master properly, and even then, there
were limits on how much a man could increase his strength.
As for his tutoring with Melisandre he had continued there as well. The trick
of lighting a sword was but the first. Regardless of the fact that he did not
believe in R'hllor he was capable of performing some of the same feats. He had
less need for sleep than most and rarely grew fatigued. He could see into the
fires to receive faint images and visions, though not to the clarity that he
could interpret anything, more like hot flashes of images, gone as quickly as
they appeared, the he could use the flames to communicate with another doing
the same. That particular skill was what made the Red Faith of R'hllor so
widespread and powerful apparently, as the High Priest in the Red Temple in
Volantis could keep in contact with every single devotee across the world who
had learned the art, and art which Melisandre had admitted to employing, though
she angrily suspected that High Priest Benerro may have steered her false,
resulting in the series of disasters and bad decisions that Stannis had made.
At least Stannis had not listened to her when she broached the subject of
burning Shireen as Benerro had suggested her to coax him into performing.
Instead he had banished her from his camp and sent Shireen, his wife Selyse and
fifty mounted Knights north to Eastwatch.
As for the skills in his northern blood he had little guidance, left to simply
follow his instincts and will, though he had managed to successfully warg into
a bird, he had no permanent bond or control over the little creature which had
flown away in panic once he let go of its consciousness. As he sat down cross
legged across from Baelarr he suddenly realized that he would be wed soon, and
what's more it would be a Valyrian wedding ceremony. 'Oh fuck,' he thought once
he realized that fact. 'I hope none of my family is watching me from the
afterlife,'
And so ends chapter two. As I've mentioned this is a bit of a mix between books
and show. I am going by show 'timeline' so Jon/Aemon is 20 at the end of S5/
book 5 instead of 17. There are some other changes as well.
The Dornish plot which was bad enough in the books is non existent here, so no
Ellaria and the Sand Snakes betraying everything Oberyn stands for by killing
Doran and Trystane, for that matter both Arienne and Quentin are also alive
here.
Victarion Greyjoy has accepted his brother Euron as King and as such sailed to
Mereen which is under siege by Volantis and numerous sellsword companies. Yara
is actually Asha, but Asha and Theon have participated in the Kingsmoot, and
with Asha's loss taken a lot of the best ships and made a runner for it.
I was naturally furious at how D&D completely ruined everything Stannis stood
for by the burning of Shireen, especially after the strong father/daughter
moment they had the episode before, so here Stannis sent Shireen, Selyse and
bodyguards up to Eastwatch and then towards Castle Black to safety while he
marches on Winterfell.
Barristan is still alive and currently holding Mereen against the armies
besieging it.
I still haven't decided whether or not to include Faegon, JonCon and the Golden
Company and their invasion of the Stormlands into this, Varys and Tyrion at the
very least are both in Mereen, ostensibly to advise Dany who is currently
cursing her lazy dragon as she is forced to walk as a slave in a dothraki
khalasar.
The GNC is somewhat operative, in the fact that the majority of the Northern
Lords are plotting against the Boltons, who are actually backed up by the Freys
and yes Sansa was married to little Ramsay and escaped the same way she did at
the end of S5, and the Blackfish is still pissing of Walder Frey and his brood
by reclining in his favourite chair on Riverrun's battlements where he does a
lot of fishing, as well as taking the odd potshot at the Frey army with his
longbow in order to keep them on their toes.
No Jeyne Westerling in this one, so Robb actually did marry Talisa Maegyr,
which I have no doubt that some of you my excellent readers can figure out the
significance of.
Lastly, feel free to make a guess as to what a 'Valyrian' marriage ceremony is
like (this particular ceremony is reserved for the forty families, and also
explains as to why they could marry brother to sister for literally thousands
of years and still remain not only inhumanly beautiful, but also smart and
intelligent enough to master magic and technology not seen before or since).
PS: I changed my username.
Read and review
Daemon Belaerys.
 
 
Following here is the crest of House Belaerys (I made it myself) followed by an
image of Aemon (Jon's) new look and how Rhaena will look.
 
[ photo House_Belaerys_zps4djdkw9w.png]
[ photo 350px-Magali_Villeneuve_Dragonlords_zpsdgeymqur.jpg]
***** Chapter 3 *****
Disclaimer:_screams_repeated_denials_of_any_sort_of_ownership_to_established
works_or_characters_that_might_be_recognized_as_it_is_lead_towards_the
guillotine.
 
10th_moon_ADV,_somewhere_south_of_Qohor.
“PUSH! DON’T LET THEM BREAK THROUGH!” Aemon shouted as he grit his teeth and
pushed as hard as he could with his shield against the much larger man facing
him. For weeks they had made their way up alongside the eastern bank of the
river Qhoyne, Aurion, himself and Aurion’s advisers agreeing that it was safer
to risk facing the Tallmen from Sarnor than the hardened soldiers of Norvos. He
guessed most of the men regretted that decision now. Things had started fairly
well, every day their small army/caravan grew as Valyrians and other folk alike
sought refuge with the Dragon Emperor, the news they brought however were not
so welcome.
The forest of Qohor which itself was home to thousands of woodsmen who provided
Qohor and the rest of the now shattered Freehold with immense amounts of
lumber, mineral ore and amber was being overrun by the rising kingdom of
Sarnor. Once a scattered barbaric people the hardy men of Sarnor had started to
form the basics of a new civilization in the waning days of the Freehold by
building cities, establishing trade and learning the secrets of forging steel
and establishing trained armies of heavy horse, infantry and decent logistical
capabilities, and now they had turned their eyes west towards the former
Valyrian colonies which had started to call themselves the ‘Free-Cities’.
It was sheer luck alone which let them discover the approaching warbands at
first. Aurion had been atop his dragon Aejaxx to scout ahead, mayhap discover
more of their kin who were fleeing from the numerous conflicts in the massive
forests or even from Qohor itself which was in full rebellion. It was while in
the air that he had spotted the first of several warbands who were encroaching
close to his forces, and though he scattered them by unleashing the full might
of a full grown dragon he could hardly scatter every warband that came their
way.
A decision had been made, in that Aemon would take charge on the ground and
push onwards into the heart of the horde before they could properly converge
after exiting the forest, creating a safe path behind them where the fleeing
refugees could cross the river along with those who were too old or too young
to fight. Aurion would be buying them time from atop his dragon.
So far it had worked like a dream. The force which had grown by the influx of
refugees stood at six hundred men and women strong. Jon had used the terrain to
his advantage as best he could. To their right was a large collection of hills,
cliffs and shattered stones of all sizes, too dangerous for cavalry to
traverse, and to their left was a largely open plain though he could spot the
trees of the forest in the distance. Directly to their front, less than two
hundred paces away was the treeline, a treeline which continually poured out
men and the occasional horse towards them.
As he decapitated his opponent he thanked his lucky stars that he had decided
to not only push their men and women as harsh as he had the last mon, but also
for the first time he appreciated Valyrian arrogance. The men and women he
fought with had spent all their lives in a position of superiority, they
believed down to their very bones that they were the superior being. To flee,
or fear the large brutes attacking them was not only cowardly, it was to admit
that they were weaker, so despite the Sarnorians being bigger and generally
stronger the small Valyrian force fought back with tooth, nail, steel and
sorcery.
Had it not been for Valyrian steel they would have been overcome, he knew that.
The Sarnorian’s armour was simply not capable of withstanding the ensorcelled
blades facing them. Their shirts of scaled mail deftly withstood barrage of
barrage of arrows and crossbow quarrels alike, shields that should have been
reduced to splinters days ago still shone brightly as they were held aloft by
tired arms. Aemon was impressed at how well things were going. For three days
they had held off wave after wave of Sarnorians, they had killed their own
number thrice over, though he supposed that if the Sarnorians had attacked with
more coherency instead of the scattered warbands they had appeared in, Aemon
and his forces would all rest in the ground by now.
With the brief lull in the fighting he got after his latest kill he cast a
quick look over the battlefield. They were facing the largest warband yet,
almost twice their own number, and the left flank was wavering, the appearance
of heavy horse making up the difference that their weapons could not.
“COMMIT THE RESERVE TO THE LEFT FLANK!” he shouted to a young lad, two and ten
years old maybe that acted as a sort of messenger/steward/scribe to Aemon.
With a nod the shaken boy ran towards their makeshift camp where a few men
rested. Their positioning allowed him to keep about two hundred men in reserve,
resting, eating and sleeping while the remainder of the force was committed.
They had to do this as there were always another warband joining, eager to
claim both slaves and valyrian steel.
“BRACE!” he shouted as their foes prepared for a renewed charge having been
driven back mere moments before.
The sound of shields interlocking sounded as Aemon and his forces tightened
their ranks, feet spread apart, shields in front and shoulders locked tight. He
grunted as their enemies smacked into their line but yet again they didn’t
break formation, instead lashing out with cold steel against the increasingly
furious enemy.
A high piercing scream echoed around them and Aemon felt his tired body gain
new strength as Aurion atop Aejaxx appeared over the trees and started to bathe
the Sarnorians in dragonflame, the numerous piles of smoke and flame wafting
over the forest in any direction they could see showed that Aurion had not been
lazy while his men fought and died.
With his newfound energy Aemon made a shallow cut in his hand and once more
wrestled the infinite chaotic energy that any magician could tap into under his
control. Guiding it through words his voice clapped like thunder. “FAAS RU
MAAR,”the words were from a time before ancient Valyria even, and there were
some who questioned if it might not be the tongue of dragons, though he doubted
it. He had yet to meet any beast that could speak, even the times he had warged
into Ghost had been more about feelings, instinctual sensibilities and truths
rather than true intelligence or though.
Still, despite the mysteries behind the language of the spells Valyrians
preferred, their effectiveness were unquestioned. Even as the words he spoke
sounded like thunder following lightning, the spell took its hold. Aemon nearly
collapsed as he felt the toll the spell exacted from him. Magic was about force
and sacrifice, and this one took both. Using his fury and his blood to directly
attack the hearts and minds of his foes, the closer they were to despair the
stronger it was, and nothing could sap their spirit more than the sudden
appearance of Aurion on Aejaxx. And so it was that near every one of their
enemies within three or four hundred yards threw away their weapons or just
turned tail and fled screaming into the woods, what little fight left in them
after Aurion showed up was broken entirely at the ancient spell of despair that
Aemon had summoned. Those closes to Aemon had just curled up and started
weeping.
Gritting his teeth against the pain and fatigue he could feel Aemon once again
as he had done several times during the last days summoned forth a wellspring
of burning fire on his sword. As soon as he caught a new breath he raised the
burning blade over his head and saluted Aurion who landed before them.
“I told you to me me soldiers Aemon. Show me just how deadly they are. Disperse
the Sarnorians.Break them!”
Aemon spat out a mouthful of blood, a result of the powerful spell he had
wrought to break the spirits of most of their enemies who were already fleeing
or barely holding their ground.
“FOR VALYRIA!” he shouted, nearly five hundred voices joining him as the small
force ran towards the tired invaders.
He was tired. His body covered in bruises and cuts that valyrian mail had
failed to protect against. His arm felt like lead after days of near continuous
swinging, stabbing and hacking. His legs felt like jelly and none of this
mattered at all. He was as drunk on battle and victory as all his compatriots.
A giant of a man, bigger even than the Hound was attempting to rally the
Sarnorians against the Valyrian counter charge, a huge axe held aloft as he
shouted encouragements at his fellow countrymen. Aemon laid him open from groin
to neck in one fell blow and spun around and hacked low, sending two men
screaming to the ground as the blade in his hand sliced through their legs
right above the knees, another slash opened their throats.
A spear came at him and he swerved to the right, trapping the shaft of the
spear between his chest and left arm. A quick stab later and his attacker
collapsed with a new hole to breathe through in his face. Without breaking
stride Aemon flipped the spear and threw it overhead, the six foot long pole of
wood and steel burying itself into the back of a fleeing man.
A trio of braves advanced against him, their heavy oak tower shields held
protectively in front of them while their spears pointed towards him, ready to
try and end his life with a single thrust. He ducked under one strike while
sweeping his sword up against another, severing the wooden shaft. The last one
nearly hit home, only to be diverted at the last minute by his round shield. As
it was he was already bleeding enough to summon the power in his blood for a
simple though dangerous attack. “YOL” he shouted and barely kept from grimacing
at the pain of breathing literal fire out from his mouth.
It was a short attack, lasting perhaps no more than a second, but the burst of
magical flame, added to the fire which was burning on his sword was more than
enough to light the three on fire. With all three of them aflame it was easy to
circle around and remove all three heads in one slice.
As soon as their bodies hit the blood stained ground his eyes were already
searching for a new target though he could find none. The battlefield was
eerily silent, only a few still screaming out in their strange tongue, most
already dead as the tired Valyrians had cut them down where they tried to flee,
what few remained alive were being dealt with as a small force of ten men or so
walked around the battlefield, ending the suffering of anyone still alive with
a well-placed spear or sword thrust.
“We’ve won,” Aruion said as he walked up beside Aemon, he himself had partaken
in battle it seemed as both he and his dragon were covered in blood, ash and
dust.
“Aye,” Aemon nodded. “We should away from this place Your Grace,” I doubt we
can hold them off again.”
Aurion was thoughtful and morose as he stared across the field that was
littered with dead, Valyrian and Sarnorian alike. “What a waste,” he sighed.
“Can you blame them Your Grace?” Aemon asked. “For thousands of years the
Freehold ruled supreme. It stands to reason then that whatever King or
chieftain leading these men would try to make a name for themselves by beating
us in battle.”
“Aye you have the right of it,” Aurion agreed. “It is still distasteful to see
so many lives thrown away in a battle that cannot be won.”
“There is no more saddening a thing than a battle won, except for a battle
lost,” Aemon said.
“Who told you this?” Aurion asked curiously.
“My. . .father,” Aemon said after a pause. Regardless of how he felt about the
lie Eddard Stark had made him live all his life, he still regarded the man as
his father. He took him in when he didn’t have to, and had provided Aemon with
much of the training that had saved his life on numerous occasions the past
days alone.
“A wise man,” Aurion said. Looking across the battlefield once more he
eventually shook his head. “What are our losses?” he asked tiredly, and Aemon
realized that Aurion was probably just as tired if not more than their ground
forces. While Aemon and the rest of their ground forces had at least had the
chance to catch a few hours of sleep, Aurion had been in the saddle
continuously for the past three days.
“Out of the original six hundred there were five hundred and nine on my last
count, though we may have lost more during their last charge.”
Aurion sighed again, and Aemon could spot the man’s age for the first time,
nearing fifty the man had always seemed so strong and vigorous, now though he
could see the old man that lurked behind the still mostly smooth face. Prepare
our dead for burning, strip the others for anything of value and leave them for
the carrion birds.”
“As you command,” Aemon said as he clasped his fist across his chest.
“Then you know what to do Archon,” Aurion continued. “After you’ve cleaned up
here go back to the ford and regroup with the rest of our people, I shall be
awaiting your presence there.”
Aemon nodded and watched as Aurion tiredly mounted his dragon and flew west,
towards Qohor and the rest of their people. No orders had to be given, his men
already knew what was expected of them as they were checking one body after
another for food, coin or other things of use. Further up, where the few tents
they had used for the wounded stood he found Melisandre who looked about as
tired as he did, moving from one wounded soldier to another, doing the best she
could to treat their injuries.
Spotting him she led him into the tent that was reserved for him. Like his
quarters both in Winterfell and in Castle Black it was very Spartan in nature.
Few personal belongings or decorations. A bed, a chest for his clothes and a
small stand for his sword and armour. “My Prince,” she said as she started to
remove his armour.
By now he was used to the title she called him by, and as it was he was too
damn tired to argue, instead he simply watched as she removed first one, then
the other one of his bracers. Both of them made from the finest leather with
fine scales of silver gold valyrian steel sown into them. His mail followed and
he was as impressed this time as he was when he saw it for the first time. A
long shirt of interlocking silver gold scales, each one of them shining like
newly spun gold. The mail protected his chest and continued down all the way to
the top of his knees, split in the front and back up to his waist to allow for
more effective movement.
According to Aurion, mail like the one he had was common enough in the Freehold
that even the average fisherman, providing he was of Valyrian descent could
acquire one without too much cost, while outsiders, like Tommen II Lannister
had to pay the cost of a Kingdom or more. Said Tommen had reputedly purchased a
Valyrian steel greatsword for such a price that the smith who forged it had
purchased a manse in Qohor that with the accompanying gardens was the size of
the Black City in Volantis. Aemon also learnt that when King Tommen heard the
price demanded for a suit of armour he had left Valyria in disgust.
Now though, with the knowledge all but lost, and so few dragons left, the price
of a full suit of armour of Valyrian steel would probably be enough to bankrupt
the entirety of Westeros.
“Careful,” Aemon gasped as Melisandre brushed against his side as she drew the
surprisingly light mail over his head.
Melisandre narrowed her eyes in scrutiny as she removed the shirt he had worn
underneath the mail. The silk shit was stained with sweat and blood and Aemon
almost jumped when she placed her hand on his right ribs, the entire area was
black and blue, and Aemon vaguely recalled an axe that he had been to slow to
deflect hitting him good in between his ribs. The mail he wore protected him
from disembowelment though the kinetic force of the strike had still taken its
toll apparently.
“I cannot treat this here,” she said as she led him over to a large wooden tub
that was the only vanity he had allowed himself. The water itself was cool, but
Melisandre soon had it almost to the point of boiling, steam was rising and
Aemon closed his eyes in comfort as he breathed in the fumes of whatever herbal
remedies she had in the bath.
“Ahhh,” he sighed as he submerged his body in the water, the heat which should
have left him scalding was as comforting as lying underneath heavy furs with a
roaring hearth next to you during the depths of winter.
“The Lord of Light continues to favour you,” Melisandre said as she started to
rub and massage his back and shoulders with a thick pine smelling cream. The
cream itself tingled slightly, but left him feeling relaxed and fresh and he
could feel his bruises or cuts quite literally disappear.
“My sword and my armour protected me,” Aemon rebutted. It had almost become a
sort of game between them. Melisandre would preach about R’hllor and Aemon
would rebut with whatever argument he had that might offer another explanation.
“And yet there are near a hundred others out there who wore the same if not
more armour than you who cannot say the same, so why were you, who stayed in
the front all the time spared, while several of your companions were not so
fortunate?”
“I have months of-agh that’s the spot-training, whereas they have had a mere
moon’s turn for the most part,” Melisandre had started to massage his abused
right side, her deft hands and herbal remedy working wonders on his tired
flesh.
“And yet, it is not the first time you’ve cheated death My Prince, need I
remind you of Castle Black?”
It always came down to Castle Black. No matter how he twisted his mind and
thoughts he could come to no rational explanation of why his life had been
spared, nor why he had come to life four hundred years before he even died in
the first place. The only rational explanation was that some sort of higher
power had intervened, was it the Old Gods? Or R’hllor as Melisandre claimed. He
had always ‘followed’ the Old Gods, though he was not particularly religious
when it came down to it. He had believed and followed the Old Gods to a point,
not only due to a lack of knowledge of other faiths, but also to emulate his
‘father’ and if he was honest to himself to also distance himself from Lady
Catelyn
Their discussions often boiled down to this, and as usual Melisandre was the
‘victor’, he himself not being able to produce a better explanation. “When are
you going to accept that you won’t convert me to the Red God?” Aemon asked with
a slight grin.
“I need not convert you My Prince.” Aemon raised a questioning eyebrow at that.
“You are his chosen champion, born to end the Long Night. Whether you believe
in him or not does not matter, what does matter is that you continue your
work.”
Now that was a surprise. From what he had heard, and for that matter also seen
in person, Melisandre was not usually that ‘forgiving’ to those who did not
believe, then again. If she did believe that he was R’hllors chosen he supposed
that he could be excused of a lot of things in her eyes.
“You must exercise more caution My Prince,” she said as she inspected a cut in
his neck that he remembered quite vividly, the result of a thrusting spear that
instead of piercing his jugular barely nicked him.
“A scratch Melisandre,” he protested as she twisted his head to the side so
that she could attend to it properly.
“It is deep enough that if you were an eyeblink slower you would have bled
out.”
“Hmm,” Aemon grunted noncommittally, his eyes and mind already distracted at
the heaving breasts hovering a hairsbreadth away from him.
Melisandre noticed his staring and smirked slightly, the sinful look and
inviting body that had nearly caved in his resistance in Castle Black battered
down any resistance he had left now. With a grown of hunger and frustration he
grabbed her waist and dragged her closer to him so that she was seated in his
lap, her teats pressed against his chest.
<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>                                                                                                    
                                          LEMON WARNING!!!!LEMON
WARNING!!!!!!!!!!!
<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>                                                                                         
                                                     
“You have changed your mind,” Melisandre said huskily as she leant closer, so
close that her lips were almost touching his and he could stare directly into
her crimson eyes, the softly glowing light in them just making him more hungry
for her.
“I have,” he said. There was no point denying it. It had been over a year since
he last held or kissed Ygritte. He was tired and full of hot blood and energy
at the same time. The sweet taste of assured destruction if one were to
overdraw upon it that was magic, even the sensation of fighting for one’s life,
it all added up to a cocktail of lust that swept through one’s body, and Aemon
found that he could no more resist the alluring nude form of the Red Priestess
than he could stop the sun from rising.
Rather than speaking Melisandre just grabbed his cock and lowered herself onto
it. The combination of the hot water and the wondrous heat of her passage was
almost enough to make Aemon lose control right there and then, it had been far
too long, yet he grit his teeth and tried his best to enjoy the sensation of
Melisandre riding up and down on his cock as long as he could.
Fucking Ygritte had always been nice, she was quite wild, and loud, almost as
if taking some sort of perverse pride in screaming as loudly as possible in the
middle of camp, Jon’s tongue certainly hadn’t helped in that regard. Still for
all of Ygritte’s wildness, nothing could beat the low sensual moans of
Melisandre as she rode him slowly, her head thrown back in rapture while her
eyes fluttered open and close. Her pose had the added effect of pushing out her
chest, the dark nipples standing out and inviting Aemon to play with them, and
he had no intention to refuse the invitation.
“Fuck;” he grunted in sudden surprise as Melisandre suddenly clenched around
him, the sudden sensation almost sending him over the edge. In retaliation he
attacked her teats, his lips immediately closing over her left nipple, sucking
and biting like he was possessed while his hands harshly groped and massaged
them.
The thing that finally did him in was the sight of Melisandre, almost glowing
in otherworldly red light seize up. Her arms spread to the side while her chest
heaved with heavy deep breaths, her mouth and eyes were wide open, and her cunt
trembled and clenched around his cock drawing out his own end.
He must have sounded like a dying animal from how he groaned as his cock and
balls twitched, sending jet after jet of his seed into her womb, until finally
it was over, both of them collapsing with relief. He with his back to the tub
while Melisandre was sprawled across from him.
“This. . .this means nothing,” he gasped, barely managed to keep his eyes open.
“I know My Prince,” Melisandre mumbled as she cuddled into his neck, her lips
and tongue exploring his face and neck. “But you needed release, and will no
doubt need it again. When the time comes I will be here.”
<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>                        
                                                                                                                      LEMON
OVER!!!!LEMON OVER!!!!!!!
<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>                                                                                                                                              
It was a very tired force of soldiers that eventually wandered into the
temporary camp that Aurion had set up on the west bank of the Qhoyne. It had
taken them four days to create pyres and say their respects to their fallen
brothers and sisters, Raheiros, the sole survivor of the three sorcerers that
had been attached with Aemon’s defensive force was the one who actually knew
the proper rites and benedictions, which had the added effect of also letting
Aemon learn them without anyone knowing he had been ignorant of them. He learnt
more and more of Valyrian rites and customs every day, mostly through subtly
inviting discussions about rites and customs with his fellow ‘countrymen’,
using the excuse that he wanted to hear their thoughts on them.
After the six and sixty men and eight and thirty women had been burned and
their ashes scattered to the winds they had been forced to make half a dozen
sleds to carry with them all the extra gear they had gathered from the dead.
All the armour and weapons from their own fallen, as well as any weapon or
armour of comparably good steel that their enemies had used. Most of the
Sarnorians had also had generous rations as well as gold or silver in the form
of coin and jewellery. Fortunately they had also managed to capture a good
amount of the enemy horses, large sturdy breeds, similar to the working horses
used in the North, to drag the sleds and also the most badly wounded.
Aemon himself had briefly entertained to walk at least some of the way, trying
to let as many as possible do a bit of riding, but at the advice from
Melisandre laid that motion to rest. As one of the Blood and their General he
had an image that he needed to present. And even in Westeros, nobility never
walked when they could ride, an exception was made when it came to places like
King’s Landing where many nobles or rich knights were carried about in
palanquins. Any man at least could avoid that, claiming that he was above such
pathetic displays of laziness or opulence.
By the time they had reached the camp which had already been somewhat fortified
with a spiked moat and palisade wall the sun was already on its way down. Aemon
was impressed at how quickly they had grown. When he and Melisandre first
tumbled out of the large fire in Aurion’s camp there were barely five hundred
men and women who called Aurion Emperor. Now there were over five thousand of
them, as more and more joined every day, both to live under the auspices of a
Dragonlord once more, and also to escape the rapidly brewing chaos that was
springing forth everywhere due to the collapse of the Freehold.
Riding through the camp towards the centre where Aurion’s own pavilion and his
own would be, Aemon did his best to remain calm and emotionless in the face of
a man or a woman suddenly spotting and subsequently running off to a family
member or lover, while others looked worried or even burst into tears when it
became obvious that one or more of their loved ones hadn’t returned.
Aemon was not a stranger to loss. He had been informed of more than one loss
during the war against the Lannisters, but he had never had to deal with family
of people who had lost loved ones due to his orders. It was a new experience,
that he knew he would have to face countless times more, and that he never
wanted to face again. Dismounting in front of Aurion’s pavilion he handed his
sword over to Melisandre and entered.
Aurion and Rhaena were already seated at the table, Aurion quizzing his
daughter on valyrian history, both of them looked up at his entrance. “You have
returned,” Aurion stated.
“I have Your Grace, everything of value was brought along,” Aemon replied,
speaking of the supplies they had looted.
“And our fallen brothers and sisters?”
“Returned to the fire and winds from which they came.”
Aurion nodded. “May the Fourteen welcome them into their warmth.” Looking Aemon
over with a studying eye Aurion gestured to a chair that stood beside Rhaena.
“Sit, you must be hungry.”
“And tired,” Aemon said as he sat beside Rhaena, giving a slight smile at his
soon to be wife.
“You shall rest soon enough,” Aurion said while servants hurried in with a
plate of fruits, cheese and dried meat. “We’ll reach Qohor within a week, I
trust that will be enough time for our forces to get rested.”
Aemon nodded as he took a huge bite out of an apple. “A few days with some
light training, perhaps a good long bath and they’ll be ready to go, do you
expect trouble in Qohor?”
Aurion nodded grimly. “Our scouts have returned. Qohor is in full anarchy. Our
Valyrian kin is holding control of the merchant quarter for now. The indigenous
inhabitants who are in the majority have holed up in the slums, religious and
noble quarters. Archon Qoheryk and his dragon are both dead, their heads lined
up beside each other on spikes at the city gates. Scattered pockets of various
other men run rampant through the city, killing and stealing whatever and
wherever they please.”
Ameon nodded thoughtfully, the name Qohery sounded familiar for some reason.
“That name. . .Qoheryk, it is familiar to me,” he said at last.
“I’m sure it does,” Aurion said. “They were a well known family of
Dragonlords.”
“Do we know more about these rebels father?” Rhaena asked.
“Very little,” Aurion admitted. “It is said that their leader is a great
Sorcerer, we do know at least that he sacrifices a dozen of our kin every day
to his Black Goat God.”
Rhaena hissed in displeasure. “He must die,” she raged and Aemon agreed
wholeheartedly. Live human sacrifice was distasteful.
“He will,” Aurion assured her, “And your husband to be will see to it that it
is done.”
“As you command Your Grace,” Aemon replied. Taking a sip of wine to was down
the last of his meal Aemon looked over the map that was spread out over the
table. “Where is it that this sorcerer of theirs spend most of his time?”
Aurion’s face as awash with fury again, the same fury that had made the
Valyrian Dragonlords so terrible, as Aejaxx seemed to be able to feel his
master’s anger as the dragon let out a loud roar of fury from where he was
curled up outside. “He resides in the home of the former Qoheryks, rumours has
it that he keeps Saeharys’ wife and daughter as pets, sharing them with his
friends and followers.”
Aemon didn’t even notice that the glass he held in his hand shattered in his
grip, lacerating his hand badly. He knew, had always know that the world was
not a pretty thing, but rape had been about the absolute worst in his mind, the
fact that he had not immediately gelded every man on the Wall who had ended up
there to escape having his cock cut off for rape was a testament to his ability
to compromise he thought.
“I can assure you Your Grace, and you My Princess, I’ll drag him before you
alive and screaming,” Aemon promised them.
“I knew my father chose well,” Rhaena said as she gave him a grin that sent his
blood boiling.
He had always thought himself to be a man who was interested in redheads, first
Ros who he had nearly fucked when still living in Winterfell, and then Ygritte
who he had lain with. But then he got to know Val, especially after she stuck
around Castle Black along with a good number of the other Free Folk.
While he had never felt the same for Val as he had for Ygritte who he confessed
to himself that he had probably loved, Val had aroused him far more in pure
physical looks than Ygritte, and if Val ever admitted to having Valyrian
ancestry Aemon would be the last to admit surprise, with her honey gold hair,
grey blue eyes and pointed elegant features she could easily pass as someone
with Valyrian blood, so he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised at all that he
found Rhaena captivating, not only for her wits and stubbornness, but also for
the fact that she clearly represented the best that Valyrian blood could
produce.
“You have some idea?” Aurion asked as he saw Aemon studying the map closely.
“I think so Your Grace,” Aemon admitted. “We have eighty horses with us. A
night attack, where you use your dragon to break open the two gates in our path
and I will be able to reach his residence within ten minutes after passing the
city gates, cut off the head of the snake as it were, and watch as the
Qohorians collapse into anarchy while we rally whatever of our kin still resist
the new rulers of the city.”
“It could work,” Aurion admitted as he studied the map closer. “Yes I see it,
from the main gate it is a straight boulevard to the governor’s manse.”
“While I deal with the leadership, captain Vaelar can take the rest of our
forces, with as many weapons as they can safely carry and move into the
merchant district, distribute the weapons and stir our kin into reclaiming the
city.”
“Then we have a plan,” Aurion agreed. “I will direct from above on Aejaxx and
render aid where necessary, go and rest now Archon, we will need you well
rested.”
As he was quite tired Aemon had no problem agreeing, so he bowed slightly,
first to Aurion and then to Rhaena. “Your Grace,” he said before taking
Rhaena’s hand to kiss it softly, feeling strangely pleased at the small blush
he coaxed from her. “Princess.”
Receiving his dismissal he returned to his own tent, and despite how alluring
the sight of Melisandre in his bed was he fell asleep the moment his head hit
the pillow.
 
'Standard' Valyrian armour, each individual scale is of Valyrian steel. this is
the kind of armour Aemon has currently.
[ photo d9ebe5968482c021268bcbe72d59d716_zpscf59lv4o.jpg]
End Notes
     This has already been posted to FFN on my profile there under the
     name 'Manowarrior' but I figure it is best to post here as well as a
     backup, after all this is ASoIaF and so will contain rather
     descriptive violence not to mention smut, and rather explicit smut at
     that between people who may or may not be of age by today's
     standards. My remaining works will also be posted eventually
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