Chapter Text
Aemon’s eyes snapped open, he rose to his feet and gagged as he breathed in. That was when he noticed the land around him.
It was one of desolation, the ground was littered with small craters, and to his surprise, the remains of muggle vehicles, completely destroyed, but still there, unmistakable.
He approached slowly, not fully believing his eyes. What was it doing here? And where was here exactly?
Something was terribly wrong. He looked around once more, trying to find something, anything that could tell him what was happening. The more he did, the more he felt he was having a Deja vu.
But in what way? He could not remember but it was as if it was stuck on the tip of his tongue.
Still, it meant it was not real, although it felt so.
Suddenly he saw bright blue flashes and heard cracks all around as wizards and witches apparated in and portkeys were used to transport muggle weaponry and personnel, quickly forming into two separate armies.
And he remembered where he was.
Vancouver.
All at once, his memories came flooding back in. The Battle of Vancouver had been the one he had seen his last friends fall along with what little hope he had left.
For a moment nothing happened.
He tried to spot his former self and easily did so. Harry Potter was standing in the middle. With his left hand now made of silver after it had been chopped off by a dark-cutting curse. He was easily spotted.
On his sides stood Neville Longbottom and Susan Bones.
His last two friends.
At the beginning of the war, Neville had been in a relationship with Hannah Abbot and Susan with a French wizard he had never learned the name of.
Needless to say, their respective companions had not made it long into the war. And the two had found comforts in each other arms.
He had envied them for that.
His love for Ginny had been too strong to simply fade away. Even as Aemon Targaryen he felt regrets whenever he lay his eyes on one of the drawings he had made.
Still, what had happened there had destroyed the last part of him that still cared.
He felt his body tense as he remembered what was going to happen and could only watch on as the two armies faced each other. Each being made up of hundreds of wizards and thousands of muggles. Both had come with every weapon they could take with them and there was only a quarter of a mile separating them.
Someone yelled and a sickly purple light left the wand of one of the wizards on the opposite side, a scream of pain was heard as the target failed to avoid being hit and all hell broke loose.
At once the two sides began to sprint to each other and he heard the roars of a jet engine as two fighters jet zapped by but not without unloading two missiles each, heading straight for his enemies of once.
As he remembered, two struck true, destroying a tank but two others were stopped by a group of wizards each which redirected them toward the charging army.
The Battle of Vancouver had been the last of its kind and he knew they could be thankful for that. From then on, the war had been fought discreetly, with small skirmishes here and there but not like that, and for good reason.
He saw the elder wand rising and the two missiles changed their paths, to crash into one more tank, stopping it dead in its tracks.
Aemon ducked on instinct when he saw a spell headed his way but found he had nothing to fear as another went right through his chest.
With a confident step, he began to make his way to where Harry was going to be in a few moments.
He passed through soldiers unloading their rifles on their enemies only to be felled by a sickly yellow curse as they began to gouge their eyes out and soon died horribly.
He did not need to step over the bodies of the fallen as they appeared immaterial and continued.
Thousands had died that day, given the numbers that Humanity had at the time it had been one of the biggest mistakes to have been made.
He advanced seeing more devastation than even his memories had accounted for.
Wizards, witches, and muggles alike lay injured and dead everywhere, some still fighting to breathe, but it would be hours before help came.
Finally, he arrived near Harry, Neville, and Susan.
They had taken position behind a carbonized tank and were on the defense from two distinct groups of wizards supported by a dozen soldiers that made sure to empty magazine upon magazine on the trio.
Just as he remembered, one of the enemy witches managed to push the tank and he heard a piercing scream as Susan was crushed by it.
Aemon closed his eyes, she had not deserved that. Despite the world they lived in, Susan was one of the few that could still see the hope at the end of the road.
A primal roar sounded and stopped the fighting as suddenly, a huge grizzly bear surged through and began tearing into his enemies while Harry tried to heal Susan.
To no avail and he could only watch on as the redhead breathed her last and a second later, a sickly yellow curse impacted the bear.
Neville’s animagus was formidable but he was still a bear. While the blood-boiling curse made its way through him, he still had the force to take one last swipe with his huge claws and beheaded the wizard that had just cursed him. Before slowly transforming back to his human form and Aemon could not nothing but watch as his last friend breathed his last.
He felt a tear roll down his cheek, Neville too had deserved better.
But no matter how hard he tried he could not remember what had happened next and so, he carefully watched his former self and could only widen his eyes as he saw Harry rise from the smoking carcass, the elder wand pointed to the sky and in one slash, brought it down and with it the largest bolt of lightning he had ever seen.
The blinding flash forced him to shield his eyes and when he opened them could only witness the utter destruction he had brought. A wide but shallow crater had formed where the bolt struck, annihilating the squadron that had been responsible for Neville’s death.
As soon as he could see again, Harry went on the offensive, dealing killing blow after killing blow and uncaring of the screams of those that fell to his wand.
Aemon followed but felt his steps falter and his vision began to darken until he began tumbling down in a dark-as-night space, seemingly unending.
His arms were flailing around, trying to catch onto something, anything to break his fall, until he slammed face-first into the ground and in his world went black.
Aemon’s eyes snapped open and he instinctively reach for a wand that was not there.
His dream, or more like his nightmare, had left him breathless.
It took him a few moments to situate himself. Over a year had passed since he last dreamt so vividly.
Aemon splashed his face with the water in the basin next to his bed and finally managed to regain control of his breathing.
It was hot in his room, hotter than what he had gotten used to in Dorne, which was saying something.
But that was easily explained by the continuously lit fire. Why Starfall even had fireplaces, he did not know but such was the case.
For moons it had been lit, and nothing had changed.
The egg did not bulge, nor did it crack.
It stood defiantly, its red-speckled white scales unfazed by the fire and it almost felt like it was throwing a challenge to Aemon.
The only thing that changed was the unusual amount of wood they got themselves delivered. Aemon knew it must have raised more than one eyebrow to see a Dornish castle buy burning wood in large quantities.
Aemon had a feeling that even during one of those long winters they suffered occasionally, Starfall would not need as much wood as he was using.
Still, it was not done without reason.
Ever since he had discovered the egg, Aemon ensured it remained hot. Either seating in the middle of a roaring fire or on red embers.
But he had yet to see any change, the egg still felt alive, he could feel the warmth emanating from it. And Aemon found himself being able to touch it even after it had been in the middle of flames for hours.
Neither did feeding it his blood, but he kept doing it as well, it felt right somehow and his instinct was reinforced by the words of his House.
Maybe the key was there.
It did not seem to hurt it at the very least.
Still, between tending to the fire, training with Arthur and learning about Westeros, his days were full.
But the chest had not been the only surprise he got for his latest name day, when he had gone back to his bedchamber that same night, it had been to find a certain silvery smooth cloak.
He had almost dropped the chest in his surprise.
The cloak of invisibility.
The one and only, certainly not one imbued with a disillusionment charm or one woven from Demiguise hair, but the one gifted by Death herself to his ancestor, Ignotus Peverell.
Though it was not the most useful of hallows to someone in his position, its apparition after seven years had come as a relief.
Death had not deceived him, not that he could understand why she would have.
The only and best theory he could come up with was that the other deathly hallows would appear in the future, likely on a nameday of particular importance but which?
One and ten was an important nameday for any young witch or wizard, but was it significant in any other way? Aemon knew not, he had never heard of it mentioned as one of the powerful numbers.
Three and ten was an even more potent number, in perhaps every culture it meant something, whether muggle or magical. It stood to reason it did so here as well.
The only other he knew of would be seven and ten, the age at which one became an adult, but more importantly, it was when witches and wizards hit magical maturity. An age at which their powers finally stopped growing.
Either way, Aemon had to wait.
289 A.C, Starfall
Things had seen little change in the past year.
Aemon still spent his time training, either his magic or his swordsmanship, learning new things and taking care of the dragon egg.
The egg received daily doses of his blood, though it had had little effect. But Aemon could tell he was right to do so given how the egg reacted to it, almost humming at each feeding.
Still, it showed no sign of hatching. He knew he was missing something, some crucial piece of information that would let him hatch it. But what that was? He had no idea, none of the books in Starfall’s library contained any mention of it. Though he would have been surprised if they did, knowing to what length his ancestor had gone to hatch eggs of their own.
No, there was something he was missing and the only place he could possibly learn of it was both far and close.
The Citadel, the center of learning and knowledge of this world. Located in Oldtown, barely a sennight worth of travel by ship, much longer by the road. The only problem was his age, at only eight namedays, neither Arthur nor his mother would agree to go, not for a few years at least.
Apparating had never seemed more like a better option, but he knew that doing so would be even more foolish.
Trying to go somewhere he had never been was the perfect recipe to splinch himself, and without a wand, it was almost as good as a death sentence depending on which part he left behind.
“There is one person that might know,”
Aemon startled as Arthur interrupted his thoughts.
“What?” he could not help but ask.
“Your father often corresponded with Maester Aemon,”
“Who?” he asked, why was he only learning of this? And who was this man who bore the same name as he?
“Maester Aemon Targaryen, the son of Maekar and brother to Aegon the fifth, your father and him exchanged letters regularly for years, though I know not what they discussed, I know Rhaegar always eagerly awaited a response.”
Aemon frowned, “Maester Aemon Targaryen is alive?” he had read of him before, “but he must be…”
“Over ninety namedays,” Arthur nodded with a sad smile, “it has been years, it’s possible he has passed…”
It was, ninety namedays as a wizard was no shocking age. Dumbledore had been over one hundred and fifteen at the time of his death, and had it not been for the curse he could have lived decades longer. He could still remember Griselda Marchbanks, his Owls’ examinator, who had also given his examination to Dumbledore. The witch must have been closing in on a hundred and fifty, and she had been as sharp as he guessed she ever was. Though he had no idea what had happened to her, he had no doubt that if the world had not gone to hell, she would have lived many more years.
But Aemon Targaryen was not a wizard, it was undoubtable he possessed some magic from the blood in his veins, but not enough to qualify as a fully-fledged wizard. Ninety was not an age most ever came close to in Westeros or Essos. Life was hard, especially for the smallfolk, but even for the lords and ladies when he compared to how life was for the average muggle on Earth back in the early 2000’s.
Here, if people reached sixty or seventy it was already considered to be long lived.
“He’s still at the Wall?”
“He was eight years ago, he’s never left, he knows you live but nothing else.”
There and then, Aemon knew he had to write to him, only to verify the oldest member of his family still lived. And hopefully, he would have an answer.
“There is something else, your grace,” Arthur said and Aemon knew the knight meant to broach an important subject when he used his title. “The Lannister fleet has been burned by the Ironborns, almost entirely,”
“How?” Aemon raised his eyebrows in surprise, when ser Richard had informed them the Ironborn were preparing something big, they had theorized on what, where and when.
But none of their estimates had accounted for something so bold, that had apparently worked. He could not help the small smile on his face, knowing it was the Lannisters who had sacked King’s Landing.
“They came into the night, the broke Lannisport defenses with sheer numbers and set alight the Lannister Fleet, it is said Euron Greyjoy led this attack,”
Aemon nodded, while he was not familiar with the Greyjoys anymore than to know they led the Ironborns, it was not important. What was important was the fact that the Lannisters would need years to rebuild their fleet.
“There are also reports of countless raids on the shores of the Westerlands and of the Reach,”
This did not make him smile however, while he enjoyed learning of the Lannisters’ suffering, it was not them that paid the price of the Ironborns’ ambitions.
“The royal and Redwyne fleets are undamaged?” he asked and the lord commander of his reduced kingsguard nodded.
Then the Ironborns were screwed, if only they had waited a few more years, perhaps he could have taken advantage of it, but it was not to be. And it would only strengthen Robert Baratheon’s rule.
289 A.C, The Wall
Ice and snow had replaced the words he was most familiar with a long time ago.
So long in fact, that it sometimes seemed like he had lived several lives. One as a prince of the Crown, another as a student at the Citadel, and one at the northernmost point of the Seven Kingdoms, aiding to guard the realm of men.
And yet, despite the extreme cold, despite the despair that reigned at the Wall, he had always had hope.
Until the news of Rhaegar’s defeat and his family’s fall had reached him of course. For moons, he had waited, to see either a direwolf or a stag on the horizon, coming to claim his life for his family’s crimes. But they had not come, eight years had passed, and no one had.
He could only guess most had forgotten about him and only the hope that his family had survived managed to sustain his will to live. And even then, it had been years since word of them had reached this far North.
To think his family had fallen so low that it’s last surviving members were children and old maester living at the literal end of the world.
“Maester Aemon,” his steward interrupted his morbid thoughts. “A letter for you,”
“Thank you Ched, I will read it later,” he said, not wanting his young steward to realize how much his sight was beginning to fade.
“I think you should look now, maester, it carries your house’s sigil,”
Aemon’s eyes widened, had he heard right? He gestured for the younger man to bring it to him and gasped as he did.
The three headed dragons stood on the seal, as if all was normal.
His fingers trembling, he broke the seal off and began reading, squinting his eyes.
Dear Uncle,
First of all, I would like to apologize for taking so many years to contact you, I only recently learned of my heritage.
But I can only express my relief at finding out our family is not as diminished as I thought. And so, I write with the hope that you still hold your vows.
For obvious reasons I shall silence my own name but for the fact that my father was greatly inspired by the letters you exchanged.
Our shared heritage has already manifested itself to me, though how to make it bloom remains a mystery. As such, I write to you to ask for advice, in the hope that Fire can be brought back to the Realm once more and that you can find in it, as I do, the spark that will end the darkness, the hope that the Blood of our enemies can wash their crimes against our own.
I am surrounded by allies, ones who carry the dawn of our House on their shoulders. And I also write to you in the hope of finding an ally, even one bonded by many oaths.
Yours in kinship,
Aemon felt tears roll down his cheeks and made no effort to stop them. Finally his many times removed nephew had contacted him.
For so many years, he waited, knowing a son of Rhaegar lived and yet completely blind to his life. He had had no idea how to even contact this young Targaryen. And so, Aemon was left to wait, until this very day.
And he could only feel relief at knowing his relative was supported by one of the greatest knights who had ever lived. With both the Sword of the Morning and the Black Bat by his side, Aemon felt confident his youngest kin was safe.
Which could sadly not be said for his lost kin across the Narrow Sea.
Still, it appeared like his nephew needed his help. If Aemon understood what he was saying, his namesake had obtained an egg and he now sought to hatch it.
Immediately, he grabbed a roll of parchment and dipped his quill in ink, maybe some good would come from his exile at the Wall. For in his many years here, he had read books and scrolls not even found in the Citadel, texts thought lost to time.
The secret was in the words of their family, but it was not the only thing, every piece of magic of the Dragonlords of old relied on a crucial piece, sacrifice. For only Death may pay for Life.
290 A.C, Starfall
Ashara stood beneath the shade of an almond tree. From this vantage, she could see the whole of the training yard and at its center, two figures circling one another.
Arthur moved with the same fluidity he always had. He and his blade were one.
Aemon, by contrast, was all sweat and bruises, with more than a touch of defiance.
Ashara winced as the boy stumbled back from a shoulder blow that sent him sprawling into the dust. The blunted sword clattered from his grip. Before she could take a step forward, he was already scrambling to his feet.
“Again,” he rasped.
Arthur said nothing. He simply lifted his blade, the signal clear.
Ashara felt her fingers dig into her sleeves. This was routine now. Aemon bore it all without complaint. In truth, he sought it.
Another strike, this one to the thigh, and Aemon cried out. But instead of stepping back, he surged forward, pivoted off his planted foot, and brought the edge of his blade in a sharp upward arc that forced Arthur to deflect or be struck.
Ashara caught her breath. That had been clever.
“Good,” Arthur said simply, and that was praise enough.
Aemon stepped back, chest heaving, and Ashara could see the pain in his shoulders, in the way he favored one side. But there was no frustration, no petulance. Only calculation. He was already reviewing the exchange. She had seen that look before, but not in a child.
He missed nothing. Understood what was left unsaid more quickly than what wasn’t. He had once corrected Alanis’ arithmetic before his seventh nameday and even offered suggestions on how to improve the fishing boats. Improvements that had been adopted and yielded results.
And when it came to words… gods, at eight, it was easy to believe he had been motivating troops to die for him his entire life. There was kindness in him, yes. Gentle hands and warm words for servants and stabled horses alike. But when pressed, truly pressed, he struck with a cold, deliberate efficiency.
That ruthlessness, she thought, would keep him alive. And perhaps one day, it would unite a fractured realm.
Ashara turned her eyes to the tower beyond the walls. The Palestone Sword Tower. One of the symbols of House Dayne. A proud house, ancient and honorable, but fading.
He lunged again now, pressing Arthur harder than before, pushing with footwork he had drilled endlessly. It would never be enough, not yet. Not for years.
He will be the greatest king Westeros has seen in a hundred years, she thought. Mayhap ever.
And yet, guilt gnawed at her.
She had raised him to carry the weight of a crown. Taught him history, politics, houses and statecraft, knowing full well it would steal his childhood. She had placed his destiny in the hands of men like Arthur and Oswell, men who had once failed another prince, another realm.
And she could not help but wonder, when he bled in the dust like he did now, when he stared at the coals beside the dragon egg for hours without moving, whether she had doomed him to repeat the same tragedy.
Arthur disarmed him again. This time, the blade flew farther, and Aemon dropped to one knee, breathing hard.
Ashara moved without thinking. By the time she reached the edge of the yard, Arthur was already helping Aemon to his feet.
“That’s enough for today,” she said firmly.
Aemon blinked up at her, soaked in sweat, blood seeping from a small gash above his brow. “I could still…”
“You could rest,” she said, brushing hair from his forehead. “And live to fight tomorrow.”
He grinned through his bruises, and something in her chest ached.
She led him away, her arm around his shoulders, and whispered, “I’m proud of you, my little dragon.”
290 A.C, Volantis
Her Lord had been most insistent, in fact, Kinvara could say for sure he had never been so.
Most of His requests came in that form, requests, her Lord was never one to demand, but her devotion was such that simple requests became instructions to be followed, to make sure her Lord’s will and word were adhered to by as many as possible.
She could still remember the day she had joined the Red Temple, so many years ago. Like most who did, it had not been of her own volition.
But never had she regretted it.
Not since her Lord had shown her destiny, what her purpose in this world was and how she would best serve him.
Decades had passed, if she was honest with herself, she had lost count of how many.
She had waited, patient and convinced that what the flames had shown her would one day come to pass.
His Chosen would rise and would bring the Dawn.
And he would need her help to do so, she had bided her time and spent decades spreading her Lord’s word and influence, every day converting new followers to His will.
Not once had she questioned His word, not once had she doubted His power and in the future He had shown her.
And her dedication had been rewarded, when for all the others, the flame became inanimate, for her it did not.
He had shown her, what was required, the many trials she would have to endure to finally stand at the side of His Chosen.
R’hllor had shown her that the time for the prophecy to come true was nigh.
And as she had for the many years spent in her Lord’s service, Kinvara set out to see his vision realized.