Chapter Text
Harrenhal 104 AC
A Gray Rat
House Hightower had always been the chiefest supporter of the Faith and the Citadel; both were stationed and claimed their focal point in Oldtown ruled by the Hightowers, and many maesters and septons came from said family, after all, and generations of good relations allowed close ties with both. A powerful connection that allowed House Hightower to know most things done in most castles keeps towns, and villages. This was partially the reason for the late King Jaehaerys to name a Hightower to the position of Hand and the following reason why the Tullys married one of their daughters to a second son, Lord Otto Hightower, current Hand of the King, even if the man was not Hand at the time.
So when maester Jonothor Tully, a distant Tully cousin, was asked by the Hand, a man he claimed loose kinship with, to overlook Prince Daemon should he ever be injured during the tourney, it was with no complaint. It was in his heart, a selfless act to help Hightower's interest in the crown and the closer ties with House Hightower and the royal family, and in turn, do the same for House Tully. At least he would have thought such things if not for the letter between the pair three months prior, which raised suspicions. Even further, when he was told that it was Daemon who he was asked to help if the prince was injured. The entire Riverland hated Daemon and Aemon, and Hightower was no friend to them either. So it was clear that the Lord Hand knew something was going to happen to the prince; Maester Jonothor confirmed it when the prince was nearly killed by the Baratheon bastard.
The Lord Hand had sent him a letter three moons beforehand, telling him that a medicine he would allow maester Tully to name was a poison based primarily on Milk of the Poppy. Maester Tully was confused about such a poison being based on a commonly used medicine for painful ailments. Milk of the Poppy is used to numb the pain; it also confounds the mind, and the Lord Hand wanted more minor similarities of the mind's decreased abilities; while not full-on delirium, he wished the mind to be malleable. With several molds, plants, vegetation, leaves, flowers, and a combination of cordyceps, a fungus that maester Tully despised but wrote a dissertation upon, Tears of Lys, which leaves no trace, and a Long Farwell, primarily for its long-time to activate and lack of outward tells of it being in the person, rather than the absolute death, a poison was made like no other. He was told larger portions had more immediate results, but the results were more drastic and far more noticeable.
Maester Tully would never use the poison without a test, as he wrote back, even if it was made not even a year ago in the Citadel and had yet to be used by a soul; he would especially not use it first on a prince of the realm. But it was true and clear that the intended target of use was Prince Daemon, especially since the Lord Hand had never written him until the poison was made and did not write much else but practice with the poison until he asked for maester Jonothor to look over Prince Daemon.
He did test it on unwilling and unknowing subjects; the results were interesting. A poison that addled the mind enough to confuse reality and a dream-like state that confused previous memories, dreams, and thoughts. It is a poison that did not start quickly but took time, even weeks or months, to begin working, and the more it is used, the worse the poisons affect the mind. There were no outward tells of it being in the person but increased cruel, rasher thought, and cold, prideful, more animalistic, and primal tendencies to those around said subject that makes the person act more on impulse, but it does not kill the targetted individual. It makes the target slowly resent the person they care for most as a byproduct, not as a main purpose, and isolate the victim in question. And if the Lord Hand wanted to give this poison to Daemon, the Lord Hand either wanted Daemon to resent his brother, King Viserys, or his son, Aemon Targaryen.
While maester Jonothor may claim distant kinship with the man, primarily so that he can have a more favorable position should he ever be transferred closer to the capital and due to the ability to have favorability should he return to the Cititdel which the Hightowers highly fund, he was no fool, he was a maester. While a maesters could be a fool, a fool can not be a maester. Master Jonothor concluded that the Lord Hand paid the Baratheon bastard to injure Daemon, kill him if possible, but injure him nonetheless, and use the new poison on Prince Daemon. Injure him so that the master can begin using this new poison, just enough of it to show results after he leaves the tourney and blames any changes on the almost death of the prince at the tourney. Maester Jonothor did not doubt the grand maester was firmly in Lord Hand's pocket and would continue to position Daemon. If he started the same day the injury was given, it would take no more than a day for at least some results, a month before his tendencies begin to draw attention by those close to him, a several more for those outside of the norm for to notice and all could be traced back to the moment was first, truly, nearly killed in battle, the man was only three and twenty years of age and was born into a long peace, this was more than likely his first instance of near death if not for Ser Harrold saving his life.
Maester Jonothor disliked Daemon; he disrespected his House and his people by taking away the She-bitch, Lyanna Stark, and then sullying her by fathering his Black Bastard on her. But master Jonothor was no fool; he knew to anger the riders of Caraxes and Balerion, respectively, was more foolish than drinking a thousand viles of the Strangler and expecting no results. But in castles and keeps, there are no dragons. In skies and open lands, the dragons are gods among men. In castles and keeps, the Targaryens are merely men. Maester Jonothor chose to support the Lord Hand, poison the prince, and hopefully, the Lord Hand knew exactly what he was doing. A battle between Caraxes, Daemon, and King Viserys' Sheepstealer, a larger dragon, was not something he would like to think of. Even worse if it were Caraxes and Balerion. A bloody dread it would be.
Viserys Targaryen
He had told Aemon what was to happen right after the tourney was over: he was to go to Summerhall and act as Prince of the lands and castle. Viserys had even admitted to the boy that, on his behalf, he had spoken to several of the lords and ladies of the Stormlands, Reach, Crownlands, and North to send further aid to lands and castles. Viserys then explained that, in secret, he had already been planning to build a city to the north of Summerhall, allowing Aemon to name said future town in hopes of finally making a great city in the Stormlands, which it was sorely lacking. Viserys will admit that he thought it would be best for any future great city to be developed under the control of House Targaryen.
Aemon was understandably angry and went to his father later in the day to speak to Viserys' injured brother. Viserys did not know what Aemon was told or said, but Aemon's eyes were as sharp as Valyrian steel and as dark as midnight. Then, when he returned, Aemon seemed to have come to some sort of conclusion to whatever thoughts he had about the situation.
Aemon was angry and did not say anything for some time before asking for something in return for never having the chance to be with his father; it hurt his heart to be told the situation. Viserys agreed to whatever he requested and had made an oath before the request was made. He regretted doing so. Aemon asked to be able to send word to all portions of the Seven Kingdoms that any bastards that come to the lands should be named legitimate. Viserys nearly choked and coughed up his own beating heart when he heard this.
He had shot down the idea, citing that if all were made legitimate, it could, in fact, harm session rights through all of the kingdoms and put many true-born children in danger of their birthright. Aemon was smarter than Viserys gave him credit, which was saying a lot because he knew Aemon was taught and retained the information far better from his lessons with King Jaehaeyrs.
Aemon suggested that any who wish to be legitimized must swear off all possible rights and claims they may have had if they were true born, making the newly legitimate bastards have no rights to their trueborn sibling's claims and be able to start a new in the new city. Aemon then said it might help increase the city's population much more quickly. Viserys was hesitant, and Aemon offered another contingency: they could only be named legitimate after spending ten years in the city. By then, the people will more than likely have grown roots in the city, making it grow that much more and making the population constant rather than people moving in, being made legitimate, and moving back to their place of origin. Viserys knew that Aemon had thought of this before; he did not know why, when, or how, but Aemon had thought of it before, and Viserys agreed to those terms. He wrote down a written proclamation in agreement and would allow Aemon to take it to Summerhall after the tourney.
Squire's Melee
Never had he seen Aemon like this; the boy made no sound; he made no utterance. His face was cold, and his eyes looked past the crowd as if seeing history itself play out before him. Aemon's eyes were staring at the Stranger itself, and Viserys, for his life, thought that the Stranger would blink first. This was not the face of a Targaryen warrior wanting to fight and thirst for vengeance; this was not the face of a Daemon. This was the face of the kings of Winter waiting for the winter storms to freeze the corpses of their enemies. Viserys had heard some of the talks of the Black Prince, and he saw the toasts, and he thought it best to speak to Daemon on what to do for his son. But when Daemon heard of Aemon's cold face, he said that Aemon would prove himself andthat Aemon would show all that he was the son of the Rouge Prince.
Even after the feast for the day of the Squire's Melee, Aemon made no sound; he spoke to no soul; it was as though the boy was an Other himself and was marching the army of the dead. Viserys had hoped that during the tourney, Aemon could make friends with Laenor, seeing as they were the only two boys who could ride dragons and the fact that one day both might lead their respective Houses, but Aemon during the last day or so did not ever speak. It was as though Aemon was replaced with Ghost, and Viserys did not like the notion of Aemon taking a cold-blooded predator of the North that could rip the throats of those deemed a threat or prey as a role model.
His daughter was terrified of speaking to the boy, his aunts Saera, Viserra, and Daenerys were the only ones with enough nerve to speak to him. Viserys had never met a member of his kin act as such. Targaryens were passionate if angry; they screamed words that were made of dragon fire itself. But Aemon, it was unnerving, and those dark eyes looked almost black even in the candlelights; they did not shine. If eyes were windows to the soul, Viserys would not like Aemon's eyes to be the same black as the emptiness of death, the same black as Balerion's.
The squires of each kingdom walked into the stands, and each kingdom screamed when each boy was called upon and celebrated. But Viserys swore, to both the old gods and new, that everything was quiet when Aemon stepped up. No word needed to be said, and no cheer was announced. The only thing that broke the silence was the roar of Balerion. A roar of living thunder, a roar of a volcano come alive, the roar of destruction of death brought into flesh and blood. This was what announced the presence of the heir to Summerhall and Winterfell. And the Northern lords roared; never had he heard them so loud, never had heard them scream like demons of ice, and yet they did so for the Stark bearing the name Targaryen. But Aemon's face was stone. Aemon looked like the stone statues he claimed resided in Winterfell. And for the first time, Viserys regretted allowing Daemon to make this melee because now he felt as though he had sentenced every Riverland squire, every page from the Vale, and every lad from the Stormlands to their death.
King Viserys Targaryen stood at the elevated platform, his regal presence commanding attention. The stadium, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun, sprawled out before him, the stands packed with spectators eager for the spectacle about to unfold. The atmosphere buzzed with excitement, anticipation radiating from the assembled lords, ladies, and common folk who had gathered at Harrenhal.
Viserys addressed the multitude with a voice that carried authority and charisma. "Welcome to the Squire's Melee! The boys before you represent the best of Westeros, the rising stars destined for knighthood, the future leaders of our realm. Today, you will witness their skills and witness the birth of a new tradition, the Squire's Melee." His words resonated through the air, mingling with the cheers and murmurs of the crowd. The sun cast a warm glow over the ancient castle, and the banners of the great houses fluttered in the breeze. The colors of Westeros painted a vibrant tapestry against the backdrop of Harrenhal's towering walls. The spectators, from lords and ladies in their finery to common folk in the stands, awaited the commencement of the squire's melee with bated breath. "Tourneys may come and go, but what transpires here today is unique—a new chapter in the annals of Westeros. Every one of you gathered here will be part of something unprecedented that will be recounted in tales for generations to come."
As Viserys paused, the crowd responded with fervent cheers and applause, the chants echoing across the stadium. The energy in the air was palpable, and the anticipation for the squire's melee reached a crescendo, setting the stage for a memorable and historic event in the heart of Harrenhal.
The announcer and host of the games stood up proud and tall as he continued after Viserys sat down. "It is my great honor to start this melee. May the melee commence! "
Aemon Targaryen, devoid of the imposing Blackfyre but with a quiet determination in his eyes, stepped away from the safety of the Crownland squires and northern warriors. His cold and unwavering gaze surveyed the approaching horde of Riverlands and Vale squires who had seemingly allied against him. The tension in the air was palpable as the stadium held its collective breath, awaiting the clash that was about to unfold.
The other squires, sensing the gravity of the situation, hesitated for a moment as Aemon walked towards them, seemingly unperturbed. His every step exuded a quiet confidence bordering on arrogance, and his eyes, piercing and focused eyes locked onto each aggressor in turn. Aemon, a boy of noble blood, faced the challenge head-on, his demeanor betraying no fear.
Aemon closed the distance, surrounded by the hostile squires who had chosen to make him the target of their onslaught. Viserys, observing from his vantage point, could feel the weight of the moment, a tense silence descending upon the stadium as the imminent clash loomed.
As Aemon reached the outskirts of the approaching group, the tension snapped. The Riverlands and Vale squires launched themselves at the young Targaryen, their blunted tourney swords raised, but Aemon met their aggression with an unwavering resolve. The first blows landed, and the melee erupted into a chaotic dance of blades, the clash of steel ringing through the air. Aemon, navigating the onslaught with surprising agility, became the focal point of a swirling storm of combat, a lone figure standing against a tide of adversaries.
As the much larger squire, fueled by aggression and perhaps overconfidence, charged toward Aemon with a fervent scream, the tension in the air reached a fever pitch. "Black Prince!" was the only scream the boy made.
Aemon's cold eyes turned irritated. Viserys knew that for many, Aemon had only one emotion, brooding, but for those who knew him more, they all could agree that his eyes are the only tell of what he is feeling if he is not guarded. And while Aemon is fighting, he focuses more on the blades than schooling his features to appear impassive.
Aemon, displaying a poise beyond his years, met the incoming strike with practiced ease. His blunted tourney sword deflected the blow to the side with a swift and controlled movement, showcasing an unexpected level of skill for a boy his age.
With the squire's blade momentarily diverted, Aemon seized the opportunity to strike back. He brought his free hand into play in a fluid motion, delivering a forceful punch directly to the charging squire's face. The impact echoed through the stadium, a collective gasp rising from the spectators as the larger opponent crumpled to the ground, his battle cry replaced by a stunned silence.
Undeterred by the quick dispatching of his first assailant, Aemon immediately shifted his focus to the next threat, then the next, and the next, and a fourth. Another squire, perhaps sensing an opening, approached with renewed determination. Aemon, however, remained composed, his movements calculated and precise. The boy was taller and had more of a sticky build than most his age, and it was clear the boy was at least twice the age and higher than Aemon, a common occurrence throughout the Squire's Melee so far.
Viserys looked at the Riverland squire and could not fully tell what House the boy was from. But the glare in the boy's eyes indicated he was either from Riverrun or was closely tied with the Tullys. "I suppose it would be too much to ask for a mere second to grasp my breath?"
"Black bastard," the boy said. The entire crowd heard it, and Viserys was going to intervene. Viserys saw his daughter and his aunts all show a level of anger that could only happen to Targaryen women, a dragoness of their family was more fiercely protective than a lioness with her cubs. Viserys had no doubts in his mind that the female portion of the Targaryen family would have sent the squire to bed with one of their dragons to see if the boy had either sh*t the bed in fear or was eaten before that could come to pass.
"Naming your prince a bastard outright is a damnable offense, good ser," Aemon said calmly. Viserys was proud of his nephew, keeping his head level and not succumbing to the obvious baiting and mocking, something Viserys knew Daemon would have done easily. "I'm sorry, but in truth, your life would be forfeit if I so chose."
Viserys heard a gasp or two, but none from the royal box. Viseyrs noticed the Riverlords; instead of being ashamed of having their squire name a prince of the realm a bastard, they seemed to have a satisfied smirk. Viserys was not the best at the game of thrones, but he was born and raised in King's Landing and was far better than a lord of f*cking marshes! He would have their heads. Aemon may have been his nephew, but for the last number of years, he was the man raising Aemon. Aemon was quiet and brooded often; he was not like Viserys or Daemon, but Viserys raised Aemon like his son while Daemon built Summerhall. And in his heart, someone had just disrespected his son; someone named his son a bastard! But then Daemon's words returned to him. Aemon would handle this, and Viserys knew that stepping in now would disrespect Aemon's skill; he would stay quiet and wait until this was over.
Viserys knew that Aemon was angry with him and that he would not forgive easily; Aemon was kind, if not quite; he was generous, if not determined. And while Aemon had much patience when one truly angered him, it would take time, long lengths of time, until Aemon exploded in anger, and due to his brooding and quiet nature, his anger exploded with no warning. Viserys had heard so many rumors and words about the names they called Aemon, and no matter what, he could not determine their origins, but Aemon would not care. In his heart, Viserys knew Aemon would explode on this day.
"As if you could hurt me, you black-haired c*nt dropping," the Riverland squire countered to Aemon.
Aemon's eyes narrowed ever slightly; Viserys could see Aemon struggling to hold back his rage any further; the boy showed nothing; only the royal box could see the rage building. "Why do you hate me so much? Not once have I ever met you, and yet you curse my name and call me a bastard."
"My cousin was to marry the Stark whor*, and yet your father and mother dishonored themselves and our House. Your father has already been given his rights. Beaten in Harrenhal, in the Riverlands, the same lands he disrespected. Beaten by the bastard son of a House that was born from Targaryen bastards. All that is left now is to beat his bastard son," the squire said.
Aemon's sword stance changed; instead of squatting down with his blade pointed at the now-confirmed Tully squire as if ready to lunge. Aemon stepped back as he raised his sword, the tip pointed upwards, as he looked far more relaxed in his guard. Instead of before, where Aemon had one hand on the handle to point it, now he had both hands on the handle as he held the sword up to the skies. He thought once more and kept his feet at the same stance but lowered the sword from pointing to the skies and pointed it just above the head of the squire and moved the sword directly in front of him rather than just at an angle outside his guard.
Aemon kept his eyes level with the taller and stronger squire. "A man does not condemn a child for the sins of his father," Aemon said cooly. "On behalf of my father, who is injured, my mother, who has passed, and on behalf of the House Targaryen, I apologize," Aemon returned.
Viserys smiled; the boy was honorable. Viserys waved over Ser Harrold. Once the knight came forth, Viserys spoke. "You did well with Aemon, good Ser."
"That was not my work, You Grace," Ser Harrold told him.
"And what do you think the source is?" Viserys asked in interest.
Ser Harrold looked to be thinking before smirking as if he had come to the correct joke. "Proper breeding, Your Grace." Viserys laughed and allowed Ser Harrold to return to his post.
Viserys turned back to the fight and looked at the Riverland squire as he spoke. " I do not need the pity of a bastard Stark, the son of a northern whor*."
The Northen lords roared in anger and screamed in disagreement. Each one calls for blood and vengeance. If there was one truth, it was the Starks were respected and loved in the North, and no woman loved or respected more than Lyanna Stark, the woman who defied the odds to love the man she loved. She embodied Northern women's wildness and their determination born from the survival of many winters and harsh storms. Viserys did not think the Tully square would survive the tourney. The boy was locked in a melee with the son of the woman he disrespected.
Aemon took several breaths. "With respect to House Tully, I will not take your life. But for the disrespect to my mother, I will let you decide... will I take your tongue for disrespecting her with your words or your hands for taking up arms against her son?"
The Riverlords screamed in protest at Aemon's words. God be good; his nephew would start a war between the North and the Riverlands. Viserys would support his nephew. He would not allow these slights against his brother and his brother's wife to stand. And he would have the tongue of the squire in question. VIseyrs looked to his wife, and she nodded in approval.
"Prince Aemon Targaryen!" Viserys screamed out loud, stopping all fighting and speech in the crowd. Aemon's anger toward Viserys was slightly displaced as he turned to Viserys and kneels perfectly as a knight should. Gods, Viserys wished to knight his nephew already for showing such honor, even if his anger toward Viserys was strong. He turned to the Tully squire. "What is your name, boy?" Viserys could not hold back as he spat out the last portion. Gods, how he hated himself and how he failed Daemon and Aemon, but he would not allow anyone, man, woman, child, or elder, to disrespect his nephew, his son in everything but in name, in such a way without the realm knowing they angered their King!
"Carron Tully, Your Grace," the boy said, not noticing Viserys rage.
Viserys leaned down the railing and looked down on the boy. Viseyrs would put a f*cking end to this, for Daemon, for Aemon. He would show the realm where the lines were drawn. Yes, he would fail Daemon and Aemon for the realm, and he knew it would happen over and over again. But he would not lie down and watch the people disrespect his brother and his brother's son!
"Well, Carron Tully, may I remind you that Aemon Targaryen is a prince of the blood. Naming a prince a bastard out loud, in front of every lord and lady in the realm, ensuring that all saw and heard you do so, eliminating all shadows of doubt, would more than give me and my nephew the right to claim your head. Defiling the royal family in any way, shape, or form is enough cause for me to call a headsmen."
Carron Tully's smug smile turned into a fearful face, almost like a prey that had just been caught. Viserys knew not what went through the boy's mind, but all members of House Targaryen, even the Velaryons they named kin, seemed to stand tall, waiting to release their wroth on the boy. Viserys was sure the boy did not see the royal family, but in their place, the dragons each one rode. Carron's head snapped back to Aemon, and Viserys saw the moment he realized once more the boy rode the dragon of Aegon the Conqueror himself.
"Lords and ladies, as King of the Seven Kingdoms, and an uncle to a disrespected nephew, I will allow the disrespected party to name the punishment for a transgression all in attendance could not put into question in doubt transpired!" Viserys said allowed. He had to thank King Jaehaerys for teaching him what words to use if this should transpire. "Prince Aemon name your punishment!"
Aemon looked at the boy, the boy's life quite literally in Aemon's hands as he tightened his sword. Viserys knew that Aemon would personally let the boy go, but he was a prince and was disrespected. There was no escaping punishment. Viserys knew Aemon wished to forgive him, normally, but Aemon was angered by Viserys, Daemon's injury, the conversation Daemon had with his son, and the disrespect to the mother Aemon would never know. Aemon wanted blood, and his position as a disrespected prince forced Aemon to claim no mercy, no matter how much he wished for it.
"I should kill you outright," Aemon said out loud. "Put your head on a log and cut it off with Blackfyre. He who passes the sentence must swing the sword." The Northern lords and squires roared in agreement as the Riverlords tried to protest. "But it was my mother's honor that was disrespected; that is what I care for. And it is my mother's honor I will redeem. And I will not regain my mother's honor by lopping off the head of a squire while his bound in chains. I will regain my mother's honor through honorable means."
Viserys smiled at this. Viserys felt for a second that this was the type of pride a father should feel for their son. This was the pride that Viserys would feel for his future son. He was happy, and he felt such pride for Aemon. "Your verdict, Prince Aemon!" Viserys was forced to ask to ensure that his intent was laid bare before the people.
"Trial by combat," Aemon said stoically, no emotion shown. "And if you choose anyone but yourself as your representative, I will choose f*cking Balerion as my champion."
Viserys was surprised by that. Smart move, but surprising. The boy had no way for the River lords to intervene and have his cousins and family fight on his behalf. "Your words, Carron Tully."
The boy hesitated; he did not think Aemon would claim his head as penance. The boy more than likely had never killed before. Aemon had. While many doubted Aemon won the Wildling Invasion by himself, none doubted he fought in it.
"I-I accept, Your Grace," Carron replied. He readied himself before Aemon before growing co*cky once more, seeing that Aemon was but half his size.
"Bring forth live steel for the pair," Viserys said.
"Just one, Your Grace. I could win this with a blunted sword," Aemon said seriously. His glare did not leave Carron.
Someone came forth and brought the blades, but Aemon turned him down as he looked on to Carron, who accepted his. Carron seemed to grow more serious; Viserys knew in Carron's head the boy thought there would be victory over Aemon. Carron thought that his family would be avenged for Daemon's disrespect. He was wrong. Carron held a long sword with both hands, while Aemon had a bastard sword, the blunted tourney sword. Viserys noted that Aemon had now noticed Aemon used the bastard sword just like Blackfyre.
Carron rushed forward with a great speed that was similar to a knight rather than a squire. As the Carron swung his long, live sword towards Aemon, the young Targaryen adeptly blocked the strike with his own weapon. He swung thrice with overhead strikes, not long, heavy, horrible swings, but far more agile with less than a blink with a following swing. Aemon blocked all strikes as he took a step to the left, and Carron did the same to his own left as they continued striking and blocking one another as they walked in a circle. Aemon took a step back as his blade was kept in front of him. Viserys noticed Aemon kept his eyes lower, not to Carron's blade but near Carron's waist. Viserys may not know much about fighting, but he knew this was not wise.
"What's the matter, bastard?" Carron said. The boy was getting prideful. Viserys assumed the boy figured that if he was already in a trial by combat for the transgression, it could not get worse. If he loses, he dies; if he wins, the transgressions mean nothing. "You are not looking me in the eye. Afraid?"
Aemon struck thrice with quick swings. Carron dodged one and blocked the other, but Aemon's third was so quick that Carron was barely able to take a step back as the upward slash nearly hit Carron in the jaw. Carron stumbled back as he had taken a large step back that unbalanced him from avoiding the slash.
Carron grew angry and rushed forward with a large downward slash. Aemon blocked the strike while taking a step back. Instead of going for a wide strike, Aemon twisted his wrist so the blunted sword was now on the opposite side of Carron's live blade. Carron tried to block by doing similar. The pair went back and forth, turning their wrists with close strikes rather than wide-spacing slashes. The pair twisted their wrists as they made small slashes right after moving their blades to the vulnerable side. Aemon allowed Carron's live blade to slash as he blocked the strike and allowed the blade to graze down the blade and get caught in the crossguard before Aemon came close and punched Carron in the face with enough force for the squire to sprawl to the ground. It was clear Aemon had the upper hand the entire time.
Carron tried to get up, but he sent Aemon a glare as Aemon did not try to move to the live sword in the ground nor try to capitalize. Aemon's low gaze was just the right amount to look coldly at Carron, and neither Aemon's low gaze nor head moved the entire time. "This is where a trout's eyes meet the eyes of a dragon."
Viserys could not help but laugh at the comment. Viserys could saw the satisfied smirk come from Rhaenys' face, and even his aunts and daughter laughed loudly, while half of his aunts tried to hide their satisfaction. But Viserys did notice that Lady Alicent seemed concerned over the fight. He did recall her mother, Lord Otto's wife, being a Tully. The poor girl must be so distraught, her family fighting her close friend.
Carron rushed to the sword and made for a wild, large, arcing swing. With a dancer's grace, Aemon sidestepped the retaliatory swing, evading the attack seamlessly. Simultaneously, he struck the charging squire in the arm, delivering a precise blow that disrupted the opponent's balance.
Carron, now off-kilter, found himself stumbling to the ground under Aemon's strategic assault. Aemon left the boy to rise up once more as he charged Aemon with the live sword. Aemon sidestepped at an angle, tapped his blunted blade on the live steel thrice, redirecting the blade subtly to the side before Aemon turned his own blunted sword, the handle towards Carron, and rammed the pommel into Carron's gut, forcing the squire on his knees. The boy dropped his live steel.
"You think strength and height are your allies?" Aemon said loudly to the boy, loud enough for all to hear. "They make you slow; they make you easier to strike."
Carron could not breathe. Viserys did not know how Aemon could end a fight to the death if his blade had its sharpness dulled almost as much as a stick. But Viserys remembered something his father had told Daemon when they were training as boys, and Daemon was going to stab Viserys instead of slash as Viserys expected; their father had to step in before Daemon unintentionally harmed Daemon. The edge of the blade was dull, but the point of the sword was more than enough to pierce a weak spot.
Aemon, taking the time, lunged forward and rammed the blunted sword through the boy's eye. The boy breathed heavily twice before Aemon unsheathed the sword from the boy's head, and the boy collapsed dead. No words were said. The gods made their choice. Viserys asked for the boy's body to be removed. Aemma suggested that the melee be stopped, but Viserys replied that men die in melees; these boys would know death and protect the realm; they would not fear death. He would not allow the boys to shy away from something all of them would eventually do; most of them were nearing twelve and would soon be knights, and he made sure to say this to crowed, even allowing some of the squires to leave early but none did even if the Riverlands were disheartened.
Once the fighting restarted, Viserys witnessed a clash between a Selmy squire and a Bracken contender. The Selmy, adept with the sword, demonstrated precision and technique, while the Bracken wielded his blade with a ferocious intensity. Viserys watched as the Bracken swung wide and harshly down. Selmy dived to the side as he waited for the Bracken to miss the strike and use the time between the Bracken readjusting to slash at the boy's head. Bracken was able to ready his sword and sing once more. Selmy was able to block the strike and redirect it to the side with a circular motion before finishing the circle close to the Backen's neck, causing the Bracken to concede due to the sword being ready to slash it.
Amid the Riverland tumult, a Blackwood and another Bracken squire engaged in a fierce contest. The Blackwood, armed with a blunted sword, showcased agility and swift strikes, contrasting with the Bracken's deliberate and calculated movements. Bracken went off with a long slash, but the Blackwood stepped back and rested forward with a lunge that was easily deflected by the Bracken. Bracken was able to move Blackwood's sword in a way that left the boy wide open, and instead of going to a punch to the face, Bracken kicked the poor squire in the balls. House Bracken laughed loudly as House Blackwood called for blood.
In the Reach quarter, a Mallister squire faced off against a Tarly challenger. Tarly was able to go for a strike, but Mallister was able to block the strike, twist the sword in a circular motion of the wrist, and move the strike to the outside of their guard as Mallister was able to enter the inside of the guard where Tarly was vulnerable and trike to strike at his chest. Tarly ducked under the strike for his chest and lunged forward to Mallister's legs; using Mallister's forward movement and Mallister's legs, Tarly was able to pick Mallister up and, using the movement, flipped Mallister to his back. Tarly spun around in that same motion and placed the tip of the sword where Mallister landed with practiced ease as the boy was not on his back, winded, and unable to counter with a sword near his head.
A notable bout occurred between a Florent and an Ashford squire in the Reach section. The Florent exhibited intricate footwork and precise swordplay, while the Ashford countered with a combination of agility and calculated strikes. The engagement encapsulated the distinctive martial traditions of House Florent and House Ashford.
In the Crownlands quadrant, a Buckler squire and a Cafferen contender engaged in an evenly-matched duel. Buckler went for a vertical slash doward while the Cafferen blocked the strike and stepped to the side, outside Buckler's guard. Cafferen lunged for a strike at Buckler's helm, but Buckler was just barely able to lower himself out of the strike, take a step into Cafferen's guard in the same motion and elbowed the Cafferen's jaw before grabbing a knife at his side and place it into Cafferen's exposed armpit, that from whar Daemon had told him once, had an artery.
The ensuing chaos of the melee brought forth a coordinated assault as five Riverland squires rushed toward Aemon in a desperate attempt to overwhelm him. Aemon's response was swift and masterful, showcasing a level of combat proficiency beyond his years.
The first Riverland squire lunged at Aemon with determined aggression, only to find his attack deflected and countered with a precise strike from Aemon's blunted sword. The impact was sharp, and the squire stumbled backward, momentarily disoriented. Before he could recover, Aemon swiftly closed the distance and, with a calculated series of strikes, incapacitated his opponent with a display of controlled force.
As the Riverland squires pressed on, undeterred by their initial failure, Aemon continued to weave through their attacks with remarkable agility. His movements were a dance of martial finesse, each swing of his blunted sword landing with intentional precision. Aemon utilized the blunted weapon not just for defense but as a tool to dismantle his adversaries efficiently, leaving them disarmed and incapacitated one by one.
Then, three Vale squires joined the fray, seeking to exploit any perceived weakness in Aemon's defense. However, the young Targaryen remained steadfast. He parried their strikes with fluid grace, countering their advances with calculated strikes of his own. Aemon's blunted sword became an extension of his will, each movement a testament to his innate combat prowess.
Two Stormland squires followed soon after, drawn into the escalating skirmish, and met a similar fate as their Riverland and Vale counterparts. Aemon's proficiency with the blunted sword became increasingly evident as he expertly navigated the battlefield, deflecting attacks and turning the momentum of the melee in his favor.
Aemon's dominance in the melee unfolded like a relentless teacher imparting a lesson to his students. The stadium, once filled with the cacophony of battle cries, transformed into a spectator's arena of astonished silence, broken only by the resounding echoes of Aemon's skillful strikes against his opponents.
As the Riverland squires regrouped for another assault, Aemon faced a trio of opponents with a mix of determination and trepidation. The crowd watched in awe as Aemon, a mere boy among young men, prepared to engage in yet another display of unparalleled skill.
The first Riverland squire, a burly lad with a confident demeanor, lunged at Aemon with a powerful overhead strike. Aemon's blunted sword met the attack head-on, the impact sending vibrations through both weapons. Displaying remarkable agility, Aemon sidestepped the next swing effortlessly, exploiting an opening in his opponent's defense. With a lightning-quick counter, Aemon delivered a precise strike to the squire's midsection, leaving him momentarily winded. The efficiency of Aemon's movements stood in stark contrast to the Riverland squire's unwieldy attempts.
The second Riverland squire, armed with a two-handed grip on his blunted sword, aimed for Aemon's flank with a sweeping motion. Aemon responded with calculated precision, parrying the strike with a well-timed block. Seizing the opportunity, Aemon deftly maneuvered around his opponent, delivering a swift series of strikes to vulnerable points. The crowd marveled at the elegance of Aemon's technique as he neutralized the Riverland squire's offense with minimal effort. The efficiency of his movements became increasingly apparent with each exchanged blow.
The third Riverland squire, perhaps sensing the challenge that lay ahead, adopted a more cautious approach. Aemon, however, remained unfazed. As the squire circled, seeking an opening, Aemon expertly anticipated his adversary's next move. A feigned retreat drew the Riverland squire into a false sense of security, and in a split second, Aemon reversed the momentum. With a precisely executed series of strikes, Aemon disarmed his opponent, leaving the squire defenseless against the impending conclusion. The crowd erupted in cheers as Aemon, a testament to his mastery, emerged unscathed from the encounter.
Viserys, seated high above the melee, observed Aemon with a mixture of astonishment and unease. The boy, usually full of youthful exuberance, had transformed into a cold and calculated figure on the field. Aemon's every movement seemed deliberate as if he were orchestrating a complex dance rather than engaging in a melee with fellow squires.
The expressions on Aemon's face were absent of emotion, his features locked in an unwavering composure. His eyes, however, betrayed a sharp and keen focus, meticulously tracking the movements of every squire around him. Aemon's gaze remained fixed, motionless yet penetrating, as if he could see through the very intentions of those who sought to challenge him.
What truly perturbed Viserys was the apparent restraint Aemon exhibited. The boy, capable of swift and decisive victories, seemed to deliberately prolong the engagements. Viserys could almost sense a subtle arrogance in Aemon's approach, an unspoken message to each opponent: "I could have defeated you sooner if I wished."
Aemon's movements were fluid and economical, displaying a mastery that transcended the skills of his adversaries. The squires attacking him, driven by ambition and bravado, were unwittingly participating in a lesson taught by a young maestro. Aemon's cold demeanor conveyed not only his proficiency but also a sense of detachment, as if he were showing the limits of their abilities in a clinical demonstration.
Viserys, unversed in the intricacies of swordplay, couldn't pinpoint the specific techniques Aemon refrained from using. Yet, he sensed an unspoken challenge issued by the young Targaryen. Aemon's controlled performance conveyed a silent message to the squires and the spectators alike: there was a vast chasm between their skill and his own, and he chose to reveal only a fraction of his true capabilities.
In the northern section of the melee, a young Stark squire faced off against a Vale counterpart. The northern lad, wielding a sturdy tourney sword, displayed disciplined footwork and a focused gaze. His Vale opponent, agile and quick, sought to outmaneuver him. The clash was marked by precise strikes and nimble dodges, reflecting the distinctive combat styles of their respective regions.
Amidst the fervor of the melee, Crownland and Riverland squires engaged in a heated duel. A Crownlander, proud and determined, locked blades with a Riverlander wielding a blunted sword. The fight showcased the contrast between their approaches, with the Crownlander favoring powerful strikes and the Riverlander relying on swift and evasive maneuvers.
In this clash, a Northern squire encountered a young Western. The northern squire, true to his Northern roots, exhibited resilience and a steadfast defense, countering the western squire's aggressive onslaught. The duel portrayed the inherent rivalry between North and West, as each squire sought to prove the supremacy of their respective regions.
As Aemon continued to effortlessly dispatch opponents, Viserys couldn't shake the feeling that this was not merely a melee but a carefully orchestrated exhibition, a display of Aemon's prowess intended to leave an indelible mark on the minds of those who bore witness.
The insults thrown at Aemon reverberated through the arena, each jeer striking a nerve. The Riverland squires, displaying their hostility, labeled Aemon as a Targaryen bastard, while the Vale squires coined him the "Black Prince." The Stormlander squire, with a hint of mockery, taunted Aemon about his father's encounter with a Baratheon bastard during the adult melee.
However, it was the vile words spoken by the Riverland squire about Aemon's mother, Lyanna Stark, that proved to be the catalyst. The derogatory reference to Lady Lyanna as a "northern whor*" ignited a fury within Aemon that had been restrained until that very moment.
Viserys, witnessing the transformation in his nephew, saw Aemon's controlled composure shatter. The cold, calculating demeanor was replaced by an eruption of anger, a visceral response akin to the famed Targaryen temper. Aemon's eyes, once impassive, now blazed with intensity.
For the first time, Aemon ceased holding back. His movements became swifter and more aggressive, and each strike with the blunted tourney sword carried an unmistakable force. The squires who had been challenging him were met with a sudden onslaught, their attempts at mockery drowned out by the resounding clash of steel.
Aemon's actions mirrored those of his father, Daemon, whose reputation for unbridled ferocity in battle was well-known. Viserys could almost sense the echoes of Daemon's influence in Aemon's every strike, as if the anger coursing through the boy had awakened a latent connection to the Targaryen warrior spirit.
As Aemon faced the insults head-on, Viserys couldn't help but feel a mixture of concern and pride. The boy had inherited not only the Targaryen name but also the indomitable spirit that defined his family. The sudden outburst marked a stark departure from the restrained demonstration Aemon had initially displayed, revealing the depth of emotion and loyalty Aemon held for his mother's honor.
Aemon's movements were far faster than a boy's should be, they were far more brutal than a boy of his age should be, and the anger he had was far more than a boy's should be. Even when brutal, Aemon's skill was a dance of steel as he engaged in a fierce duel with the squire who dared to mock his mother. The Royce squire rushed forward and swung twice at Aemon, who dodged both times with a backward lean and a sidestep. The Royce squire swung a third time, but Aemon deflected the strike easily, sending the Royce squire toward the direction of the deflection as he carried the momentum. The squire, continuing his direction towards the left of Aemon, was left vulnerable to an elbow to the face that sent him back dazed. Viserys knew in his heart because he had seen Daemon do it more than once that if Aemon had actually put force into the elbow rather than allowed the squire to rush into it, the squire would have dropped limp to the ground. The blunted tourney swords clashed in a rapid exchange, the sound of steel on steel echoing through the arena.
Blocking a strike with precision, Aemon swiftly sidestepped, avoiding a counterattack, and retaliated with an overhead strike aimed at the squire's head. However, the opponent proved resilient, raising his own sword to block Aemon's attack successfully. The overhead strike from Aemon was locked in a stalemate with the horizontal block of the sword from the Royce squire.
Refusing to relent, Aemon maintained the pressure, pushing the squire into a desperate defense. Sensing an opportunity, Aemon, with his free hand, deftly seized the end of the squire's sword. The squire, caught in a precarious stalemate, struggled to resist Aemon's strength. Aemon, recognizing the squire's vulnerability, intensified the pressure on the stalemate. Simultaneously, he moved swiftly forward, causing his cross guard to collide with the squire's. The impact disrupted the squire's grip, forcing him to loosen his hold on the sword.
Seizing the moment, Aemon expertly sidestepped, closing the distance between them. In a decisive move, he executed a precise kick, sweeping the squire's legs from under him. The squire tumbled to the ground, losing both his footing and his sword in the process.
With newfound control, Aemon stood over the fallen opponent, now armed with two swords. The shift in dynamics was palpable, and Aemon, driven by the recent insults against his mother, was poised to make a statement. The crowd, witnessing the calculated maneuvers of the young Targaryen, erupted into a mixture of gasps and cheers, amplifying the intensity of the moment.
Viserys, observing Aemon's adept use of two swords with a sense of awe, couldn't fathom where his son had acquired such a unique and extraordinary skill. The mastery of dual-wielding swords was an unparalleled feat in the known realms, and Viserys was at a loss, not knowing anyone in the Red Keep, the North, or any other kingdom that possessed this particular expertise.
The art of dual-wielding was a rare and intricate discipline, with very few individuals known to have honed such a technique. Viserys was aware of the legendary sword of the Morning tradition among the Daynes, but even their mastery was bestowed upon a chosen one worthy of the title. To witness Aemon wielding two swords simultaneously, not just proficiently but with exceptional skill, left Viserys marveling at his nephew's prowess.
The distinctiveness of Aemon's technique set him apart, not only from his peers but also from any known swordsmen in the realm. It was a display of unorthodox brilliance that went beyond conventional training, hinting at a unique and extraordinary source of knowledge. The crowd, too, recognized the rarity of such a skill, with gasps and murmurs spreading among them as they bore witness to the unprecedented spectacle.
Viserys had heard Aemon had trained with his left hand before, but he did not think the boy was good enough to use one sword in his off-hand and a second sword with his primary. Viserys had seen for the longest time that Aemon was able to train with his off-hand; he trained in front of all squires in attendance not even a day before, only showing his skill with his left hand so that he could be underestimated, even if none of the adults believed that was all Aemon was able to do. Aemon was far too good; Viserys would have offered the boy a position within Kingsguard when the boy was older if not for the fact that Aemon was Daemon's sole heir.
As Viserys continued to watch Aemon, the realization dawned that his nephew had ventured into uncharted territories of swordsmanship, showcasing a level of mastery that transcended the norms of combat; the boy was using two swords, something he did not know a single Kingsguard was able of and did not think it something they can teach another. The mystery surrounding Aemon's dual-wielding abilities only deepened, leaving Viserys in awe of the exceptional skills displayed by the young Targaryen prince.
As the numbers dwindled, Viserys began to realize that only a dozen remained on the field – Aemon, Laenor, and ten squires, predominantly hailing from the Riverlands and the Stormlands. Aemon, with a certain deliberate calmness, approached the remaining contenders, and it became apparent that these squires had no intention of facing him individually; instead, they surged forward as a collective, all ten attacking Aemon simultaneously.
Aemon's strategy was swift and precise. He employed wide, arcing strikes with his blunted tourney swords, creating a barrier that prevented the squires from grouping up and overwhelming him with sheer numbers. Each swing served a dual purpose – not just to ward off the attacks but also to maintain a perimeter, ensuring that the squires couldn't coordinate their strikes effectively.
The young Targaryen Prince displayed unparalleled agility as he blocked one squire's strike with one sword, swiftly dodged another attack, and seamlessly transitioned to counter a third assailant. The squires, though numerous, found themselves outmatched in skill and strategy. Aemon's ability to navigate the battlefield with calculated precision allowed him to control the flow of the fight, preventing the squires from forming a cohesive assault.
As the melee unfolded, the crowd's attention intensified, marveling at Aemon's mastery in handling multiple adversaries simultaneously. The spectacle transcended the boundaries of typical tourney combat, resembling more of a dance where Aemon dictated the rhythm, and the squires struggled to keep pace. In the midst of the chaos, Aemon stood as a singular force against the tide of opponents, a testament to his exceptional combat prowess and strategic acumen.
Aemon's movements were a symphony of calculated precision. As the squires closed in, their blades aimed at him from different angles, Aemon adeptly wielded his pair of blunted tourney swords. With his left sword, he blocked a strike that targeted his back, creating a barrier that seamlessly absorbed the force of the blow. Simultaneously, his right sword was poised in front of him, ready to deflect any incoming attack.
The speed of Aemon's responses was almost supernatural. In the blink of an eye, he shifted his weight, pivoted on his feet, and lunged forward. Blocking another incoming strike with his left sword, he swiftly transitioned to trip the squire in front of him. Aemon's movements were a dance of defensive maneuvers and counterattacks, each motion executed with fluidity and grace.
As the squires continued their assault, Aemon maintained a constant rhythm of blocking and striking. He demonstrated exceptional coordination between his two swords, ensuring that one was always positioned to defend while the other was poised to retaliate. Aemon's ability to multitask in the chaos of the melee was a testament to his advanced combat skills, leaving the squires struggling to keep up with the young Targaryen's relentless onslaught.
The crowd watched in awe as Aemon seamlessly weaved through the melee, his dual swords a blur of motion. The precision and speed of his movements showcased a level of mastery that surpassed the expectations of a typical squire's melee. Aemon's performance was a spectacle, and the spectators couldn't help but be captivated by the display of skill and finesse unfolding before them.
A squire lunged towards Aemon's back, aiming for a vulnerable spot, but Aemon swiftly countered with his left sword, intercepting the strike just in time. Simultaneously, his right sword swung in a calculated arc, delivering a counterstrike to a different adversary. The swift motion continued seamlessly as Aemon pivoted to address the new threat behind him.
Another squire, seeing an opportunity, attempted a strike from the side. Aemon's left sword moved to intercept the incoming attack, creating a protective barrier. With precise timing, he adjusted his stance and, with a swift maneuver, tripped the squire who had attacked from the rear. Aemon maintained his composure, ready to face the next assailant.
As the squire's melee continued, Aemon demonstrated an exceptional display of skill, facing a multitude of opponents simultaneously. His movements were a harmonious blend of offense and defense, as he strategically engaged each adversary in a choreography of swordplay.
One squire after another lunged towards Aemon; their attacks met with precision and calculated counterstrikes while all the squires stopped coming at him one-on-one and chose to crowd him and attack at the same time. Aemon seamlessly transitioned between blocking and striking, using the dual-sword technique to maintain control over the chaotic battlefield. His left sword became a steadfast guardian, deflecting incoming strikes, while his right sword, wielded with finesse, found its mark in each counterattack.
A squire from the Riverlands, fueled by aggression, swung his sword with determination, aiming for Aemon's side. However, Aemon sidestepped the attack effortlessly, delivering a quick slash with his right sword that sent the squire stumbling backward. In the midst of this, another squire from the Stormlands attempted a swift strike from the rear, only to be met with a well-timed block from Aemon's left sword.
The dance continued, with Aemon's adversaries growing more desperate as they realized the futility of their coordinated efforts. A quick parry, a swift strike, and a precise kick led to the gradual elimination of squires, one by one. Aemon moved with an almost preternatural awareness, exploiting every opening and flaw in their attacks.
In the final moments, as only a handful of squires remained, Aemon's mastery became increasingly evident. Each movement was deliberate, and each strike was executed with a finesse that belied his age. The crowd watched in awe as Aemon, the Black Prince, held sway over the battlefield, proving himself a force to be reckoned with even among the most talented squires of Westeros. Until there were two, Aemon and Laenor. And sadly, no, the fight was far less spectacular than the notion that Aemon was able to wield two blades at once. Leanor was good, on that Viserys could understand, but he was merely good for a squire, which was a great ability for a boy that was still too young in the eyes of most to be named a squire, but Aemon was something that one only hears about when reading stories and books. Even when Aemon dropped the sword from his dominant hand and fought using his left, he still had the advantage.
Aemon found himself facing the last opponent, Laenor Velaryon. The realization that both remaining squires hailed from the Crownlands added a layer of significance to the confrontation, a symbol of regional pride and prowess. Viserys, observing the scene, felt a surge of kinship and pride, knowing that his family, and by extension, his realm, had produced the last two standing competitors. It was a moment of shared pride with those gathered, a testament to the martial strength of the Crownlands. Aemon used but one sword to fight his cousin.
As Laenor approached with a determined strike, aiming for Aemon's head, the tension in the air escalated. Aemon, however, remained composed, ready to face the oncoming attack. With a precise block, Aemon intercepted the descending sword, guiding it along his crossguard in a fluid motion. Aemon did not move his feet to block the strike. He merely moved his wrist at an angle as if moving his left hand to his right shoulder, and the blade was easily able to block the strike and set it aside. The blades clashed briefly, creating a resonating sound that echoed through the arena.
Aemon's quick thinking turned the situation to his advantage. As the Laenor's blade was set aside rather easily, it left Laenor's face exposed. As Laenor's sword became entangled with Aemon's crossguard, Aemon smoothly sidestepped to the left, exploiting the opening created by the stalemate. Laenor, caught off guard by the unexpected maneuver, found himself momentarily exposed on his left side.
Seizing the opportunity, Aemon launched a swift and calculated lunge. His blade aimed for Laenor's head, a strike that could have marked the end of their duel. However, Laenor managed to recover just in time, stepping back to evade the incoming blow. The crowd reacted with a collective gasp, appreciating the skill and intensity of the exchange.
Laenor Velaryon pressed on, his determination evident as he executed a second overhead slash, aiming to break through Aemon's defenses. Aemon, however, expertly intercepted the strike, seamlessly guiding Laenor's blade into a stalemate. The crowd held its collective breath, eyes fixed on the locked blades.
Rather than disengaging immediately, the two squires remained intertwined in the stalemate. Unexpectedly, Laenor exploited the close quarters and thrust his blade forward, narrowly missing Aemon's face. Yet, Aemon was prepared for such a move.
Anticipating the thrust, Aemon responded swiftly. He pushed his sword toward the direction of the lunge, simultaneously sidestepping away from the oncoming blade. Laenor, caught off guard by Aemon's deft maneuver, found himself overextended and off-balance.
Seizing the opportunity, Aemon capitalized on Laenor's vulnerable position. As Laenor stumbled forward, expecting resistance, Aemon deftly sidestepped in the opposite direction. In one fluid motion, Aemon redirected the momentum of his opponent, setting the stage for a decisive strike.
With Laenor now off balance, Aemon aimed for a decisive blow. Despite Laenor's efforts to block the strike, Aemon executed a quick and precise wrist movement, spinning his sword in a circular motion. The maneuver disarmed Laenor, sending his sword clattering to the ground. Aemon raised his sword and laid the tip of the sword on Laenor's shoulder.
"I yield," Laenor said, knowing full well it was not needed, for the results spoke for themselves.
"Fair match, cousin," Aemon said calmly.
"You still beat me, Aemon," Laenor pointed out.
"Yes, but you lasted longer than all others today, cousin," Aemon offered as he lowered his blade. Aemon walked over to the dropped blade himself, picked it up for his cousin, and offered it to him. Laenor looked to the blade, nodded his head, took the blade, and offered his forearm to shake. Aemon's smile was slight, but everyone with the blood of the dragon knew that his smile was a soft and rare thing. Aemon clasped his forearm and brought his cousin in for a hug.
The crowd erupted into cheers and applause as Aemon stood victorious, having outmaneuvered his skilled opponent in a display of exceptional swordsmanship. The duel between the two Crownland squires had reached its conclusion, leaving a lasting impression on those who bore witness to their remarkable skill.
Viserys could see words being exchanged with the pair but did not know what they were. Laenor looked shocked but seemed glad before nodding in determination. Aemon released the hug before lifting Laenor's arm alongside his own. People roared and cheered.
Summerhall 104 AC
Aemon Targaryen
Aemon did not wish to celebrate his victory. There was no point to it. Who could celebrate taking the life of another man? But Aemon did not think of such things. His thoughts were on his injured father. The second father had taken a Warhammer to the chest by a Baratheon. The gods were cruel.
The flickering candlelight cast a warm glow in Harrenhal's infirmary, illuminating the still figure of Prince Daemon Targaryen lying in a bed, heavily bandaged and nursing broken ribs. Aemon Targaryen, his son, sat in a chair nearby, weariness etched on his young face. The festivities of the tourney had come to an end, leaving a hushed air in the infirmary.
Aemon struggled to keep his eyes open as he listened to the steady rhythm of his father's breathing. The injuries Daemon sustained during the melee were severe, a testament to the fierceness of the competition. Yet, despite the pain, Daemon seemed to radiate a quiet strength, even as the master was using a medicine that Aemon had never heard of almost thrice a day.
As exhaustion finally took its toll on Aemon, he drifted into a fitful sleep, his body hunched over in the chair. Unbeknownst to him, Daemon stirred, his fatherly instincts awakening even in his weakened state. With aching movements, Daemon managed to reach for a blanket and gently draped it over his sleeping son. Aemon, oblivious to this small act of paternal care, slept on.
In the quiet of the infirmary, father and son shared a silent moment, bound by duty and the unspoken understanding that their paths diverged come morning. The burden of responsibility weighed heavily on both, yet in that shared solitude, there lingered a connection — the bond between a Targaryen father and son, each destined for their own journey in the vast tapestry of Westeros.
The night before Aemon's departure from Harrenhal was laden with a bittersweet air. The lingering echoes of the tourney's festivities had now faded, replaced by a solemn gravity as father and son shared a final feast. In the torchlit hall, surrounded by the remnants of celebration, Daemon and Aemon spoke in hushed tones, their conversation a blend of fatherly advice, familial warmth, and unspoken understanding.
As the night wore on, the flickering candles cast shadows on the worn faces of the Targaryen family. Daemon, still nursing his injuries, bore the weight of his role as father and mentor, imparting wisdom and guidance to his son. Aemon, in turn, absorbed the lessons, aware that the road ahead held challenges and responsibilities beyond the tourney grounds of Harrenhal.
Morning came too soon, and Aemon, his belongings packed and his resolve steeled, bid farewell to his father and Harrenhal. The journey to Summerhall stretched before him, a three-week odyssey across the diverse landscapes of the Seven Kingdoms.
The party, nearly five thousand, an army, due to all the people hearing of Aemon's ability having the ability to legitimize others, that accompanied Aemon comprised a formidable assembly. Six princesses, each with their own distinctive spirit, added a touch of vibrancy to the procession. The men from the North, Stormlands, Crownlands, and Reach formed a diverse tapestry of loyalty and camaraderie, their banners fluttering in the wind as they set forth on the winding paths toward Summerhall.
The days unfolded with a rhythmic cadence — a journey marked by the changing landscapes, the camaraderie among the travelers, and the unspoken weight of Aemon's purpose. Through bustling towns, serene meadows, and dense forests, the party moved steadily southward.
As Summerhall drew near on the horizon, the air crackled with a mix of anticipation and uncertainty. Aemon, now at the threshold of his destiny, felt the weight of his family legacy and the responsibilities that awaited him. The journey, with its trials and revelations, had sculpted him into the man he was to become, a Targaryen poised on the brink of a future that only the Seven Kingdoms could unveil.
As the party drew closer to Summerhall, the white marble castle emerged like a mythical vision against the backdrop of the Red Mountains. Positioned between two imposing peaks, it stood proudly, a testament to Targaryen's grandeur and ambition.
The architectural essence of Summerhall bore striking resemblances to both the Red Keep and Dragonstone, embodying the storied legacy of House Targaryen. The white marble, gleaming like freshly fallen snow, offered a stark contrast to the rugged terrain of the Red Mountains. Carved into the very heart of the mountains, the castle seemed to grow organically from the landscape, its foundations firmly rooted in the ancient stones.
Seven resplendent drum towers, each progressively larger and more pristine than the Hightower itself adorned the castle's skyline. These towering sentinels, reminiscent of Dragonstone's angular structures, reached towards the heavens, proudly displaying the mastery of Targaryen craftsmanship. The towers were taller than the Wall itself. Nearing a thousand feet in height, the towers were made to outdo Hightower in every way and then truly anger the Hightower family by making seven, one for their Andal gods, and this was to be a seat of the Valryians that cast them out of Essos. Aemon knew Daemon had fun designing this to anger the Hightowers. Gods be good, Aemon knew Daemon was going to go all out with the castle, but he didn't also think he was going to have co*ck measuring contest with the Hightowers.
The outer walls, high and impregnable, circled around the heart of Summerhall, forming a protective barrier. Along the northern perimeter, where the sprawling grounds of Summerhall stretched, the potential for a future city was evident, the spaces between the seven walls hinting at a canvas yet to be painted. The seven walls circled around the northern face of Summerhall, wrapped around the east and west, and connected themselves to the mountains that Summerhall was between. Leaving the Dragon's Gate protecting Summerhall from the south, each one of the Draogn's Gate was as tall as the seven circular walls that surrounded the other front. The walls that protected the north, east, and west of the castle and stopped at the mountains were more than enough to fight a city between and Aemon knew it would not be heard to make more if needed.
Dragon motifs adorned every facet of the castle, a vivid celebration of the Targaryen connection to the mythical creatures. Small dragons framed gates with their intricate designs, dragon claws held aloft torches that flickered in the shadows, and archways and staircases took the form of sinuous dragon tails.
At the heart of the grand structure rose a massive tower, the central keep of Summerhall. Taller and wider than any other, it reached for the skies with a dome crowning its pinnacle. This tower, a majestic testament to Targaryen might, stood as the very soul of Summerhall, overlooking the realm from its elevated vantage point.
As Aemon approached Summerhall, he couldn't help but marvel at the transformation that had taken place in the lands surrounding the castle. A once barren and desolate landscape had given way to a flourishing forest, filled with vibrant trees and lush vegetation. The forest acted as a natural buffer, creating a picturesque path that led to the gleaming white marvel that was Summerhall.
The Red Mountains provided a majestic backdrop, their rugged peaks framing the castle like the ancient sentinels of the realm. Against this dramatic natural canvas, the white stones of Summerhall appeared to radiate celestial grace, as if the castle itself were a divine gift from the heavens.
Summerhall was between two of the largest peaks, which was not saying much because the castle itself, from east to west, was nearly a mile wide, not including the outer seven walls nor the possible city. Aemon really wondered how much Daemon wished to piss off every other castle and family with his pride. While the drum towers were larger and wider than Hightower, there was one detail Aemon did not miss that put a smile on his face. Because Summerhall was built on the mountain, between the two highest peaks, it was as though it was made of the red mountain, disregarding the fact the castle was made of white marble. The castle, because it was made into the mountain, resembled Casterly Rock. With the towers made to be higher than Hightower and the castle being made on a mountain, Aemon had no doubt in his mind that the castle alone was at least of equal height to Casterly Rock, but knowing Daemon, it was taller. The castle was second in length and width only to Harrenhall, had towers taller than Hightower, and was on a mountain, making it taller than Casterly Rock. The castle was so high up and so tall that the white marble added to it, making it look like a castle from the gods themselves.
Daemon made this castle with the idea of outshining every other keep in the Seven Kingdoms. It may have been beautiful, but Daemon kept in mind that this castle was meant to be a fortress force, and while Aemon did not know all the details yet, he had no doubt his father made this castle a fortress better than all others. Aemon's thoughts were on the fact that if this castle was made the way it was in the lifetime of Jon Snow and was still active in his lifetime, then when the Targaryens fell during Robert's Rebellion, then the Targaryens would have had a far better chance at holding back Robert.
Aemon's eyes traced the contours of the castle, taking in the meticulous craftsmanship that Daemon had poured into its creation. Summerhall, under the vision of his father, had indeed become a masterpiece. Surpassing all but Harrenhal in size, towering over the Hightower, and rivaling the beauty of Highgarden, Summerhall stood as a testament to Daemon's determination.
Though Aemon recognized that some work remained, a few more years of effort required to bring the castle to completion, he couldn't help but feel a surge of gratitude toward his father. Daemon's ambition had transformed Summerhall into the most beautiful castle Aemon had ever beheld, a beacon of Targaryen strength and splendor amidst the rolling landscapes and ancient mountains.
A day after they settled in, Aemon had to start acting as Prince of Harrenhall, and he got the news. The Greyjoys have attacked.
