Aemon Targaryen was three years and six moons when time began, for him, to be cut into things he understood vaguely and things he only felt.
He understood that the sun rose and set.
He understood that the servants smiled when he laughed.
He understood that Rhaegar always spoke too loudly, always ran too fast, and always fell too often.
But he felt other things.
Movements one could not see.
Tensions in the air.
Changes in the looks of adults, when they met those of the king or the queen.
That day, the Red Keep seemed more agitated than usual. Messengers ran, red cloaks came and went in the inner yard, and the White Cloaks stood at the doors like statues ready to come alive.
Aemon held the hand of his mother, Rhaella, as they crossed a corridor decorated with ancient tapestries. Rhaegar, on the other side, walked as best he could, sometimes tugging at the queen's sleeve to show her a detail on a wall, a torch, a soldier. He stumbled once, straightened, burst out laughing, and continued as if nothing had happened.
— Gently, my little dragon, Rhaella breathed, tightening her fingers a little more around his hand.
She was beautiful, that morning, in a pale green gown that brought out her violet eyes. But Aemon, he, was not looking at her gown. He was looking at her face. The slight tightness at the corner of her mouth. The way her eyes rested a little too long on the doors that led toward the throne room.
— M'ma… where we go? Rhaegar asked, his tongue still a little hesitant.
— To see the king, Rhaella answered softly. He must say farewell to a friend.
Aemon lifted his head.
A friend.
He knew what that word meant. It was someone one liked to see. Someone whose coming one awaited. Someone one did not want to let go.
They arrived in the antechamber that preceded the great hall. Several lords were already waiting, speaking in low voices. Aemon did not keep their names. He kept the colors: the golden lion, the stag, the fish, the tower. And above all the dragon, which always came back.
Ser Gerold Hightower stood near the doors, motionless, his hand on the hilt of his sword. His white armor threw back the light like a mirror. His presence almost filled the whole space.
— Your Grace, he said, inclining slightly. The king is ready.
Rhaella nodded.
— The princes may enter too, Ser Gerold?
— His Majesty has wished it, answered the Lord Commander.
The doors opened with a dull rumble.
The throne room was less full than during public audiences. Only a few councillors were present, as well as a man that even Aemon recognized, despite his young age.
Tywin Lannister.
He had seen him often, always near the king, always standing, always silent. He knew, because he had heard it, that this man was the Hand. The arm that made the realm move when the king decided.
Today, however, something was different.
Tywin did not wear his ceremonial armor, but a simpler doublet, embroidered with golden threads. His blond hair was pulled back with care, but his face seemed… less closed. As if a fissure had opened in the marble.
Aerys sat on the Iron Throne. His red cloak fell in cascades around him, and his silver hair shone in the torchlight.
— Come closer, Tywin, he ordered.
The king's voice rang against the blades of the throne, but Aemon, he, listened to something else: the way the sound vibrated in his father's chest, the way the air seemed to tighten around him.
Tywin stepped forward to the foot of the throne and knelt.
— Your Grace.
Aerys looked at him for a long moment.
— Today, he continued, you leave King's Landing not for war, not for duty, but for your own home. You abandon the capital to go and marry.
A light murmur ran through the few nobles present.
Rhaella squeezed Aemon's hand a little tighter.
— Lord Tywin, Aerys continued, you have served the realm with rigor. Sometimes with too little gentleness, but with a loyalty that none can contest.
A glint, almost amused, passed in his eyes.
— Joanna Lannister has made a courageous choice.
Muffled laughs burst out.
Tywin did not smile, but his shoulders relaxed imperceptibly.
— I am grateful to you, Your Grace, he said in a controlled voice. For having accepted my request, for having allowed the ceremony to be prepared as it should be. And for having granted my house the honor of this marriage in peace, rather than amid ashes.
Aerys straightened slightly, as if pricked in his royal pride.
— You are my Hand, Tywin. Your house deserves no less than peace.
His eyes slid toward Rhaella, then toward the two little princes.
— And our children will need loyal nobles.
He made a gesture with his hand.
— Rise.
Tywin obeyed.
When he straightened, his gaze fell briefly on Aemon. For an instant, the little prince had the impression that the Lannister's golden eyes were less hard. They then settled on Rhaegar, who tried to hide behind the queen's skirts while throwing curious looks.
— I will return, Tywin said. If His Majesty wishes it.
Aerys came down the few steps that separated him from him. Up close, they seemed almost the same height, but everything in them was different: one blazing like fire, the other cold as stone.
— You will return, the king affirmed. The realm needs a Hand. And I do too.
He held out his hand.
It was a strange gesture, halfway between authority and friendship. Tywin hesitated a second, then clasped it.
For the first time, Aemon saw his father and his Hand look at each other not as sovereign and vassal, but as two men who had fought side by side, had survived a war and now carried together the weight of a realm.
Rhaella inclined slightly.
— Give my affection to Joanna, she said. Tell her that I await news. And that if she is afraid… I understand.
Tywin inclined his head toward her, with sincere respect.
— She will be honored by your words, Your Grace.
A few moments later, the audience ended. The doors closed on the silhouette of Tywin Lannister, who was leaving the throne room to begin another chapter of his life.
Aemon followed him with his gaze to the end.
It was the last time, for long months, that he would see him within these walls.
Time passed.
For an adult, a few moons are only a passage of seasons.
For a child of three and a half, it is an eternity.
Aemon's days filled with small things: simple lessons, walks in the gardens, meals shared with his mother and his brother, moments stolen to watch the knights train in the yard.
He learned new words.
He learned to run without falling.
He learned to recognize important faces: Gerold Hightower, Barristan Selmy, the maesters, certain lords.
He did not yet understand what a realm was.
But he understood that he was at the center of many gazes.
One evening, as the sky turned orange behind the towers, a raven arrived from the West.
Rhaella held Aemon on her knees when the letter was brought to her. Rhaegar played with a small dragon figurine.
— From Casterly Rock, Your Grace, announced the servant.
The queen barely stiffened.
She broke the seal, ran her eyes over the lines, then sighed softly.
— Joanna is pregnant.
A smile, this time without the least hesitation, was born on her lips.
— She carries the future of the West, she murmured.
The ladies-in-waiting exchanged delighted smiles.
One of them asked, curious:
— And Lord Tywin?
— He is… nervous, Rhaella answered with a light laugh. He would never dare write it, but I read it between the lines. He is afraid for her. Which means…
She looked Aemon in the eyes.
— …that he loves her.
Aemon remained silent.
He knew that word too.
Rhaella said it to him often, in the evening, when she tucked him in.
I love you.
He repeated it sometimes, awkwardly, to her, to Rhaegar. But there, the word seemed heavier, greater. As if Tywin carried something he could not set down.
The following moons confirmed what the first maesters had suspected.
— They think she is expecting two children, Rhaella explained one day to Lady Ellyn. Her belly is… very round, even for this stage. They suspect twins.
— Lannister twins, the lady breathed. The lion multiplies.
Rhaella smiled, but her gaze betrayed a deeper worry.
— Multiple pregnancies are more dangerous, she murmured. I hope the gods will not be cruel.
Aemon, seated at her feet, played with a wooden cube, but his ears caught every word. He did not know what a pregnancy was, nor why it would be dangerous. But he heard fear in his mother's voice.
And that was enough.
The ravens followed one another.
The news spoke of fatigue, nausea, long nights.
The maesters of Casterly Rock wrote with caution, weighing each word.
— One of them thinks the children will come a little earlier than expected, Rhaella confided to Aerys one evening. They watch Joanna closely.
The king, seated near the fire, turned his gaze toward the flames.
— Tywin will never say it, but he must be terrified, he said. He has always controlled everything. Weighed everything. Calculated everything. One does not control a childbirth.
Rhaella nodded, eyes lowered.
— I know it better than anyone.
Silence fell again between them, peopled with memories that neither one nor the other spoke.
The letter announcing the tournament arrived almost at the same time as a new report from the maesters.
Rhaella opened it at table, as Aemon and Rhaegar tried to eat without spilling half their plate.
— Lord Tywin writes again? Aerys asked, a piece of bread in his hand.
— Yes, the queen said. And this time…
Her eyes ran over the lines, then she froze.
— He wants to organize a tournament at Casterly Rock.
Aerys set the bread down, intrigued.
— A tournament?
— In your honor, Rhaella specified. In honor of the Crown… and of the birth to come.
A slow smile drew itself on Aerys's face.
— Of course. That's him. He offers a tournament to the king, and, in so doing, engraves the name of his future children into the memory of all the lords who will come.
He seemed amused, but there was no mockery in his voice.
Rather a kind of respect.
— He wishes that we be present, Rhaella added. You, me, the princes.
Aemon lifted his eyes.
— Tour… ney? he repeated, stumbling over the word.
Rhaegar, for his part, burst out laughing.
— Knights! he cried, triumphant. More knights!
Aerys laughed in turn.
— Yes, more knights.
Then he planted his gaze into Rhaella's.
— We will go.
She hesitated, then nodded.
— We will go, she repeated. But the children will not stay to see everything. The melees… the falls… they are still too young.
— They will see the archery, Aerys conceded. And perhaps a few gentle jousts, if the gods are generous. The rest… no.
The days that followed were consumed by preparations.
The journey was organized:
the litters, the horses, the Kingsguard escort, the chests of clothing, the gifts to offer House Lannister.
Aemon watched all of it with wide-open eyes.
Servants came in and out of the apartments, valets folded cloaks, ladies-in-waiting chose their finest dresses.
— We are going to the Rock, Rhaella explained one morning as she dressed him. Where your uncle Tywin lives. His house is as old as ours. Different… but powerful.
— Then… we come back? Aemon asked.
— Yes, my heart, she answered with a smile. We will always come back here. The Red Keep is your home.
He nodded, without truly understanding what "always" meant.
For him, each day was already a small eternity.
The departure was given at dawn, under a pale sky.
Targaryen banners snapped in the wind above the column.
The queen traveled in a litter protected by three White Cloaks and several elite riders. The princes stayed near her, too precious to be separated.
Aemon looked through the small opening of the curtain, watching the roads of Westeros pass beneath his eyes: the hills, the rivers, the villages still marked by war but alive, the peasants who stopped working to bow as the royal convoy passed.
Sometimes, he met the gaze of a child from the fields.
Those children had neither silk nor dragon embroidered.
But their eyes shone with a curiosity similar to his.
— Look well, Rhaella would say. One day, it will be you who will travel without me.
That idea made something heavy rise in Aemon's chest.
He then nestled a little more against her, as if to hold back time.
At night, they slept in allied castles or under richly draped tents.
Rhaegar asked a thousand questions one after another.
Aemon, for his part, often remained silent, watching the guards who took their turn at watch, the fire that slowly burned down, the way the world seemed to change as soon as one moved away from the walls of the Red Keep.
He felt, confusedly, that the world was vast.
And dangerous.
But also incredibly alive.
One morning, after several days on the road, Casterly Rock finally appeared.
The fortress rose above the sea like a mountain of stone sculpted by human will. Steep cliffs rose, crowned with ramparts and towers. The banners with the golden lion fluttered in the wind, catching the sunlight.
Aemon remained mouth open.
He had already seen the Red Keep from outside, but the Rock was something else. A mass, a block, a challenge flung at the sea.
— It is your uncle Tywin's home, Rhaella murmured, placing a hand on his shoulder. One of the pillars of the realm.
He nodded, but what he felt had no words.
Beneath the stone, he had the impression that something watched.
A strength different from the fire of dragons, but just as deep.
They were welcomed in the main courtyard by Tywin himself.
He wore functional armor, soberly decorated with gold. His face looked more tired even than when Aemon had seen him for the last time, but his eyes were sharper, as if they burned with a thousand worries.
— Your Grace, Your Majesty, he said, bowing. Casterly Rock is honored by your presence.
Aerys dismounted, a smile on his lips.
— The Rock would be most ungrateful if it did not open its gates to us when we come to attend its glorious tournament.
Tywin sketched an almost imperceptible smile.
— The tournament will be modest compared to the one you offered the princes, he answered. But I will do what I can so that it is worthy of you.
Rhaella stepped forward.
— And Joanna? she asked immediately.
Tywin's mask cracked for an instant.
— She is very tired. The maesters say the end of her pregnancy draws near. She rests. She… she will be happy to learn that you have arrived.
Rhaella briefly laid her hand on his arm.
— We will go to see her as soon as the maesters allow it.
Aemon, between them, watched the interaction without understanding the words, but perceiving clearly the tension.
Tywin, that man of stone, was almost trembling.
Not in his gestures.
In his aura.
In that invisible thing Aemon sometimes felt in certain adults.
The days that followed were consumed by preparations for the tournament.
From the heights of Casterly Rock, Aemon watched the ceaseless work in the plains below. Workers raised wooden stands, carpenters built barriers for the jousts, ropes traced the limits of the archery grounds. Colored tents appeared little by little, bearing the blazons of the houses come to take part.
— You see? Rhaella explained, seated beside him on a balcony. Each banner is a house. People who have sworn to the crown… or who should do so.
She pointed to a green standard adorned with a flower.
— That is the Reach.
Another, gray on white.
— The Vale.
Then the golden lion on a red field.
— And that… is your uncle's house.
Aemon followed her gestures seriously.
He did not yet keep all the names, but he printed the shapes, the colors, the rhythms.
— All this world has come because of you, of your father, of me… but also because of Joanna, Rhaella added softly. They will come to applaud the knights, bet on the fights, laugh and eat. But behind all that… they will observe. They will watch who stands by our side. Who will be bound to us by children.
She smiled, a little sad.
— Tournaments are never only games.
Aemon lowered his eyes to the plain.
He saw in the distance silhouettes already training: men in armor, horses launched at a gallop, archers drawing their bows.
He felt again that mix of fascination and unease that had already seized him at King's Landing. The fights seemed beautiful to him, almost like a dance. But he also knew that behind the lances, there were men.
— We will attend the archery, Rhaella explained later while speaking with the maesters and Ser Gerold. Perhaps the beginning of the duels, if the violence remains contained. But not the melees. Not the brutal falls. They are still too young.
Gerold approved.
— The Kingsguard will be positioned around them at all times, he said. Even here, at the Rock. The king has ordered it.
Rhaella thanked him with a nod.
Aemon, without understanding the details, knew one thing: wherever he went, men in white watched over him. Sometimes, it made him want to hide. Sometimes, it reassured him.
The eve of the beginning of the tournament, the sun set in an explosion of gold and purple over the sea.
Aemon stood beside his mother on a balcony overlooking the plain.
The stands were ready.
The barriers were in place.
The knights' tents formed a small colored city at the foot of the Rock.
The wind carried the smell of salt, freshly cut wood, horses and torches being lit for the night.
Rhaegar, tired from his day, had already fallen asleep, curled up on a cushion, a small blanket over him. Rhaella laid a hand on his head, then turned to Aemon.
— Remember what you see tonight, she murmured. Tomorrow, all this will be full of noise and people. But now… it is ours.
Aemon nodded, silent.
He felt, like a distant echo, Tywin's presence in the fortress.
The man had to be elsewhere, bent over a bed, holding a hand, listening to the maesters' instructions. He did not need to see him to imagine the tension in his shoulders, the rigidity of his posture, the fragility hidden behind.
— This tournament, Rhaella said softly, is not for glory. Not really. It is for them. For Joanna. For their children. So that, when they grow up, one can tell them: "The king and the queen were there. The entire realm applauded while we awaited you."
She gave a small joyless laugh.
— Men will celebrate lances. But I… I will celebrate life.
Aemon turned his eyes to her.
— Jo… anna? he asked, articulating with difficulty.
— Yes, my love, the queen answered. Aunt Joanna. She fights too. Not with a sword. With her body. With her heart.
He did not understand, but he felt the gravity of those words.
And something in him decided that he would remember that name.
Joanna.
The wind grew cooler.
Torches cast wavering shadows on the empty stands.
— Tomorrow, Rhaella said as she rose, the knights will enter the lists. People will shout. The nobles will smile. Your father will speak with Tywin as a king… and as a friend.
She took Aemon in her arms, even though he was becoming a little heavy for her.
— And you, Aemon, you will watch all this. You will not yet understand everything. But one day… when you are grown… you will see that this tournament was not only games.
She pressed her forehead to her son's.
— It marked the beginning of something else.
Aemon, eyes wide open, fixed the plain below for another instant.
The aligned lances.
The silent barriers.
The motionless banners.
Tomorrow, everything would come alive.
Tonight, however, there was a strange peace.
A lull before the storm of noise.
Rhaella finally led him inside.
The Rock's corridors were cool, bathed in flickering light.
Guards bowed as they passed.
Servants hurried, carrying trays, fabrics, buckets of water.
Aemon felt his eyelids grow heavy.
Before falling asleep, he had one last confused thought, like a waking dream.
Lances.
Lions.
A round belly.
A tournament to celebrate children who were not yet there.
He did not know how all of it would tie together.
But, without knowing it, he already stood at the edge of a moment that would shape not only the fate of a house… but his own as well.
And while the night wrapped Casterly Rock, the young prince with violet eyes fell asleep, still unaware that, behind the stone walls, another fight was beginning — that of an exhausted woman, of a man who loved her too much, and of two little lives ready to enter the world.