Casterly Rock had never been so majestic — nor so oppressive.
The millennia-old fortress, carved into the golden rock itself, dominated the sea like an immobile god watching the world of men. On this banquet evening, its corridors echoed with muffled footsteps, controlled murmurs, precious fabrics brushing against stone. The flames of the torches cast moving shadows on the walls, giving the sculpted lions the illusion of being alive, as if they were waiting for the moment when history would decide to tip.
The tournament was over.
The birth of the Lannister heirs had been celebrated.
The victories, the alliances, the smiles… all of that already belonged to the past.
What remained was the waiting.
In the great hall, the tables had been set with almost excessive care. Gold dominated everything: the gold of the cups, the gold of the embroidered tablecloths, the gold of the jewels worn by the ladies and lords who had come from all over Westeros. The smell of roasted meat, warm bread and spices from Essos filled the air, mingled with that of old wine that was about to be served.
The conversations slowed little by little.
The moment was approaching.
At the high table, the order of the seats seemed to have imposed itself without discussion, as if destiny itself had arranged the chairs.
Rhaella Targaryen sat upright, dignified, attentive. She answered courtesies, inclined her head slightly when spoken to, but her mind stayed awake. She felt gazes slide toward her sons, linger too long. She knew the court. She knew that even the warmest smiles could hide dangerous calculations.
To her left, Aemon sat calmly.
A little over four years old, his legs still did not reach the floor and swung slightly in the air, but his face was serious, almost grave. He was not distracted by the dishes, nor by the conversations. His eyes watched the hall with that silent intensity that sometimes surprised adults — as if he were trying to understand something he did not yet have the words to name.
Aemon perceived the world differently.
He did not understand aura.
He did not know the ranks, nor the invisible laws that governed strength.
But he felt the differences.
Some men seemed light to him, almost transparent. Others, on the contrary, made the air heavier around them. The knights of the Kingsguard were among the latter. Their mere presence altered space, as if the world bent slightly at their passage.
His father too.
Aerys Targaryen gave off something different. Not only an overwhelming strength — but a complex, layered presence, like a fire contained under several layers of stone. Aemon did not understand what he felt near him, only that it existed… and that it mattered.
To Aemon's right, Joanna Lannister held her daughter against her.
Cersei fidgeted at times, uncomfortable with the noise, the light, the crowd. Joanna rocked her gently, murmuring reassuring words to her, but her own body remained tense. She smiled when lords still congratulated her for her children, but her gaze kept returning to the royal table — to the king.
She knew Aerys.
And she knew his mood could shape destinies.
A little farther, Tywin Lannister spoke little. He watched. He calculated. This banquet was a perfect success politically, but he did not like what he felt. Too many elements escaped reason. Too many things belonged to the unpredictable.
The servants began to advance.
The dishes were brought.
The cups were filled.
Silence slowly settled, that particular silence that precedes the first gesture, the first bite.
It was at that precise instant that Aemon felt something.
At first, he thought it came from him.
A strange sensation, light, almost imperceptible. A subtle vibration, like a shiver that touched neither skin nor bones, but something deeper. He frowned slightly, tried to ignore it.
Then he understood.
It came from very near.
From Cersei.
She was fidgeting more now. Not an outright cry, not yet, but a real, persistent agitation. Her tiny fists clenched, her breathing became irregular. Aemon turned his head slightly.
He was not really looking at her.
He was feeling her.
It was not fear.
It was not pain.
It was a soft dissonance. Like a false note in a melody trying to tune itself.
Aemon did not understand why that sensation reached him so strongly. He did not understand why it seemed to call him, silently. But something, deep inside him, whispered that it mattered. That it was not chance. That it had to be corrected.
There was no thought.
No conscious choice.
His body moved before his mind.
Slowly, naturally, Aemon raised his hand. An innocent, childlike gesture. In a hall full of nobles absorbed by the promise of the meal, no one paid attention.
His fingers rested gently on Cersei's cheek.
The contact was immediate.
Cersei calmed.
Her movements stopped dead, as if an invisible inner agitation had been soothed. Her breathing steadied. And above all, her gaze fixed on Aemon.
Not the blurred gaze of an infant.
A total gaze.
As if there were nothing else in the hall. No more torches. No more voices. No more faces. Only him.
Joanna sensed the change before she even understood it. Her breath caught in her chest. She lowered her eyes to her daughter, then to Aemon. A strange, almost dizzying sensation tightened her heart.
Rhaella turned her head.
And the world tipped.
A golden light rose.
Not a violent explosion.
Not an uncontrolled surge.
An ascent.
An almost entirely visual aura burst from Aemon and Cersei, enveloping them in luminous filaments that seemed to dance slowly in the air. The light did not blind. It wrapped. It did not burn. It warmed.
It was gentle.
Ancient.
Evident.
The whole hall saw it.
And at the same instant, the whole hall felt it.
It was neither fear nor pain.
It was love.
A love with no single shape, no imposed direction. An emotional wave crossed the great hall, sliding over every mind, every heart, without distinction of rank or power.
For some, it was maternal love — the memory of a sleeping child against their chest, fragile and warm.
For others, love between two lovers, simple, evident, indisputable.
For others still, the love a father bears his children — that mixture of pride, fear and mute promise.
Each felt the same thing, but under a different form.
The most intimate form.
The truest.
An emotional fullness fell over the hall.
For a heartbeat, the world seemed perfectly in its place.
Then the light began slowly to fade.
The hall remained frozen.
Not out of fear.
Out of respect.
When the glow vanished entirely, the silence that followed was total.
Rhaella instinctively brought a hand to her chest, eyes bright, before composing herself. She laid a firm but slightly trembling hand on Aemon's shoulder, drawing him closer without even realizing it.
Joanna clutched Cersei to her. Her heart beat too fast. She did not yet dare speak. Her gaze turned toward the royal table.
Tywin Lannister, for his part, was rigid.
What he had just seen… what he had just felt… was neither a maneuver nor a plot. It was real. Deep. And above all — irreversible.
Murmurs began to rise, timid at first, then more insistent. Ancient words, heavy with fear and fascination: Valyria. Destiny. Bond.
The kingsguards repositioned by pure reflex, forming a discreet but solid screen around the queen and the princes.
Then, slowly, the Maester of the Rock stepped forward.
The Maester of the Rock stopped at the center of the hall.
The clink of his chain rang faintly against stone, a sound almost insignificant, and yet enough to silence the last murmurs. He was neither hurried nor hesitant. He had waited for this moment all his life — not to see it, but to know how to name it.
He inclined his head briefly, not before any lord in particular, but before the whole assembly.
— There is no reason to panic.
His voice was calm. Measured. Assured. It did not seek to dominate, only to order chaos.
— What you have just seen is neither a curse, nor an illusion, nor uncontrolled sorcery.
He paused, letting silence close over the hall.
— This phenomenon is known, in our most ancient archives, under the name aura bond.
Several nobles exchanged looks. The term was not totally unknown, but for many, it belonged more to myth than to reality.
— Most maesters, he continued, die without ever seeing a single one.
— Some centuries record none.
— In Westeros, no living man had ever witnessed one… until tonight.
The weight of those words fell upon the assembly.
— An aura bond is extremely rare, he went on. So rare that it is often relegated to the margins of chronicles, evoked as an ancient curiosity rather than as a possible reality.
He raised his hand slightly.
— But it exists. And when it manifests, it is never insignificant.
He breathed slowly.
— An aura bond is not a simple attachment. It is neither ordinary love, nor attraction, nor even a promise. It is a bond for life.
A shiver ran through the hall.
— When a bond forms, it binds two existences for better… and for worse. The two people concerned are no longer simply close. They become destined to one another.
He swept the assembly with his gaze.
— This bond is deeper than oaths, stronger than laws, older than crowns. It is existential. To separate two bound beings is to tear away a part of themselves.
Faces tightened, slowly, as the reach of the words revealed itself.
— The texts are clear, the maester continued. When two bound people are prevented from being together, they will do everything to find each other again. Absolutely everything.
He did not raise his voice.
— Kill.
— Flee.
— Destroy what stands between them.
He let those words hang, heavy, final.
— In Ancient Valyria, this phenomenon was sufficiently known to be respected, even among the Dragonlords. The chronicles mention several cases where a Valyrian noble bound himself to a slave.
A shocked murmur ran through the hall.
— And in each of those cases, the slave was freed, then ennobled, he specified. Not out of kindness. But out of necessity.
— For denying an aura bond was to provoke a certain tragedy.
He inhaled again, then added:
— The Valyrians knew this bond was more mystical than rational. That no social structure could withstand it for long.
Then he laid down the words that truly tipped the hall.
— This bond does not merely unite two hearts. It strengthens those it binds when they act for one another.
Gazes froze.
— The accounts report that two bound people are stronger together than apart. Not only mentally. Physically. Spiritually.
— A bronze-rank knight, aura-bound, facing a silver knight to save the person to whom he is bound… fights with an overwhelming advantage.
— His strength increases.
— His reflexes sharpen.
— His will becomes unshakable.
He lowered his voice slightly.
— Conversely, the opponent is disadvantaged on every level. As if the world itself refused to let him triumph.
The maester fell silent.
The silence that followed was heavier still than that of the burst of light.
Then Aerys II burst out laughing.
A clear laugh. Frank. Warm.
The surprise was such that several nobles started. It was neither a mocking laugh, nor a cruel laugh. It was a laugh of recognition, almost of relief, as if a long-awaited truth had finally revealed itself.
The king rose.
He placed a firm hand on Tywin Lannister's shoulder.
Tywin did not step back. He remained upright, but his shoulders were slightly tense. Not out of fear. Out of weight. Out of sudden understanding of what it implied.
Rhaella opened her mouth to speak.
Aerys turned his head toward her.
His gaze was neither cold nor threatening.
It was a gaze that said everything.
A gaze of certainty, of joy, and of a strange resignation mixed together. As if he accepted something greater than himself — and rejoiced in it.
Rhaella fell silent.
Aerys turned to the assembly.
— My sons are dragons.
His voice was not loud, but it carried effortlessly to the last ranks.
— And dragons are not made to be chained.
He paused.
— I had planned to betroth my son to my future daughter.
A murmur ran through the hall.
Tywin began to rise.
Aerys then fixed his gaze on him. A reassuring gaze. Not an order. Not a threat.
Wait. Let me finish.
Tywin froze… then sat back down slowly.
— Dragons are strong, Aerys continued. They are independent. And they must never be prisoners of duty or political calculations.
His voice gained solemnity.
— I, Aerys II Targaryen, declare this:
— My sons will marry neither out of duty, nor for political reasons.
— They are dragons.
— And they will decide their marriage themselves.
The silence was total.
Aerys then turned toward Tywin.
And this time, he no longer spoke like a king.
He spoke like a friend.
— My friend… you have always been there for me.
— Whether on battlefields or in palace corridors.
— You helped me bear the realm when it was too heavy for one man.
His voice grew softer.
— If what the Maester says is true… and I do not doubt it…
— If they are bound…
— Then I ask you one thing only.
He placed his hand on Tywin's chest.
— Raise your daughter so that she can, when the time comes, walk at my son's side.
— Not as a tool.
— But as his equal.
Then, to general astonishment, Aerys took Tywin into his arms.
A frank embrace. Brotherly. Unexpected.
After a few heartbeats, Aerys stepped back, took a glass of wine, raised it high and declared:
— It seems my son has already found a partner for the rest of his life.
A little later, away from prying eyes, Tywin joined Joanna and took her into his arms. She yielded to it, relieved. Together, they turned back.
Tywin bowed deeply before the king.
— Thank you… my friend.
Rhaella, for her part, watched Aerys with a sincere, happy smile. She still saw the king… but above all the man she had loved.
Joanna felt the tension finally leave her chest. The fear of the king's reaction had dissipated, replaced by something fragile and precious: hope.
At the center of all this, Aemon did not understand the words.
But he felt the peace.
And without knowing it, he had just bound his destiny to that of Cersei Lannister — and changed the history of the realm.