Casterly Rock never slept.
Even when the sea grew calmer, when the wind stopped striking the cliff with the violence of the storms from the west, the fortress seemed to breathe with a slow, deep breath, like an ancient creature crouched at the edge of the world. The massive walls, carved straight out of the rock, held within them a memory so heavy it sometimes seemed to weigh upon the very air itself.
For Aemon, the Rock was not just a castle.
It was a closed world, stable, almost immutable.
He had been living there for several weeks already when this certainty imposed itself on him: his father would not return for a long time.
Aerys had already gone back to King's Landing.
The departure had been quick, almost abrupt. Only the day before, the king had been pacing the galleries at Tywin's side, exchanging words too low to be heard. The next day, the Rock had woken without him. The royal procession had left the fortress before dawn, swallowed by the narrow road that wound toward the plains of the West.
Aemon had not cried.
He had watched.
He remembered his father's straight back on his mount, his gaze fixed straight ahead, without a single glance backward. Not out of coldness—Aemon knew it, without being able to explain it—but because certain decisions allowed no hesitation.
From that day on, the Rock ceased to be a temporary refuge.
It became their place of life.
The first days were calm.
Joanna remained bedridden, still weakened by childbirth. The birth of the twins had left behind a deep, almost muffled exhaustion that even her smiles could not fully conceal. Rhaella spent a great deal of time at her side, speaking softly, helping when the wet nurses withdrew, sharing that unspoken bond between women who had carried life and now knew its price.
Cersei and Jaime were then only very young children.
Three, perhaps four weeks at most.
They spent most of their time sleeping, crying, stirring without any clear purpose. Their faces still bore that fragility proper to newborns, that uncertain boundary between the world and nothingness.
Aemon saw them often.
Not at every instant, not to the point of shutting himself away with them, but from the very beginning he spent more time in the rooms where they were than anywhere else. Without anyone asking him to, without him truly thinking about it. When he entered a room and they were there, his step slowed. When he had the choice to sit, he always did so within reach.
If they were in the same room, Aemon naturally found himself close to Cersei.
Not pressed against her.
Not oppressive.
But close enough that his presence was there—constant, obvious.
He could not have said why.
Casterly Rock imposed its own rhythm.
Time flowed there differently than in King's Landing. It was not dictated by court intrigues or royal audiences, but by the sea, the light, the bells announcing meals, the steady footsteps of guards in the galleries.
Aemon walked a great deal.
He explored corridors carved into the rock, steep staircases, narrow passages that opened onto the ocean. He liked feeling the salty wind on his face, watching the waves crash against the cliff. The world seemed simpler here. More honest.
Rhaegar often accompanied him.
His brother spoke constantly, asked questions, marveled at the Rock's knights, the armor, the tales of ancient battles. Aemon listened to him. He liked that energy, that overflowing curiosity, even if he did not always share it.
Their relationship was solid. Frank. Without rivalry.
But even when he left with Rhaegar, Aemon always hesitated for an instant.
Not long.
Just long enough to cast a glance toward the room he was leaving.
Then he followed his brother.
He did not flee from Cersei.
He returned to her.
When Aemon was in the same room as her, he was rarely far away. He sat near the cradle, on a nearby chair, sometimes simply on the floor. He did not need to touch her to feel her presence. It was enough that she was there.
Very early on, Cersei reacted to that.
Even at only a few weeks old, her gaze sought Aemon's direction more often than anyone else's. She grew more restless when he left the room without warning—not to the point of crying at once, but enough for the wet nurses to notice.
When Aemon came back on his own, without being asked, she calmed more quickly.
He drew no conclusion from it.
He simply acted as though it were self-evident.
One day, as Aemon had been in the room for a while, a wet nurse gently took him by the shoulder.
— My prince, it would be better if you let the child rest.
Aemon had done nothing wrong.
He was neither too close nor abrupt.
And yet, he was being moved away.
He took a step back, obeying without protest. But almost at once, an unpleasant sensation rose in him. Not fear. Not pain. A dull tension, as if something resisted inside.
At that same instant, Cersei began to stir.
Her arms moved, her face tightened, and she let out a sharp, annoyed sound. The wet nurse frowned slightly, surprised.
Rhaella, present in the room, immediately lifted a hand.
— Let him be, she said calmly.
The wet nurse complied without argument.
Aemon stepped close again. The tension fell away almost at once. Cersei calmed, her movements growing slower.
No one commented on the scene.
But something had just been set in place.
In the evening, Aemon returned to his chamber.
He could sleep without Cersei. He did so without difficulty. The Rock offered a deep security, almost suffocating. The sea rumbled far off, steady. The stone walls seemed capable of holding against the whole world.
But even in the silence of the night, even without thinking of it consciously, Aemon knew she was there.
Not in his chamber.
In the Rock.
And that was enough.
The days followed one another with a regularity that was almost deceptive.
At Casterly Rock, nothing ever truly seemed urgent. The bells marked the hours, the sea beat the cliff with an immutable constancy, and the stone remained, indifferent to human emotion. And yet, beneath that apparent stability, something was slowly being woven, thread by thread, in the simplest gestures.
Aemon continued to explore the Rock.
He climbed narrow staircases that seemed to lead nowhere, followed galleries carved straight from the rock, sometimes stopped before an arrow slit to watch the horizon. Rhaegar often accompanied him, overflowing with energy, asking a thousand questions about the history of the place, ancient battles, the knights whose names were carved into the walls' memory.
Aemon liked those moments.
He liked his brother's presence, their silent complicity, the fact that they did not need to prove anything to each other. Their relationship was simple, solid, self-evident.
And yet…
With each exploration, with each detour, Aemon felt that slight inner resistance. Not strong enough to stop him. Just strong enough to slow him. As if part of him preferred to remain elsewhere.
— Come! Rhaegar sometimes cried as he ran ahead.
Aemon hesitated for a fraction of a second. His gaze returned almost in spite of himself toward the direction they had left, where Joanna's apartments were, where the twins slept.
Then he followed.
Always.
He never ignored his brother.
But he left with a discreet reluctance, almost imperceptible.
Cersei was growing.
It was not something one noticed suddenly. It was never spectacular. But Aemon, who saw her every day, noted those tiny changes that others might have considered insignificant.
Her eyes stayed open longer.
Her movements became more precise.
Her expressions grew more defined.
She reacted more and more clearly to Aemon's presence.
When he entered a room where she was, her attention turned toward him almost immediately. Her arms stirred, her hands searched for something to grasp. At times, she made a little sharp sound—not a cry of distress, but an impatient protest, as if she refused to be ignored.
Aemon did not always rush to her.
At times he stayed at a distance, watching, letting the wet nurses do their work. But even then, he positioned himself so that he remained within her field of vision. And when he moved away of his own accord, he did so without discomfort, certain he would come back later.
The difference was subtle.
But it existed.
One morning, as Rhaella spoke with Joanna near the window, Aemon entered the room and sat on a bench not far from the cradles. Cersei was awake. She saw him at once and began to stir, her fingers opening and closing with an almost willful impatience.
Aemon rested his elbows on his knees and watched.
He did not take her.
He did not even reach out a hand.
He simply stayed there.
Cersei kept moving for a few moments, then her gestures slowed. Her gaze remained fixed on him, intense, demanding. Aemon felt that strange familiar sensation, that slight easing that rose in him when she stopped thrashing.
Jaime, in the neighboring cradle, slept peacefully.
— She's looking for you, Joanna murmured, without reproach, without amusement.
Aemon did not answer.
He knew it was true, without knowing why.
Sometimes, the adults decided otherwise.
One day, as Aemon had been sitting near Cersei for a long while, a wet nurse announced it was time to lay her down elsewhere, in a quieter room. She stepped forward, ready to move the cradle.
Aemon rose instinctively.
— I can stay, he said simply.
The wet nurse hesitated.
— It isn't necessary, my prince.
She began to move the cradle away.
The reaction was immediate.
Cersei began to cry, a sharp cry, sudden, without transition. Aemon felt tension rise in him—brutal, unpleasant. It was not fear. It was a dull, contained anger, as if something in him refused that imposed separation.
He stepped forward without thinking.
— Wait.
His voice was not loud.
But it was firm.
Rhaella immediately lifted her eyes.
— Leave her here, she said calmly.
The wet nurse bowed and stepped back.
Almost at once, Cersei calmed. Her cries ceased, replaced by short hiccups. Aemon felt the tension ebb slowly.
No one said anything.
But this time, Rhaella watched her son more closely.
The nights remained peaceful.
Aemon slept without difficulty. He did not need Cersei's presence to find rest. He fell asleep with the quiet certainty that the world, for now, still held together.
In the morning, however, he almost always went to the same rooms first.
Not because he had to.
Because it had become natural.
The months passed like that.
Three months.
Then four.
Cersei began to laugh more often. A clear laugh, almost triumphant, that sometimes echoed through the stone rooms. Jaime babbled more, more calmly, observing everything with an almost studious attention.
Aemon spent even more time with Cersei.
He stayed near her longer than he intended. He often sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, his gaze returning again and again to her even when he was speaking with someone else. If they were in the same room, he always found himself within reach, as if drawn by a gentle but constant force.
Rhaegar noticed it before the others.
— You're always with her, he remarked one day, without reproach, simply curious.
Aemon shrugged slightly.
— She's there.
Rhaegar smiled.
— You like her.
Aemon did not answer.
He did not need to.
The first time he carried Cersei, it was not planned.
Joanna was tired that day. The wet nurses were busy. Rhaella was speaking with a maester. Cersei began to cry, one of those insistent cries that seemed unwilling to stop for anything.
Aemon rose almost at once.
— I can, he said simply.
Joanna hesitated for a second, then nodded.
The wet nurse placed Cersei against him. She stirred for another moment, then calmed almost immediately, as if her body had recognized something familiar.
Aemon felt her weight against him. The warmth. The small hand already clinging to his tunic.
He remained still, attentive, focused.
It was not an obligation.
It was a choice.
And yet, it felt as natural as breathing.
Later, when he gave her back, Aemon felt that slight inner resistance. Not strong enough to stop him. Just strong enough to remind him that this closeness mattered.
He let Cersei go.
He did not turn back immediately.
But he returned later.
The fifth month settled in without a jolt.
At Casterly Rock, time never announced itself. It didn't knock at the door, didn't warn. It simply passed, seeped into habits, until one realized, too late, that something had changed.
Aemon felt it.
Not as a clear worry, nor as a certainty put into words, but as a subtle change of rhythm. The days seemed shorter. The silences heavier. The adults' gazes lingered longer on him, on Rhaegar, on the twins.
And especially on Cersei.
Cersei was now nearly six months old.
She could not yet sit on her own, but her body already seemed to refuse stillness. When supported, she straightened with an almost fierce determination, her fingers gripping anything within reach. Her laugh was frank, loud, sometimes even too loud for the Rock's stone rooms. She wanted to see, to touch, to exist.
Aemon was almost always there.
Not always pressed against her, not constantly bent over her cradle, but present. If they were in the same room, he was rarely at the far end. He sat near, or stood not far, his attention returning to her even when he was speaking with someone else.
It was not surveillance.
It was an orientation.
Jaime, by contrast, remained calmer. He watched for a long time, babbled sometimes, but without that constant agitation. Aemon loved him too, in his own way, but it wasn't the same. Jaime was a gentle presence. Cersei was a force.
Rhaegar kept drawing his brother into his explorations.
— Are you coming? he often asked, already turned toward a staircase or some unknown gallery.
Aemon would then look instinctively toward Cersei.
Always.
He hesitated. Not long. Just long enough for it to be visible. Then he straightened and followed Rhaegar, never ignoring him, never refusing. Their relationship remained solid, obvious. They laughed, spoke, explored together like two brothers who had nothing to reproach each other for.
But even in the midst of those moments, Aemon felt that slight tension, that discreet resistance tugging softly the other way.
He went anyway.
Because he chose to.
One day, as they returned from a long walk in the upper galleries, Aemon entered an empty room.
The cradles had been moved.
He stopped short.
It was not panic. Not collapse. But an immediate surge of discomfort—brutal, uncontrollable. His breath shortened. His hands tightened slightly.
Cersei was not there.
He turned at once.
— Where are they? he asked a passing servant.
— The children have been settled in the inner apartments, my prince. For rest.
The answer was logical. Reasonable.
But it changed nothing.
Aemon felt anger rise, cold, contained, like a coal under ash. It wasn't against the servant. It wasn't even against the decision itself.
It was the fact that it had been decided without him.
He set off at once.
When he entered the room where the twins were, Cersei was already crying. A sharp, annoyed cry, almost furious. The moment she saw him, her cry turned into hiccups. Her arms flailed, searching for him.
Aemon stepped closer without a word.
He didn't take her right away. He simply laid a hand on the cradle.
Cersei calmed almost at once.
The tension in him ebbed slowly, leaving behind a dull fatigue.
No one spoke.
But Rhaella, present in the room, understood.
From that day on, imposed separations were rarer.
Not out of superstition.
Out of caution.
The eve of departure drew near.
It was not announced brutally. Preparations were made gradually, almost silently. Chests appeared in the corridors. Clothes were sorted. Servants spoke more quietly. Guards seemed more numerous.
Aemon noticed everything.
He spent even more time with Cersei in those last days. Not in an exclusive way, not to the point of isolating himself from the rest of the world, but with a new constancy. As if he knew, without admitting it, that something was coming to an end.
He carried her more often. He stayed longer near her. He endured being kept away from her even briefly less and less well.
And yet, when Rhaegar called him, he always went.
Always.
The last night at the Rock was strangely calm.
Aemon slept deeply. Without agitation, without any striking dream. The sea rumbled far off, steady, and the stone of the castle seemed to contain the whole world. He did not get up. He did not seek anyone. He knew, confusedly, that morning would come soon enough.
At dawn, he went almost at once to Joanna's apartments.
Cersei was awake.
The moment she saw him enter, she stirred, her arms reaching toward him with an urgency that no longer had anything accidental about it. Her face was already marked by that lively, almost willful impatience that seemed to refuse any useless waiting. Aemon stepped forward without hesitation and took her against him.
She calmed immediately.
Her body relaxed against his, her fingers clinging to the cloth of his tunic as if they had found a fixed point there. Aemon stayed like that, motionless, attentive to the slightest of her movements. He did not count the time. He thought of nothing else. He simply stayed there.
Longer than usual.
Rhaella entered the room and stopped when she saw them. She did not interrupt anything. Her gaze rested on them for a few moments, grave and gentle at once. Joanna, for her part, looked away, as if she refused to stare too long at an obvious truth she nevertheless understood very well.
When the moment came to leave, the room's atmosphere shifted subtly.
Aemon gave Cersei back to the wet nurse with care. This time, the resistance was immediate. Cersei protested sharply, her cries filling the room with a keen anger, almost offended. Aemon felt that dull tension rise again in him—brutal, familiar. He clenched his teeth, breathed in slowly to contain it.
He leaned down and laid a hand against Cersei's cheek.
— I'll come back, he murmured, without knowing why those words imposed themselves on him.
She did not understand the meaning of the words.
But she perceived the intention.
Her cries did not stop completely, but they lost their violence, replaced by shorter, more hesitant sobs. Aemon stayed another moment, long enough for the bond to stretch without breaking, then he straightened.
They were going to leave.
All together.
But something, already, made him understand that this departure would not be a simple journey.
When the procession began to move, Casterly Rock came alive one last time.
The horses stamped, the wheels creaked on the stone, orders snapped in low voices. Joanna was settled with care, holding Jaime against her, while Cersei, already agitated by the change, reached her arms toward what she recognized as familiar. Tywin mounted his horse not far off, upright and silent, watching everything without a word.
Aemon stepped closer instinctively. He did not take her—they did not allow him to—but he stayed close enough for her to see him. Cersei calmed a little, her fingers gripping the wet nurse's cloth rather than empty air.
The procession finally rolled forward.
Aemon mounted in turn, Rhaegar already seated not far away. The Rock began slowly to recede behind them, a mass of stone rising against the sea. Aemon did not turn back at once. He did not need to. What he was leaving behind was not a place, but a suspended time that would not repeat itself.
They were all leaving together.
But something, in that constrained closeness, already suggested that the world to come would not grant them the same freedom.