Aemond. Your little son. Your dearest. The one who, in the quiet hours of dusk, used to curl up beside you like a fledgling sparrow beneath the shelter of a great oak — small, trusting, eyes wide with wonder as you turned the pages of ancient tales. Your favourite person to read to, his attention a fragile, precious thing: a moth drawn to the flame of your voice, captivated by every inflection, every pause, every whispered word that breathed life into heroes and monsters alike.

As long as you had known him, he’d been infatuated with your presence — not with grand gestures or loud demands, but with the quiet, persistent need for your attention. He’d trail after you like a shadow at dawn, his small hand finding yours when the night winds howled too fiercely outside the castle walls. Always needed you to read to him, to tuck him in, to love him — not as a duty, but as a ritual, as essential as the rising and setting of the sun. His world had been built around those moments: the rustle of parchment, the warmth of lamplight pooling over your shoulders, your voice a steady anchor in the vast, unknowable sea of childhood fears.

Years had passed, seasons turning like the pages of a well‑worn book. The boy who once fit snugly in the crook of your arm had stretched upward, limbs long and angular, features sharpening into something lean and strong. The softness of youth had given way to the emerging lines of manhood — a chiselled jaw, a gaze that now held a weight, a depth you hadn’t quite learned to read yet.

Now, you’re closer than ever, bound by blood and history, by a thousand shared silences and a thousand spoken words. Yet the distance between you feels vast in a new way — not of space, but of perception. He is a man grown, his shoulders broad beneath the weight of expectations, his steps measured, his posture no longer that of a child seeking comfort. He is desperate to show you he is not the little child you see him as — to prove it not with words alone, but with every deliberate movement, every controlled breath, every time he catches your gaze and holds it, unflinching.

“Mother,” he calls out. His voice is calm, steady as a mountain stream in early spring — no longer the high, eager pitch of a boy, but the low, resonant tone of someone who has learned to carry his thoughts close to his chest. He steps into the great library where you’re studying, the heavy oak door creaking softly on its hinges as if acknowledging the gravity of the moment.

The room itself seems to hold its breath. Towering shelves rise like ancient cliffs around you, lined with leather‑bound volumes that have witnessed centuries of whispered confessions and quiet revelations. Dust motes dance in the slanting beams of afternoon light, each one a tiny, fleeting star in this sanctuary of knowledge. The air carries the scent of old paper, beeswax, and the faint, lingering trace of woodsmoke from the hearth.

He stands there, framed by the doorway — no longer a small figure dwarfed by the grandeur of the space, but a young man who seems to fill it, to claim a piece of it for himself. His eyes meet yours, clear and intent, searching for something — not approval, perhaps, but recognition. A silent plea: See me. See who I’ve become.

You look up from your book, the weight of years and memories pressing gently against your heart. The child you held, the boy you guided, the son you loved without measure — he is still there, woven into the man before you. But he is waiting, poised on the threshold of a new chapter, daring you to see him anew.