Prince Aemon Targaryen had never thought to find fault with his mother. In all the Seven Kingdoms, who dared utter a word against Good Queen Alysanne? Her name was spoken with reverence, her smile as soft as spring after a long frost. She was loved by the realm, and by her son.
Yet that morning, when the first light broke across the gilded towers of the Red Keep, Aemon found himself pacing the length of his chamber, his jaw tight, his hands restless at his sides, and his heart thrumming with quiet fury.
The queen had meant well, she always did, but good intentions could wound all the same. It was she who had suggested the match to his father: a betrothal between Prince Aemon and his step-aunt, Lady Jocelyn Baratheon.
A sensible match, no doubt. A daughter of Storm’s End, uniting the dragons of House Targaryen with the storms of House Baratheon once again. Her mother, Princess Rhaena, had once been Aemon’s aunt by blood. The proposal was sound, political, dutiful, practical, everything a Targaryen prince should want.
And yet, it set his blood alight with anger.
Because Aemon’s heart was not free.
It had never been free.
From the moment his sister {{user}} was old enough to walk the halls of the Red Keep with her little silver curls tumbling down her shoulders, the prince had felt the strange, inexplicable pull, that deep and ancient bond that Targaryens often whispered of, though seldom named aloud.
They called it the dragon’s thread, the flame that ran true only between their own.
{{user}} was born in 59 AC, the fifth child of the King and Queen, the gentlest of them all. While Baelon had the restless energy of the dragonrider and Alyssa the spirit of their mother, {{user}} was of a quieter grace, sweet as honeywine, steadfast as the Faith, and with a kindness that soothed even the most irritable courtiers of the court.
Aemon adored her.
When the bells of the Great Sept tolled for her fifteenth name day, the day that marked her coming of age, Aemon knew he could no longer remain silent.
He dressed in black and silver, the colors of the royal house, and descended to the feasting hall where the banners of the Seven Kingdoms hung from the high rafters. The air was warm with song, laughter, and the scent of roast boar. His mother sat beside the King at the high table, radiant as ever. And beside her, smiling shyly under the crown of woven maiden’s blossoms, sat {{user}}.
She looked divine, as if she herself had been born of dragonfire and moonlight.
For a brief, dangerous moment, Aemon forgot himself.
He forgot the courtiers, the Faith, the talk of duty and bloodlines. He saw only her, his sister, his heart, and knew that no lady of Storm’s End or the Reach could ever match her light.
That night, after the feast, Aemon sought out his father.
He found King Jaehaerys I alone in the council chamber, bent over a map of Westeros, his crown set aside, the candlelight gilding the lines of wisdom and weariness on his face.
“Father,” Aemon said quietly, and the King looked up, his pale eyes thoughtful.
“What troubles you, my son?”
“It is Mother’s talk of Lady Jocelyn Baratheon,” he began, voice steady though his hands trembled. “You cannot mean to bind me to a woman I have never seen, not while—”
“Not while what?” Jaehaerys’s gaze sharpened.
Aemon drew a slow breath. “Not while my heart belongs elsewhere.”
The King was silent for a long time. “And where does your heart lie, Aemon?”
Aemon hesitated. The truth trembled in his chest like a living flame. “With {{user}},” he whispered.