Chapter 51 - Chapter 51: The Realm Beneath the Throne.

Author's Note

Dear Readers,

We did it—1 million views🔥

From the very first chapter to now, your support, comments, theories, and enthusiasm have meant more than I can ever express. Thank you for walking this journey with me.

As a small thank-you, there will be a bonus chapter tomorrow—something special to celebrate this milestone. You've earned it.

I also wanted to take a moment to address a question many of you have asked—regarding Aemon's ability: Biokinesis, and specifically, why he can't use it to hatch dragon eggs.

Here's the clarification:

🔹 Biokinesis draws from Aemon's own life force.

He cannot take or absorb energy from others—only himself. Every use comes at a price.

🔹 He cannot create life, only enhance and evolve what already exists—through his own sacrifice.

🔹 His life force can increase, but only through unlocking latent magic in his blood or undergoing major physical and spiritual evolution. There are no shortcuts. No immortality. No godhood. He will die one day. His journey is not about escaping death but living with meaning.

As for the dragon eggs—they are alive, warm, and full of dormant potential. But as hinted in earlier chapters, what they lack is not life—but a catalyst. A ritual. A sign. A convergence of fate. Something ancient and primal—like the bleeding star in the TV shows.

Biokinesis alone isn't enough.

Thank you again, truly, for every read, every heart, every comment. This world means so much to me, and it's an honor to share it with you. The road ahead is long and full of shadows—but also fire, music, rebellion, and hope.

Keep reading.

Stay kind.

And remember—even in ash, something can bloom.

With all my gratitude,

HORCRUZ

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Red Keep – Early Morning, 269 AC

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Morning light spilled through the high-arched windows of Maegor's Holdfast, casting long, golden streaks across the chill grey stone. The Red Keep lay hushed—caught in that rare silence between darkness and duty. Outside, King's Landing slumbered beneath a pale veil of dawn.

Within that silence, a silver note rang out.

In a sun-drenched chamber overlooking the inner courtyard, Rhaegar Targaryen sat by the window, a harp cradled against his shoulder. His slender fingers moved hesitantly across the silver strings, drawing notes that shimmered like light on water—half-formed, searching. His brow furrowed with quiet focus, lost somewhere between thought and sound.

The door creaked open without ceremony.

Aemon leaned against the threshold, arms folded, a crooked grin playing on his lips.

"You're getting better," he said. "Another moon or two, and you might catch up to your teacher."

Rhaegar looked up, frowning faintly. "You always say that."

"And you always frown as the gods handed you the whole realm at birth," Aemon replied, stepping into the room. "Maybe they did."

"Or maybe they gave me you," Rhaegar muttered, but a reluctant smile touched his lips as he set the harp aside.

Aemon dropped into a casual lean against the wall beside him. "I'll take that as gratitude."

"Or pity."

"You wound me," Aemon said, touching his heart. "I come bearing encouragement from your ever-wise, ever-humble mentor."

Rhaegar arched an eyebrow. "Humble is not the word I'd choose."

"Brilliant? Irreplaceable? Handsome?"

"Uninvited," Rhaegar deadpanned. "What are you doing here?"

Aemon's grin widened.

"Your big brother's here to steal you away," he said, voice low with playful mischief. "Another adventure. One we'll probably regret. You in?"

Before Rhaegar could answer, Aemon tugged him to his feet with a swift yank of the arm.

Rhaegar stumbled upright with a groan. "Seven, save me from your adventures…"

"Seven can't help you now," Aemon said with a wink. "Come on."

The door clicked shut behind them as the two princes slipped into the corridor, their laughter soft in the quiet. Behind them, the last note of the harp faded into stillness—unfinished, like a song waiting to begin.

The corridor outside Rhaegar's chambers lay draped in the golden hush of dawn. Only the soft scuff of boots and the gentle creak of a closing door broke the hush.

Ser Oswell Whent stood by the threshold, helm tucked beneath his arm, brow raised in quiet resignation. As Aemon and Rhaegar stepped out, he gave them both a long, world-weary look.

"You're dragging him into trouble again, aren't you?" he muttered, voice dry as dust.

Aemon didn't miss a beat. He winked and clapped Rhaegar on the shoulder.

"Trouble follows me, Oswell. I'm merely a passenger."

The Kingsguard sighed through his nose and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "Seven help us all," before falling into step beside them.

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They reached Aemon's chambers moments later.

Inside, Ser Jonothor Darry leaned against the wall, arms folded, expression flat and unamused. Beside him, Ser Barristan Selmy stood tall, ever the statue—posture straight, eyes sharp beneath that calm exterior.

"You're late," Jonothor said coolly. "And dragging company."

"Where are you off to now?" Barristan asked, already suspicious.

Aemon strolled into the room with his hands clasped behind his back and a grin too easy to trust.

"Into the city."

Jonothor's brow twitched. "You're joking."

"Just for a little while," Aemon said quickly, lifting a hand in quiet reassurance. "We'll be in disguise. Everything's prepared—safe, secret, planned down to the last alley."

Barristan's frown deepened. "This isn't a lark, Aemon. The streets don't forgive as easily as these halls."

"I know," Aemon said, voice shifting into something calmer—firmer. "That's why we won't be alone. Three Kingsguard. Myself. Rhaegar. No banners, no sigils. Just boys and tired knights taking a morning stroll."

Rhaegar, still lingering behind, looked unconvinced. "Are you sure this is wise?"

Aemon met his gaze calmly—like a knight grown.

But he was still ten.

"It's not just a whim—it's necessary. We've spent too long behind stone walls and silk sheets. If we're to serve the realm, we have to see it—truly see it."

A brief silence hung between them.

Then Jonothor muttered, "He's been practicing that speech."

"I have," Aemon admitted proudly. And with a flourish, he threw open the chest near his bed.

"Behold: disguises. Acquired through great effort, subtle deception, and several deeply awkward conversations with the laundry servants."

Inside lay a heap of plain tunics, travel-worn cloaks, scuffed boots, and a small tin of soot for face-darkening.

He tossed a bundle toward Rhaegar.

Rhaegar caught it with a mild grimace, lifting the cloak as if it might bite.

"This smells like boiled cabbage."

"Authenticity," Aemon declared. "The soul of disguise."

He stepped closer and began adjusting the folds of Rhaegar's cloak.

"And you still tie knots like a lord," he added under his breath, fingers working deftly to fix the awkward loop.

Rhaegar gave him a look but said nothing.

Across the room, Ser Oswell sighed again.

"If the Lord Commander finds out, I'm blaming you, Jon."

Jonothor snorted. "Please. It's your turn to take the fall."

"Perhaps you should both blame me and be done with it," Aemon offered brightly. "I'll even write matching apologies."

Barristan watched the exchange in silence, then let out a long sigh and rubbed his temple.

"We'll be back by noon. All of us," he said, the weight in his voice leaving no room for argument.

"Before the bells finish ringing," Aemon promised, placing a hand over his heart.

"And if anything goes wrong…"

"It won't," Aemon said smoothly. "We'll be ghosts."

Another beat passed. Then, at last, Barristan gave a reluctant nod.

"Seven, help me," he muttered. "Let's go before I come to my senses."

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The disguised princes and their Kingsguard escort crept through the hushed corridors of the Red Keep, their boots soft against the cold, polished stone. Aemon led the way, his cloak whispering behind him, mischief dancing in his stride, and fire flickering in his violet eyes.

They passed beneath a vast tapestry of Old Valyria—dragons twisting through flame beneath skies of crimson and ash—before Aemon suddenly halted beside an unremarkable stretch of wall.

"Here," he said, flashing a grin over his shoulder.

"This is your idea of a well-planned stroll?" Barristan asked dryly, eyeing the solid wall.

The others looked on as he knelt by the wall, fingers brushing the carved stone with practiced ease. He found the spot, pressed in, and pulled a narrow iron lever hidden beneath the molding.

A low, grinding rumble echoed through the stone. Slowly, heavily—like something ancient waking from slumber—the wall section groaned and slid inward, revealing a narrow stairwell descending into darkness.

Rhaegar blinked. Jonothor raised a brow. Oswell groaned.

"You've got to be joking," the knight muttered.

Aemon looked positively delighted. "Built by King Maegor himself. Straight to the city."

"You mean Maegor the Cruel?" Jonothor asked dryly.

Aemon beamed. "Is there another Maegor worth mentioning?"

He stepped through the opening, torch in hand. With a swift strike against the iron sconce, flame blossomed in his grasp—casting warm gold into the cold, waiting dark.

The tunnel swallowed the light.

Stone steps descended into the dark, slick with time. The air shifted—cool, damp, thick with dust and the weight of history. There was a silence in the depths, old and watchful as if the walls remembered blood.

"They're a network," Aemon said, his voice dropping slightly as they followed him into the dark. "Maegor had them carved to escape from any wing of the Keep—or strike from it. Some are stone, others timber, and earth. Supposedly, traps are hidden throughout to catch intruders… or spies."

"Supposedly?" Rhaegar echoed, frowning.

"Well…" Aemon glanced back with a glint in his eye. "Mostly tested."

Oswell let out a long breath. "Lovely."

Barristan said nothing, eyes sweeping every corner, every crevice—silent, steady, as though expecting the shadows to move.

Aemon ducked under a crooked beam, his hand brushing the stone wall with easy familiarity.

He knew this path well—every turn, every uneven step, every place where the ceiling creaked or dripped cold water onto his collar. He had spent months exploring it in secret, slipping away with nothing but a stub of candle and stolen apples, charting its twists and shadows one careful footstep at a time.

One day, some whispering bald eunuch will scurry through here like he owns the place, Aemon thought with a smirk. He can kiss my ass. I found it first.

He pressed on, torch held high, leading them forward like he'd been doing this all his life.

"Don't worry," Aemon said lightly. "This tunnel's safe. I've tested it myself. It leads straight to Fishmonger's Street, near the River Gate."

Barristan remained silent, his eyes scanning every shadow, every echo.

"Fishmonger's Street," Jonothor muttered. "From royal halls to cabbage carts. Seven take me if I die under the city chasing a ten-year-old prince in a smelly cloak."

"You'll die honored," Aemon called cheerfully.

They moved deeper into the dark, the torch casting flickering halos on carved walls. Now and then, other passages branched away—tight and dark, swallowed by dust and time.

No signs.

No markers.

Just memory and stone.

A faint scuffle echoed from a side tunnel—dry, skittering, quick.

Everyone froze.

Aemon tilted his head, listening. Then shrugged. "Just rats."

"Big ones," Oswell muttered. "Probably armed."

Jonothor snorted. "With cloaks that smell better than ours."

Aemon grinned. "Then we're safe. No self-respecting rat would come near you a lot."

They kept walking, the torchlight flickering against the stone.

The air grew colder.

And ahead of them—hidden by the bones of the Keep—the city waited.

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The tunnel ended in silence and shadow—until a thin blade of light cut through a crooked wooden slat ahead.

Aemon raised a hand, shielding his eyes from the sudden brightness. Then, with a quiet breath, he lowered the torch and snuffed it against the damp stone wall, letting the darkness retreat to the past.

He pushed aside the makeshift latch and shouldered open a splintered panel, revealing a narrow alley choked with crates, broken barrels, and the unmistakable stench of fish guts baking in the early sun.

The group stepped out into the alley behind a butcher's stall—and the city hit them all at once.

Salt. Smoke. Fish.

The air was thick with it.

Light poured across their faces for the first time since the tunnels, golden and harsh after the chill of stone. Rhaegar squinted, raising a hand to shield his eyes. Aemon, by contrast, tilted his face upward and took a breath—deep, sharp, full of the city's filth and fire.

Freedom never smelled so foul.

Beyond the alley, Fishmonger's Square was already thrumming with life. Carts creaked over cobbled stones slick with fish oil and mud. Gulls screamed overhead, circling the roofs like winged scavengers. Vendors shouted prices in every direction—competing, cursing, calling like generals in battle. The square stank of old fish and desperation, a thousand lives grinding forward with no pause for dignity.

Children darted between legs, chasing chickens or clutching stolen apples, vanishing into the crowd as quickly as they'd appeared. Chickens clucked madly in cages. A man in a blood-stained apron dragged a sack of eel across the square.

Jonothor grimaced and stepped over a pile of what might've once been clams. "Smells like rotten eggs and meat."

"Try not to walk like knights pretending not to be knights," Aemon muttered over his shoulder, adjusting the fall of his hood. "Keep your stride relaxed. No stiff backs. No long swords clinking."

"I smell worse than the fish," Oswell grumbled. "That should do the trick."

Jonothor flipped up his cloak and tugged it low over his face like a sellsword about to get stabbed in a dice game.

Rhaegar trailed behind, his silence heavier now, the hood masking more than his hair. He watched the chaos unfold around him—the smoke, the clamor, the blur of bodies moving to poverty's relentless rhythm—but said nothing.

But Aemon saw the flicker in his eyes.

No more walls. No more silk.

This was the realm—loud, filthy, alive… and already starting to rot.

And it was only the beginning.

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From the clamor of Fishmonger's Square, they turned west—into heat, hammerfall, and smoke. The Street of Steel welcomed them not with words but with iron.

The hill climbed steep and narrow, winding like a blackened artery up Visenya's Hill. Noise struck first—metal striking metal, rhythmic and relentless, like war drums echoing through the stone. Each clang rang sharp in the bones.

The road underfoot narrowed into uneven cobbles. Walls flanking the path were scorched and scarred, stained by years of ash, soot, and flame. Orange sparks fluttered through the haze like fireflies, floating from wide-open smithy doors and the roaring bellies of ancient forges. The stench of smoke clung to everything—clothing, hair, even breath—mingled with the bitter tang of scorched leather and old sweat.

Bare-armed smiths labored at their anvils, muscles moving like clockwork—steady, relentless, uncelebrated. Faces streaked with soot. Brows beaded with sweat. Sleeves rolled to the elbow, hammers swinging in rhythm with the pulse of the street.

Apprentices darted between doorways, hauling pails of water or dragging rusted mail and warped blades. Firelight danced off their faces, and none looked older than Aemon.

Jonothor grunted approval as a blacksmith honed a blade with smooth, practiced strokes.

"That one knows his steel," he murmured.

Aemon lingered.

At the edge of the forge, a battered Gold Cloak stood with his scorched helm tucked beneath one arm, his breastplate dented and dulled by fire and time. With practiced disdain, he flipped a clipped copper to the blacksmith—just enough to insult, not enough to pay.

Less than fair. Less than owed.

The smith didn't argue. He only wiped his brow and turned back to the anvil, jaw clenched so hard Aemon thought he might crack a tooth.

"Might get more respect wearing a chamber pot than armor," Oswell muttered beside him. "At least no one would ask for change."

They moved on.

As the incline rose, the heat thinned—but the forges did not.

The shops here were neater, more refined. Iron signs gleamed in the sunlight, polished to a mirror's shine. Windows stood spotless behind barred frames. Blades and helms hung behind latticed displays like trophies—falchions, spears, jewel-studded daggers, and gleaming armor crafted not for battle but for display.

Aemon paused again. His eyes scanned a longsword mounted in the window—its hilt wrapped in gold-threaded leather, the blade perfectly balanced, made for a lord's hand.

He looked back down the hill.

Rusted swords. Dented helms. Blunt steel was barely held together by the calloused hands of men who barely earned bread.

Then forward again.

Glass. Gold. Craftsmanship is priced by title, not talent.

Same fire, same steel—yet one bought glory, the other silence.

He said nothing, but his jaw had set, his silence sharpening like the blades around him.

Rhaegar was watching him. Quiet. Thoughtful. And for once, with no words to offer.

Then the roar of the forge returned, swallowing them in sparks and smoke as they climbed higher—into a city that burned even as it breathed.

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They left the forges behind, the clang of hammers fading like distant thunder as they climbed the slope of Visenya's Hill.

With each step, the air changed. The heat and smoke of the Street of Steel gave way to a hush of reverence that clung to the heights. The slope steepened, white cobbles replacing scorched stone—as if the city grew solemn beneath their feet.

Aemon led in silence, the others close behind. Rhaegar kept pace, his gaze drifting upward toward the rising crown of the hill.

The Street of the Sisters stretched ahead—unnaturally straight as if the city itself dared not bend between the hills of queens. It ran like a blade through King's Landing, slicing clean between Visenya's Hill and the scorched ruins of Rhaenys's.

Named for the sister queens of Aegon the Conqueror, the road bore history in its stones, and in its shadow, the past lived on.

At the summit, marble steps rose like pale waves toward the Great Sept of Baelor, gleaming beneath the morning sun. The Sept loomed over the city—a vision of sanctity, cloaked in white marble and crowned with a dome of leaded glass and crystal. Seven slender towers pierced the sky like the fingers of the gods, each fitted with bronze bells that tolled for mourning or salvation.

The vast marble plaza surrounding it opened to the heavens, its stillness broken only by the soft rustle of garden leaves. At the center stood the statue of Baelor the Blessed, serene and solemn atop his plinth, arms spread as if to shelter the realm beneath them.

Here, the city felt distant. Smaller. Quieter.

Aemon slowed, his eyes sweeping the steps, the polished stone, the quiet gardens—and the cold majesty of the Sept.

The street curved past the plaza, tracing a steady path down the far side of the hill—still straight, still sharp.

And across the rooftops, atop the scorched rise of Rhaenys's Hill, Aemon saw it:

The Dragonpit.

Once the pride of House Targaryen—now a blackened crown of ruin. Its vast dome lay shattered, its bronze-and-iron gates sealed for generations, its scorched walls bearing the scars of a fire no storm could match. For a hundred and fifty years, it had stood abandoned. Silent. Forgotten. Haunted.

"Nine dragons once roared there," Ser Barristan said quietly. "Now, not even their ashes remain."

Aemon said nothing.

But he saw it—saw what it must have been.

Benches circling a pit built to hold eighty thousand. Brick-lined tunnels carved deep into the hill, five times the size of Dragonstone's lairs. Forty great vaults, iron-doored and man-built, each once housing a creature of fire and legend.

The dome had risen like a second sky.

And men had torn it down.

He remembered the stories. The Shepherd's mob. The flames turned the Dragonpit into a fiery inferno. Dreamfyre crashed into the great dome in a final blaze of fury.

Ashes. Rubble. Death.

A monument to extinction.

And a warning.

Rhaegar was watching. "Do you think they suffered?" he asked softly.

Aemon didn't answer. But he could almost hear it—the roar of dragons chained beneath the stone, the rumble of a dome cracking as fire turned inward.

The silence was enough.

As they descended from the hilltop, the Great Sept fading behind them and the broken Dragonpit ahead, the Street of the Sisters stretched on—unnervingly straight.

Aemon glanced again at the Dragonpit's broken crown—and knew this city remembered. Its wounds were carved in stone.

Between those two hills, it felt as though the past itself watched them walk.

The path led them past the Guildhall of the Alchemists, nestled near the base of the hill like a wound stitched in shadow. It rose in silence—built of black marble veined like coal, its surface gleaming darkly in the morning sun. The building was a warren of sharp angles and narrow passages—a place of secrets and sorcery. Few entered. Fewer returned the same.

Aemon glanced at it with quiet curiosity as they passed.

"Wildfires brewed in stone vaults beneath that place," Ser Oswell murmured behind him. "They say the walls are warded, and the floors above are sand traps. One spark down there, and the ceiling collapses—smothering the flame before it can rise."

Rhaegar leaned closer to the black façade, wide-eyed. "Are there really spell enchantments?" he asked, his voice hushed with wonder. "Like… old Valyrian magic?"

Ser Jonothor snorted. "Spells or sand—it makes no difference. One wrong move and the whole hill goes up in flames."

Rhaegar blinked, lips parting slightly as he stepped back. "Oh."

He looked up at the looming façade, then back at them—voice a little too hopeful. "So… it's safe. Mostly?"

"Safe," Jonothor said, "so long as no one inside gets creative."

Rhaegar took another step back.

Their boots rang sharply against the cobbles as they passed, the black marble swallowing light and sound.

Behind them, the Guildhall of the Alchemists loomed—silent and brooding, like a dragon sleeping with one eye open.

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Then came the scent of flour.

The narrow lane tilted downward as they crossed into the Street of Flour. The scent of baking bread hung warm in the air—familiar and comforting.

But beneath it came something else.

The perfume of poverty: sour milk, rotting grain, sweat, and soot.

The cobbles here were dusted white. Bakers shouted prices from behind wooden counters, their arms dusted with flour, their brows slick with grease and heat. Flatbreads stacked like stones. Ovens roared. Ash drifted like snow.

Children lingered near the stalls—barefoot, too thin, eyes sharp. One darted forward, snatched a discarded crust from the dirt, and vanished into a side alley like a wisp of smoke.

"This feeds the city?" Rhaegar murmured as if the words themselves tasted wrong.

"If they're lucky," Jonothor replied grimly.

Rhaegar's hand twitched slightly at his side, curling into a loose fist. He said nothing. But his silence had weight.

Aemon glanced sideways at him—not with surprise, but recognition. Even Rhaegar was beginning to see it now. The cracks weren't at the edges. They ran straight through the middle.

Most loaves were already stale—cracked, and hardened long before they reached the counters. Some vendors soaked old bread in brine to make it chewable, while others sold only crumbs, swept from the floor and wrapped in scraps of cloth.

And still, buyers came.

Below the Street of Flour, the cobbles began to crumble. The alleys twisted tighter, darker.

The bread stalls vanished behind them. And with them, the last illusion of warmth.

What lay ahead was not a street.

It was forgotten.

A descent.

A place the crown had turned its face from.

A truth.

A maze of shadows and stench and suffering.

Flea Bottom waited.

Where rot wasn't creeping in—it had already taken root.

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The transition was jarring.

The cries of bakers and the scent of ash and bread were left behind.

The light dimmed beneath buildings that leaned too close together, blocking the sky like crooked, rotting teeth. The alleys twisted into knots—narrow, foul, and half-devoured by shadow.

The air thickened—choked with the reek of pig dung, tanner's acid, spoiled meat, and human waste beneath the sun. Smoke drifted low from cookfires stoked with garbage. Rats, bold as cats, skittered past their boots without fear.

The buildings looked ready to fall—wood rotted through, stone patched with cloth, roofs held by prayer and mildew. Waste was dumped straight into the alleys, where it festered in open gutters slick with things better left unnamed.

Aemon slowed—his body recoiling, but his eyes stayed forward.

The change came not with a gasp but a tightening. Of jaw. Of fists. Of something deeper.

No laughter echoed here.

Only coughs. Mutters. The occasional scream that no one answered.

A burst cistern spilled a foul stream across the path. A barefoot boy waded through it with a bucket, his face expressionless—numb to the stench, the filth, and the life he trudged through.

Oswell covered his nose, muttering, "Gods… I've seen battlefield latrines sweeter than this."

Jonothor said nothing. But his jaw tightened like stone.

Barristan's face remained composed—but his eyes, cold and calculating, carried quiet fury. He had seen war.

This was worse.

Rhaegar had gone pale. He looked away, lips pressed to a thin, bloodless line.

Then—

Shouting.

They turned a corner and froze.

Two Gold Cloaks—half-drunk and unsteady—loomed over a boy no older than thirteen. His face was bloodied, arms wrapped tightly around a bruised loaf of bread as if it were a crown jewel.

"You steal from Ser Milgar's stall again," one growled, driving his boot into the boy's ribs, "I'll break your god's damned hand."

"Bread's worth more than his skin," the second laughed. "Little thief should thank us for not stringing him up."

The first one took a coin from a brothel door as he staggered back. The other spat at a beggar woman cowering in the corner—and didn't look back.

Aemon stood frozen.

Not in fear.

In fury.

His breath caught in his chest. His blood hummed in his ears. The silence that wrapped around him wasn't empty—it was loud.

He looked at the boy in the mud.

At the woman who was wiping spit from her face.

At the men who laughed as they vanished into the smoke.

He looked at the gutters. The hovels. The half-starved children pick through waste like rats.

He looked—and he saw.

One outbreak here, and the city burns.

No warning. No cure. Just fire in the gutters and corpses in the streets.

No wall would hold it.

No sword would save them. No crown would care.

And no throne ever came down this far.

Three hundred years of Targaryen rule.

And still, they ate dirt while lords dined on swan.

His hands curled into fists. Nails bit into his palms.

Rhaegar's voice came softly beside him. Raw. Strained.

"This is… wrong."

Oswell muttered, "This place should've been cleared and rebuilt ages ago."

But Aemon said nothing.

His voice had left him.

The alley narrowed—walls pressing in, shadows clinging like wet linen. Aemon led the way, his eyes sweeping the broken stones ahead, though his thoughts drifted elsewhere.

Then he saw her.

A small figure, barely more than a shadow, stood just off the path—half-hidden behind the shattered remains of a cart and the splintered bones of a crate. A girl. No older than six. Shoeless. Draped in stitched rags that clung like a second skin. Her limbs were too thin. Her dark hair was matted. Her knees trembled.

But her eyes didn't.

She stepped forward, slow but steady.

"…M'lord," she said softly. "Please… do you have any food?"

Her voice barely carried. Fragile—but clear. Dignified, despite the dirt and the hunger.

"Not for me," she added quickly. "Just a little. For the little ones."

Aemon stopped.

So did the others. Their footsteps were silenced by something heavier than stone.

He looked at her—really looked.

Then, without hesitation, he knelt.

The ground was cold and damp beneath his knee, but he barely noticed. His attention was fixed entirely on her.

The girl flinched. But when he smiled—gentle, open—she stood her ground.

He reached out—not to touch, but to meet her eyes. To show her she was seen.

He saw the tremble in her arms. The ridges of ribs beneath the threadbare cloth. Her small hands clutched to her belly—not pleading. Just holding herself together.

And in that moment, something inside him opened.

Not to Dragonstone. Not the Red Keep.

But somewhere far behind.

Another life.

Dust-choked refugee camps, tents reeking of sweat and smoke, gunfire in the distance. Children lined up for rations—hollow eyes, dirt-caked fingers. Dry biscuits, protein bars, and water bottles were handed out with shaking hands.

He remembered one girl in particular. Brown eyes. A faded scarf wrapped twice around her neck, even in the heat. She'd smiled, too.

Just like this.

His throat tightened.

Slowly, Aemon reached into the satchel at his hip. He took out everything he had:

A half-loaf of bread. A small pouch of dried meat. A handful of wild berries were gathered near the castle wall the day before.

He said nothing—held it out to her, both hands open in quiet offering.

Her eyes widened. Her lips parted—but no sound came. Tears welled, but she blinked them back.

She took the food like it was gold.

Two bites. Small, careful.

She ate like someone who knew what it meant to starve—not just to be hungry.

Every crumb was measured. Every bite is like a treasure.

Then she wrapped the rest in a torn piece of cloth and clutched it close to her chest.

"Thank you," she whispered. "I'll share it… before the rats find us."

And she smiled.

It wasn't much. Just a flicker. A moment.

But to Aemon, it struck harder than steel.

Behind him, Rhaegar stood pale and still, no words on his lips. But in his eyes, something had cracked—and the prince who sang to stars now saw shadows beneath them.

Ser Oswell had no jest. Jonothor turned away. Even Ser Barristan's expression had shifted—his jaw tight, eyes shadowed.

But Aemon remained kneeling.

He watched her retreat into a cracked doorway, half-swallowed by shadow. Other children waited there—hollow-eyed, watching. Hoping.

She turned once before disappearing—and waved.

A small wave. Shy.

Aemon raised a hand in return.

Then, slowly lowered it.

She smiled at me, he thought.

After everything—she still smiled.

The alley swallowed her again. Only a shaft of dusty light remained—cutting through the dark like hope too thin to hold.

Something had taken root—a quiet, unwavering resolve, not forged in fire but filth, hunger, and a smile far too brave for a world so broken.

He might've looked fifteen now, but he was only ten. A prince, not yet a man—yet something was shifting.

In his eyes, in his step…

And in the silence, he carried—like the hush before a storm.