The scent of warm bread clung to their cloaks, lingering like memory. As Aemon and his companions stepped out of Thomlin's bakery and onto the cobbled Street of Sisters, the air cooled—but purpose burned steadily in his chest.
Merchant calls echoed across the stones. Lavender oil, roasted almonds, and sugar wafted from nearby carts. The hum of city life returned, brighter here than in the shadows of Flea Bottom.
They walked in silence, boots tapping in a quiet rhythm.
Aemon finally glanced at Ser Barristan. "Do you think the orphanage will need more?"
Barristan nodded slowly, eyes scanning the street. "You've solved their hunger. But that's only one wound."
He spoke with the gravity of a man who had seen too many suffer and too few saved.
"Bread fills bellies. But they need warmth. Blankets. Shoes. Medicine. A roof that doesn't drip in winter. These things cost more than flour and firewood."
Aemon's hand instinctively moved to his belt—only to find it empty. The weight of his own helplessness pressed heavily on his shoulders.
"I have nothing left," he murmured.
And then—a sound. Faint. Familiar.
The jingle of coins.
A man shuffled past, humming softly, a cracked lyre slung over his back, a dented tin swaying at his hip.
Aemon watched him go, something quiet stirring behind his eyes.
A smile touched his lips.
"I have an idea."
Oswell groaned, not missing a beat. "Seven help us. He's about to do something mad again."
Aemon didn't argue.
"I'm going to sing."
Jonothor blinked. "Sing? Here?"
Aemon nodded toward the square ahead. "Where the coin flows and people listen. I'll play for them. I'll raise what we need for the children at Elira's house."
Rhaegar stepped closer, brow furrowed. "In public? What if someone recognizes you?"
"Not as a prince," Aemon said, voice steady. "As a bard,"
Barristan said nothing at first. Then, with quiet resolve, he removed his weathered travel cap and handed it to the boy.
"Cover the silver hair, lad. Let them hear your song, not the name behind it."
Aemon pulled the cap low, hiding the gleam of his heritage beneath plain brown cloth.
Jonothor smirked. "Might want to hide that face, too. With that jawline, you'll get coin… and proposals."
Oswell added, "Maybe even from both sides of the aisle."
Aemon smiled faintly, then loosened the satchel at his side and drew something out.
A polished cherrywood instrument, rounded at the belly, slender at the neck. Four taut strings shimmered in the noon light.
Not a lute. Not a harp.
Something new.
Oswell blinked, brows lifting. "What… is that thing?"
"A harp's bastard cousin," Jonothor muttered. "Looks like it wandered out of a bard's dream."
Rhaegar stepped forward, intrigued. "Is it from Essos?"
"No," Aemon said, pride soft in his voice. "I designed it myself. With help from the carpenters—and a little advice from someone. It's called a ukulele."
He strummed a string.
The note rang out—clear, strange, warm. Light as morning mist across still water.
"Well," Oswell muttered, "if that sound doesn't earn coin, it'll at least keep the pigeons entertained."
"We'll find a good spot," Aemon said, already walking.
They reached the square at the heart of the Street of Sisters—a place of colour, movement, and coin. Merchants barked, silks fluttered from shaded stalls, and a stone fountain burbled at its centre. A shaft of sunlight spilled across the stone.
Perfect.
Rhaegar began moving toward the edge with Oswell when Aemon caught his sleeve.
"Where are you going?"
"To help Oswell guard you."
"No," Aemon said. "I want you with me."
He pulled a small cloth bowl from his bag and placed it in Rhaegar's hands.
"You're my helper. Walk the crowd. Gather the coin."
Rhaegar frowned. "You want me to beg?"
"I want you to help," Aemon replied. "And between us, you've got the kinder smile."
Rhaegar rolled his eyes but didn't argue.
"Fine. But if Father hears about this…"
"I'll write the apology in verse," Aemon grinned.
Rhaegar huffed—but he smiled back.
Aemon entered the crowd and found the right spot—beneath a marble column, beside a cracked fountain clinging with ivy.
He paused.
The wind tugged at his cloak. With deliberate care, he reached up and unclasped it. It slipped from his shoulders like a shadow from his skin.
Now, only the brown cap remained.
He knelt and placed a wooden bowl at his feet—cracked, borrowed from a baker's boy who hadn't asked questions.
Rhaegar followed a few paces behind, silent but watchful. He knelt, pretending to adjust a dusty old flute, and placed a second bowl farther off.
The Kingsguard scattered—leaning casually on pillars, inspecting grapes at a fruit stall, watching windows and doorways.
Aemon took a breath.
And then—he strummed.
The first chord was gentle. Unfamiliar. Lighter than a lute, more playful than a harp. A strange, sweet tone—like sunlight catching glass.
No one looked up.
Another chord.
Then another.
The notes shimmered, weaving around boot steps and market cries like wind threading through branches.
He began to sing.
"Hold me close and hold me fast
This magic spell you cast
This is La Vie en Rose
When you kiss me, heaven sighs
And though I close my eyes
I see La Vie en rose"
His voice was soft. Certain. A song is sung not for applause but for memory.
The lyrics floated, soft and foreign. The words bent around the square, catching the ear, lingering like perfume on silk.
People slowed. A noble frowned—but his wife lingered, her eyes wide. She didn't speak. She just listened.
A baker paused mid-tray, lowering his bread to the counter. Flour drifted from his hands like snow.
A child sat at Aemon's feet. Then another.
Coins clinked in the bowl.
Then more.
Rhaegar blinked, stunned. He glanced between Aemon and the growing crowd—nobles and commoners, children and servants, all gathered under sun and song.
Oswell, arms crossed near a fruit cart, muttered under his breath.
"It's working… I hate that it's working."
Jonothor leaned back against the marble column, arms folded, a smirk curling his lips.
"Should've brought a third bowl."
A young girl listened to the rhythm.
A boy mimicked the chords with invisible strings.
An older woman, veil drawn low, wiped a tear from her cheek and dropped a silver stag into the bowl with trembling fingers.
The song curved around them like silk in the wind.
Still, Aemon played.
And still, the music rose—not demanding attention, but earning it.
"When you press me to your heart
I'm in a world apart
A world where roses bloom
And when you speak, angels sing from above
Every day words seem to turn into love songs
Give your heart and soul to me
And life will always be
La Vie en Rose"
As the final line fell from his lips, Aemon let it trail—not finished, just gently set aside. The sound faded like the last breath of candlelight.
For a heartbeat, the square was quiet.
Then the clinking of coins began again—louder now, more generous. Gold. Silver. Copper. Falling like rain.
Rhaegar moved through the crowd with the second bowl, cheeks flushed but shoulders squared. A child dropped a copper penny. A merchant, a whole gold dragon. One lady pressed a silver into his hand and whispered, "Who is he?"
Rhaegar only smiled.
The applause had barely faded, the coins still ringing faintly in the bowl, when a small voice broke through the hush.
"Can you play another, mister?"
A boy—barefoot, face smudged with ash—stood near Aemon's knee. His eyes were wide with something fragile and bright. Hope.
"Please?" another child added, and another echoed, "One more!"
A heartbeat passed.
Then a voice rose from the crowd—soft and weathered, perhaps a flower seller—calling gently, "Let the bard sing."
The square stirred. Smiles bloomed like spring after snow.
And then it came—not loud, not forced, but natural. A gentle chant from the gathering:
"One more. One more. One more!"
Aemon blinked, surprised.
He looked at Rhaegar, who shrugged and spread his hands.
"Seems you have an encore."
Aemon smiled. He stepped forward slightly, adjusted the brown cap on his head, and lifted his ukulele once more.
He strummed a few warm notes—brighter now, sunnier. The first few chords rang out, light as birdsong, catching the ears and softening the air.
And then, softly, he began:
"I see trees of green, red roses too
I see them bloom for me and you
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world
I see skies of blue and clouds of white
The bright blessed days, the dark sacred nights
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world…"
The crowd went still again, drawn in like waves pulled toward a single point.
His voice was tender, and there was wonder in it. Wonder that felt earned, not imagined. A boy who had seen the worst… still daring to sing of the best.
"I see skies of blue and clouds of white
The bright blessed days, the dark sacred nights
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world…"
Aemon stepped away from the centre, his fingers dancing lightly across the strings. He moved slowly, weaving through small clusters of children. A boy in a torn cloak looked up, eyes wide with wonder. Aemon met his gaze with a soft smile and rested a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"The colours of the rainbow
So pretty in the sky
Are also on the faces
Of people going by…"
He paused beside a little girl with tangled curls and knelt to meet her gaze. With his free hand, he pointed gently to her face, then traced a soft rainbow through the air above her head. Her mouth opened in a silent, glowing laugh.
"I see friends shaking hands, saying, 'How do you do?' "
He straightened, then turned to the crowd. Placing a hand over his heart and extending his palm outward, he stepped toward a freckled boy and offered the gesture with quiet warmth. The boy hesitated—then mirrored it. Aemon grinned.
"They're really saying, 'I love you'…"
His fingers shifted mid-chord. He moved slowly from child to child, pressing a hand to his chest, then extending it outward.
"I love you," he whispered with the lyric, again and again, to every pair of wide, watching eyes.
Children began to sway, some resting their heads on their knees. A little girl spun in a slow circle, her arms out wide. Even the street dogs lay down, ears perked but calm.
A merchant nearby stopped haggling mid-sale. A nobleman lowered his cup and didn't lift it again until the final note.
From behind the pillar, Oswell muttered to Jonothor, "At this rate, we'll need a cart just to carry the coin."
Jonothor, eyes soft for once, didn't answer. He just watched.
Rhaegar moved silently, collecting coins—his bowl nearly full. But his gaze never left his kin, not once.
Barristan stood just outside the crowd, hand resting on the hilt of his sword—not in readiness, but reverence.
"I hear babies cry, I watch them grow
They'll learn much more than I'll ever know
And I think to myself…
What a wonderful world…"
Aemon returned to the centre of the square, his steps slow and reverent—as if treading on sacred ground.
"Yes, I think to myself…"
He looked around at the faces—young, old, rich, poor—and then finally back to the children, his gaze resting on the girl with tangled curls. She was still spinning.
"…what a wonderful world..."
Aemon's fingers didn't tremble.
His voice didn't waver.
He meant it.
The final chord faded into the golden light.
The square held its breath for a moment longer—then burst into applause.
The little girl stopped spinning and threw her arms around Aemon's leg, holding tight. He looked down, smiled, and bent to lift her into his arms.
And for just a moment, in the middle of a broken city, it felt like the world had been made whole.
The applause swelled around them, not raucous but reverent—hands clapping through tears, through smiles, through something unspoken and shared. A warmth moved through the crowd like a ripple on still water. Coins clinked into the bowl at Rhaegar's feet—first copper, then silver, and then, one by one, gold.
The music had faded, but the silence it left behind was not empty.
It was overflowing—brimming with hope, memory, and something fragile and sacred, ready to bloom if handled with care.
Aemon lowered the girl gently to the ground. She looked up at him, wide-eyed and shining, then leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his hand before darting off into the crowd.
He watched her go, the corner of his mouth lifting—caught somewhere between joy and something that almost felt like sorrow.
Rhaegar stepped beside him, his voice low. "I think you've done something here," he said, almost to himself.
Aemon gave a light nod, his eyes still on the dispersing crowd. "I hope so."
Jonothor Darry approached first, cloak pulled tight around him, the polished hilt of his sword glinting under his cloak. "Time to move," he murmured, eyes scanning the edges of the square. "Before someone recognizes more than your voice."
Ser Oswell was already retrieving the heavy coin bowl, whistling softly. "By the Seven," he muttered. "We'll need a strong back and a wheelbarrow next time."
"Next time?" Barristan asked, though his tone held no judgment—only wonder. He stood a little apart, his expression solemn, like a knight who had witnessed a miracle in a sept.
.
.
.
.
The air had cooled, though it was just past the first bell. A damp breeze drifted in from the east, heavy with the scent of wet stone and chimney smoke. Where applause had echoed moments ago, a gentle hush now settled.
Mothers gathered their children. Vendors returned to their stalls. Somewhere nearby, a melody lingered—one voice humming, another joining in. Not a song, but a memory, quietly taking root in the city.
Aemon turned and tugged the brim of his cap low again, his silver hair hidden beneath the shadow. Rhaegar followed suit, pulling his cloak tight as the Kingsguard quietly surrounded them once more—not as guards, but as shadows.
The alley muffled the world behind them—the applause, the clatter of coins, the final chords of a song that still echoed in hearts not yet ready to forget.
They walked in silence for a while, their boots whispering against the cobblestones, the quiet between them carried like something fragile. The coin bowl sloshed softly in Oswell's arms with each step—a muted echo of what had just transpired. Beside him, Rhaegar held a smaller satchel of silver and copper, his gloved hand clenched tightly around the strap.
At last, when the alley forked and the street beyond lay quiet, Ser Barristan motioned for a pause beneath the awning of a shuttered tailor's shop.
"This is as good a place as any," he said softly. "Let's see what we've gathered."
They formed a loose circle in the shadows, half-hidden from the passersby. Aemon dropped his satchel and crouched beside it, already untying the leather cords. Rhaegar knelt beside him, and the others kept watch—Barristan with his arms folded, Oswell lounging against the wall, and Jonothor with one eye on the alley behind.
They poured the coins onto a cloak spread flat across the stones. At first, the sound was soft—then it swelled like silver rain falling in quiet waves.
Aemon worked in silence, eyes steady, movements practised. He counted by touch as much as by sight, arranging the coins with quiet precision while Rhaegar murmured the numbers beside him.
"Twelve gold dragons… no, wait—fifteen. And another two in the pouch," Rhaegar murmured.
"Thirty-eight silver stags," Aemon added.
"And fifty-nine copper pennies," said Ser Oswell, squatting beside them with a grin. "I counted."
No one spoke. There was no need—what they had gathered spoke for itself.
Aemon gathered the coin into a single pouch—tight, secure, and silent. When he stood, he tied it beneath his cloak near his side.
The cherrywood ukulele was slung once more across his back.
He didn't look back.
They moved on, slipping deeper into the quiet heart of the city. Past crooked chimneys and walls streaked with moss. Past narrow doors and sagging balconies draped with fading linens. A dog barked once—then fell silent as if sensing the hush that followed them.
The Street of Sisters narrowed the farther they walked, its stones worn smooth by time. Wildflowers pushed stubbornly through bent railings, and the scent of woodsmoke returned—thicker now, familiar.
Then, at last, they saw it.
A weathered stone house nestled between leaning eaves and slumping alleyways, its windows glowing softly in the daylight. Colourful blooms—daisies, thistle, lavender—spilled from chipped pots like quiet flags of defiance. Laundry swayed above on a stretched line, fluttering like prayer.
It was just past the second bell. The sun slanted westward—low, golden, and kind.
Aemon stepped forward alone.
He raised his hand and knocked—just three times, soft and even.
Footsteps approached within. The sound of a latch. The door creaked open.
A woman stood there, middle-aged, grey-streaked hair tied back in a kerchief, her apron dusted with flour. She wore no shoes, only thick socks against the chill floor. Her eyes were sharp, cautious—but not unkind.
"Yes?" she asked, scanning the figures in the dim light.
Barristan stepped forward. "Elira, it's Ser Barristan Selmy. We've come with someone you should meet."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, shifting toward Aemon. He removed his hood without a word.
The silver hair caught in the afternoon light.
Her breath caught—but she didn't bow. She started to, perhaps from instinct, then stopped herself.
Aemon raised a hand gently. "No kneeling. Please. I didn't come here as a prince. I came as someone who wants to help."
A pause.
Elira studied him for a long moment. Her wariness softened—not with awe, but quiet recognition.
"Then come inside."
The home was small, warm, and overflowing with life.
The scent of chamomile and daisies lingered in the air. A kettle steamed gently over a wood stove, and old blankets were folded neatly along the benches. Toys fashioned from carved scraps and bundled rags littered the corners. The windows were clean, and the floor was swept.
Children peeked out from behind curtains and furniture—barefoot, wide-eyed, their cheeks smudged but curious.
And near the doorway, half-hidden behind Elira's skirt, was a familiar face.
The girl from earlier—still holding the crust of bread like it was gold.
She looked up. Her eyes lit with quiet recognition.
Aemon smiled.
She smiled back.
They sat at a narrow table beneath a slant of warm afternoon light.
Aemon explained everything—his walk through Flea Bottom, the meeting with Thomlin, the bread that would arrive each dawn. Quietly, discreetly. No lines. No shouts. Just trust.
"You can come yourself," he said, "or send someone you trust. No one else needs to know."
Elira listened in silence, her hands folded. Her face didn't move, but her eyes shimmered—just once. She blinked it away.
"You'd do all this?" she asked. "For us?"
"For the children," Aemon replied. "And for their future"
Aemon rose from the table and turned to Elira. She watched him closely, a silent question in her eyes.
"I need more than just bread handed out," he said softly. "If you know of other orphaned children hiding in alleys, sick or starving—find them. Feed them. Bring them in."
Elira nodded slowly, her fingers tightening around the sleeves.
"And if there are elders—too frail to beg, too proud to ask—give them a little extra. Just enough to remind them they're not alone. Not forgotten."
She looked at him, eyes gleaming. "And you trust me with this?"
"I do," Aemon replied. "But that trust has weight. I hope you won't betray it."
Elira didn't flinch. "I won't."
"Good," he said. "If anything happens—if someone interferes or you're ever in danger—tell Thomlin. He'll get word to me."
He reached into his cloak again and placed another pouch on the table—smaller than the first but still heavy.
He set it gently on the table between them. "For the children. It's for what comes after—blankets, sandals, toys. A few winter cloaks. Medicine, if you can find it."
Elira inhaled slowly.
"You don't have to do all this."
"I know," Aemon said. "But someone has to."
She looked at the coin, then at him.
"No one gives like this," she said quietly. "Not without asking for something in return."
Aemon met her gaze without flinching.
"I ask for nothing—only one promise. Use it for the children. And if anyone tries to take what's theirs… tell them you answer to House Targaryen."
Elira placed her hand over the coin, then over her chest.
"You have my word," she said. "I'll guard them like they were my own blood."
Aemon gave a single nod, then rose to his feet.
Elira stood in the doorway of her modest home, watching the boy prince with cautious gratitude as he prepared to leave.
But they weren't alone.
Nearly twenty frail children filled the space. Some sat cross-legged on patched rugs, others on benches or nestled against folded blankets. Their faces turned at once to Aemon—not in fear or awe, but in quiet wonder.
A few clutched crusts of bread. One girl rocked a rag-stitched doll in her arms. A barefoot boy held a wooden spoon like a sword across his lap. They were small, tired, and fragile—but they were here. Alive.
And waiting.
Aemon stepped forward, then knelt so his eyes were level with theirs.
From behind the crowd, the same little girl from earlier emerged. She moved with cautious pride, something clutched in her tiny hand.
A sprig of lavender—wilting but still fragrant.
"You gave me bread," she whispered, "so I saved this for you."
Aemon took it as though it were a crown. "This is worth more," he said softly, "than all the gold in the realm."
He tucked it gently behind his ear and smiled.
Then a voice spoke.
From the side, a barefoot boy approached. His eyes were wide with wonder.
"I saw you in the square," he said. "You sang. It was beautiful."
Another child chimed in, half-hiding behind a blanket. "Will you sing again?"
More followed—small voices, hopeful, bright.
Aemon looked at them—dusty faces, scraped knees, thin arms clutching each other—and smiled.
Then, without a word, he sat cross-legged on the rug.
The children moved closer, drawn in like fireflies to warmth. Bare feet padded softly over the floor. Some still held crusts of bread in their hands like treasure. Their laughter rang out—light, unfiltered, like wind chimes on a breeze.
Aemon brought out the ukulele—its cherrywood glinting in the glow of the fire—and plucked a bright, playful chord.
The notes drifted gently through the room, soft as falling petals.
One small boy climbed into his lap, wide-eyed, reaching curiously for the strings.
"Like this?" he asked, pressing a finger down.
"Just like that," Aemon said with a grin, guiding his tiny hand.
Then he began to hum—low, slow, steady.
And softly, as if singing just to them and no one else in the world, he let the words fall like stars.
"Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high…
And the dreams that you dream of, once in a lullaby…"
A hush fell.
A girl leaned her head on his shoulder. A boy curled up at his side. A younger child fell asleep where they sat, breathing in time with the melody.
"Somewhere over the rainbow, bluebirds fly…
And the dreams that you dream of—dreams really do come true."
Near the door, the Kingsguard watched in silence.
Ser Barristan stood with his arms crossed loosely, gaze fixed on the boy beneath the sunlight. "He has a rare heart," he murmured. "And a light that draws others in—even the broken."
Beside him, Ser Jonothor chuckled. "The boy's a wildfire waiting to catch. But gods… he burns bright."
He let the final note linger—fragile, fading like breath on glass.
The room was still.
Then one small clap. Another. Then more—soft, scattered, reverent.
Some giggled. Others leaned against one another, heads resting softly together.
He waited until they'd quieted again.
Then he spoke.
"Come close, all of you."
They shuffled in, expectant and still.
"Starting tomorrow," Aemon said, "your lives will change."
The children blinked.
"Each morning, Lady Elira will bring you bread—one loaf for each of you. No fighting, no shouting. You'll go to her, and she'll look after you."
Gasps. A breathless whisper. One small boy burst into giggles, thinking it was a game.
"But you must listen to her," Aemon continued gently. "She's doing something brave—something good. Don't make her sad. Do you promise?"
Tiny heads nodded. Little hands rose like oaths made to the gods.
Aemon stood, brushing his cloak clean. His shadow stretched long behind him.
"I have to go now. But I'll come back. I promise."
The children surged forward—not to stop him, but to hug him. To touch his hand. To say thank you with eyes and hearts.
He turned back to his companions, the ukulele slung across his back, the lavender sprig resting gently behind one ear.
Elira stood watching from the doorway, hands clasped over her chest.
She didn't speak. Not at first.
But in her heart, she gave thanks—not for the coin or the bread.
But for something far rarer.
For the boy who came without asking.
Who gave without asking.
And left without praise.
What prince does that?
She watched until he disappeared into the streetlight and shadow.
Then, as her hand pressed to her chest, she whispered:
"Thank you, my prince… for giving them a future."
.
.
.
---
.
.
.
The sun sank low, casting the city in gold as Aemon and his companions made their way to Fishmonger's Street, where the secret tunnel awaited. The streets had quieted, caught in that brief pause between bustle and evening calm.
Aemon walked beside Ser Barristan, the lavender sprig still tucked carefully behind his ear.
"I've started receiving a monthly allowance," he said softly, almost as if testing the thought aloud. "Forty gold dragons. I plan to give thirty to Thomlin—to keep the bread flowing. The other ten will go to Elira. For the children."
Barristan didn't answer right away. He just reached out and placed a firm hand on Aemon's shoulder—silent, steady.
"You did well today," the knight said, his voice low with quiet pride.
Aemon smiled, the day's weight lifting slightly from his shoulders.
Just ahead, Rhaegar walked in thoughtful silence, his brows furrowed, his arms folded as if still sifting through everything they'd witnessed—the poverty, the laughter, the music, the change.
Aemon quickened his pace and leaned in beside him.
"Hey," he said, nudging him gently. "Want to learn how to play the ukulele?"
Rhaegar blinked, startled out of his thoughts. "What?"
Aemon grinned. "The ukulele. I'll teach you. I've got a few extra designs I've been working on. Could even make you one."
Rhaegar hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah… I'd like that."
Aemon's grin turned sly. "It'll cost you, though."
Rhaegar narrowed his eyes. "Cost me?"
"Ten gold dragons per week. Instructional fee," Aemon replied solemnly.
Rhaegar groaned. "That's robbery."
"No," Aemon said with a smirk. "That's business, little brother."
The Kingsguard chuckled behind them.
"Careful," Oswell said, grinning. "He'll have the whole realm paying to hear him soon."
Jonothor shook his head. "He's already got Rheagar wrapped around his harp string."
Their laughter faded as they reached a narrow, crooked alley off Fishmonger's Street—choked with crates, broken barrels, and the stench of old fish. Damp stone glistened underfoot where runoff gathered in still puddles.
Aemon looked up at the crooked sign above.
"Here," he said softly.
He brushed aside a hanging tarp, crouched, and reached behind a splintered barrel. His fingers found the lever hidden beneath the loose stone.
With a soft click, a slab of wall shifted.
A narrow wooden door creaked open, revealing a dark, musty passage that sloped downward into silence.
Oswell stepped in first, sword hilt brushing the wall. Rhaegar followed, ducking slightly, and then Jonothor. Aemon waited at the entrance, giving the alley one last glance—
Then froze.
Small eyes peeked at him from behind a crate. Three children—wide-eyed, dusty, and familiar. Among them was the little girl from earlier, clutching the edge of her worn tunic.
Aemon approached them quietly. "Were you following me?" he asked, more curious than stern.
The girl nodded solemnly. "You never told us your name."
He blinked in surprise. Then knelt, lowering himself to their level.
"My name's Aemon."
She tilted her head. "I'm Nayla."
He smiled. "Nayla. That's a lovely name."
The boys behind her shifted but said nothing, still watching.
"This place," Aemon said, glancing back at the tunnel, "must stay secret. It leads somewhere you mustn't go."
The girl hesitated. "Are you leaving us?"
Aemon softened. He placed a gentle hand atop her tangled hair.
"I'll visit. I promise."
She looked unsure.
Aemon held up his pinky finger.
"Do you know what this is?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"It's a promise you don't break. We call it a pinky promise."
He offered his hand.
She hesitated, then curled her tiny finger around his.
Their pinkies locked.
She smiled.
He laughed softly, then removed his cap—the one that had hidden his silver hair all day—and placed it gently on her head. Her eyes widened as the light caught his hair, and for a heartbeat, her breath hitched.
Those violet eyes. That silver hair.
Her eyes flicked from the cap to his hair… then to his eyes. She froze. Not with fear, but something else—reverence. Understanding. Awe.
Recognition.
Aemon saw it bloom on her face, and he winked.
"Now go home, Lady Nayla," he said, playfully regal. "Keep the others safe."
She nodded, fingers grazing the cap's brim like it was sacred.
At the tunnel entrance, Ser Barristan was already waiting.
Aemon thought of Nayla's lavender. The boy's quiet voice. And the laughter that filled a cracked stone street.
He wasn't changing the world. Not yet. But today, he'd changed a few hearts.
And maybe—just maybe—was how every kingdom ought to begin.
He gave one last look at the children.
Then slipped into the dark.
The wooden door creaked shut behind him. With a quiet click, the lock slid into place.
Outside, Nayla stood in the alley, eyes on the sealed stone.
She didn't speak. She only reached up and touched the cap on her head.
And smiled—because now she knew his name.
And she would never forget it. Not the name. Not the promise.
Not the day her world began to change.