The clang of steel echoed through the morning air.
Pale sunlight spilled across the training yard beside the White Sword Tower, where dew clung to the cobbled stones. Above, the banners of House Targaryen stirred lazily in the breeze.
Ser Barristan Selmy stood with his hands clasped behind his back, the morning light glinting off his armour. Before him stood Princes Rhaegar and Aemon, both clad in simple training garb. Behind the knight, a trio of white cloaks observed—Ser Jonothor Darry, Ser Oswell Whent, and the Lord Commander himself, Ser Gerold Hightower.
"Today," Barristan said, voice carrying across the yard like the first stroke of steel, "you begin the blade."
Aemon's gaze sharpened. Rhaegar's posture stiffened slightly.
Barristan turned to Aemon first. "You've mastered the bow, and your dagger work bests men twice your age. But a sword is another dance—faster, heavier, deadlier. Not just skill. Restraint. Precision. Grace under fire."
Aemon gave a short nod.
"To know the blade," Barristan continued, "is to know yourself."
The boys moved to the weapon rack. Polished wooden swords lay in rows—some chipped with use, others smooth and newly shaped. Rhaegar reached for it hesitantly, turning it in his hands as if weighing a riddle. Aemon selected his with quiet certainty, already adjusting his grip.
Ser Oswell stepped toward Rhaegar, his expression patient. "Start with the basics. Don't rush. A sword is like a song—it must be learned note by note."
Ser Barristan approached Aemon with a wooden sword in hand. "Grip higher on the hilt. Elbows relaxed. Shoulders down. Like this."
He demonstrated a swift, clean motion honed by decades of discipline.
Aemon watched.
Then moved, exactly the same.
The grip. The stance. The arc.
A second pass. Then the third. Barristan narrowed his eyes.
"Again."
Aemon moved again.
Smoother.
Quieter.
Like ink across the parchment.
And inside him—something stirred.
[Advanced Combat Assistance: ACTIVATED]
— Real-time analysis of live engagement is enabled.
— Predictive tactical support is active.
— Opponent weaknesses identified.
— Motion capture initialized: observe, mimic, internalize.
He blinked.
The world slowed—just a little.
Enough.
Every step Barristan took was like a map drawn in Aemon's mind. Weight distribution, wrist angles, foot pivots—geometry and grace unfolding in perfect tempo.
Aemon smirked to himself.
"Feels like I've got a bloody Sharingan," he thought.
He adjusted his stance before Barristan could speak—subtly correcting the angle of his swing, aligning tempo and tension with uncanny precision.
Barristan circled him slowly, eyes sharp. "You've trained with the dagger. The stance isn't so different—but reach and the balance—it changes everything."
"I understand," Aemon said quietly.
He did.
The blade's pull, the way his hips shifted through a turn, the drag of air against a wide arc—it all aligned. Dagger footwork had trained him well. Swordplay just added reach and rhythm.
Every correction given became unnecessary by the next pass.
Ser Gerold stood at the edge of the yard, arms crossed, his eyes narrowing.
"He's a natural," he murmured to Ser Jonothor.
Jonothor gave a slow nod.
By the time the drills ended, the sun had climbed higher, and the air buzzed—not with motion, but with anticipation.
Ser Barristan Selmy stood at the edge of the sparring ring, hands behind his back, posture proud as a tower.
He turned to the two princes before him.
"You've trained well this morning," he said, his voice low but firm. "Drills teach the shape of a thing. But a sword does not live in drills."
His gaze moved from Rhaegar to Aemon.
"Step into the circle."
Rhaegar hesitated, then stepped forward, wooden sword held carefully in both hands. His brow furrowed in concentration; each movement was slow, cautious—and deliberate as if he were trying to recall every lesson exactly.
Aemon followed a moment later, his blade already steady at his side.
[Advanced Combat Assistance: Standing by.]
Not today, Aemon thought. This one's mine.
Ser Gerold Hightower stood silent near the tower wall, arms folded across his chest. Ser Jonothor Darry and Ser Oswell Whent stood close by, their faces unreadable—but their eyes watched everything.
"Remember," said Barristan, his voice carrying just enough weight to still the breeze, "this is not about victory. It's about seeing your opponent. And yourself."
He stepped back. The circle belonged to them now.
Rhaegar moved first.
He was stiff and careful—his feet too planted, his strikes rehearsed. His swing was textbook—low, slow, and missing only the one thing he couldn't fake: instinct.
Aemon met the strike with a simple deflection. Not hard. Not cruel. Just enough to guide the motion away.
Rhaegar reset. Came again. A cut from the shoulder.
Aemon shifted his weight, stepping just off-line, his blade whispering against Rhaegar's with a grace that made the motion seem like a dance step.
Inside, he could feel every opening, every flaw in Rhaegar's form. His brother's hips over-rotated. His left foot was always a beat too slow. His grip tensed in panic when he swung wide.
He doesn't need a lesson, Aemon thought. He needs rhythm.
So he gave it.
Their swords met again, and this time, Aemon allowed his shoulder to be clipped—just enough to let Rhaegar believe he'd struck true.
It lifted the younger boy's spirit.
Rhaegar exhaled, steadier now, pressing forward.
And Aemon mirrored.
He could have ended it in three strikes.
But he didn't.
That wasn't what this was for.
Not dominating. Not correcting with words—but shaping the spar as though they were dancing. When Rhaegar stumbled, Aemon slowed. When he hesitated, Aemon nudged forward to draw him back into the flow.
Ser Barristan's arms folded over his chest, and a rare smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Watch," Ser Gerold murmured beside Jonothor.
Jonothor tilted his head. "He's holding back."
"No," Gerold replied softly. "He's guiding."
Their blades crossed once more—wood striking wood, neither prince yielding. Then Aemon slipped a low sweep past Rhaegar's leg but held the momentum before contact, letting the movement show what could have been.
Rhaegar blinked. Reset. Came again.
Each pass felt less like a contest and more like a conversation.
Two boys. One circle.
"Enough."
Ser Barristan's voice rang out like the clang of a bell.
Both princes lowered their blades.
"A tie," Barristan said, his tone measured, approving. "Discipline. Restraint. Respect. Honour. All more valuable than a thousand cuts."
Aemon bowed his head slightly and turned, walking toward the rack. He placed his sword down gently, careful even with the wood.
Behind him, Rhaegar remained where he stood, chest rising and falling.
"You could've beaten me five times over," he said quietly.
Aemon glanced back, then shrugged.
"Sparring isn't always about winning," he said. "It's about learning."
Then he walked up and tousled Rhaegar's silver hair like a mischievous squire would his stablemate.
"And how could I hurt my precious little brother?"
Rhaegar blinked, surprised—then smiled. Not grandly, but softly. A small, genuine smile.
It lingered long after Aemon had walked away, the morning dust still swirling gently in the training yard.
He stood alone for a moment more, the warmth of his big brother's touch still resting in his silver hair.
He had not won—but he had not been left behind either.
.
.
.
⸻
.
.
.
The clang of practice swords faded behind them as Princes Rhaegar and Aemon followed Ser Barristan Selmy and the Kingsguard down the sloped path toward the royal stables. The crisp morning air carried a different scent now—hay, damp earth, warm leather, and the faint musk of horses. Sunlight gleamed off red-tiled roofs as stable doors swung open, revealing long rows of stalls, each holding steeds of noble stock.
"This," said Ser Barristan, pausing before the central aisle, "is where your next training begins."
He turned, hands clasped behind his back, voice firm yet proud.
"A prince may master the sword, but a knight must command the saddle. You'll ride to war, councils, to the very edge of the world. A sword bears your name—but a steed carries your soul. Remember that."
The stablemaster, a sun-browned man with straw in his beard, gave a deep bow. "We've fresh stock, my lords—from the Stormlands, the Reach, and even as far as Dorne. You'll find no finer hooves in all the Crownlands."
They began the tour.
First came the destriers—tall as siege towers and black as obsidian, with flaring nostrils and proud gaits. "Majestic and powerful," the stablemaster noted, "but temperamental. Don't expect them to fare well in snow, but they'll shatter a shield wall like thunder."
Then the coursers, sleeker and faster—were born for the hunt and the charge. Agile, tireless, and favoured by scouts and young knights.
Next, the chargers, muscled and massive. "Campaign workhorses," the stablemaster said. "Strong enough to carry a knight and a day's march without complaint."
Then came the sand steeds, imported from Dorne. Lean-bodied with gleaming coats, their eyes sharp as obsidian. "They'll run a day and a half before tiring," the stablemaster boasted, "but no barding. They break under steel."
Rhaegar stopped before a soft-eyed brown palfrey stallion, barely older than a colt.
Ser Oswell Whent stepped beside him. "He suits you, my prince. Gentle, thoughtful, patient. He'll grow into strength."
Rhaegar ran a hand down its side, thoughtful. "He likes me," he murmured. "I'll take him."
Aemon moved down the line, inspecting each stall in turn. Every steed he passed was majestic, powerful, and proud.
But none felt right.
Then he saw it.
A shadowed corner of the stable. A small stall set apart from the rest.
There, curled on a bed of straw, lay a black foal, thin as a whisper. Its ribs stood out like drawn strings. Its mane hung in dull tangles. But its eyes—deep red, strangely alert—watched him as he approached.
Aemon stepped closer, something tightening in his chest.
The stablemaster hurried to his side. "That one's sick, Your Grace. A strange cross—born of a destrier and a Dornish sand steed. Rare as rain in Dorne, but he's been frail since birth. Just seven moons old. He won't last another month."
"You've tried healing?"
"We've tried everything—rest, herbs, even leechings. He barely eats. Best to let nature take its course. Come, there's a fiery Braavosi colt near the south wall I'd like you to see."
But Aemon didn't move.
He knelt beside the foal, brushing aside the straw. His fingers touched the matted black mane.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "You were born to be free, weren't you?"
The foal blinked.
Then—something shifted.
A jolt in Aemon's chest, like his heart skipped and restarted.
His vision blurred—
And suddenly, he wasn't kneeling. He was beneath the straw.
He felt hooves—bones still soft, breath laboured, limbs frail. The scent of sickness clung thick in the air.
And above it all—a warmth.
A hand on his mane.
Then, the vision snapped away.
Aemon gasped, staggering slightly.
[Neural Synchronization Detected.]
[Equine Biolink Established.]
[Warging Subsystem: ACTIVATED.]
S.E.R.A.'s voice slid through his mind, low and calm.
[Warging event confirmed. The host successfully synchronized with the subject.
Genetic anomaly detected. Biokinetic compatibility: HIGH.
Emotional imprint: STRONG.
Evolution Potential: VERY HIGH.]
"What… was that?" Aemon whispered, glancing around. No one else had noticed.
[You entered the subject's mind, unprompted. The connection is rare. The colt is highly compatible. Its lifespan is currently limited—approximately two moons.
However, with host permission, Biokinesis may be used to initiate stabilization and evolution.]
The foal licked Aemon's wrist gently, its breath wheezing, but his eyes burned red-like the fires Aemon once read about in tales of old dragons.
Aemon stared at it, silent.
Then rose slowly.
"I choose this one," he said.
The stablemaster looked dumbfounded. "Your Grace, truly? There's no future in him. He's too far gone."
"Then I'll give him a future," Aemon said.
Ser Jonothor exchanged a glance with Ser Oswell. Even Ser Gerold's brow shifted faintly.
Barristan stepped forward. "He's made his choice."
Aemon turned back toward the colt and placed a hand over his withers.
"Bring food and water for him," Aemon said softly to the stablemaster. "I'll care for him myself."
The man hesitated but gave a short nod. "As you command, Your Grace." He waved to a nearby stableboy, who scurried off and returned moments later with fresh hay and a bucket of clean water, laying them gently near the stall.
One by one, the Kingsguard departed, their white cloaks drifting behind them like quiet banners in the morning breeze.
Rhaegar led his palfrey toward the yard, then paused at the threshold. His brow furrowed, lips parted—caught on the edge of an unspoken question. Beside him, the colt shifted, ears flicking as both turned to watch Aemon and the frail black foal in the shadows. Rhaegar said nothing, but his gaze lingered—not with doubt, but with quiet curiosity as if sensing a truth he couldn't yet name.
Ser Jonothor and Ser Gerold moved on without a word, their expressions unreadable. Barristan lingered the longest. Then, with a slow nod—part approval, part quiet respect—he met Aemon's eyes.
"I'll be just outside," he said, before turning and leaving the boy and the colt alone beneath the hush of the stables.
And then Aemon was alone.
Just him and the foal.
He brushed the tangled black mane, whispering to the frail colt as it looked up at him with weary, crimson eyes.
"S.E.R.A…" he murmured. "What will the evolution do?"
Her voice came, calm and precise as ever.
[Equine biostructure will undergo targeted modification: increased strength, endurance, heat and cold resistance, accelerated cellular regeneration, cognitive elevation, and lifespan expansion. Projected transformation: optimal war mount. Drawback: five years of host lifespan will be exchanged to fuel the process.]
Aemon stilled.
Five years.
Is that what life costs?
He let the silence stretch, then asked quietly, "What would you choose?"
[I am a system, not a conscience,] S.E.R.A. replied.
[The decision must be yours, host.]
Aemon looked down at the foal—small, fragile, and waiting. If he walked away now, no one would blame him. No one would know.
But he would.
He lowered himself again, resting a hand against his trembling neck. "What do you think?" he asked softly. "May I help you?"
The foal stretched its neck, licked his hand, and gave a soft, rasping nudge—its faint neigh barely more than a whisper.
Aemon exhaled slowly.
"If I must give up a piece of my life to grant him one… then so be it."
He placed his hand firmly on the foal's brow.
"S.E.R.A., start the process."
[Initializing Equine Biokinetic Upgrade Protocol,] S.E.R.A. said.
[Maintain contact. Do not release.]
A gentle warmth pulsed in his palm as golden micro-nanites flowed from his bloodstream into the foal's flesh. The process was silent—only a faint HUD flickered to life in his vision.
[Progress: 1%… 5%… 18%… 34%… 50%… 74%… 90%… 98%… 100%]
The foal twitched.
Then fell still.
A heartbeat passed.
Then—slowly—it stood.
Its legs steadied, stronger than before. Its coat shimmered with a faint sheen, like polished midnight. The bones beneath its skin no longer jutted; the eyes, once glassy, were now bright with life.
It gave a sharp, jubilant neigh, reared slightly, and then trotted in a small circle before returning to Aemon and licking his face with boundless affection. It pressed its head to his chest, nibbling gently at his sleeve.
[The Evolution is complete,] S.E.R.A. intoned. [Observable enhancement in 7–10 days. Recommend doubling food intake to meet metabolic demands. Subject requires daily bonding and training.]
The foal, now revitalized—dug in the food with eager hunger, tail flicking, ears relaxed. Between mouthfuls, it nuzzled Aemon playfully.
Aemon laughed. "You're going to eat me out of every gold dragon I have."
The foal paused and looked up as if offended by the suggestion. Then, with a huff, it returned to eating.
As the foal licked up the final strands of hay, his ears flicked, and his head snapped toward the far end of the stables—senses sharp, posture taut.
A full second later, the distant clatter of a dropped pail echoed from the courtyard.
Aemon blinked.
The foal had reacted before the sound even reached him.
"S.E.R.A.," he whispered, eyes narrowing, "what was that?"
[Auditory range expanded. Reflex response: 0.12 seconds. Threat detection: active.]
The colt turned back to Aemon with a flick of his tail as if nothing had happened.
Aemon kept his hand on the foal's neck, the bond between them pulsing—older than instinct, deeper than magic.
The colt's ears flicked again, but this time he leaned into Aemon's touch with something like understanding. Not obedience—choice.
S.E.R.A.'s voice returned, calm and composed as ever.
[Subject's neural pathways have reorganized significantly. Post-evolution cognitive indicators suggest heightened perception, sensory mapping, and emotional comprehension. The foal is no longer baseline equine.]
Aemon raised an eyebrow. "You mean he's… intelligent?"
[Affirmative. The subject is now classified as a highly responsive, bonded companion species. Comparable to an advanced predator in awareness, but shaped by loyalty and empathy. He is not just a mount. He is kin.]
The colt nickered softly, pressing his warm muzzle to Aemon's sleeve.
[Awaiting host designation.]
Aemon looked down at the creature before him—its midnight coat gleaming like polished obsidian, mane dark as storm smoke, and eyes glowing faint red, like embers that refused to die. It no longer resembled the sickly thing he'd found in the shadows.
It lived.
It had risen.
And it was his.
Aemon's lips curved in a quiet smile.
"He deserves a name that carries weight," Aemon murmured, running his fingers through the colt's now-soft, warm mane. "One worthy of a legacy."
He thought of the colour of his coat. The fire in his gaze. The way he had clawed back from death was like a spark bursting through ash.
The name came not as a thought—but a memory. An echo from ancient blood.
"Balerion," Aemon said softly. "You'll be Balerion. Not just the shadow of a dragon—but a soul reborn. May you ride as fiercely as the Black Dread once flew."
The horse reared with a thunderous neigh, hooves striking the air.
For a breathless moment, the air around him shimmered—light bending, as if the world itself held its breath. His hooves crackled softly against the straw, and a faint glow sparked in his eyes—deep crimson, like coals stirred back to life.
Then it vanished, swift as a heartbeat, but the hair on Aemon's arms stood on end.
He stepped forward and laid a steady hand on the colt's neck, the bond between them pulsing like a quiet, living flame.
"Then let's go, Balerion."
And together—boy and beast, shadow and flame—they stepped into the sun, where the echo of dragons and destiny waited beyond the gates.