The doors to Queen Rhaella's chambers opened with a muted creak.
Aemon stepped through quietly, his boots making no sound against the plush carpets woven in Targaryen red and gold. The scent of dried lavender clung to the air, mingled with the faint trace of boiled herbs and rosewater. Beyond the drawn curtains, sunlight filtered in only faintly, painting the room in soft, drowsy hues.
Inside, three servants stood near the far wall—one adjusting linens, another arranging a tray of tonics, and a third whispering with a maester by the hearth. In the centre of it all, reclined upon a shift-like chair crafted for rest and relief, sat Queen Rhaella.
Her posture was fragile but proud. Loose silver hair framed her face like silk smoke, and though shadows clung beneath her violet eyes, they still held that soft, fierce grace that Aemon remembered from childhood. The queen's hand rested gently atop her belly, fingers unmoving.
The maester turned to speak, but Rhaella raised her hand before a word could leave his lips.
"That will be all," she said, her voice a calm but commanding melody.
The maids exchanged brief glances, then bowed low and began to leave. The maester hesitated.
"Your Grace, I must still monitor—"
"You may return when I summon you, Maester Keryn. Not before."
Her tone was final.
The man bowed stiffly and followed the others out. When the doors closed behind them, soft and sacred silence returned.
Only then did Rhaella look to Aemon.
"You always walk like a ghost," she murmured, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Have you come to haunt me, little dragon?"
Aemon stepped forward, the quiet warmth in his eyes answering her just before his voice did.
"I've come to check on my queen," he said gently, "but mostly… on you."
He knelt beside her with the natural ease of a child at his mother's knee. Though she was his cousin—older by nearly fifteen years—she had long since become something more. Something steady and tender. A quiet refuge in the storm of silver crowns and crimson expectations.
Rhaella watched him momentarily, then let out a soft breath and leaned back against her pillows.
"Then stay a while," she whispered. "I'm tired of being seen… but not spoken to."
Aemon settled beside her, perching lightly on the edge of a cushioned bench. Without a word, he reached for her hand—cool and delicate in his own, like moonlight resting in his palm.
"How are you feeling, truly?" he asked, his voice low, intimate. "Is there anything you need?"
Rhaella looked away momentarily as though searching the quiet corners of the room for the right words. "Everyone asks," she murmured, "but no one listens. They speak of how well I carry, how strong the child might be… not how I wake aching, or how I dread every morning I still feel movement and wonder if it will stop."
Aemon's fingers tightened gently around hers. "They care about the baby," he said, "but I care more about you."
Her breath hitched—just slightly. And though she didn't speak, her eyes shimmered for a heartbeat before she turned her gaze back toward the filtered light.
Aemon leaned in, allowing the silence to linger before breaking it with a crooked, boyish smile.
"Want to see a trick I picked up? Supposedly, it works wonders—might even make you laugh if luck's on my side."
Rhaella arched a brow. "You're about to do something ridiculous, aren't you?"
"Something ridiculous—and surprisingly effective."
Without waiting for permission, Aemon knelt at her feet, gently slipping the loose fabric of her robe to expose her ankles. He cradled one heel in his palm and began to work slow, careful circles into her foot—warming cold skin with quiet, practised care. The tension in her leg eased almost immediately.
She sighed—softly at first, then deeper, like the breath she hadn't allowed herself to take in days.
"I forgot what that felt like," she whispered.
"What—being spoiled?"
"No. Being seen."
Aemon didn't respond, but his hands did. They moved with deliberate compassion, kneading away the ache, pressing warmth back into weary limbs. Her shoulders relaxed, her head leaned back slightly, and the faintest curve touched her lips.
"You've done something to him," Rhaella murmured after a time, her voice softer now, threaded with warmth. "Rhaegar, I mean."
Aemon looked up, one hand still gently pressing into the arch of her foot. "Oh?"
She nodded, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "He's changed. Lighter, somehow. Still quiet—my solemn little star—but there's a spark in him again. I heard him in his solar last week, playing that harp like a man possessed… trying, I think, to prove he's better than you."
Aemon grinned, eyes bright. "Is he now?"
"He plays constantly," Rhaella said, her voice teasing. "As if mastering the strings will finally let him steal your thunder."
A small laugh escaped her—real, unguarded. A sound that rang like music in Aemon's ears.
He chuckled and shook his head. "He's welcome to try. But he's not surpassing me in this lifetime. Or the next."
Rhaella laughed again, fuller this time, her hand resting over her belly as she leaned back into the chair. Her features, so often drawn with weariness, now glowed with something lighter—something that looked suspiciously like peace.
"You two," she said, still smiling, "give me hope."
Aemon met her gaze, heart quietly full. "Then we're doing our jobs right."
Their smiles lingered, exchanged like a secret only they understood, as golden light spilt gently across the floor—soft and warm, like the embrace of family.
Rhaella shifted slightly in her seat, one brow arching with regal amusement. "You know," she began, her tone deceptively light, "Rhaegar told me something interesting the other day."
Aemon stilled—just slightly—but said nothing.
"He said," she continued, tapping her fingers idly against the armrest, "that the two of you… snuck out of the Red Keep last week. And you dragged him through the city and spent the entire day vanishing like thieves."
Aemon blinked. Then groaned.
"Traitor," he muttered under his breath. "I told him not to say anything."
Rhaella's eyes sparkled. "So it's true, then?"
"What? No! Well—I mean…" Aemon sat up straighter, scrambling. "That wasn't how it happened. It wasn't even my idea. It was Ser Jonothor's."
"Oh?"
"Yes! H—he told us Rhaegar needed perspective. That he was too sheltered. Said walking among the people would make him a better prince. And then he convinced Ser Oswell, and they badgered Ser Barristan. And somehow, I got pulled into it. Just trying to keep everyone together, you know?"
"Mhm," Rhaella said, perfectly straight-faced.
Aemon forged ahead. "Really, I didn't plan anything. It was all Jonothor. Blame him. He's the real mastermind here."
A pause settled—silent, subtle, and brimming with quiet amusement.
Rhaella's lips curved. "And the disguises?"
Aemon winced. "Okay, maybe I found some old cloaks from the servants' quarters. Maybe I told the staff they were for a stableboy's pageant."
Rhaella arched a brow.
Aemon sighed. "And maybe I'd been studying and sneaking into the tunnels beneath the old Valyrian tapestry for… a moon or two."
Her laughter finally spilled out—light and delighted.
Aemon groaned again, leaning back in his chair. "You already knew."
"Of course I did," Rhaella said, feigning offence. "I am a mother. Do you think I haven't learned to hear the truth through ten layers of noble nonsense?"
[That was only marginally convincing, Your Highness,] S.E.R.A. said in his mind, her tone laced with dry amusement.
[Next time, consider a lie that doesn't involve throwing a Kingsguard under the carriage.]
Aemon scowled silently.
Shut up, he thought back.
Rhaella smiled as she watched the play of expression flicker across his face. "So? Why did you do it?"
Aemon looked up, serious now.
"Because Rhaegar needed it," he said softly. "He's been trapped here—books and pressure. But that day… he laughed. He enjoyed the music in the square. He looked people in the eye. He lived."
Rhaella was quiet for a moment, watching him.
"You're good for him," she said at last. "For all your schemes."
He shrugged, a little sheepish. "Well, I had help from Ser Jonothor's terrible ideas."
She laughed again, and Aemon leaned forward to brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear—smiling now, the mischief fading into something warmer.
Aemon tilted his head, studying her face more closely—the pallor beneath her eyes, the slight tremble in her fingers, the way her breath caught when she shifted. His smile faded, replaced by quiet concern.
"You look tired," he said gently. "Are you feeling alright?"
Rhaella exhaled slowly, leaning back into the cushioned support of her bed-chair. "I'm fine," she said, though her voice lacked conviction. "Just… a little weary."
Her fingers drifted over the swell of her belly, trembling slightly. For a long moment, she said nothing. Then, barely audible:
"Sometimes I'm afraid this child will… just like the others. And I don't know if I can survive it again."
Aemon looked at her, heart tightening.
"Sometimes I wonder," she whispered, "if I'm cursed—if the gods have turned their faces from me. Every time I dare to hope, the world answers with pain."
"Don't say that," Aemon whispered, reaching out.
He pulled her into a careful embrace, mindful of her frame, wrapping his arms around her shoulders with fierce, protective warmth. "You're not cursed," he said. "You're strong. You've endured more than most ever could. And this time… this time, I'm here. We'll face it together."
Rhaella's arms curled lightly around him, trembling faintly—but she didn't cry. She closed her eyes and breathed in his presence like it gave her strength.
Then—suddenly—her eyes widened.
"Oh," she said softly, a smile breaking through the shadows. "The baby kicked."
Aemon blinked. "The baby, what?"
She chuckled, her voice lighter now. "The baby just kicked. Right then. I think he's saying hello to you."
Without waiting, Aemon pressed his palm gently to the swell of her belly, eyes wide in wonder. He felt a slight shift—a nudge beneath his hand—and his breath caught.
"I felt it," he said in awe. "He's kicking like a little knight already."
Without shifting his posture or letting a flicker show on his face, Aemon engaged the interface in his mind.
"S.E.R.A., initiate scan. Discreetly."
[Scan in Progress…]
His hand remained steady against Rhaella's belly, his expression soft—curious, even—as if the only thing on his mind was the quiet miracle of life beneath his palm.
A faint shimmer brushed his vision—golden, brief, unseen by any eye but his own.
[Scan Complete.]
— Early signs of potential complications were detected.
— Elevated risk due to high parity and short birth intervals.
— Maternal vitals below optimal thresholds.
— Suspected blood toxicity.
— Recommend immediate, detailed blood analysis for confirmation.
Aemon's throat tightened—but he exhaled slowly, letting no sign betray him. His face didn't shift. His smile didn't falter.
Only his eyes changed, just for a beat. Then, even that passed.
"Are you certain it's a boy?" he asked lightly, a teasing glint dancing in his gaze.
Rhaella smiled, the worry etched into her face softening for the first time in days. "Of course not," she murmured. "But I feel it—I just know."
He raised an eyebrow. "You know?"
"It's instinct," she said, her voice tinged with warmth. "A mother always knows. And this one… my little Daeron will be strong. Stubborn. Mischievous."
Her eyes gleamed as she looked at him. "Just like you."
Aemon huffed a quiet laugh, lowering his head in mock offence. "That's slander."
Rhaella laughed too, the sound light and airy—a moment of pure joy piercing through the gloom. "Oh, hush. I can already see it—he'll be climbing statues before he can walk. Pulling swords off racks. Making the maesters and maids lose sleep."
"Well, then I'll be sure to blame you when he starts challenging me to duels."
She shook her head fondly, reaching to squeeze his hand.
Their laughter faded into a quiet peace.
Then, without a word, Aemon slipped from his seat and moved back to her feet, resuming the gentle, methodical massage with soft, steady care. The moment held stillness now—not silence, but the kind that healed.
Rhaella's eyes fluttered closed again. This time, when she sighed, it sounded almost like relief.
And Aemon kept his touch steady… even as his mind, behind the calm, was already turning.
The room had fallen into a hush again, but this time not from sorrow—only stillness, softened by presence.
Aemon continued to massage her feet, his thumbs moving slowly, practising circles beneath the delicate curve of her ankle.
Then, softly, he spoke.
"You've been shut in here so long, you've missed the best parts of the city."
Rhaella opened her eyes and smiled faintly. "Tell me, then. What have I missed?"
Aemon leaned in, his voice hushed as if sharing a secret.
"Fishmonger Street was buzzed with colour—crabs, oysters, and loud vendors calling over sailors fresh from the bay. The Street of Sisters sang with music and ribbons while children ran through market squares between stalls of honeyed figs. For a moment, it felt like the city was laughing."
He paused, the warmth in his voice dimming slightly.
"Then we went farther down. Flea Bottom hasn't changed much—it's still mud and shadows. But there's life there too. Laughter. Struggle. Stories. People trying to get by with whatever scraps the realm tosses them."
Her smile waned slightly. "I remember."
He nodded. "I felt… I had to do something."
He told her everything about Thomlin, the baker, how he struck a deal with him to make fresh loaves daily for the orphaned children. How he disguised himself as a bard and played music in the Square, gathering coin with nothing but a cherrywood ukulele and a borrowed cap.
"I earned over fifteen gold dragons that day," Aemon admitted with a sheepish smile. "More than a court bard makes in an entire moon."
Rhaella blinked, surprised.
"I gave it all away," he added quickly. "Used it to buy medicine. Clothes. And more bread. Always more bread."
He kept speaking, low and steady.
The alleyways, the laughter, and Elira—the kind-hearted woman he entrusted to run a quiet care home for orphaned children. Each morning before the city stirred, she rose to deliver fresh loaves to the little ones and a few forgotten elders, her basket always lighter on the way home.
He told Rhaella of singing to those children in a dim, crumbling room—his cloak still damp from the dawn, his voice the only warmth they had. They had nothing, and yet they smiled.
And of one girl in particular.
"Nayla," he said softly. "She couldn't have been more than six. Starving. Barefoot. But she smiled at me like I'd given her the world. She didn't eat her bread right away—she saved it. For the younger ones."
His voice softened to a whisper. "Before I left, Nayla handed me a single lavender sprig—said it was for helping them. Then she trailed me to the tunnel, barefoot on cold stone, asking for my name."
A faint smile touched his lips. "I gave my name and my cap to her instead. And a promise—that I'd return."
He paused, his fingers stilling. "Nayla... she reminded me what it means to matter,"
Rhaella said nothing at first.
Then, gently, she extended a hand. "Come closer."
Aemon rose from the floor and sat at her side again. Her fingers found his brow and smoothed his hair back in a soft, maternal gesture.
Her voice was quiet—steady despite the fragility in her body. "You've done more in these past weeks than most lords do in a lifetime."
Aemon looked away, embarrassed. "I just didn't want to stand by."
She smiled. "My mother would be proud of you."
He swallowed softly at that. "You think so?"
"I know so," Rhaella whispered. "And so am I."
She nodded, a faint smile tugging at her lips. Aemon closed his eyes for a moment, letting her hand rest lightly against his temple, absorbing the quiet comfort of her touch.
At that moment, beneath the soft rustle of curtains and the faint scent of lavender oil, the chamber no longer felt like a place of sickness and silence—but of memory, meaning, and love.
Rhaella leaned her head back slightly, eyes half-lidded in amusement. "Earlier… when you spoke of playing as a bard in disguise. Tell me truthfully, Aemon—was it you who played in the Street of Sisters?"
Aemon blinked, then shrugged as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Well… yes. Why?"
Rhaella laughed softly, her voice hushed and musical. "I knew it. I knew it."
He blinked. "Wait, knew what?"
"Oh, Aemon…" she said, shaking her head. "You've caused quite a storm. There are rumours all over the city. Some say you're a prophet sent by the Seven. Others swear you're an Essosi minstrel come across the sea to perform miracles in the capital."
Aemon's eyes widened. "You're joking."
"I'm not. Word is you earned over a hundred gold dragons in a single day. Now, every bard and fool in King's Landing is scrambling to imitate you." She smirked.
"None have come close. One forgot the lyrics mid-song and bolted when the crowd started booing. Another got pelted with fruit. Someone even claimed your voice could mend a broken heart."
Aemon's jaw dropped. "That's absurd."
"Oh, it gets better," she said. "The court knows. Even the nobles whisper about it at feasts. Lord Chelsted apparently tried to hire someone to 'track the divine voice.'"
Aemon covered his face. "Seven save me."
"And Aerys," she added, "is obsessed. You know how he is about music and spectacle. He's ordered the Gold Cloaks to watch the streets, hoping to catch the mystery bard and bring him to court. He said, 'A voice that commands coin and silence alike must be heard beneath the Iron Throne.'"
Aemon stared at her, stunned.
Rhaella leaned closer, her smile faintly wicked. "And all this time, the bard is here. Hiding beside me. Rubbing my feet."
Aemon exhaled. "Then it's probably time I stop singing for a while."
She laughed again, softer this time, and reached out to ruffle his hair. "Perhaps. Or perhaps the world is just beginning to hear you sing."
He smiled, still half in disbelief, and leaned his head against her arm.
"And here I thought I was being subtle," he muttered.
"Oh, sweet boy," she said, brushing a hand down his cheek, "you were never meant to be subtle."
Rhaella's smile lingered as she leaned back into the cushions, her voice soft. "Now, bard of the realm… would you sing for me?"
Aemon gave a sheepish laugh. "I would, but I haven't brought my harp or ukulele."
She gave him a look that cut off the excuse before it could form.
"Open the shelf in the corner," she said with a slight nod.
Curious, Aemon rose and crossed the chamber. The cabinet stood tall, carved from dark oak with edges faintly gilded by time-worn gold. He opened the door slowly—and there, wrapped in faded velvet, rested a maplewood lyre. Its surface bore a gentle, time-softened polish, and its golden strings remained intact beneath a delicate veil of dust.
He paused, reverent. "This is...?"
"My father's," Rhaella said softly. "He played it for my mother. She always said he was dreadful at first—but he practised, over and over, the same song until it was good enough to mend their quarrels." Her gaze drifted, warmed by memory. "Whenever they fought, that lyre brought them back."
Aemon gently unwrapped the instrument and lifted it from its cradle. The cherrywood felt warm beneath his fingers as if it continued to remember the music it once held. "It's beautiful."
"It's yours now," Rhaella said. "You have your harp. Your ukulele. But you don't have a lyre."
He turned to her, surprised. "Are you sure?"
She nodded softly. "Sing for me, little bard. Not for the court or in the streets—just for me, here."
Aemon smiled. A soft, humbled smile reached his eyes.
He settled at the edge of the bed, the maplewood lyre nestled in his lap like something sacred. Its golden strings shimmered in the lamplight, untouched for years until now. He strummed once—softly—and the notes bloomed in the still chamber like petals opening to dawn.
Rhaella leaned back in her shift-backed chair, her eyes half-lidded, watching him with the faintest smile. Her hands, resting on the curve of her swollen belly, rose and fell with each quiet breath.
Aemon adjusted his grip and then began to play.
The melody was gentle, unhurried—each note cradled in silence, like a lullaby sung by the wind.
"Mother mild, with hands so fair,
Guide us through the ache we bear.
Cradle us in arms of grace,
Kiss the sorrow from our face."
His voice was low, almost a whisper, but it filled the room like candlelight. Rhaella's fingers twitched, her lashes fluttering. The tension in her brow eased, softening with the rise of the tune.
"Where the stars forget to shine,
And the wind sings softly through time,
Hold our hearts through fear and flame,
And guard the child that bears thy name."
She exhaled softly, eyes closed, her face tilted toward the music. For a fleeting moment, the burdens she bore of blood, crown, and quiet sorrow seemed to lift. Aemon watched her, his fingers steady on the strings, weaving peace with every note.
"Sleep now, sleep, and dream of light,
Of springtime fields and moons so bright.
The world may burn, the storm may cry—
But in your love, we shall not die."
The final notes faded, leaving the chamber wrapped in a deep, reverent hush. Rhaella had slipped into sleep, her head gently tilted, lips parted in quiet repose. For the first time in moons, she looked truly at peace—untouched by pain, unburdened by crown or fear.
Aemon smiled faintly and set the lyre aside with reverent care.
Aemon leaned forward, the firelight casting a soft glow across Rhaella's face. He brushed a loose strand of silver hair from her brow, his fingers featherlight. She didn't stir—her breathing deep, steady. The pain etched into her features for moons was now softened by sleep, the kind only true peace could bring.
He watched her for a moment longer, then lowered his voice.
"S.E.R.A.," he whispered inside his mind, "can I… help her? Ease her pain? Use Biokinesis to make her well?"
The reply came in her usual calm, clinical tone.
[Negative. The current Biokinetic Protocol is restricted to non-human organisms. No authorized pathways exist for Homo sapiens-level intervention.]
Aemon's brow furrowed. "Then… what can be done? Tell me—what's the cure?"
[There is no direct cure for high parity and short birth interval complications. The subject requires rest, improved nutritional intake, and enhanced sanitation. Immediate concern remains potential blood toxicity. A blood sample is needed for further diagnostic clarity.]
He sighed through his nose, gaze dropping to Rhaella's resting hands folded over her belly.
"Then I'll get her blood," he murmured, "but not now. She hasn't slept like this in weeks. Let her rest."
He bent forward and placed a gentle kiss on her brow. "You'll be alright," he whispered. "Sleep well, my Queen. I'll fix this. I promise."
He stood, slow and soundless, and turned toward the door. The polished maple lyre now rested across his back like a silent companion.
Outside, two handmaidens rose from their seats, eyes wide with unspoken questions.
"She's asleep," Aemon said softly. "Don't wake her. When she stirs, bring her something warm—broth or honeyed milk. Nothing heavy."
The maids nodded at once and slipped past him into the chamber.
Aemon gave one final glance toward the door, then turned and walked away, the light behind him fading, the lyre across his back catching the glow like a sliver of sunlight in shadow.
And so he left—quiet as the lullaby still hanging in the air. The scent of lavender lingered behind him, a breath of peace in a world ruled by fire.