Visenya Targaryen (107 A.C. Nineth Moon)
King's Landing – Lyanna's apartments
Visenya sat together with her sister and mother as they waited for Aemon to break his fast with them, something they hadn't done for the past moon. Most times, they ate with the entire family, or Aemon had been busy, either helping with preparations or doing something in the city, often speaking with his clubfoot friend, Larys Strong, or even Arya. Yet she didn't know what it was about, nor did they tell her.
It had been something she had begun to notice when her mother and sister arrived. Between them and Aemon, something unspoken lingered. A secret they did not choose to tell her, and the way they spoke of Aemma's pregnancy had been odd, as if they feared the outcome. They had even pressured Viserys to have Aemon's maester, or scriptor as the man called himself, present with Aemma at the birth.
She understood it. She had been there during the last pregnancy, and the pain of another lost babe had hung over Viserys, Aemma, and Rhaenyra for quite some time. She hoped her brother would get the son he wished for, and that Aemma could finally rest.
Then the door opened, and Aemon walked in with Laena in his arms. Visenya's heart quickened a little at the sight, yet it still felt odd. She wanted that too, yet even though Aemon's relationship with her had improved after he had found out what had happened. Yet to her own pain, he didn't look at her as she wanted him to.
"Morning, everyone," Aemon stated as he walked into the room.
They all replied as they sat down.
"So, Aemon, do you think you can win today?" Arya asked immediately as Aemon and Laena took their seats.
Aemon smiled. "All I can do is my best. That's all a man can do in life."
Visenya's heart warmed at those words. It was Aemon; he tried his best, and most times he succeeded. Yet that meant he never stopped. He labored on like their grandfather, a man who never ceased in his work as King.
"I'm sure you'll do well," Laena said as she kissed his cheek.
"Well, it's my goal to crown you queen of love and beauty," Aemon replied with a smirk.
Before turning to their mother. "Will you be there today?"
"It depends on Aemma. She hasn't slept well last night. The babe twisted and turned, so I might come later, as I'm sure you will be one of the final contenders," their mother replied as she took a piece of bread and spread butter, salt, and pepper upon it.
Aemon smiled and gave her a grateful nod.
Visenya took some bacon and egg, and as she ate, she watched Laena and Aemon. They truly looked like a married pair, and she wondered if she would ever have such a bond. She hoped she could, if perhaps Aemon took a second wife or accepted the proposal Laenor had presented him. So all of them could be together, as she wanted, even if they had only kissed so far.
She wondered what life would be like in Seadragon Point, a place she only knew through letters and drawings Aemon had sent, or the tales they spoke of.
"Laena, are you excited to see Seadragon Point?" she asked.
Laena looked at her with a smile. "With all the tales I have heard so far, I'm quite intrigued to see it. Especially what Aemon has built with stone singing. Although I do find the fact that it has scarred his body less appealing."
Visenya blushed, as she knew what scars she spoke of, having seen them when she had tried to seduce him, without success. Something that still bothered her. Perhaps in the coming days, she could ask Laena for help. Laena was now Aemon's husband and would have spoken of the suspect with him, or at least she hoped he had.
"Speaking of the marks, I would have rather remained unscarred, yet sometimes we need to make sacrifices for the greater good," Aemon noted as he looked toward their mother.
She gave Aemon a look, as if to say, "Not now." Visenya frowned and looked between the two of them.
"Mother, Aemon, what is going on?"
Laena, too, had noticed the looks and also seemed intrigued.
Her mother sighed. "Both Aemon and I are worried about the upcoming birth."
Visenya frowned. "That we all are. Aunt Aemma has sadly been unlucky in childbirth. They have taken a toll on her." She felt sad, as she knew that very well.
Her mother then looked around the room, walked to the chamber door, and locked it. "What I'm about to tell you must stay between us."
They all nodded.
Her mother sat down again and took a deep breath before looking to Aemon and Arya. Both nodded.
"As much as it pains me, I do fear an outcome that will not bring us happiness, nor give Viserys the son he so desires."
Both she and Laena took in a breath. "You truly think so, Mother?"
"She does, and so do I. Aemma has been through so many, and not yet one has given Viserys the heir he wants. I do not know the outcome of today. Even if Aemma delivers a babe, it will be her last. She told me so herself," her mother said at Aemon's words.
"She does not intend to carry another child after this. If the babe doesn't live, or gods have mercy, Aemma does not, the realm will expect Viserys to either take a new wife, or perhaps a second, as there is precedent because of Maegor, to further the family line. As there are now only three Targaryens to carry on the name. As for you, Rhaenyra, and Arya, if you marry, your children will take your husband's name."
Then Aemon's words echoed: sometimes we have to make sacrifices for the greater good.
Visenya's eyes widened. Did he mean for her to marry Viserys?
"No, I will not," she stuttered.
"Visenya?" Laena looked puzzled, as did the rest at her sudden outburst.
"No, I will not marry Viserys. He is old enough to be my father. I see Rhaenyra as a sister," she stated, looking at them all.
Arya's eyes widened as she began to laugh. "What's so funny? You aren't of age to wed, little sister."
"No, that's not it. They don't mean you," Arya said between her laughter as she looked at their mother.
Her mother looked at her with sympathy. "Of course, Visenya, we don't mean you."
"You do not?" she asked.
"No. I spoke with your brother, and Arya overheard us speaking. I mean to suggest myself as a bride to Viserys. I am still of childbearing age and have borne three healthy children," her mother replied, leaving both her and Laena with their mouths hanging open.
"But you are his stepmother. You married father, his father," she muttered.
Her mother looked at her kindly and took her hands in hers. "Sometimes, daughter, we must make choices for the good of the realm and our family, even if they hurt. I know you remember our talk before."
Visenya lowered her gaze. She did remember. She had simply never thought those words would become true.
Her eyes drifted to Aemon, and once more she felt herself pulled in by his presence, by those eyes that seemed to see too much.
Damn the gods for this, she thought. For the way she felt. For the way her heart twisted, not only for him, but for Rhaenyra as well, and she felt something for Laena. Why could it not be simple? Why could it not be someone else, like Harwin Strong? Strong, handsome, kind… yet when she looked at him, she felt nothing.
"I suppose… yet I do not know if I could," she murmured.
Aemon sighed softly. "Sister, we will speak of this after the tourney." His voice was calm, but there was something gentler beneath it, something meant only for her.
Arya shot him a look before turning away.
Their mother, however, remained firm. "You are of my blood, and your father's. We are both stubborn. I will not force you, nor will the King. You will have your say on whom you will marry. But one day, you will be asked to choose. And when that day comes, I expect you to remember your duty."
Visenya exhaled slowly, then nodded. She rose from her seat, the weight of it all settling upon her shoulders.
"I shall think on your words. I wish to retire to my chambers and rest before the day begins."
"Visenya… about what we said," Aemon called after her.
"I know. I will not speak of it," she replied without turning back, and walked toward her chambers, her thoughts louder than any voice in the room.
Tourney Grounds
Visenya's mood was a bit subdued as she sat beside Alicent, the empty seat on Alicent's right where Rhaenyra should have been making her wonder where she was. To her left sat Arya, Seranella, and Laena's cousins.
"How was your family fast?" Alicent asked.
"Hmm, quite good. It has been some time since we were all together, the three of us. Although this time Laena was there too." Yet Visenya still had a knot in her belly from what she had been told.
Alicent looked at her with a smile, though there was something slight and uncertain in it. "Oh."
Visenya smiled faintly. Laena was one of her closest friends and someone she cared for deeply, as Aemon did. She wanted to be part of what they had. Yet, until she could, she wanted to have a good relationship with her brother, which was more important than her dream of being with him. Snapping out of her trance, she added, "Yes, she is Aemon's wife now, and should be part of us."
Alicent nodded, yet Visenya noticed she picked at her fingers, a thing she did when nervous or stressed. Visenya took Alicent's hand and smiled at her.
Then the King walked in with Laena, to the cheers of the crowd. Her brother looked kingly, yet he always wore it with a smile. It was something. She knew now that her brother wanted to please everyone, and although it seemed to make people and lords happy, as he threw many feasts and tourneys, he was not feared, nor truly respected or admired. The way she noticed how Aemon's men admired him, there was a fierce loyalty there, something she knew that if it ever came to blows between them, they would stand with Aemon, not their King. Yet knowing her brothers, she doubted that would ever happen. Viserys and Aemon cared for each other too much, and Viserys trusted Aemon the most of all his siblings, as far as she had seen. He did not speak with her, Arya, or Daemon the way he did with Aemon.
She shook her head and looked back toward the cheering crowd.
Then the crowd quieted as the King rose once more from his seat. "People of Westeros, welcome to the third and final day of the joust. The last thirty-two of many now remain, who joust for the honor crown, their Queen of love and beauty. To add to the wonders of the day…" Viserys paused, as Rhaenyra then walked behind him and took her seat beside them, smirking. Visenya frowned and wondered why she was late.
"Queen Aemma has begun her labors. May the best rider claim their laurels." Her brother proclaimed proudly, and the crowd cheered loudly, and everyone on the royal dais clapped as well. Yet Visenya forced a smile, recalling the words spoken during the fast.
Then the trumpets sounded, and the people took their seats.
"All riders have drawn lots, and now the first riders of the day will begin their joust. One more rule will be added during these final sixteen jousts. If the joust surpasses five lances, the fallen rider is allowed to continue the fight in a contest of arms," the herald announced. "First rider of the day, Lord Ser Humphrey Tarly, heir to Horn Hill, will joust Ser Criston Cole, winner of the Tourney of Maidenpool."
Ser Criston had ridden well so far, and his hardest match had been against Lord Boremund. Now he rode just as well; at his wrist hung Rhaenyra's favor. The first lance hit the shoulder of the heir of Tarly, whose shield had hung low, though he had ridden well. Yet the well-placed lance of Ser Criston sent the man flying from the saddle. The crowd cheered and chanted Ser Criston's name.
"Lord Stokeworth's daughter has been promised to that young Tarly squire," Rhaenyra spoke up, nodding toward the squire who helped his knight from the arena. Visenya looked at the boy, perhaps two years older than Aemon, perhaps more.
"Lord Massey's son?" Alicent asked, and Rhaenyra nodded in response.
Then Alicent smirked slightly. "Best get on with it," she said, pausing. "I heard that Lady Elinor is hiding a swollen belly beneath her dress."
Visenya and Rhaenyra looked at her with smirks.
"She speaks true. I overheard the same from Lady Stokeworth herself. She was quite wroth," Arya noted, smirking. All of them gaped at their little sister. "What adults sometimes forget to look around when a small child walks in the royal garden."
Their attention then turned back to the herald. "Prince Daemon will now ride his first tilt of the day against Ser Martyn Hightower, second son of the Hand of the King."
That caught their attention. Alicent looked worriedly at the scene, and both Rhaenyra and Visenya took her hand in support. "It will be alright," she muttered.
Her brother rode up to the dais, bowed, and then rode to his starting position.
Daemon and Ser Martyn clashed into each other, with Daemon getting the worst of it. But in the second tilt, he used his lance in a dishonorable way, pointing too high, and the lance struck Ser Martyn's helmet. Ser Martyn's own lance hit true, yet the blow to his head made the man fall. Everyone gaped in shock at the scene.
Damn that fucking cunt, she thought, and even the crowd seemed to protest Daemon's actions. Visenya looked at him, once more comparing him to Aemon. Daemon did not ride over to his opponent. No, he rode to the dais and gave them all a mocking bow.
Rhaenyra then spoke. "He will be fine, Alicent. See, he walks away on his own."
Alicent nodded and gave them both a small smile.
Aemon Targaryen (107 A.C. Ninth Moon)
Kingslanding - Tourney grounds
His heart pounded with adrenaline as the horns sounded and the crowd roared around him. The world narrowed to the length of the tilt, the weight of the lance in his hand, and the steady rhythm of Raven beneath him. When the signal came, he lowered his lance and urged the horse forward for the fourth lance against his opponent.
The impact was clean.
His first opponent of the day was thrown from the saddle in a burst of splintered wood and dust, crashing to the ground as the crowd erupted. Aemon pulled Raven to a halt at the end of the lists, breathing hard, feeling the rush flood through him. It had been swift, almost too swift.
He turned Raven and rode back at a measured pace, dismounting as squires rushed to aid the fallen knight.
"A good ride," Aemon said, offering his hand.
The knight of House Mallister took it, grimacing as he rose but managing a proud nod. "And to you, Ser. I thought I had the angle."
"You nearly did," Aemon replied honestly. "You held your line well."
The man seemed surprised when Aemon did not name a ransom. "You do not claim it?"
Aemon shook his head. "You rode well. Keep your horse and armor. Let the honor of the tilt stand as payment enough."
The knight smiled at that, inclining his head. "Then I will remember the courtesy."
Aemon remounted, the cheers of the crowd washing over him once more as he rode back toward his place. It stirred something in him, something old and familiar, yet twisted by memory.
He had experienced this kind of adoration in his previous life, when he had been named King in the North and Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Yet when he had returned with an army to protect the North, those cheers had turned into ungrateful insults; it was the same when he had let wildlings through the Wall who would otherwise have turned into their undead foes. The bigger picture was often lost to the prideful and vengeful.
He waited in his tent in the courtyard set up for knights of high birth and renown, while Laenor and Bennard tended to him.
Soon enough, after about an hour, he was called again. He rode against a knight named Ser Cordin Farman, second son of that house.
He mounted his horse, Raven, his companion for five years, a gift from his uncle. He had raised the horse from a foal, and having practiced jousting in the North, he felt more than ready. It seemed to be a specialty of both his mother's and father's lines, and he wanted to honor their legacy and make them proud. He also had a strong cavalry core among his own men, about a hundred or more excellent riders, and a few of them, like Ser Jeffery, were knights.
He rode to the dais and gave a nod, seeing that they were all still seated there, save for his mother, whom he knew was with Aemma. He hoped that, with Dussard's skill, Aemma would live, as well as the babe. Then he rode toward his position.
For a moment, he slipped into Raven's mind, calming her so that they moved as one. He snapped out of it as the trumpet sounded, and he urged Raven forward, charging down the tourney line.
He aimed his lance, and his strike was true. The lance shattered into pieces, and Ser Cordin could do nothing but fall. The force of the blow was too great, while the man's own lance missed entirely.
Aemon brought Raven to a halt, dismounted, and handed the reins to Laenor, who waited nearby. Then he walked toward the fallen knight and helped the man to his feet. He had reached the final sixteen, and he had ridden well so far, yet in this bout, the man had been outmatched.
Aemon studied him for a moment before speaking. "Ser, you have ridden well. Come to my tent later, and we shall settle the ransom."
The knight gave a small grimace, though there was no bitterness in it. "I shall come, my prince. You rode as swift and fierce as a dragon. Win this joust and crown your lovely wife."
Aemon inclined his head at that, then turned and raised a hand to the crowd before making his way back toward his tent.
After the midday meal, word reached him of his next opponent in the final eight.
Ser Osferd Ironspear.
One of the riders who had qualified from the first day, a hedge knight of no great name, yet already the favorite of the crowd. Aemon had heard the cheers earlier, louder than for most lords, louder even than for some knights of noble birth.
He stepped out once more into the bright light of the tourney grounds, helm beneath his arm, Raven steady at his side. Across the lists, he saw the man.
Broad-shouldered, tall, with a plain shield and armor that had seen use. Nothing gilded, nothing ornate. Yet he carried himself with quiet confidence.
For a moment, Aemon was reminded of stories from his childhood. Of Ser Duncan the Tall.
He smiled faintly as Osferd rode forward to greet the dais, the crowd cheering his name.
"Ride well, Ser," Aemon called as he mounted.
Osferd turned his head, green eyes bright beneath his helm, and grinned. "As I hope you will, my prince. It is an honor."
Aemon lowered his visor, settling into the saddle. He took his place at the end of the lists, lance in hand, feeling Raven shift beneath him, eager.
The horn sounded.
First tilt. They charged hard. The impact rang loud as both lances struck true against shields, splintering into fragments that flew through the air. Neither man faltered. The crowd roared.
Second tilt. They rode again, faster this time. Aemon adjusted his aim slightly, but Osferd matched him. Another crash of wood, another shower of splinters. Both remained seated.
Aemon felt a spark of excitement. Good.
Third tilt. Osferd struck first, his lance glancing off Aemon's shield and catching the edge of his shoulder. The force drove him back slightly in the saddle, but he held.
Aemon's own strike landed clean, but not enough. Still, neither fell.
Fourth tilt. Now the tension grew. The crowd leaned forward, sensing something rare.
Aemon focused, narrowing his world to the rhythm of Raven's stride. At the last moment, he shifted his weight and drove his lance forward with precision. It struck hard.
Osferd swayed in the saddle, nearly unhorsed, yet somehow he held.
The roar that followed was thunderous. Aemon exhaled sharply. This man would not fall easily.
Fifth tilt. They rode again, both lances breaking, both riders holding. The strain showed now in the set of their shoulders and the way they adjusted their grips.
Six lances. It had gone to six lances.
Aemon felt a grin tug at his lips beneath the helm.
Sixth tilt. This time, Osferd came in lower, angling his strike with clear intent. The impact slammed into Aemon's shield, harder than before, enough to rattle him and shift him in the saddle.
At the same moment, Aemon's own lance struck Osferd square.
Both men lost their balance.
For a heartbeat, it seemed they might both remain seated.
Then, as one, they fell.
The crowd erupted.
Aemon hit the ground hard, the breath driven from his lungs. For a moment, the world spun, dust filling his vision. Then instinct took over. He rolled to his side, pushing himself up as squires rushed forward.
"No, we continue with a melee," Aemon said sharply, waving them back. "I say, Ser Osferd, and I continue this in a melee." He roared to the crowd.
Across from him, Osferd was already rising as well, shaking off the fall with a laugh that carried even through the noise. "Again, then. Sword and shield!"
Aemon chuckled, then looked to Laenor and Bennard. "Bring me Winter's Wrath and Fang," he said with a smirk.
There was a stir at that, the truth of his valyrian steel creation now the talk of the city. The murmurs spread quickly through the stands as Laenor returned bearing Winter's Wrath with care, while Bennard held Fang, one of his Valyrian steel longswords.
Aemon stepped forward. When he drew Winter's Wrath, the rippling patterns of Valyrian steel caught the light, its blue hue shimmering.
Then he turned his gaze to Osferd.
"That will not do," Aemon said, stepping forward again. He took Fang into his other hand and walked over to Osferd, extending it toward him. "A knight should not face Valyrian steel with common iron. Take it. I wish for a fair match."
Osferd hesitated only a moment before accepting. His grip tightened as he felt the balance of the blade.
"What is its name?" he asked.
"Fang," Aemon replied.
Osferd grinned. Looking at the silver wolves' heads, pommel with red eyes. "Then let us see if I am worthy of it."
The herald stepped forward. "Prince Aemon lends his own Valyrian steel sword to his contender, to give us a match for the ages!" The crowd cheered.
The signal was given with another trumpet blast.
Osferd moved first, quick and direct, testing Aemon with a sharp strike. Aemon met it with ease, Winter's Wrath catching Fang with a ringing note that echoed across the grounds.
They circled, measuring one another.
Then Osferd pressed.
His blows came strong and deliberate, forcing Aemon to give ground for a step as Fang flashed in his hands. The Valyrian steel blade moved faster than expected, light and deadly.
Aemon answered with a sweeping cut.
Osferd caught it on his shield; the greatsword bit into the steel, almost cutting through the thick iron rim. Forcing Osferd's shield arm down.
Good, Aemon thought. Osferd adapted quickly, struck forward with a piercing strike, and Aemon ducked to the side, pulling the greatsword from the man's shield. The crowd roared at the exchange.
Aemon felt a flicker of approval. Then Osferd lunged low, a clever attempt to catch him off balance. Aemon twisted, letting the blade glance away, then brought Winter's Wrath down in a controlled arc.
Osferd caught it, but the impact buckled his arm and forced him down to one knee, yet before Aemon could pin the man down, before he pushed himself back up.
"You do not make this easy, my prince," Osferd said, breathless but smiling.
"You would not respect it if I did," Aemon replied. Aemon knew what had to be done: break the man's stamina. Although he suspected Osferd had plenty, he hadn't wandered the far North, nor trained every day when the sun came up, safe for the past three days, and hammered iron into the steel he was now holding.
Seeing the man stand, Aemon struck again. He moved forward with a strike, fainting it; well, he moved his body to ram the man. He smashed into the man's shield, making him lose his balance.
Then Aemon struck hard, he aimed and the Winter's Warth, moving faster than the typical greatsword smash against Fang. The sound side of the blades clashing, a scream and a song combined. And the crow gaped.
He felt the tremor in his own hand, yet Osferd's arm fell back, almost losing his grip on the blade. Yet keeping it, yet Aemon wasn't done. Pivot Winter Warth and struck the shield, cracking the wood.
Seeing his chances falling, Osferd went for a desperate strike. Yet he turned the blow aside and stepped inside his guard in one smooth motion. His shoulder slammed into Osferd's chest, staggering him. In the same breath, he aimed a sharp strike for Osferd's head.
Yet he stopped, holding the blade at the man's neck. Osferd looked up, breathing hard, then gave a short nod. "Yield."
The roar returned, louder than before.
Aemon stepped back at once, lowering his blade. He extended a hand, and Osferd took it, still with a grin on his face.
"Well fought," Osferd said.
"Well fought indeed," Aemon replied.
He glanced at Fang still in Osferd's hand, then held out his own.
"I will have that back," Aemon said, not unkindly.
Osferd huffed a small laugh and returned the blade without hesitation. "A fine weapon."
"A tool," Aemon corrected, taking it. "Only as good as the man who wields it."
He studied Osferd for a moment longer, then spoke again.
"You ride well. You fight well. And you do not break easily." Aemon paused. "Men like that are rare."
Osferd said nothing, though his expression sharpened slightly.
"Come to my tent after the tourney," Aemon continued. "I would have you join my retinue."
That drew a reaction.
Osferd blinked, clearly surprised. "My prince… I am but a hedge knight."
"A good one," Aemon said simply. "I have need of such men."
For a moment, Osferd seemed at a loss for words. Then he gave a firm nod. "Then I will come."
Aemon clasped his forearm once before turning back toward the crowd, raising his blade into the air as their cheers washed over him.
Aemon, instead of retreating to his tent to rest, watched to see who his opponent would be for the final four. It was Ser Criston Cole, who would ride against Lord Edgar Osgrey, Lord of Standfast, a man in his early forties, yet a great knight and jouster from what Aemon had seen.
Lord Edgar rode nobly, yet in the seventh charge, he fell to Ser Criston Cole. Lord Edgar demanded a melee, yet, wielding an axe instead of a longsword, he fell to Ser Criston's morningstar.
After that, Aemon returned to his tent to drink, eat, and learn how Aemma was doing. He had sent Laenor to the dais to ask.
"She is still in labor. The contractions began an hour or so before the tourney," Laenor had replied, and Aemon could only hope Aemma was well.
It took some time before he was called again. He also learned that it would be Daemon he would face in the finals, if he could pass Ser Criston Cole.
As he mounted Raven, he rode to the dais and bowed, seeing Viserys still sitting there. So far, all was good. He then turned to Ser Criston and wished him the best of luck. Then, the man gave him the same words before closing his visor.
As he rode to his starting point, he looked toward the other side and saw Criston Cole waiting for him. He found himself eager, wanting to test himself against one of the best knights and warriors of this age, a man with quite the reputation in the history books. Ser Criston Cole, the Kingmaker, a member of the Kingsguard who had crowned Aegon II, and if the rumors were true, had been involved with Princess Rhaenyra herself. He had slandered her at the Green Council when they had gathered. By all historical accounts, he had persuaded Aegon to claim the crown. Though living through that history, Aemon knew much of what had been written was untrue. Perhaps Ser Criston Cole was the same.
Then the trumpet blast once more began the joust. He rode fast, Raven and he were as one, and then he crashed against Ser Criston. Both struck the other's shield and rode on.
He quickly took a lance from Bennard and rode again.
Crack.
Once more, the lances shattered against the shields, and the crowd roared. Aemon felt the hit in his shoulder, and he suspected that by the end of the day, he would be covered in bruises.
They rode again, and this time he found a small gap in Ser Criston's posture and struck true, hitting the man on the shoulder instead of the shield and nearly sending him from his horse, while Criston's own strike missed.
Aemon smiled beneath his helmet and raised his lance to the crowd, which cheered loudly.
They rode again, and another crack sounded as both lances struck their opponent's shields, yet neither fell.
In the sixth tilt, Aemon felt an unreal rhythm as he rode, in perfect sync with Raven. He struck true, putting his full weight and the horse's strength behind the blow, sending Ser Criston flying from his saddle.
He cheered, feeling elated as he raised his fist into the air, before dismounting and walking over to Ser Criston, helping the man to his feet.
During the entire jousting competition, he had watched how Ser Criston acted. The man was honorable and a formidable fighter, and Aemon suspected something must have happened for Ser Criston to one day turn his cloak. Perhaps a broken heart, a mistake, jealousy, or finding Rhaenyra acting in a way he deemed unseemly for a princess he was sworn to protect. Yet seeing the young knight now, perhaps no more than twenty namedays, Aemon believed redemption might still be possible for him, and perhaps even a place in his guard.
"Do you wish to continue in consent of arms?" Aemon asked.
Ser Criston Cole smiled faintly, still catching his breath as he stood straight once more. "Thank you, but no, my prince, the joust was good enough for me. It was the best joust I have had in my life. Good luck in the rest of the tourney, and win it."
Aemon studied him for a moment, then inclined his head. "You have my thanks, Ser. You rode as one of the finest. As for your skill and riding, I will not ask for a ransom."
Criston gave a short nod, and for a brief moment, there was something unspoken between them. Not rivalry, not yet, but recognition. Of skill. Of discipline. "I thank you for that, my prince."
"After the tourney, come and speak with me. I am always looking for men to join my guard," Aemon added with a grin.
"I shall, my prince," Ser Criston said, before declaring to the crowd that he would not fight a melee against him.
Aemon smiled, yet his smile faded as he saw Viserys no longer sitting in his chair. He looked to Laena, who saw his gaze and shook her head.
Aemma.
He gave a small nod and turned away, returning to his tent to prepare for the final joust against Daemon.
Viserys Targaryen (107 A.C. Ninth Moon)
King's Landing – Aemma's Chambers
"Aemma… I'm here," he began hurriedly as he pushed open the door, the smell of blood thick in the air.
"Viserys, help me, please…" Aemma cried out, her voice full of fear and heavy with pain.
He rushed to her side at once, taking her hand in his. It was slick with sweat. On the other side of the bed stood Lyanna, gripping Aemma's other hand, her face pale but steady.
Then Aemma gave out a cry.
"I'm here. It's all right," he said, though his voice trembled.
Viserys' eyes moved then, and he saw the small, swaddled bundle in Lyanna's arms. A babe.
Lyanna caught his eye. "A daughter."
For a moment, his breath caught. "A daughter?" he asked, almost in disbelief.
"A strong one," Lyanna answered quickly, though her voice carried strain. "She came first. But there is another."
Another. Viserys felt his stomach twist. His boy.
Aemma cried out again, louder this time, her fingers tightening painfully around his. "It won't stop… it won't stop…"
"The second child is in breech. Dussard gave her a calming tea, as well as a tea that helped with the birth of this little one," Lyanna said, her voice low and urgent. "Yer she has labored too long already."
"Do something for her!" Viserys shouted, anger and fear rising together.
Lyanna's gaze hardened. "They are trying." Her eyes shifted toward Dussard and Mellos, who were speaking to each other.
Another wave of pain overtook Aemma, and she screamed, her whole body trembling with the effort.
Time blurred. Minutes passed into what felt like hours, each one marked by Aemma's cries and the growing dread in Viserys' chest.
At last, Mellos stepped forward. "Your Grace," he said, his voice measured and controlled, as he waved him toward him.
Viserys rose and walked away from Aemma's side. "What can be done?"
Mellos folded his hands within his sleeves. "The child will not come. The Queen has labored too long, and the babe is badly turned. In such cases, there is a method taught at the Citadel."
Viserys' grip tightened around Aemma's hand. "Speak it."
Mellos inclined his head slightly. "We can cut into the womb and bring the child forth directly."
Aemma cried out again, her body shaking.
"And Aemma?" Viserys asked, his voice colder now.
Mellos did not hesitate. "With resulting blood loss, she would not survive the procedure."
Silence fell, thick and suffocating.
Otto stepped forward then, his tone careful. "Your Grace, the realm must have an heir. The child, if it lives, would secure the future. It is a terrible choice, but…"
"There is another way." Dussard's voice cut through the chamber, firm and unyielding.
Mellos turned sharply. "A reckless one."
"A difficult one, I have done it before." Dussard corrected, stepping forward. "But not without hope."
Viserys looked at him. "Speak."
"The child can be delivered as it is," Dussard said. "But it must be done with care. If we rush, if we pull too hard, the body will come, and the head will be trapped; if that happens, both will die."
He stepped back toward the bed, his tone calm but urgent. "I will guide the child slowly, support it as it comes, and turn it as needed. The Queen must push when I tell her, and not before."
"And the chances?" Viserys asked.
Dussard did not lie. "The Queen will likely live. The child… may not."
Mellos' lips thinned. "A gamble."
"A chance," Dussard replied.
Aemma cried out again. "Viserys…"
He turned fully back to her, seeing her lying there in blood on the bed, the rest of the room falling away.
He went to her. "My love," he said, his voice breaking. "I'm here."
For the briefest moment, the thought of a son, of an heir, flickered in his mind. Then tried to see the dream, or the son he wanted, yet it was Aemon's image he had in his head, of what he thought of a boy he wished he already had, if the gods had been kinder. Then it was gone. He loved in his own way, and she had supported him even if he hadn't always been the best husband. Yet with the producer, perhaps both would live.
"Do it," he said, his voice low but firm. "Save her."
Mellos stepped forward at once. "Your Grace, I must advise…"
"I have chosen," he said in rage.
Dussard nodded once. "Then we begin." He went to his card and poured some liquid over his hands. Then, a lotion, and moved toward the bed. Viserys wondered what it was.
"Your Grace," he said gently to Aemma. "You must listen to me. With the help of the midwives, we need to stand a little, let the earth pull your baby down, and breathe in and out as I tell you. When you feel my hands against you, I will help you push the babe out, and push only when I say."
Aemma gasped, yet nodded faintly. Viserys looked heartbroken at his wife's condition. Another contraction came, and she cried out, her body tensing. Viserys helped his wife stand as Dussard smeared the lotion he had on his hands between Aemma's legs and on her womanhood.
"Not yet," Dussard said firmly. "Breathe… breathe…"
Viserys helped his wife stand. Dussard then gently put a hand near the area.
"Now," he said. "Push."
He saw Dussard work with careful precision, guiding the child as it began to emerge. His hands supported the small body, steadying it, not pulling, only holding it in place as Aemma's body did the work.
Aemma screamed, her body straining.
Slowly, the child came. First the hips, then the small legs. Dussard's hands remained firm, supporting, turning slightly, easing the passage, never forcing it, sometimes pulling slightly.
"Good… good… again," he urged.
Viserys held Aemma's hand, speaking softly, though his own voice trembled. "You are doing well. I am here. I am here."
Another push. Another cry.
The child's body slipped further free, but Dussard's expression tightened.
"Careful," he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else. "Slowly…"
He adjusted his grip, supporting the child's small form, ensuring the shoulders turned and that the body did not come too quickly.
"Again," he said.
Aemma pushed, her strength nearly spent.
For a moment, everything seemed to stop.
Then, with one final effort, the child was born.
A thin, fragile cry filled the chamber.
"The child is born," Dussard said, though his voice carried caution.
A servant took the babe quickly, wrapping it in cloth.
"A boy," Mellos said, stepping closer.
A boy. Viserys closed his eyes for a brief moment.
But he did not move toward the child. He stayed with Aemma. "Aemma," he whispered. "You are safe."
Her breathing was ragged, but it was there. She lived.
A faint smile touched her lips, though her eyes were barely open.
"Did you and the Queen think of a name?" Melos asked faintly. Then he took the child into his arms after the midwives had cleaned the babe. "Baelon. Little Baelon."
Aemma's eyes went teary, and he kissed her head. "I love you."
Before Aemma's eyes went to the child in Lyanna's arms. "Twins," he muttered faintly.
"Alysanne," Aemma muttered before she cried out again, and Viserys gave Baelon to a wet nurse. "What is happening to her?" he asked with wide eyes. He did not even hear behind him that the child's cry faltered, turning into a weak cough. Then another.
"It's alright, Your Grace. It's the afterbirth, it's part of the process." Dussard said.
Viserys let out a sigh of relief. "We did it. A boy," he muttered as he kissed Aemma on the cheek after she was done, and slipped into sleep. He asked Dussard if she was okay, and the man told him it had been a difficult birth, and it would take time for her to recover. Now her body would need sleep.
Rhaenyra Targaryen (107 A.C. Nineth Moon)
Kingslanding – Tourney grounds
The tourney had been excellent, and the crowd was roaring with cheers. Especially the final joust, with both her uncles riding against one another. Yet she felt a bit of anxiety, as her father had left shortly before Aemon's joust with Ser Criston had ended. Either her mother was still birthing, and something was wrong, she feared that was not true, or she now had a baby sister or brother.
Then the herald pulled her from her thoughts. "Prince Daemon Targaryen and Prince Aemon Targaryen, Prince of Seadragon Point, will now joust to be crowned victor of this tourney and crown their Queen of Love and Beauty."
Rhaenyra's smile grew, as she hoped Aemon would win and crown Laena. It would make it even more romantic, and she wanted that for her friend, and still lover, she hoped. And also for her uncle. Aemon had ridden and fought well, and shown his martial skill during his fight against Ser Osferd.
Both riders rode toward the dais and bowed to them.
"Are you a wolf today, or a dragon? I would know what I am unhorsing," Daemon taunted. She heard whispers among those on the dais, and she frowned herself.
Aemon's smile did not falter, save for a slight twitch of his eyebrow. Then he answered, "I am both, brother. Ice and fire."
Aemon then rode away toward his position. The trumpet sounded, and both riders rode forward. Watching them, Aemon's armor looked far more magnificent. The red, gold, silver, and black made for a striking image.
Daemon's armor, though still fine, looked less well-fitted together. He wore a Valyrian steel chest piece that had been in their house for centuries, like Blackfyre and Dark Sister, yet the rest of his armor did not match it. It still looked impressive, but not in the way Aemon did.
Then both riders crashed their lances into each other's shields.
In the second tilt, Daemon gained the upper hand, making Aemon unsteady, though he managed to stay on his steed, earning the crowd's admiration.
Aemon's chivalrous acts throughout the joust had made him popular with the audience, and it brought a smile to her face, a flutter of excitement in her stomach.
On the third tilt, Aemon changed his posture slightly and nearly unhorsed Daemon, striking his shoulder.
The fourth tilt was much the same as the first, both men striking their opponent's shields.
Then on the fifth, Aemon rode better than Daemon, and Daemon fell, sliding over the railing, dragged briefly by his horse before hitting the ground.
"Sword!" Daemon shouted, unsheathing Dark Sister as his squire rushed to him.
"Prince Daemon wishes to continue with a contest of arms," the herald proclaimed, and cheers erupted from the stands.
Laenor and Bennard brought up two swords, and Aemon discarded his shield.
Then Aemon made a surprising move by unsheathing two longswords. He was going to dual-wield, and she gasped, as did many in the stands. She knew he had trained for it, having heard and seen him practice with both, yet it seemed Aemon was proficient enough in it.
The blades clashed, and Dark Sister struck against one, the sound echoing from Aemon's previous clash, but Aemon pushed Daemon's blade aside.
Aemon began his offensive, launching a continuous assault, attacking from all directions. The speed and skill he displayed left everyone in awe.
Daemon managed to block one attack, forcing Aemon back, but as he did, Aemon swept his legs, knocking Daemon off balance. Aemon quickly regained his footing and struck both blades against Dark Sister, forcing Daemon to lose his grip.
Daemon tried to draw his dagger, but Aemon trapped his arm with his foot. He held one blade at Daemon's neck, opened his visor, and spoke something too soft to hear. Daemon muttered something she could not catch, but she knew he had been defeated.
Daemon dropped his dagger, and Aemon removed his foot from his arm. He then pulled off his helm, revealing his curling silver-blond locks and a bright smile to the crowd.
Cheers rose, shouting Aemon's name, as well as "White Dragon."
Then the herald stepped forward. "Prince Aemon Targaryen, Prince of Seadragon Point, the White Dragon, winner of the joust!"
Once more, the crowd cheered.
Ser Harrold then walked onto the tourney grounds toward Aemon. "Lords and ladies, I think it is time we knight our prince here today," he said, as cheers rose all around the arena. "Kneel, my prince," Harrold said proudly, and her heart fluttered as she watched Aemon smiling brightly.
Harrold unsheathed his sword, and the arena fell quiet. "In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave," he said, tapping Aemon on one shoulder. "In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just," he continued, tapping the other. "In the name of the Mother, I charge you to protect the innocent," he finished, tapping his shoulder once more. "Arise, Ser Aemon Targaryen, a knight of the Seven Kingdoms."
Aemon rose, to cheers and applause ringing throughout the arena.
Then Aemon mounted his horse once more, and Laenor arrived with a flower crown of blue winter roses and placed it upon Aemon's lance. He rode toward the dais.
Then he lowered the lance toward Laena. "Princess Laena Velaryon, I hereby crown you Queen of Love and Beauty."
Laena took it and placed the crown upon her head. "Thank you, my prince."
The crowd cheered once more, and the joust had ended. Rhaenyra smiled and hoped that perhaps one day she would also be crowned by a man she loved.
Then Otto walked onto the dais, his expression one she could not read. He stepped up to the King's seat and asked the crowd to quiet down. Rhaenyra's heart pounded in her chest, and she wondered what had happened to her mother.
"Good people of Westeros," Otto began. "I am pleased to share that the Queen has delivered a healthy heir for the King, Prince Baelon, and that the Queen herself is also in good health after her labors."
The crowd cheered and shouted, "Prince Baelon!" and "Long live the King and Queen!" Yet Rhaenyra heard little of it. She let out a relieved sigh, and Alicent gave her a quick hug.
Then Otto continued, "Yet that is not all. The Queen has also given the King a healthy daughter. Let us all give thanks to the Queen. Cheer for the new Prince Baelon and Princess Alysanne."
Rhaenyra stared wide-eyed at him. Twins. Her mother had given birth to twins? She rose quickly and left for Red Keep.
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