A Song of Ash and Empire

The Red Keep was restless.

The corridors hummed with whispers, passing from one servant to another, trailing behind knights and courtiers alike. Rumors had always been a fixture of court life, but tonight, they carried an edge sharper than usual—uncertainty, tension, the crackling weight of something heavy pressing upon the castle walls.

At the heart of it all, within the king's solar, three figures remained in grave silence.

King Jaehaerys Targaryen had read the letter twice already, yet his fingers remained curled around the parchment as though by holding it tighter, he could will the words to change.

Across from him, his queen sat rigid, hands clasped together in her lap, the usual serenity on her face betrayed by the tightness of her grip. Alyssane Targaryen was not a woman prone to dramatics—where others fretted and panicked, she had always been a pillar of unwavering strength. But now, as she stared hard at her husband's table, her knuckles had turned white.

And Baelon, standing beside them, arms crossed over his chest, was anything but still.

Ravens had arrived. Aemon was wounded. Struck in the shoulder with a crossbow bolt.

He had nearly died. Saved from a gruesome fate only because of the fortunate presence of a certain knight.

"He lives," Baelon said at last, his voice carefully measured. It was both a reassurance and a reminder. "The letter tells that the wound is deep, but it will heal."

His mother exhaled softly nodding, her eyes briefly fluttering shut. "Thank the gods for that."

Jaehaerys did not immediately echo the sentiment. His gaze lingered on the words on the parchment before him, but his mind was elsewhere.

He had been troubled ever since the letter had arrived.

Not just for the obvious reasons, but because of something else—something that had sat heavy in his mind remembering a certain conversation with his grandson moons past.

"There was blood on a prince."

"A prince, struck down by shadow. There were great storms and a giant stone of sapphire surrounded by sea."

The words whispered in his mind like a ghost, taunting him.

He had given them some heed at the time because it came from his blood. A fool would have ignored them entirely. Yet it would be a lie to say he had fully believed them.

To believe that his grandson—his young, sharp-eyed, far-too-intelligent grandson—was a dragon dreamer? It was a difficult thing to accept despite everything.

Yes, the histories spoke of such things. Yes, the blood of Valyria carried many strange gifts.

But Jaehaerys had ruled for decades, seen the world with clear eyes, dealt in laws and logic, reason and rule. He was a practical man. He did not deal in riddles.

And yet—

Stormlands. A giant stone of sapphire in the sea—Tarth. A prince—Aemon. Struck down by shadows—Myrish crossbowmen hidden outside the camp.

He recounted to himself correlating the details.

He clenched his jaw.

The details were too precise to be coincidence.

But Aemon lives yet.

If Rhaegar's dreams were true, then Aemon should be dead. Yet he lives.

What does it mean?

Jaehaerys considered that line of thought before shaking his head. No. The details had aligned. The moment had played out as his grandson had told him in his infuriating riddles—save for one thing.

The death had not come.

Because of a single knight.

His fingers tapped lightly against the table. He turned to Baelon.

"This knight that saved Aemon. Ser Ryon. Why was he the only one with Aemon at the camp?"

Baelon exhaled slightly, shifting his stance. "I sent him."

Alyssane looked up at that. "You did?"

Baelon nodded, his expression unreadable. "Rhaegar came to me some time ago, asking it of me. He was worried for Aemon. He wanted Ser Ryon at his side."

Jaehaerys felt something tighten in his chest. "And you agreed."

Baelon met his father's gaze evenly. "I did."

Jaehaerys inhaled slowly through his nose. His mind whirled.

Rhaegar had probably asked this weeks ago if Ser Ryon was able to ride for Tarth before any other force.

Perhaps before Aemon's date of departure for Tarth was even decided.

Jaehaerys' fingers curled around the parchment again.

Rhaegar had known what his dream meant then.

Somehow, in some way—a boy of 9 namedays had known what his prophetic dream meant when in history people much older and experienced than him had failed to understand theirs.

Jaehaerys sighed rubbing his forehead.

He really ought to stop being startled at the boy's intellect. Still, it was starting to scare even him a bit now, ignore the petty lords.

Alyssane was watching Jaehaerys closely, her sharp gaze cutting through the silence. "That boy," she murmured, shaking her head "Gods know what goes on in that mind of his."

Jaehaerys did not answer.

There was nothing to say.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of the crackling hearth.

Then, Jaehaerys exhaled leaning back in his chair, his voice steady. "Baelon, you will leave for Tarth at first light."

Baelon straightened. "I will."

Alysanne said then, looking at her son. "See that Aemon is seen to properly Baelon. And see that Ser Ryon is commended for his actions. Aemon owes him his life."

Baelon nodded sharply. "Of course."

Jaehaerys inhaled, exhaled, and finally set the letter down, his gaze turning cold, burning with leashed fury. "And do not forget to make the those Myrish pay for this."

Baelon replied with controlled fury of his own. "I will father. They will be naught but ash when I am done with them."

Jaehaerys nodded.

Alysanne added. "Be careful my son."

Baelon nodded his head before stepping away, his boots echoing against the stone as he departed.

The solar fell into silence once more.

Jaehaerys did not move.

Alysanne did not speak.

She merely placed a hand over his, squeezing gently.

And for a long time, neither of them said a word.

When Rhaegar heard the news of his uncle's injury, he showed concern, worry—asking after him as any nephew should.

He asked for details, clarity, reassurance that his uncle would okay. He listened with patience, his expression schooled into measured relief, nodding where appropriate.

He did not linger too long in any conversation. He let his steps carry him towards his own chambers ignoring the chaos around him.

As the doors closed behind him, his eyes flickered to the small wooden bowl near the table. Ripe berries, freshly brought in by the servants. He plucked one, rolling it between his fingers before biting down.

The taste burst across his tongue—sweet, sharp, tangy.

He let out a deep breath.

Then another.

And then—

A chuckle.

Soft, quiet.

Then another.

And before he could stop himself—He started to laugh.

He let out a sharp bark of laughter, then another, until it snowballed into full-blown, wheezing hysteria. His body folded in on itself, hands on his knees as he gasped for air between uncontrollable cackles.

"I did it—,"he tried to speak, but another burst of manic giggling cut him off. Tears nearly pricked at his eyes, his lungs burned, and yet he kept laughing, like a man who had lost all sanity.

His mind was spinning, spinning in a way it never had before.

He had done it.

He had changed something.

Not a small trivial thing.

Not a minor decision in a trade deal.

But fate.

The future.

Aemon Targaryen was supposed to die.

His throat was supposed to be pierced by a crossbow bolt.

But he wasn't.

He was alive.

A rush of emotions coursed through him—relief, triumph, disbelief.

He barely noticed the sound of soft scurrying behind him.

Until he did.

Two small figures stood frozen near his chamber's door, wide-eyed and utterly horrified.

Viserys and Daemon.

His dear, sweet, privacy-invading little brothers.

Viserys, the elder of the two, had gone entirely stiff, as if he had just witnessed some unknowable horror.

Daemon, barely six years old, clung to his older brother's tunic, his tiny fingers curling into the fabric as he stared at Rhaegar as though he had grown a second head.

Rhaegar blinked.

His laughter died instantly.

For a long, painful moment, no one moved.

Then—

Slowly, cautiously—Viserys reached for Daemon's wrist.

Wordlessly, the two turned and hurried out of the room.

The door clicked shut behind them.

Rhaegar blinked again. Then huffed a small chuckle, shaking his head as he plucked another berry from the bowl.

Oh well.

They'd live.

Much like Aemon.

And gods, that thought alone made him laugh all over again.