The Story Of One, Splint in two

Dragonstone, 106 AC

Point of view: Aelor

Aelor stood on the high balcony of Dragonstone, his gaze fixed on the courtyard below. This was the second time he had seen that dragon, and the sight still filled him with a dread that seeped into his very bones. For most people, encountering even one dragon might seem like a calamity—an event so catastrophic that it could only be explained as a divine punishment. He wondered what sins the former kings must have committed to warrant such beasts in their midst. Or perhaps the whispers were true, that the Targaryens were closer to gods than men, in which case, could this even be considered a punishment? Was it not simply the will of the gods manifesting through them?

Fear gripped him, a cold, unyielding presence that refused to loosen its hold. His eyes were drawn to the courtyard where Daemon had just landed, the dragon's immense form dominating the space.

"My gods," I whispered, the words barely escaping my lips as I stared at the monstrous creature from which Daemon dismounted. How could any man ever tame such a beast? The question echoed in my mind, but no answer came—only the overwhelming sense of insignificance in the face of such power.

I tore my eyes away from the massive form of Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, a creature unlike any other. His scales were the color of dark blood, shimmering ominously in the sunlight, with wings that seemed to stretch wider than the courtyard itself. His long, serpentine body coiled and uncoiled with a terrible grace, and those eyes—sharp, intelligent, and burning with a fire that mirrored the fury within him—seemed to pierce through everything they beheld. His roar, or rather his screech was a sound that shook the very earth, a reminder of the raw power he held, a power that made even the bravest hearts tremble. Caraxes was a living nightmare, a creature forged from the darkest of legends, and yet here he was, as real as the stone beneath my feet.

The awe that gripped me was suddenly broken by the sound of my mother's voice, calling to me from within the castle.

"Come, child, we must present ourselves before the prince."

"Must I, mother?" I asked, my reluctance plain. "The maester has given me a stack of scrolls to copy. I must present them before him at the end of the day. I don't see the need for me to be present."

"We must show respect," she insisted, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Even Maester Gerardys will be there to greet Prince Daemon."

Her words were firm, but I couldn't help but steal one last glance at the dragon. How could anyone stand in the presence of such a beast and not be filled with both fear and reverence?

As we walked down the halls, I couldn't help but reminisce about the last time the royal family visited Dragonstone. This might be their ancestral seat, home to many of the dragons, but it was a rare sight to see them here. Even more so now, with Dragonstone lacking an heir.

It must have been a few years ago, back in 104 AC, when nearly the entire royal family arrived at Dragonstone.

Flashback

Dragonstone, 104 AC

The entire castle was alive with activity. Every maid, cook, and servant was racing around, ensuring that everything was in perfect order. I barely saw my mother that day; she was buried under the mountain of tasks that had been thrust upon the castle and its residents.

It worked out perfectly for me. Everyone was far too preoccupied to notice what a three-year-old was up to, let alone spot the pen in my hand as I jotted down my thoughts. Usually, I had to wait until everyone was asleep, stealing moments by the window to catch the moonlight and write. But today, with everyone so distracted, I could write out in the open without a single person noticing.

What I was doing felt important—no, it was more than that. It was necessary, absolutely critical. I didn't know when, but I knew one thing for certain: these memories wouldn't last forever.

As I scribbled, my hand suddenly stopped. More than that, my entire body seemed to freeze in place. A feeling of dread filled the air, thick and suffocating. Everyone—the maids, the cooks, even the castellan—had stopped dead in their tracks. The source of this dread was unmistakable: a monstrous roar that engulfed the entirety of Dragonstone.

I turned to the window, peering out with wide eyes. In the distance, I saw it—a shape etched into the clouds, visible only by the shadow it cast. Beneath the clouds, a massive ship sailed into view, bearing the banner of House Targaryen.

......…

The memory of that fateful day still clung to me as we reached the end of the hallway, my steps slowing as the present came into sharp focus. My heart pounded in my chest, the echoes of the past mingling with the nervous energy coursing through me. The memory of that roar, of the monstrous presence that had shadowed Dragonstone years ago, still haunted me.

As we turned the corner, the great hall loomed ahead. My mother walked with the quiet dignity of someone who knew her place, her head held high, the soft rustle of her gown the only sound accompanying our footsteps. I tried to match her pace, but anxiety made it difficult to keep up. I was about to face the man who commanded that terrifying beast—Prince Daemon Targaryen.

"Remember, Aelor," my mother said, glancing down at me with her sharp, knowing eyes. "Show respect. Speak only when spoken to."

I nodded, though my thoughts were elsewhere, tangled in the fear and awe of that day two years ago. The day the royal family had visited Dragonstone. The day I had caused…something. Even now, the memory of what happened remains elusive, like a shadow in the corner of my mind. But one thing was clear—Daemon Targaryen remembered it.

As we entered the hall, the scent of burning wood and the flicker of torchlight greeted us. The room was filled with tension, a quiet, simmering unease that I could feel in the pit of my stomach. Maester Gerardys stood among a small group of lords and ladies, all gathered around the figure who dominated the room.

Prince Daemon.

He stood at the center, his silver hair catching the firelight, his eyes cold and calculating as they swept over the room. There was an aura of danger about him, a sense of command that made everyone else seem smaller, less significant. My mother dipped into a deep curtsey, and I hurried to follow suit, bowing as low as I could manage. My heart pounded in my chest, and I prayed that my nervousness wasn't too obvious.

"Your Grace," my mother said, her voice clear and steady. "It is an honor to welcome you to Dragonstone."

"Aelarys," Daemon replied, his voice smooth and almost indifferent. "The honor is mine."

His gaze shifted to me, and for a moment, something flickered in his eyes—recognition, perhaps. My breath caught in my throat as his stare lingered, a small frown forming on his lips. Then, suddenly, his expression shifted, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"And who is this young man?" Daemon asked, though there was a knowing edge to his tone.

"This is my son, Aelor," my mother answered before I could speak. "He's been eagerly awaiting the chance to greet you, Your Grace."

"Aelor," Daemon repeated, as if tasting the name. "I seem to remember a young boy by that name from my last visit here."

My pulse quickened. He remembered. I didn't know what to say, so I forced myself to look up and meet his gaze. "It is an honor to meet you, Prince Daemon," I managed, my voice strained with the effort of remaining calm.

Daemon's smile widened slightly, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Ah, yes. The honor is mine, Aelor. I do recall our last encounter—quite a memorable occasion, if I'm not mistaken."

My heart sank as the memory rushed back with full force. I knew exactly what I had done. The weight of Daemon's words pressed down on me like a leaden cloak, each syllable a reminder of that day—the day I'd lost control, the day my foolishness had caused a scene so significant that even Daemon Targaryen, a man who had seen and done so much, still remembered it.

"I… I hope I didn't cause any trouble, Your Grace," I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper.

Daemon chuckled softly, his gaze never leaving mine. "Trouble? Perhaps. But let's not dwell on the past, shall we? I'm sure you've grown since then, Aelor. And I must say, I'm curious to see what kind of man you'll become."

The words hung in the air, a mixture of promise and threat that left me uncertain how to respond. My mother, sensing the tension, gently touched my shoulder, guiding me to bow again.

"Thank you, Your Grace," she said, her voice calm and composed. "Aelor is eager to learn and grow under your example."

Daemon's eyes flicked back to her, his expression unreadable. "I'm sure he is," he said, his tone softening slightly. "And I'm sure we'll have plenty of time to get to know each other better."

With that, he turned his attention back to the others, the moment passing as quickly as it had come. But as I stood there, trying to blend into the background, I couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed. Daemon remembered me. And whatever had happened that day two years ago, it still lingered between us like a shadow, waiting to be revealed.

I found myself relaxing by the windowsill, the salty breeze from the sea brushing against my face, easing the tension that had gripped me all day. The rhythmic crash of the waves below had a way of soothing my nerves, and this spot had become a sanctuary for me. I often sat here, staring out at the endless horizon, imagining the day when I'd be soaring through the clouds, skimming over the ocean on the back of a dragon.

But today, I forced myself to look away, knowing that my dreams would have to wait. Daemon had returned to Dragonstone. My memories, fragmented and unclear as they were, hinted at it. I couldn't afford to be unprepared.

With a sigh, I turned from the window and locked the door to my room. Being taken in as a maester's disciple had its perks, one of which was the privacy of my own study, away from the hustle and noise of the servants' quarters. It was a small space, but it allowed me the solitude I needed.

I moved to the dresser and, with some effort, pushed it aside to reveal the stone wall behind it. My heart pounded with a mixture of excitement and anxiety as I knelt down to the bottom right corner. There, where the dresser had once stood, was a loose cobblestone. I pried it out carefully, revealing a small, hidden compartment.

Inside were two books, each distinct in appearance. The first was bound in rich, deep crimson leather, its cover adorned with intricate gold filigree that shimmered faintly in the dim light. The edges of the pages were gilded, giving it an air of regality, as if it had once belonged to someone of great importance. It looked ancient, the kind of book that held secrets beyond this world.

The second book was smaller, bound in simple, worn brown leather. Its cover was plain, unadorned, and the pages within were rough and yellowed with age. There was a certain humility to it, as if it were a journal meant for personal thoughts rather than grand histories or arcane knowledge. This one seemed to carry the weight of private memories, perhaps even confessions, tucked away from prying eyes.

The former book was a gift from my father on my fifth nameday, his voice full of hope as he handed it to me. He told me that he believed I would become a great man, that one day I would use this book to record my own history—the story of Aelor, son of Jory. But as I held it now, I couldn't help but murmur softly to myself, "Sorry, Father, I have different plans for this book."

Opening it, I began to read, and with each word, the fog in my mind started to lift. The fragmented memories, once disjointed and unclear, began to piece themselves together like a puzzle, forming a vivid picture in my mind. "Ah, of course," I whispered, the clarity almost overwhelming. How could I have forgotten so much? It terrified me to realize how much had already slipped away, how each day seemed to steal more from me.

The memories of my past life, once so clear, were now so faded that I began to doubt if they had ever existed at all. Was it all just the delusions of a child? My knowledge of A Song of Ice and Fire, the very advantage that had set me apart in this world, was fading. And I knew that one day, even this book wouldn't be enough to bring those memories back.

It was this realization, years ago, that had set me on my current path. If I was destined to lose my edge in this world, I would find a way to make it permanent, to etch it into the fabric of this reality. But I knew the risks. If the wrong people got hold of this book, it could spell my death. The maesters despised all forms of magic, and even more so those who practiced it. They would likely burn me at the stake as a blasphemer. And if Daemon, Viserys, or even Rhaenyra were to discover its contents, I would be fed to their dragons as a traitor.

That's why I decided to record the canon events as if they were visions—dragon dreams. It wouldn't completely save me, but it might offer just enough deniability to keep me alive.

The second book was different. As I lifted it from its hidden place, I felt a surge of something unfamiliar—determination mixed with a cold, calculated edge. This was no ordinary journal. Unlike the first book, filled with fragments of a fading past and glimpses of a future I was losing my grip on, this one was my blueprint, my guide to survival and success in this world.

I opened the cover, the pages worn yet orderly, filled with meticulous notes and plans. There were no prophecies here, no hazy memories of battles yet to be fought or kings yet to rise. Instead, this book was a map of the present, a guide to navigating the treacherous waters of Westeros using the people and situations around me. Every word, every line, was born from observation, from careful analysis of those I encountered, their strengths, their weaknesses, their desires.

This book was the key to making the most of my circumstances, to turning the uncertainties of the future into opportunities. It contained strategies for gaining favor, for subtly influencing those around me, for carving out a place for myself in a world where power was the only currency that mattered. It was here that I plotted how to approach Daemon, how to handle the maesters, how to ensure that when the time came, I would not be caught unprepared.

The notes on Daemon were extensive—every encounter, every word he'd spoken, every reaction he'd shown, carefully recorded and analyzed. I'd seen the way he looked at the world, the hunger in his eyes, the way he seemed to be always searching for something more, something greater. I knew that if I played my cards right, I could find a way to align my goals with his, to make myself valuable to him.

But there were others, too. The lords and ladies of the court, the maesters who whispered in the shadows, even the common folk whose voices often went unheard—I studied them all. This book was not about predicting the future but about shaping it, about taking the threads of possibility and weaving them into a tapestry that would ensure my survival and success.

As I flipped through the pages, a sense of purpose settled over me. The future might be slipping through my fingers, but the present was mine to control. This second book, this carefully constructed web of plans and strategies, was my lifeline. I would use it to navigate the dangers ahead, to turn every challenge into an opportunity, and to ensure that, no matter what happened, the story of Aelor, son of Jory, would be one worth telling.

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