Chapter 63: What Now?

Maegor's Holdfast — Noon, 269 AC

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The sun hung high over King's Landing, its pale light spilling through the narrow windows of Aemon's chambers. Dust danced in the golden beams, slow and silent, like memories suspended in the air.

Inside, the room was hushed—save for the occasional crack from the hearth, where firelight curled and whispered across the stone walls. It was warm but not comforting.

Not today.

Aemon sat by the balcony with Maester Aemon's letter unfolded in his hands. The parchment was creased from repeated readings, its corners soft from his grip.

His fingers clenched—not in anger, but with a complicated blend of understanding and quiet disappointment.

Aemon stared at the familiar, steady handwriting for a long time. He could almost hear the old maester's voice behind the words—warm, steady, full of meaning.

But Maester Aemon didn't have the answer.

No hidden truth. No forgotten ritual.

Only fragments—copies of Barth's Unnatural History, scattered notes from Thomax's Dragonkin. A promise to send them south.

Even he—the wise old dragon who had turned down a crown—did not know how to hatch one.

Aemon's grip tightened briefly, then relaxed. If his great-uncle had… he would have done so himself, or told his brother. Or kept the dragons alive.

But he hadn't.

Because he couldn't.

Aemon rested the letter aside and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

Disappointed, yes—but not broken.

He rubbed his thumb along the edge of the desk as his thoughts drifted toward the three hidden dragon eggs.

Then, with a quiet breath, he murmured:

"…S.E.R.A.?"

A soft shimmer pulsed in the air—subtle, just a faint flicker near the desk.

Her voice answered, low and clear in his mind, neither cold nor warm.

[I'm here.]

He scratched the back of his neck, brow tight. "What do we do now?"

[First, you stop expecting instant answers from a world that's forgotten half its own truths,] she said gently. [Your great-uncle gave you what he could, and he's sending the texts you requested—Barth's fragments and Thomax's surviving copy. That's more than most would offer.]

Aemon nodded slightly, though his eyes didn't move from the fire.

[Also,] S.E.R.A. added, [there's something in the letter you missed.]

That made him blink. He turned back to the desk. "Missed?"

[A specific dream,] she clarified. [Your uncle described seeing dragons in his sleep—riding them, hearing their wings, feeling their breath. And above it all, a red star bleeding in the sky.]

Aemon squinted slightly. "The bleeding star…" he murmured, gaze distant. "The catalyst?"

[Perhaps,] S.E.R.A. replied. [It's long been said that a bleeding star heralds the coming of a prophesied savior—meant to stand against the darkness.]

Aemon didn't answer right away. He reached for the sheathed dagger resting beside his chair, fingers brushing over the leather grip before drawing it free.

The Valyrian steel caught the light—ripples of smoky silver undulating across its surface like shadows in motion. He stared at the blade, and its weight was familiar in his hands.

"The Prince That Was Promised…" he said, almost to the steel.

[And Azor Ahai,] S.E.R.A. added softly. [Two names. One purpose. Born under a bleeding star. A figure meant to wake dragons from stone… or to burn trying.]

Aemon rested his forearms on the desk, eyes lingering on the dagger across his lap. "Azor Ahai… I've read about him. The hero who forged Lightbringer and ended the Long Night. Burned his wife to temper the blade. That part always stuck with me."

He tapped his fingers against the wood. "And then there is the other one—the Prince That Was Promised. Said to be born under a bleeding star, meant to wake dragons from stone and save the world from darkness. Different names… but the stories sound the same."

He turned slightly, speaking to the room. "So… are they the same person?"

[Most scholars believe and agree that the two titles are interchangeable. Different cultures, different tongues—but the shape of the prophecy remains. A hero born of fire and sacrifice. Born amidst salt and smoke. Who brings balance, or destruction, depending on how the tale unfolds.] S.E.R.A replied.

Aemon folded his arms. "So Aegon the Conqueror… his dream about the threat in the North, the 'Song of Ice and Fire'—that was his interpretation of the prophecy?"

[Yes,] S.E.R.A. said. [Aegon's dream of the return of darkness is the foundation of this prophecy. He believed the realm had to be united under a single banner—House Targaryen—to prepare for that threat.]

Aemon's eyes narrowed slightly, fingers tapping the edge of the desk.

"I saw something in my own dream," he said slowly. "A black figure, cloaked in shadow… wielding a sword that burned like the sun. He was fighting the White Walkers—alone. No face I could recognize, but…"

His voice trailed off.

"…Could he be the prince?" he asked. "The one the prophecies speak of? Azor Ahai? Or the Prince That Was Promised?"

There was a beat of silence.

[The prophecy was written in High Valyrian,] she answered finally. [The word for 'prince' is gender-neutral. It could mean a man or a woman. ]

Aemon's gaze dropped slightly, thoughtful.

"I remember… before I was born, the Ghost of High Heart visited in the court, and she told of a prophesy—the prince that was promised would be born from the line of Aerys and Rhaella."

[Yes,] S.E.R.A. confirmed. [That part of the prophecy has been whispered for years. It could mean Rhaegar. Or his children. It may be your nephew Jon Snow—Targaryen and Stark, born of ice and fire. Or your niece, Daenerys, who brought dragons back into the world.]

A pause.

[Or it could be you. If you find the truth hidden in these ruins, blood, and truths. If you learn what the world forgot.]

Aemon exhaled slowly, his breath a faint cloud in the cool chamber air.

"I'm ten," he said dryly.

[So was Bran the Builder,] S.E.R.A. replied, almost amused. [So were most legends when they began.]

He scoffed. "I'm not some prince of prophecy. I'll stop Aerys from doing something stupid, keep Rhaegar from running off with some random chick, and help him be a decent king."

A pause.

"Then maybe I'll travel. Maybe hatch a few dragons. Learn stuff. See the world. And if the Night King shows up, I'll help shove him back where he came from."

He sat back, quieter now. "But I'm not the prince. I don't want to screw it up. Not like the others."

"So the real question isn't who the prince is," he murmured.

"…It's whether he or she is ready in time."

Then he looked up, his voice steady. "So what do we do?"

S.E.R.A. responded without delay—her voice calm, deliberate, as if she had already anticipated the question.

[We do what needs to be done. We wait for the fragments Maester Aemon promised. If Barth or Thomax left behind even a shred of truth, it is there.]

"And if we find nothing?"

[Then we go to the Citadel. And if not there—then we go to Valyria.]

That name lingered in the room like smoke.

[The place where everything began. Dragons. Doom. Blood. Fire. Whatever you are searching for—the heart of it is there. You know that.]

He chewed on the thought in silence, eyes drifting toward the window where the noon sun fell in slanted beams across the stone floor.

"…Valyria," he said under his breath.

[It's not a plan for tomorrow,]S.E.R.A. replied. [But it is a path. For now, stop wasting time.]

[Train. Study. Live. Grow strong enough to survive the truth—if you ever find it.]

A quiet chuckle escaped him—half bitter, half amused.

"I know," he said quietly. "I know."

But S.E.R.A. wasn't finished.

[And Host,] she said, more softly now. [A word of caution. You must be careful with what you seek. We cannot allow obsession to override judgment.]

He looked up again, brow faintly furrowed.

[Dragonlore,] she continued, [is filled with brilliance and madness in equal measure. If you burn too hot, you will not last long enough to fly.]

Aemon closed his eyes for a moment, letting those words settle deep.

Then, with a light huff, he opened one eye and muttered, "You sound like Uncle Aemon."

[Good,] she replied. [Your great-uncle lived long enough to matter.]

A beat of silence passed between them.

Then, slowly, Aemon stood—shoulders a touch straighter, eyes still shadowed but clear.

"Alright," he said. "Let's get to work."

Aemon rolled his shoulders, drawing a steady breath as he crossed the chamber. The fire still crackled, but his stillness had shifted—purpose returning to his limbs like blood after an extensive numbness.

He turned toward the side table, where parchments and fragments from his rune experiments lay across the surface.

"Alright," he said, rubbing his hands together. "How's the analysis going with the First Men runes?"

S.E.R.A. activated at once, her voice calm, focused.

[Progress is steady. The research and comparative analysis of the rune samples have confirmed they retain a faint magical signature when freshly engraved. Activation requires a ritual combining dragonglass, intent, and blood. Without all three elements, the runes remain dormant.]

Aemon nodded, eyes narrowing slightly as he picked up one of the test plates—a bronze plate etched with a simple spiral of symbols.

"Have we found out what each one does?"

[Not yet,] S.E.R.A. admitted. [I've categorized and assigned each character a functional name, but their unique magical effects remain unidentified. Further experiments and controlled testing will be required.]

"Let's see them," Aemon said, leaning forward.

A soft hum filled the air as glowing script hovered before his eyes, each ancient rune paired with its name:

First Men Runes – Current Catalogued Names

ᚠ F (Fehu) ᚢ U (Uruz) ᚦ TH (Thurisaz) ᚨ A (Ansuz) 

ᚱ R (Raido) ᚲ K (Kenaz) ᚷ G (Gebo) ᚹ W (Wunjo) 

ᚺ H (Hagalaz) ᚾ N (Nauthiz) ᛁ I (Isa) ᛃ Y (Jera) 

ᛇ EI (Eihwaz) ᛈ P (Perth) ᛉ Z (Algiz) ᛋ S (Sowilo) 

ᛏ T (Tiwaz) ᛒ B (Berkano) ᛖ E (Ehwaz) ᛗ M (Mannaz) 

ᛚ L (Laguz) ᛜ NG (Ingwaz) ᛞ D (Dagaz) ᛟ O (Othila) 

Aemon crossed his arms, eyes scanning the floating runes.

He squinted at ᛚ. "Laguz," he read aloud, letting the syllable roll over his tongue. It sounded… fluid. He tapped the rune's edge on the desk. "Water?"

He flipped the shard in his hand, light catching on the carving. "Maybe it's for flow."

His gaze flicked to ᛃ—Jera.

"Jera. Jera. Seasons? Time?" He murmured. 

He smirked to himself. "Or maybe I'm just making it all up."

"This is better," he said aloud, almost to himself. "Much better than saying 'the one that looks like a fork' or 'the triangle with horns.' Names give shape. Meaning."

He paused, now more focused. "But… will these runes hold? I mean—will the magic last? Or will it just fade over time?"

S.E.R.A.'s voice responded without hesitation—calm, informative, and edged with quiet authority.

[Runic magic is a fusion of celestial and elemental forces. The user channels raw magical energy—through symbolic forms etched into physical matter—]

"Wait," Aemon cut in gently, scratching his jaw, "you mean it works like a net? Drawing magic from the world and channeling it through the symbols?"

He paused, the thought settling in. "Passive magic," he murmured. "Like long-lasting enchantments."

[Correct. As long as there is magic in the world, the effect endures. However, it weakens over time if the world's magic wanes.]

Aemon stepped back from the floating glyphs, pacing slowly.

"So… magic was stronger once."

[At its height when dragons still roamed the skies,] S.E.R.A. confirmed. [Now it flickers. Faint. Fading. Few things in Westeros still carry strong magical resonance.]

Aemon stopped. "Weirwoods."

[Exactly.] A soft chime accompanied her words. [Weirwood trees are more than ancient relics. They are an interconnected living network—roots stretching beyond the physical, storing knowledge, memory, and power. Greenseers once used them to see across time. But their true nature is deeper still.]

A faint gust from the open window stirred the parchments on Aemon's desk.

Aemon's fingers brushed a rune-inscribed bronze plate, eyes narrowing in thought.

He muttered, almost to himself, "They're not just watchers, those trees…"

He looked up slightly, voice definite now.

"I read they're vessels. Spirits of the old world—made of wood and whisper, and they remember. That they choose. That they speak… if you know how to listen."

He paused, eyes lingering on the rune.

"So if I want these to last—to anchor the magic…"

[You must use the sap of a weirwood tree in your inscription,] S.E.R.A. confirmed. [Its essence will bond with the runes. Strengthen them. Root them in something older than time.]

Aemon let out a breath, quiet but deliberate.

"Alright then," he said. "Weirwood sap. Blood. Dragonglass. Intent. Runes with names. No pressure."

He then rolled up his sleeves and moved to his worktable, sleeves brushing aside parchments and loose ink bottles. With practiced ease, he cleared a space, laying out his tools with slow precision—dragonglass stylus and shards polished to a gleam, small strips of linen for wrapping, an iron needle for bloodletting, and a bowl to collect it.

The rune-inscribed plate sat at the center, dark and waiting. Each carved symbol seemed to hum faintly with potential, and the faintest edge of warmth prickled at Aemon's fingertips as he reached toward them.

"Alright," he muttered. "Let's find out what you do."

But just as he picked up the dragonglass stylus and reached to inscribe the first rune—

Knock. Knock.

The sound broke through the quiet like a splash of cold water. Aemon blinked, turning toward the door just as it creaked open.

Ser Barristan Selmy stepped inside, ever formal, though his expression carried the faint edge of reluctant duty.

"There's a feast in two hours," he said.

Aemon stared at him, one brow rising. "…A feast? Now?"

Barristan nodded. "By order of His Grace. In honor of the Queen's expected child. Lords and ladies from across the court will attend. You are to be present."

Aemon exhaled through his nose, lips twitching with a crooked smile. "Of course he did."

He shifted in his seat, restless.

Let the realm feast and drink before the child even draws breath. Typical Targaryen kings… always the celebration, never the sense.

Still, he turned back to Ser Barristan and nodded. "Yes. I'll be there."

Barristan gave a brief inclination of his head. "See that you are. The King expects his family to be present—clean, dressed, and hopefully not reeking of parchment and candle wax."

Aemon smirked. "I'm deeply wounded by the implication."

Ser Barristan stepped further into the room, eyes sweeping the space like a veteran inspecting a battlefield. He blinked once, clearly surprised.

"Well, I'll be damned… this doesn't look like the wild forest I walked into four days ago."

He squinted at the organized scrolls, the neatly stacked books, and the absence of parchment draped like battle flags across every surface.

"It's about damn time you got these chambers cleaned up. Did the servants finally threaten to revolt?"

Aemon grinned. "Tempting as that sounds, no. I did it myself."

Barristan arched a brow. "You?"

"Took the whole night," Aemon said, stretching his arms with mock pride. "Figured I can't let the realm think their favorite handsome young prince lives in a scroll pit."

He added a wink for good measure.

Barristan smirked. "Handsome is pushing it. And if you're trying to impress someone at the feast, you'll need more than a tidy room. You still look like you haven't bathed in a while."

"I have bathed—"

"You have an hour," Barristan interrupted, already turning toward the door. "Try to use it wisely."

The door creaked shut behind him before Aemon could get another word in.

He shouted after it, "I bathed last night, you old weasel!"

Silence.

Aemon exhaled and shook his head with a half-laugh, running a hand through his silver hair.

"Ungrateful," he muttered, heading toward his table. "Clean the world and still get insulted."

Then, slowly, he began to pack everything away.

The parchments were rolled and returned to their cases. Each piece was placed with the care of a boy not yet done—but willing to pause.

He glanced once at the flickering hearth, then at the rune-marked plate he hadn't finished etching.

"Guess magic can wait," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

Magic and madness. Dreams and dragons. Feasts and fools.

His fingers paused on the desk's edge, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"One foot in the sky," he muttered, "and the other stuck in court bullshit."

With a quiet breath, he pushed away from the desk and stood.

Robes to choose from. Hair to tame. Smile to fake. The games of royalty waited.

The realm would feast tonight—wine, songs, and empty toasts.

And he would play the prince.

Just not the one they expected.