The Weight of the North

296 AC

The cold Northern air clung to Aemon Targaryen's skin as he emerged from the shadows of Winterfell's godswood. His heart felt heavier than the thick cloak wrapped around his shoulders, each step away from the castle echoing with the weight of rejection and lost hope.

The words exchanged with Ned Stark reverberated in his mind, each syllable a dagger twisting deeper into his chest. He had come seeking support, an ally in the man who had raised him, but had left with nothing but the bitter taste of disappointment and the knowledge that the North's fate was sealed in sorrow.

Aemon's boots crunched through the snow as he made his way through the familiar woods, his breath misting in the frigid air. The towering form of Ancalagon awaited him beyond the treeline, the dragon's black scales shimmering under the pale moonlight, his eyes reflecting the turmoil in Aemon's heart.

As he approached, Ancalagon lowered his massive head, sensing his rider's distress. Aemon placed a hand against the dragon's warm scales, drawing strength from the creature's silent, unwavering loyalty. But even the bond with his dragon couldn't ease the ache in his chest.

With a heavy heart, Aemon climbed onto Ancalagon's back, the familiar motion offering little comfort. As the dragon's wings unfurled, casting a shadow over the snow-covered ground, Aemon cast one last glance toward Winterfell's towering walls. The castle stood silent and unyielding, much like the man within it.

"Goodbye, father," Aemon whispered, his voice barely audible over the wind.

With a powerful beat of Ancalagon's wings, they rose into the night sky, leaving the land of his childhood behind.

Tears in the Sky

The cold wind stung Aemon's face as Ancalagon soared higher, the vast expanse of the North stretching out beneath them. The forests, rivers, and mountains that had once been his home now seemed distant and foreign, as if they belonged to another life—to Jon Snow, the boy who no longer existed.

Tears welled in Aemon's eyes, blurring the landscape below. He let them fall, the cold air drying them against his cheeks as quickly as they formed. Each tear carried the weight of unspoken words, of dreams dashed against the unforgiving stone of reality.

He had wanted to protect the Starks, to change the course of their future. But Ned's refusal had sealed their fate. Aemon knew what was coming—the War of the Five Kings, the betrayals, the bloodshed. He had seen the threads of destiny weaving their cruel tapestry, and now he was powerless to stop it.

The image of Sansa haunted him the most. Her bright eyes, her innocence—he had offered her a future as queen, a life of power and security. But Ned had rejected it, choosing honor over ambition, peace over the perilous path Aemon had laid before him.

"Fool," Aemon muttered to himself, though the bitterness in his voice was tinged with sorrow rather than anger. "You'll see what your honor brings."

The Burden of Knowledge

As they flew farther from Winterfell, Aemon's thoughts spiraled into the dark recesses of what he knew the future held. He saw visions of Robb Stark marching south, the Red Wedding, Catelyn's lifeless eyes staring into nothingness. He saw Arya, lost and alone, wandering through lands that would never feel like home. He saw Bran, crippled and burdened with powers he barely understood, and Rickon, a child doomed to a tragic end.

And Sansa…

He clenched his fists, his nails digging into Ancalagon's scales. The thought of Sansa in King's Landing, of her being used as a pawn by the Lannisters, twisted his stomach with rage and helplessness. He had tried to save her, to offer her a different path. But now, all he could do was hope that his warning to Ned would be heeded.

But deep down, he knew it wouldn't be.

The Lonely Sky

Hours passed as they soared through the night, the cold seeping into Aemon's bones. The vast sky felt emptier than ever, the stars distant and indifferent to his pain. He had dragons, armies, power—but none of it could fill the void left by the family he had lost.

Ancalagon let out a low, rumbling growl, sensing his rider's turmoil. Aemon stroked the dragon's neck, his touch gentle despite the storm raging within him.

"We'll find our own path," Aemon whispered, more to himself than to the dragon. "The North doesn't want me. But the world will remember who I am."

As dawn approached, painting the horizon with pale light, Aemon felt the weight of the night settle over him like a shroud. He had come to the North seeking allies, but he was leaving with nothing but the bitter knowledge of what was to come.

And as Ancalagon carried him farther from Winterfell, Aemon knew one thing with absolute certainty:

The Starks' fate was sealed but not his.