A Song of Ash and Empire

The chamber was quiet save for the crackling of the hearth, its warmth barely chasing away the evening chill.

Prince Aemon Targaryen sat in his chair, fingers tracing the edges of the parchment before him.

Letters.

So many letters.

Most were trivial—petitions from minor lords, updates from his castellan, requests for judgment on disputes he had no patience for.

But a particular one had his attention over others.

Before him lay a letter, its parchment crisp, one from his nephew. It was one of many he had received from him recently.

Rhaegar had written to him often over the last few moons.

That in itself was not overly strange.

But lately, the letters had changed.

At first, he had not noticed—his nephew had always been perceptive, sharp beyond his years. Yet these latest correspondences carried an undercurrent he could not quite place.

Hints, subtle nudges, words that did not seem odd at first glance… yet when read together, they gave the impression of something else.

And that was what troubled him.

Aemon ran a hand through his silver hair, exhaling. He glanced at the pile of previous letters, some still stacked neatly, others with the folds worn from frequent rereading.

Aemon stared at the parchment.

His lips pressed into a thin line.

He read it again.

And again.

It was an innocent letter. Completely ordinary.

And yet…

Why in the Seven Hells does it feel like I'm being warned?

The last few letters had been much the same—little remarks about staying safe, about watching the world carefully, about not being caught unaware.

Aemon set the letter down, rubbing his temples.

He reached for another letter, sent to him a few moons back—one from Baelon, sent not long after he had first learned of the trade venture.

He picked the unfurled letter from his desk and began to reread it.

"Aemon,"

"I know you've been kept busy in the Stormlands, and I will not waste words with pleasantries—we have much to discuss when next we meet."

"House Velaryon has bound itself to us in a pact, a joint venture between both Houses that will change Westeros forever. Father has given his approval and has set his seal. A Trade company is to be formed, and a fleet will be built, and soon, if all goes well trade will no longer be dictated by the Free Cities."

"Dragonstone will be needed. The old forge beneath the castle will be restored for the production of a device that will ensure our fleets' success. A handful of shipyards will be built along its coasts, though nothing grand enough to draw unwanted attention. Your oversight will be required, as will your assistance in acquiring materials to sustain the operation."

"I will not insult you by asking for your support—I already know you will give it. This strengthens House Targaryen, and that is reason enough for both of us."

"Father has little patience for explaining details, so I will spare you the need to wait on his own letter. Rhaegar is the one who conceived it, and his mind has already begun to move far ahead. You will receive letters from him, no doubt. Read them, but do not worry if they seem strange."

"You know how he is."

"The rest, we will discuss when next we meet."

"Until then, keep safe, brother."

"Baelon."

Aemon rubbed his chin.

The letter was a few moons old.

The Dragon Tide Consortium was now a reality, and Dragonstone's resources were being put to use.

He had no objections, of course. It was brilliant, as he expected it to be. The efficiency, and the ironclad certainty with which it was being executed—it all had Baelon's touch, and apparently his nephew's mind behind it.

His father had clearly approved, and if the King himself had given his blessing, then there was nothing to question.

Aemon sighed and reached for the last letter.

It was not new. It had arrived moons ago, even before the his brother's letter, bearing the seal of his father.

At the time, he had thought little of it.

But now?

Now, he read it again.

"Aemon,"

"I hope you find yourself in good health."

"You have been doing a splendid job in securing our realm, and as such I am pleased. You have made me and our House proud."

"But remember Aemon, a man must always be aware of the world that surrounds him."

"You are a steady man, my son. A man of reason. That is why I write to you now."

"Watch the world carefully. Watch those around you carefully. Not all storms come with signs."

"And not all blades shine before they strike. Be alert always."

"Jaehaerys."

Aemon closed his eyes for a brief moment.

His father's words had not seemed too unusual when he first received them. Jaehaerys was always mindful, always alert almost bordering on paranoia.

But now, placed alongside Rhaegar's letters—they took on a different weight.

Watch the world.

Watch those around you.

Be aware of the ground you stand on.

Aemon tapped a finger against the table.

His Father told him to watch everything.

And Rhaegar…

Rhaegar was telling him something.

Aemon just didn't know what.

He had been sent many letters over the years.

Political reports. Requests for aid. Petitions.

And for the first time in a long while, Prince Aemon Targaryen felt uneasy.