Game of thrones: The fire lord

Maybe the crying child from before was me.

Aemon stepped closer, peering at the swaddled infant in Alison's arms.

"Give Rhaena to me. Her brother should see her."

Alison hesitated but eventually handed over the baby. Before Aemon could fully prepare himself, the little bundle was already in his arms.

"How do I hold her?" he asked, his body stiff and tense, afraid he might drop the baby.

"Just support her bottom," Alison chuckled. "Relax, don't be so nervous."

"Oh… oh."

Aemon carefully adjusted his posture, his arms cradling the child gently. To his surprise, the little one was incredibly soft.

"Yeah~~"

The baby girl wiggled restlessly, her fine silver-gold hair swaying as she turned her head from side to side. She squirmed within the confines of the swaddling cloth, struggling against its restraints like a trapped caterpillar.

"She's… biting me?" Aemon frowned, tilting his head to the side. His neck felt damp—was that drool?

Alison covered her mouth to hide her laughter, watching as her daughter pressed her tiny face against Aemon's shoulder. "She likes you, you know. She hasn't cried at all since seeing you."

"That's because she's biting me," Aemon muttered darkly.

"Yeah~~"

Little Rhaena was not pleased with his reaction. Her small, chubby hands wriggled free from the loose swaddling, latching onto Aemon's face as she attempted to sink her tiny teeth into him again.

Aemon's mouth twitched. Since he couldn't fight back, he opted to dodge, shifting away from her determined grip.

Despite her size, the little girl was surprisingly strong—his face actually hurt.

"You've got quite the grip for a baby," he muttered, rubbing his cheek.

Boom!

The cozy moment was interrupted by a sudden knock at the door.

A bloated, bald man in a linen academic robe stood at the entrance, speaking in a slow, deliberate manner. "Your Majesty, Prince Aegon is inconsolable. Would you tend to him?"

Alison frowned. "Where is the wet nurse?"

"They have tried," Archmaester Mellos replied, his expression unreadable. "Nothing has worked."

Alison sighed, brushing down her skirt as she stood. She gave Aemon an apologetic look. "Stay with Rhaena for a while. I'll be back soon."

"It's fine. Babies cry. That's what they do." Aemon waved her off.

As soon as Alison left, Mellos lingered a moment longer, staring at Aemon in a way that made the young prince uneasy.

"You seem… busy," Aemon said first, smiling in an attempt to appear harmless.

Mellos gave a polite nod. "His Majesty has many responsibilities."

With that, he turned and walked away, offering no further conversation.

Aemon frowned.

Isn't the king holding a council meeting? Shouldn't the Grand Maester be there?

Something felt off. But he didn't dwell on it for long.

The Grand Maester was chosen by the Citadel, which naturally meant he sided with Oldtown and House Hightower. Alison was part of the Hightower family, so there shouldn't be a problem. But if there was a problem… that meant someone was scheming against me.

Aemon clicked his tongue and looked down at the lively baby in his arms. "We're clear on this—don't bite me again, alright?"

"Yeah~~"

Rhaena's pink face scrunched up, and she let out an indignant little grunt, wriggling furiously.

Aemon sighed, raising a hand to pat her small bottom. His expression shifted instantly into a mock-serious frown. "Be good. Your mother isn't here to protect you, so don't try to test me."

The baby's lips trembled, and she stared at him, looking both wronged and cautious. She hesitated for a moment before falling quiet.

Aemon smirked. "That's better."

For a moment, he simply sat there, holding her.

She was warm.

She hadn't cried once in his arms, which made him wonder—was Alison too gentle with her children? Did she think all her offspring would be as easy to manage? No wonder she had several in quick succession.

Time passed, and the room grew dim.

Aemon sat on the carpet, dozing off, with a now-sleeping Rhaena cradled in his arms.

Beside him, an ornate tea tray held nothing but empty cups and a few crumbs.

Suddenly, Aemon stirred awake. He blinked groggily. "She's still not back?"

He frowned.

Did Aegon cry himself hoarse?

"No, this is strange."

Carefully, he placed Rhaena back in her cradle. The little girl scrunched her face in her sleep, tear stains still visible at the corners of her eyes.

Aemon rubbed his own eyes. "I need to move around."

He told the maids he was leaving, then stepped into the corridor. The hall was mostly empty, save for a few servants lighting candles.

A cool breeze swept through, and Aemon shivered.

"Spring in King's Landing is still cold."

Looking outside, he noted the sun had already set.

I need to act now.

His mind sharpened.

There were few valuable items left in Old Runestone, and he had yet to find any magical artifacts there. If he wanted to rise in power, he had to start here, in King's Landing.

Aemon inhaled deeply, then swiftly made his way toward the king's chambers.

When he reached the king's door, he didn't hesitate.

Bang!

He kicked it open.

A passing servant gasped. "Prince, you—"

Aemon raised a finger to his lips. "Shh. It's fine. Just go about your business."

The servant hesitated but obeyed, though his face was pale with fear.

Aemon stepped inside, the familiar space unchanged since he had lived there three years prior.

Uncle Viserys was always an indulgent ruler—gentle, forgiving. He had never truly punished his younger brother, Daemon, so there was no reason to fear he'd punish Daemon's son either.

Aemon smirked. It's good to be a child sometimes.

His eyes scanned the room.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

But then, his gaze locked onto the fireplace.

Hanging above it was a long sword in a black scabbard. Its straight, gleaming blade was unmistakable. The hilt and guard formed a cross, and at the pommel—where there should have been rubies—was a seven-pointed star.

"The family sword, Blackfyre… my great-grandfather's weapon in his youth."

Aemon grabbed a chair, climbed onto it, and carefully lifted the Valyrian steel sword from its mount.

As soon as his fingers brushed the weapon, a faint voice echoed in his mind.

"You have discovered a magical weapon. Magic essence +10."

Aemon's lips curled into a grin.

"I knew it."

His fingers traced the hilt, the metal smooth and cool beneath his touch.

His great-grandfather had often wielded this sword to tease him when he was a child.

But something irritated him.

Aemon's eyes narrowed as he examined the end of the hilt. The intricate Targaryen rubies had been replaced with symbols of the Faith of the Seven.

"Uncle is such a coward. He changed the entire aesthetic just to appease Oldtown and the Faith."

It was a disgrace.

Targaryens were dragons, not devout followers of the Seven.

Aemon sneered. Well, no matter. It's mine now.

His journey was just beginning.

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