**The Red Keep - Prince Aemon's Chambers, Two Hours After Midnight**
Sleep refused to come, despite exhaustion that went bone-deep. Aemon lay in his bed staring at the ceiling, replaying those final moments over and over—Baelon's collapse, the spreading blood, the knowledge that he could have intervened, the restraining hands that had held him back.
*I could have saved him.*
The thought was a blade, cutting deeper with each repetition.
Pyrion stirred from his position draped across Aemon's chest, lifting his head with concern radiating through their bond. *You're torturing yourself with impossible choices. Septon Barth was correct—revealing your capabilities in that moment would have created catastrophic complications.*
*He was my grandfather,* Aemon replied, his mental voice raw with grief and fury at his own helplessness. *The heir to the throne. A good man who deserved better than dying from something I could have fixed with ten minutes of alchemical healing.*
*Yes,* Pyrion agreed quietly. *All of that is true. And it is also true that revealing a nearly-three-year-old's ability to perform advanced surgery using impossible techniques would have destroyed everything you've built to protect your family.*
*What good is power if I can't use it when it matters most?*
*That,* came Septon Barth's voice from the doorway, making both Aemon and Pyrion start with surprise, *is perhaps the most important question any wielder of power must answer.*
The elderly septon entered with the sort of calm authority that suggested he'd been expecting this conversation. In his hands he carried a small lantern that cast dancing shadows across the chamber walls, and his expression held a mixture of compassion and grim necessity.
"Septon Barth," Aemon said carefully, sitting up despite his exhaustion. "It's rather late for social calls."
"Indeed," Barth agreed, settling onto a chair near the bed with the ease of someone who'd made this journey many times. "But then, some conversations cannot wait for morning light. Especially when they concern matters of considerable... supernatural significance."
Aemon felt his heart rate accelerate despite his enhanced control over physical responses. *He knows. The question is how much.*
"I'm not sure I understand," he said aloud, deploying his most innocent expression.
Barth's smile held no trace of humor. "Please, Your Highness. We are well past the point where childish innocence will serve as adequate defense. I have been watching you for months now. The midnight lights in your chambers. The sounds of transmutation that no one else seems to notice. The impossibly advanced knowledge you deploy while maintaining the fiction of being merely precocious."
*Comprehensive observation over extended period,* Pyrion assessed grimly. *He's been conducting systematic surveillance disguised as casual interest.*
"My prince," Barth continued, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper, "the King and Queen wish to see you. Immediately. In their private chambers."
The words fell like stones into dark water, each ripple carrying implications that rearranged Aemon's understanding of his current situation.
"Now?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. "At this hour? While they're grieving?"
"Especially while they're grieving," Barth replied with the sort of careful precision that suggested each word had been chosen for maximum impact. "Because grief has a way of stripping away pretense and revealing truths that daylight allows us to ignore. And because certain... observations made this evening require immediate address."
*They saw you try to intervene,* Pyrion realized with cold clarity. *And Barth has apparently shared enough of his suspicions that they're demanding explanations rather than waiting for morning.*
Aemon rose from his bed with the sort of resigned determination that came from recognizing when strategic retreat was no longer an option. "I should dress appropriately."
"Already arranged," Barth said, gesturing to formal clothes laid out on a nearby chair—simple but dignified, appropriate for a royal summons in the middle of the night. "We anticipated you would require... preparation time."
*How considerate,* Aemon thought grimly, beginning to change while Pyrion maintained vigilant observation of their visitor.
"Septon Barth," he said carefully while pulling on his small boots, "what exactly have you told them?"
The septon's expression softened slightly. "Only that you possess capabilities beyond normal development, that you've been conducting what appear to be alchemical experiments in secret, and that tonight you attempted to reach your grandfather with what seemed like desperate urgency to provide aid that conventional medicine could not offer."
*Comprehensive but not specific,* Aemon assessed. *He's laid groundwork for suspicion without making definitive claims about my nature.*
"And their response?" he asked, though he suspected he already knew.
"They wish to hear, in your own words, what you are and what you've been doing under their roof while appearing to be nothing more than an unusually bright child."
*Well,* Aemon thought with dark humor, *this evening just keeps getting better.*
---
**The Royal Chambers - Shortly Thereafter**
The walk through darkened corridors felt like a march to judgment, though Septon Barth's presence beside him carried an odd sort of reassurance. The elderly septon moved with the confident stride of someone who'd navigated far more treacherous situations than midnight summons from grieving monarchs.
They arrived at heavy oak doors guarded by two members of the Kingsguard who barely acknowledged their approach—White cloaks stood at attention, faces expressionless, though their eyes tracked Aemon's small form with the sort of assessment usually reserved for potential threats.
*Even the guards sense something unusual,* Pyrion observed. *Your cover as merely precocious is comprehensively compromised.*
The doors swung open to reveal a chamber lit by dozens of candles, their flames creating dancing shadows that made the space feel simultaneously vast and oppressively intimate. King Jaehaerys sat in a high-backed chair near the fire, his face haggard with fresh grief but his eyes sharp with the sort of focused attention that had held the realm together for decades. Queen Alysanne stood beside him, her own grief visible in every line of her posture but her expression set with the determination of someone prepared to face difficult truths.
"Your Graces," Barth said quietly, ushering Aemon forward. "Prince Aemon, as requested."
Aemon executed a formal bow that his enhanced physical capabilities made picture-perfect despite his age and size. "Great-grandfather. Great-grandmother. You have my deepest condolences for your loss."
The words felt inadequate—childish platitudes offered in the face of profound grief—but formal protocols existed for reasons, and this situation required all the stability such protocols could provide.
"Aemon," Jaehaerys's voice carried the weight of accumulated sorrow and grim necessity. "Sit. We have questions that require answers, and the hour is too late for dancing around uncomfortable truths."
Aemon settled onto a cushioned stool positioned to face both monarchs, acutely aware that this conversation would fundamentally alter his relationship with his family regardless of how skillfully he navigated it.
*Whatever story you tell,* Pyrion advised grimly, *it must be internally consistent and resistant to detailed interrogation. They will test every claim.*
*I know,* Aemon replied silently. *Time to deploy the contingency explanation I've been preparing since I realized Barth was watching me.*
"Septon Barth has shared certain... observations with us," Alysanne said, her voice carrying maternal concern mixed with steel-hard determination to extract truth. "Lights in your chambers at odd hours. Sounds that suggest alchemical experimentation. Knowledge that exceeds what any child your age should possess, regardless of how gifted."
She paused, violet eyes fixed on Aemon with the sort of penetrating attention that made dissembling feel impossible.
"And tonight, when your grandfather collapsed, you attempted to reach him with what appeared to be desperate urgency to provide assistance. As though you possessed knowledge or capabilities that might have saved him."
*Direct approach,* Aemon noted. *No elaborate preamble, just straight to the accusations requiring explanation.*
"I did," he admitted simply. There was no point in denying what they'd witnessed. "I believe I could have helped him, had I been permitted to try."
The silence that followed could have preserved meat for winter storage.
"You believe," Jaehaerys repeated slowly, his voice carrying dangerous quiet, "that you—a child of not yet three years—could have saved my son from injuries that killed him despite the attention of the Grand Maester and every healer in the Red Keep?"
"Yes," Aemon said with the sort of calm certainty that left no room for doubt. "Though not through conventional medicine."
"Then through what means?" Alysanne demanded, her voice sharp with grief and frustrated confusion. "Magic? Divine intervention? Or are you claiming abilities that should not exist in one so young?"
*Here it is,* Aemon thought with grim determination. *The moment where I either provide an explanation they can accept, or become something they fear.*
"The Fourteen Flames of Old Valyria," he said quietly, letting the words settle into the chamber like stones dropped into still water. "I am blessed—or perhaps cursed—with their gift. The same power that made our ancestors into dragonlords, concentrated in ways that I am only beginning to understand."
The monarchs exchanged glances that carried decades of marriage communication, each silently processing implications that rearranged their understanding of their great-grandson.
"The Fourteen Flames," Jaehaerys repeated carefully. "You claim divine favor from the gods of Old Valyria? Gods that most maesters believe were merely symbolic representations of volcanic forces?"
"Symbolic or literal," Aemon replied with the sort of philosophical precision he'd learned from Tyrion's accumulated wisdom, "the distinction matters less than the capabilities such symbolism represents. Whether the Fourteen were actual deities or merely our ancestors' way of understanding forces they could not otherwise explain, their legacy lives in our blood."
*Brilliant deflection,* Pyrion noted with approval. *Acknowledge both interpretations while avoiding commitment to either.*
"And this... legacy manifests in you how, exactly?" Alysanne asked, though her tone suggested she already suspected the answer would be troubling.
Aemon took a steadying breath, preparing to reveal truths he'd carefully concealed for months. "I dream," he said simply. "Dragon dreams, like those recorded in our family's histories. Visions of what has been, what is, and what may yet come to pass."
*The religious explanation,* he thought with calculated precision. *Frame supernatural knowledge as prophetic visions rather than reincarnated memories.*
"And in these dreams," he continued, his voice taking on the sort of distant quality appropriate for someone channeling divine revelation, "I have seen futures that must not come to pass. Tragedies that would break our family and shatter the realm. Deaths that could be prevented with proper intervention."
"What deaths?" Jaehaerys demanded, leaning forward with sudden intensity.
Aemon met his great-grandfather's eyes directly. "Princess Gael's death. She would have been seduced by a traveling bard, made pregnant, forced to drink moon tea that would have killed both her and her child. The grief would have driven her to walk into Blackwater Bay."
Alysanne's sharp intake of breath confirmed he'd struck his target precisely.
"And Prince Daemon," Aemon continued relentlessly, "forced into marriage with Rhea Royce—a union that would have bred nothing but mutual hatred and eventual violence. Their incompatibility would have created political complications that destabilized succession planning for decades."
*Reveal knowledge that can be verified through prevented outcomes,* he thought. *Demonstrate that my interventions have already altered history in beneficial ways.*
"The bard," Alysanne whispered, her voice shaking slightly. "The one who left so suddenly after Daemon... questioned him. That was real? That threat was real?"
"It was," Aemon confirmed quietly. "I saw what would happen if he remained. I saw Gael's body recovered from the bay. I saw you dying of a broken heart within months. And I... I arranged circumstances to prevent it."
"By manipulating me," Alysanne said, though her tone carried more wonder than accusation. "The conversation about Daemon and Gael. You planted that idea deliberately, knowing I would pursue it."
"I suggested a possibility," Aemon corrected carefully. "You recognized its merit and implemented it with your own considerable wisdom. The happiness they've found together is genuine, not manufactured through manipulation."
*True enough to be defensible, false enough to conceal the extent of strategic orchestration.*
Jaehaerys was quiet for a long moment, his sharp mind clearly processing the implications of what he was hearing. "If you possess such visions," he said finally, his voice carrying the weight of someone approaching questions they feared to ask, "then you knew. About Baelon. You saw his death coming."
The accusation hung in the air like an executioner's blade.
"No," Aemon said, and the genuine anguish in his voice made the word impossible to doubt. "My dreams show me patterns, possibilities, futures that branch from choices not yet made. But they are not comprehensive prophecy. I cannot see everything, and what I do see often lacks specificity regarding timing and details."
*Technically accurate,* he thought grimly. *I knew Baelon died from a burst belly, but historical records didn't specify exactly when.*
"I thought I had more time," he continued, his voice breaking with genuine grief. "I thought I could find ways to prevent it without revealing myself. But tonight, when I saw him collapse, I realized my mistake. I tried to reach him, tried to help, but..."
He trailed off, letting visible distress complete the sentence more effectively than words.
Septon Barth, who had remained silent throughout this exchange, finally spoke with the sort of gentle authority that made difficult truths easier to accept. "What the prince attempted tonight was not merely to comfort or pray. He moved with the desperate urgency of someone who possessed specific knowledge about how to treat catastrophic internal injuries. Knowledge that should not exist in any child, gifted or otherwise."
*Barth's observation skills are terrifyingly comprehensive,* Pyrion noted grimly.
"The Fourteen Flames grant more than visions," Aemon admitted carefully. "They provide... understanding. Of how bodies work, how substances interact, how to manipulate matter in ways that conventional knowledge does not permit."
"Alchemy," Jaehaerys said flatly. "You're claiming to practice Valyrian sorcery."
"I'm claiming to possess capabilities that our ancestors would have recognized as gifts from the gods they worshipped," Aemon replied with diplomatic precision. "Whether such capabilities are divine, hereditary, or some combination of both, I cannot say with certainty."
Alysanne leaned forward, her grief temporarily set aside in favor of the sort of focused attention that had made her one of the realm's most effective political operators. "Show us," she demanded. "Prove that what you claim is real and not merely the fantasy of a troubled child."
*Moment of truth,* Aemon thought with cold determination. *Time to demonstrate capabilities in controlled circumstances.*
He rose from his stool and moved to a nearby table, placing his small hands flat against the wooden surface. "What would you have me demonstrate?"
"Something undeniable," Jaehaerys said firmly. "Something that cannot be explained through conventional means or clever tricks."
Aemon nodded, drawing a simple transmutation circle on the table with one finger—the alchemical array glowing faintly blue as he channeled energy through it. He placed a bronze candlestick in the circle's center and began the careful process of molecular restructuring.
The bronze flowed like water, its atomic structure rearranging itself according to alchemical principles that violated every law of nature that maesters taught. Before their eyes, the candlestick transformed—bronze becoming silver, then gold, then platinum, cycling through elemental transmutations with the sort of casual ease that suggested mastery rather than desperate effort.
Finally, he allowed it to settle back into bronze and withdrew his hands, the transmutation circle fading to nothing as though it had never existed.
"Valyrian steel could be created through similar processes," he said quietly. "As could materials that do not exist in nature but could serve purposes our ancestors only dreamed of. This is what the Fourteen Flames granted our bloodline—the ability to reshape matter according to will and knowledge."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Alysanne reached out with trembling hands to touch the candlestick, feeling its weight, its temperature, its fundamental reality. "This is... this is impossible."
"It's alchemy," Aemon replied simply. "The science that built Old Valyria. The power that made dragons possible in the first place. And it lives in me with a strength that has not been seen since the Doom."
Jaehaerys's expression had shifted from grief-stricken grandfather to the sharp-eyed king who had navigated decades of political complexity. "If you possess such power," he said carefully, "why not use it openly? Why conceal yourself as merely precocious when you could be revealing capabilities that would transform the realm?"
*The question I've been dreading,* Aemon thought. *Time for careful truth mixed with strategic omission.*
"Because," he said with the sort of weary honesty that came from someone who'd thought long and hard about impossible choices, "power revealed too early creates fear rather than respect. A child performing miracles becomes either a saint to be worshipped or a demon to be destroyed, and neither path leads to genuine stability."
He paused, organizing his thoughts with the precision that came from having Tyrion's political genius integrated into his consciousness.
"I have been working in secret to master these abilities, to understand their scope and limitations, to prepare myself for the day when revelation becomes necessary rather than catastrophic. I have used my visions to prevent tragedies where I could, to guide beneficial outcomes where possible, and to lay groundwork for a future where our family remains strong and the realm remains stable."
"By manipulating circumstances," Jaehaerys said, though his tone carried more assessment than accusation. "By engineering outcomes through strategic intervention disguised as childish suggestions."
"By recognizing patterns and offering alternatives," Aemon corrected carefully. "Every choice I've influenced was made freely by the individuals involved. I merely... provided information and context that allowed them to make better decisions than they might have otherwise."
*Technically accurate and completely misleading,* Pyrion observed. *Masterful political rhetoric.*
Alysanne was studying him with an expression that mixed maternal concern, political calculation, and something that might have been cautious approval. "You prevented my daughter's death," she said quietly. "You arranged her happiness with Daemon. You've been protecting this family in ways we never suspected."
"I've been trying," Aemon admitted. "Though tonight has shown me that my power has limits. That some tragedies occur despite my best efforts to prevent them."
The grief that had been temporarily suppressed by shock and revelation flooded back into Jaehaerys's expression. "Could you truly have saved my son? If Barth hadn't restrained you?"
Aemon met his great-grandfather's eyes directly, refusing to look away from the pain his answer would cause. "Yes. I believe I could have. The internal injuries, the hemorrhaging—these are problems that alchemical healing could address if applied quickly enough. But..."
He paused, struggling to find words for an impossible truth.
"But revealing such capabilities in that moment, before so many witnesses, would have created complications that could have destabilized everything. Fear of my power, accusations of witchcraft, demands that I be controlled or contained. The price of saving one life might have been the destruction of our family's cohesion."
"And you think that price too high?" Jaehaerys asked, his voice carrying the dangerous quiet of a king weighing judgment.
"I think," Aemon said carefully, "that trading one death for potential civil war serves no one's interests. But I also think that having power and being forbidden to use it when it matters most is a curse disguised as a blessing."
The honesty of that admission—the raw vulnerability of someone confessing the limits of their capability despite supernatural gifts—seemed to defuse some of the tension in the chamber.
"What do you see, Aemon?" Alysanne asked quietly. "In your dreams. What futures are you trying to prevent?"
*The ultimate question,* Aemon thought. *How much truth can I reveal without making myself seem too dangerous to leave free?*
"War," he said simply. "Civil war within our family. Dragons fighting dragons, brother against brother, the realm torn apart by succession disputes and competing claims to the throne. A dance of dragons that leaves our house weakened and vulnerable."
He paused, letting that vision settle.
"I see paths where we destroy ourselves through pride and ambition, where the legacy that Aegon built crumbles into ruin because we cannot maintain unity. And I see other paths—harder ones, requiring sacrifice and wisdom—where we remain strong, where dragons protect rather than destroy, where the Targaryen dynasty endures for centuries."
"And you believe your... gifts allow you to guide us toward better futures?" Jaehaerys asked.
"I believe," Aemon said with careful precision, "that I can see dangers before they fully develop, identify problems before they become crises, and suggest solutions that might otherwise be overlooked. Whether that makes me prophet or merely unusually perceptive, I cannot say with certainty."
Septon Barth, who had been observing this entire exchange with the sort of focused attention that missed nothing, finally offered his assessment. "What the prince claims is consistent with historical accounts of dragon dreams that have occurred in your bloodline for generations. The specificity and accuracy of his visions exceeds normal prophetic experience, but such variance might be explained by the concentration of Valyrian blood and the proximity to dragons during his development."
*Brilliant framing,* Aemon thought with gratitude for Barth's intellectual flexibility. *Position me as an extreme example of known phenomenon rather than entirely new category.*
"And the alchemy?" Alysanne pressed. "The transmutation we just witnessed?"
"Also documented in Valyrian histories," Barth replied smoothly. "Though such capabilities have been lost since the Doom. If the prince has somehow recovered or reinvented such techniques through divine inspiration or natural genius, it represents an unprecedented renaissance of ancient knowledge."
*He's providing them with frameworks for acceptance rather than fear,* Pyrion observed approvingly. *Excellent ally to have in this conversation.*
Jaehaerys was quiet for a long moment, his sharp mind clearly weighing options and implications. Finally, he rose from his chair with the sort of decisive authority that had held the realm together through crisis after crisis.
"Very well," he said, his voice carrying royal command. "This is what will happen. Your... gifts will remain secret, known only to those in this room. You will continue your studies and your efforts to master these capabilities. And you will use them to protect this family and guide the realm toward stability."
He paused, fixing Aemon with a look that carried both hope and warning.
"But you will also learn prudence. Not every problem can be solved through supernatural intervention, and revealing yourself before the time is right would create precisely the sort of chaos you claim to be trying to prevent. Do you understand?"
"I understand," Aemon replied, feeling profound relief mixed with renewed determination.
"Good." Jaehaerys's expression softened slightly. "You have already prevented tragedies I did not know threatened us. Perhaps, with time and guidance, you can prevent others we have yet to foresee."
Alysanne moved forward, pulling Aemon into an embrace that held maternal warmth mixed with desperate hope. "My clever, terrible, wonderful boy," she whispered. "You carry burdens no child should bear. But you do not carry them alone. We will help you, guide you, protect you—even from yourself when necessary."
*Mission accomplished,* Pyrion observed with deep satisfaction. *Cover story established, supernatural capabilities explained through religious framework, continued secrecy ensured with royal approval.*
*And I've gained allies who understand at least part of what I am,* Aemon added silently. *Even if they don't know the full truth.*
As the conversation wound down and arrangements were made for Aemon's continued secret training under Septon Barth's supervision, he felt the weight of revealed truth settling into his bones. He'd exposed himself—not completely, but enough to fundamentally alter his relationship with his family.
The question now was whether that exposure would prove to be wisdom or catastrophic mistake.
*Time will tell,* he decided as he was finally dismissed to return to his chambers. *But at least now I don't have to face these impossible choices entirely alone.*
Behind him, he heard Jaehaerys's quiet voice asking Barth about historical precedents for prophetic gifts, about the theological implications of Valyrian divine favor, about the practical limits of alchemical capabilities.
And he knew, with the certainty that came from comprehensive strategic planning, that his life had just become infinitely more complicated.
But also, perhaps, infinitely more effective.
The Dance of Dragons still loomed on the horizon.
But now he had royal sanction to prevent it.
And that, he reflected with grim satisfaction, changed everything.
—
# The Weight of Succession
**The Royal Chambers - An Hour After Aemon's Departure**
The fire had burned low, casting long shadows across the chamber as three of the realm's most powerful individuals contemplated truths that would reshape the political landscape of Westeros. King Jaehaerys sat with the weight of fresh grief visible in every line of his posture, while Queen Alysanne had claimed the chair beside him, her hand resting on his arm with the sort of steady support that came from decades of partnership.
Septon Barth stood near the window, his ascetic frame silhouetted against the pre-dawn darkness, contemplating the Red Keep's sleeping city with the expression of someone whose theological frameworks had just been comprehensively challenged.
"A child touched by the Fourteen Flames," Jaehaerys said finally, breaking the contemplative silence. "Possessed of visions that prevent tragedies and alchemical capabilities that haven't been seen since the Doom. My great-grandson is either the realm's greatest blessing or its most dangerous liability."
"Perhaps both," Alysanne replied quietly, her voice carrying the sort of pragmatic assessment that had guided royal policy for decades. "Power of such magnitude cannot be purely beneficial or entirely threatening. It simply... is. What matters is how we guide its application."
Barth turned from the window, his keen eyes reflecting firelight. "The theological implications alone are staggering. If Prince Aemon truly carries divine favor from the old gods of Valyria—or if he has somehow recovered lost sorcerous knowledge through natural genius—either explanation suggests capabilities that could reshape civilization."
"Or destroy it," Jaehaerys added grimly. "One child with the power to transmute matter, to heal impossible injuries, to see futures that have not yet come to pass? That concentration of ability in someone so young and relatively unformed..."
He trailed off, but the implications hung heavy in the air.
"You fear he might become a tyrant," Alysanne said, not a question but an acknowledgment of concerns they all shared. "That unlimited power combined with incomplete wisdom could lead to catastrophic decisions justified by prophetic certainty."
"I fear," Jaehaerys replied carefully, "that even with the best intentions, such capabilities create impossible choices. Tonight proved that. He claims he could have saved Baelon, and I believe him. But revealing such power in that moment would have created chaos that might have torn the realm apart."
Barth moved closer to the fire, warming his hands while organizing thoughts with scholarly precision. "The question we must address is not whether to trust Prince Aemon—his actions thus far suggest genuine commitment to family welfare and realm stability. Rather, we must determine who else should know of his nature, and how such knowledge can be managed to maximize benefit while minimizing risk."
"Daemon must know," Alysanne said immediately. "He will be married to Gael within months, making him increasingly central to family dynamics. And his own... intensity might resonate with understanding someone who carries burdens others cannot see."
Jaehaerys nodded slowly. "Agreed. Daemon's loyalty to family is absolute, and his tactical mind would appreciate the strategic implications of having someone who can see developing threats before they mature."
"But beyond Daemon?" Barth prompted, leading them toward the harder questions.
The silence that followed carried the weight of decisions that would echo through generations.
"The heir," Jaehaerys said finally, his voice taking on the sort of grim finality that accompanied recognition of unavoidable necessity. "Whoever inherits the Iron Throne must know what Aemon is, what he can do, and how to work with him rather than fear him."
"Which brings us," Alysanne said quietly, "to the question that has been hanging over this kingdom since my son collapsed in front of the entire court. Who is the heir?"
The fire crackled in the sudden tension. They had been avoiding this conversation for hours, focusing on Aemon's revelation as a way to delay confronting the succession crisis that Baelon's death had created.
"The law is unclear," Jaehaerys admitted, decades of careful jurisprudence evident in his careful phrasing. "Tradition suggests the throne passes to the eldest son, then to his sons. By that logic, Viserys—Baelon's eldest—should be heir."
"But Rhaenys was born to your eldest son," Alysanne countered, her voice carrying the sort of steel that suggested this argument had been brewing for years. "She carries Aemon's blood through direct male lineage. Many would argue her claim supersedes Viserys's claim through a younger branch."
"Many would argue," Jaehaerys agreed grimly, "and in that argument lies the seed of civil war. Whichever decision we make will create a faction who believes themselves unjustly passed over."
Barth's expression had taken on the thoughtful consideration of someone recognizing patterns in seemingly chaotic data. "This is what Prince Aemon saw, isn't it? In his visions. Succession disputes leading to civil war, dragons fighting dragons. He was trying to warn us about precisely this moment."
"He mentioned a 'dance of dragons,'" Alysanne confirmed quietly. "War within the family over competing claims to the throne. He's been working to prevent it—that's why he arranged Daemon and Gael's match, why he's been so focused on family unity and stability."
"Then we must not give him additional tragedies to prevent," Jaehaerys said with decisive authority. "The succession must be settled clearly, definitively, in a way that establishes precedent and prevents future disputes."
"How?" Alysanne asked. "Royal decree will be seen as arbitrary favoritism regardless of which candidate you choose. And if your decree is later questioned or overturned, it establishes that succession law can be changed by political pressure."
Barth had been quiet during this exchange, his scholarly mind clearly working through historical precedents and theoretical frameworks. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the sort of careful certainty that came from recognizing elegant solutions to complex problems.
"A Great Council," he said simply.
Both monarchs turned to stare at him.
"A Great Council?" Jaehaerys repeated slowly. "Gathering the lords of every major house to collectively determine the succession?"
"Precedent exists," Barth replied with growing confidence. "You yourself confirmed your own succession over Maegor's widow and other claimants with the support of the various lords of the Seven Kingdoms. A gathering of the realm's nobility to witness, debate, and ultimately validate the succession through collective authority rather than royal decree alone."
Alysanne leaned forward with sudden interest. "It would give legitimacy that no royal proclamation could match. Whatever decision the council reaches becomes the settled will of the realm, not just the preference of the current monarch."
"It also," Jaehaerys noted with the sort of political calculation that had kept the peace for decades, "creates precedent for collective decision-making in matters of succession. That could strengthen or weaken future monarchs depending on circumstances."
"Perhaps," Barth acknowledged. "But the alternative is making a decision that half the realm believes illegitimate, then spending your remaining years suppressing rebellions from those who feel wronged. Better to have all the major houses witness and participate in the determination."
"And young Aemon?" Alysanne asked carefully. "How does his... situation factor into this decision?"
Barth's expression turned thoughtful. "That depends on what the council decides. If Viserys becomes heir, he should be informed of his son's capabilities and the role Prince Aemon might play in protecting the realm. If Rhaenys prevails, she and Corlys should receive similar briefing."
"But not before the council," Jaehaerys said, working through the implications. "Knowledge of Aemon's gifts could influence the decision in ways we cannot predict. Better to settle succession first, then inform the heir of truths they'll need to govern effectively."
"Agreed," Alysanne said firmly. "Though I would argue for informing both candidates after the decision is made. Rhaenys and Viserys are family regardless of who inherits, and both should understand that Aemon represents an asset to the dynasty rather than a threat."
"Eventually," Barth added carefully. "Though the circle of knowledge should expand slowly and deliberately. Each person informed represents another potential security risk if word spreads beyond trusted family."
Jaehaerys rose from his chair with the sort of decisive movement that indicated plans were crystallizing into policy. "Very well. We will call a Great Council. Invite every lord of significant standing to King's Landing to witness and participate in determining the succession. Present both claims fairly, allow debate and deliberation, and accept whatever decision the realm's nobility collectively reaches."
"When?" Alysanne asked practically.
"Six months," Jaehaerys decided after brief consideration. "Time enough for lords to make travel arrangements, for both candidates to prepare their cases, and for the realm to witness that this decision is being made with appropriate gravity and consideration."
"And in those six months?" Barth prompted.
"We continue as we have been," Jaehaerys replied. "Viserys serves as heir apparent as Baelon's eldest son, while acknowledging that his status is subject to the council's determination. Rhaenys is treated with respect befitting a potential heir. And the realm prepares to witness history being made."
He paused, his expression taking on additional weight.
"And Prince Aemon continues his studies under your supervision, Septon Barth. Help him master these gifts, guide him toward wisdom in their application, and prepare him for whatever role he'll play in the realm's future. Whether as advisor to his cousin or protector of his sister, his capabilities will be needed."
"I will do my best," Barth replied with the sort of humble confidence that suggested he recognized both the challenge and its importance. "Though I confess, teaching someone who can transmute matter and see the future is somewhat outside my normal pedagogical experience."
"You're a scholar of considerable intellect and flexibility," Alysanne said warmly. "And more importantly, you're someone Aemon already trusts. He needs mentors who can help him understand the responsibilities that come with such power, not just the technical applications."
"Speaking of responsibilities," Jaehaerys added, his voice taking on paternal concern, "we must also ensure he remains... grounded. A child with godlike capabilities needs reminders that he is still a child, still learning, still capable of mistakes despite prophetic visions."
"His sister helps with that," Alysanne noted with slight amusement. "Princess Rhaenyra treats him as a normal brother regardless of his gifts. That influence may be more valuable than any formal instruction."
"Then we encourage their bond," Jaehaerys decided. "Twin dragons learning together, keeping each other balanced. One with supernatural gifts learning humility, the other learning that cleverness comes in many forms."
Barth nodded thoughtfully. "I will develop a curriculum that emphasizes both capability and restraint. Theory and practice balanced with ethical philosophy and historical cautionary tales. Prince Aemon needs to understand not just what he can do, but when he should refrain from action despite capability."
"The hardest lesson," Jaehaerys agreed quietly. "Tonight taught him that having power doesn't grant permission to use it. That knowledge came at terrible cost."
The silence that followed carried fresh grief, the reality of Baelon's death reasserting itself now that immediate crises had been addressed.
"He tried to save our son," Alysanne said softly, tears threatening despite her regal composure. "He had the knowledge, the capability, the desperate will to prevent exactly what happened. And he was stopped because revealing himself would have created worse problems."
"A curse disguised as a blessing," Jaehaerys replied, pulling his wife close with the sort of fierce protectiveness that transcended royal dignity. "To see tragedy coming and be powerless to prevent it without causing greater tragedy. I would not wish such burden on anyone, let alone a child."
"Yet he carries it," Barth observed. "And will continue carrying it for the rest of his life. Our task is ensuring that burden doesn't crush him, that power doesn't corrupt him, and that visions of possible futures don't make him arrogant about his ability to shape actual outcomes."
"Can you do that?" Alysanne asked. "Can anyone truly guide someone with such gifts toward wisdom rather than tyranny?"
"I don't know," Barth admitted with characteristic honesty. "But I must try. Because the alternative—leaving him to develop these capabilities without moral framework or philosophical grounding—risks creating precisely the sort of catastrophic outcomes he claims to be trying to prevent."
Jaehaerys moved to the window, watching as pre-dawn light began painting the sky in shades of pearl and rose. The Red Keep was beginning to stir, another day dawning despite the previous night's tragedies.
"A Great Council to determine succession," he said, summarizing their decisions. "Careful revelation of Aemon's nature to the chosen heir and select family members. Ongoing education to help him master capabilities while developing wisdom in their application. And through it all, maintaining the stability that prevents the very conflicts he foresees."
"Ambitious agenda," Alysanne noted.
"We are Targaryens," Jaehaerys replied with the ghost of a smile. "Ambition is our inheritance."
"Along with madness, apparently," Barth added dryly. "Though in Prince Aemon's case, one hopes the madness manifests as excessive dedication to family welfare rather than more destructive expressions."
"He prevented my daughter's death," Alysanne said firmly. "He arranged happiness for Daemon and Gael. His instincts thus far have been protective rather than destructive. That foundation is worth building upon."
"Agreed," Jaehaerys said. "Which is why we protect him, guide him, and ensure he grows into someone who uses power to serve rather than dominate. The realm needs dragons who protect rather than destroy."
As morning light filled the chamber and the sounds of the waking Red Keep grew louder, the three conspirators—king, queen, and scholar—made their final plans for managing truths that would reshape dynasty and realm alike.
Prince Aemon Targaryen would continue his secret development under careful supervision.
The succession would be settled through unprecedented democratic process.
And the Dance of Dragons—whatever form it might take—would be prevented through wisdom, planning, and the careful application of prophetic knowledge.
Whether such plans would survive contact with reality remained to be seen.
But for now, hope had replaced despair, and purpose had emerged from tragedy.
The realm would endure.
The dynasty would adapt.
And the future—as always—remained unwritten despite the visions of those who claimed to see it.
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