The Bastard of Dragonstone

by Capitaine_Quebec

Summary:

Aemon Waters was born in the shadow of a ruined dynasty. Allowed to live out of pity, he rules Dragonstone under the watchful eye of Stannis Baratheon. Nearly three centuries ago, his ancestors planned their conquest here; now he stands where they stood, the spawn of rape and war.

When the realm tears itself apart, as winter itself crept from the far north, the last scion of Dragonstone is forced to choose between the wolves who forgot him, the stags who imprisoned him and the echoes of his father's kin calling for him across the sea.

The blood within him will burn as the Seven Kingdoms war around him and in the flames, he may yet find a crown, or a pyre.

Chapter 1: Prologue

Summary:

A new age would dawn upon the seven kingdoms, and he held a remnant of the last regime.

Prologue

Eddard Stark should’ve known nothing good ever came of coming to the capital. He hadn’t expected Robert, his king, to call upon him to look upon his sister and her boy.

No—his bastard. Nobody could ever know the truth.

He entered the throne room and knew, in that very instant, he had made a mistake. Howland and Wylla, the wet nurse, followed behind him.

No guards or courtiers anywhere, just his friend and foster father waiting fo him. Robert had wanted this confrontation private.

Robert sat upon the throne with a storm brewing in his eyes, Jon Arryn at his side, both looking down at Ned.

He knelt before the melted monstrosity.

“Your Grace,” he uttered, his voice hoarse.

“Show him to me.” Robert’s voice, though quiet, carried to every corner of the hall.

Ned’s heart stopped. He froze like a pond in autumn as he straightened, his eyes betraying him as they flicked toward his nephew.

Jon Arryn looked unsure, confused. Robert’s face was so unfamiliar that Ned could not name the emotion upon it—but later, he would know it as suspicion, and grief.

Robert repeated himself, far louder, his voice echoing off the stone walls.

“Robert, I—”

“Show him to me, godsdamn it!”

The Lord of Winterfell didn’t know what to do. His oaths and vows swam inside his skull as he panicked.

He could not know. He must not know.

Promise me, Ned.

Had he already failed? Would he see his nephew slaughtered like his siblings, wrapped in Lannister red?

His inaction drew Robert’s next words like a drawn blade.

“Tell me the truth, Ned. By the old gods and the new, tell me he is Ashara’s. Tell me he’s not his.”

Robert's voice cracked, fury barely masking the grief that strangled his throat. He wasn’t just asking—he was begging. For a lie. For a comfort. For something to make the war worth it.

Ned stood as still as stone.

“He’s just a babe,” he said at last. “The last piece of her left. He’s done no crime. Guilty of nothing but being born.”

Robert’s knuckles whitened against the Iron Throne. The blades bit into his skin, blood seeping between clenched fingers, but if it pained him, he gave no sign.

“Don’t give me that, Ned. You know what he is. You understand that Rhaegar forced himself on Lyanna? Forced her to birth this wretch?!”

Ned’s mouth was dry. “What she died for.”

The words struck home. Robert’s jaw twitched, but his eyes never left the boy—small, silent, bundled in Wylla’s arms.

“He is my sister’s son,” Ned pressed. “The last thing she asked of me was to keep him safe. To protect him. Please, Robert. He’s no dragon. Just a child.”

Robert’s voice dropped, low and cold. “So were Rhaenys and Aegon.”

“Enough,” Jon Arryn said gently. “This helps nothing.”

Robert ignored him. “I won’t raise a dragon in my kingdom, Ned. You know what Viserys is. You want two of them now? You want more of that blood running loose?”

“He’s not Viserys,” Ned said, sharper now. “He’s never even seen a crown.”

Robert barked a bitter laugh. “Not yet.”

Jon Arryn shifted beside the throne. “There may be… a compromise. If the boy must live, then let him be sent to the Wall.”

“No.” Ned’s reply came swift, fierce.

Robert sneered. “So you’ll keep him in Winterfell? Raise him like your own?”

“I’ll keep him a hostage. Nothing more,” Ned said through clenched teeth. “Raise him in the North, far from court. He’ll never be a threat.”

“A hostage,” Robert echoed. “To whom?”

“To what’s left of his family,” Ned answered. “Rhaella. Viserys.”

Robert rose, fury written across his face—but beneath it was exhaustion, betrayal, heartbreak. He turned from the throne, gazing down the shadowed hall of the Red Keep.

He was a far cry from the great warrior of the Trident who slew the dragon prince. His breath hitched as his eyes found Lyanna’s coffin. Robert looked again at the babe—Aemon, Lyanna had named him.

Grey eyes. Dark hair. A true Stark despite his father.

“I want this done,” Robert said. “All of it. Over.”

He looked at Ned, and for a moment, seemed more man than king.

“Fine. Keep your sister’s whelp. But he won’t be your hostage. Or your bastard.”

His voice rang out, final and fierce.

“He’s the last of them. Let the realm see what mercy costs me.”

He turned to Jon Arryn.

“Let him keep his dragonspawn name. Let him have Dragonstone, his family’s cursed seat. Stannis will watch him. Raise him. Chain him if he must! The boy gets no crown, no claim, no future. Just a sad little island all to himself.”

He glared at Ned, voice like thunder.

“I want the Targaryen name to die with him, Ned. If he ever lifts his eyes toward the throne… I’ll finish what the war began.”

Ned bowed with as much grace as he could and left the throne room with his friend, wet nurse and her charge.

Ned took the babe from Wylla.

He slept peacefully… the Lord of Dragonstone.

Robert could never know Lyanna had wed. That Aemon Targaryen was a son of love, not rape.

The Prince who never was.

Ned could not break his dearest friend more than he already had.

And the boy could never know either.

This was a secret he could keep hidden away.

He looked into the grey eyes and the few tufts of brown hair on the quiet little babe.

He looked just like Lya as a babe.

"To Winterfell, my lord." He muttered sadly.

Soon, the realm would hear of him. And the lords of Westeros, hungry-eyed and ever-plotting, would see him as one thing or the other: a crown to raise. Or a dragon to kill.

Chapter 2: The Weight of Duty

Summary:

Robert names him dragonspawn. Ned names him brave. In the godswood, Aemon Waters chooses which he will be.

The Weight of Duty

The sun barely touched the godswood.
Grey clouds pressed low over Winterfell, the air heavy and still, as if the castle itself were holding its breath. Aemon didn’t mind. He liked the quiet, the way the leaves whispered above him, the red leaves of the heart tree shivering in the breeze.

He paid no mind to the stillness today. There was a maiden to save from a wildling.

“I am Aemon, the King of Winter!” cried Aemon Waters, swinging his branch-sword with all the fury of a true champion. His foe, Robb Stark, his very best friend, met the blow with a branch of his own.

“I am the King-Beyond-the-Wall, and I stole her fair and square!” Robb declared, his voice muffled behind a wooden mask carved to look like some fearsome beast.

Sansa Stark, not yet four years old, stood behind him, clutching the hem of her dress and watching with wide eyed seriousness as the boys clashed on the forest floor.

Robb charged, and their branches cracked together with a sound that echoed far louder in Aemon’s mind than in truth. The King stumbled back, nearly tripping over a root, and Aemon pressed his advantage, thrusting his vile foe’s chest.

The blow landed with a thump against Robb’s jerkin.

“You’re slain!” he declared, as he stood over his fallen foe.

Robb pulled his mask off, scowling.

“That didn’t count. Kings don’t die easy.”

Aemon stood straight, proudly crossing his arms across his puffed-out chest.

“You’re a wildling king and wildlings always lose to Starks!”

Sansa, approached, clapping her hands together with a dainty smile as Aemon lifted her brother up by his elbow.

“Aems wins!” she sang.

“She’s my sister,” Robb muttered, scowling at her. He brushed dirt and leaf litter off his knees. “She’s supposed to cheer for me.”

“She’s the maiden,” Aemon had countered. “And she gets to cheer for the Stark, not the wildling.”

“Well, next time, I’ll be the hero and you be some smelly wildling.” Robb reached over and pulled Aemon to his side, his red hair shining under the faint sunlight.

As the two boys chatted away together, neither noticed a fourth and fifth presence in the woods.

“Robb! By the seven, you’re covered in dirt.” Aemon smiled for his aunt Cat and cousin Arya, naught but a babe.

Robb scowled at his mother’s words, but he obeyed all the same. Lady Catelyn always had that way about her, one word, and even the heir to the North knew better than to argue.

Sansa skipped to her side, humming still, and bent to peer at the swaddled bundle in Lady Catelyn’s arms. Aemon saw the little fist poke out from the cloth, heard the tiny squeak that came with it, and knew it must be Arya. She looked just like him too! A perfect little cousin.

He smiled, ready to come closer, but Aunt Catelyn’s eyes found him. For a heartbeat she only looked, and Aemon shifted under it. She wasn’t angry, not like when Robb tracked mud through the hall, but her gaze always made him feel different.

“Aemon,” she said at last, her voice even, careful. “Stay here a while. You’ll see your uncle soon enough, when he finishes with our guests. Best stay out of sight, no need to invite trouble.”

His smile faltered.
“But—”

Her look stopped the word in his throat.

“This is very important nephew, you’re to stay far and away from our guests today, never more then today, do you understand?”

 She had no sharpness in her tone, no anger, and still it weighed heavier than Robb’s wooden sword ever had. Her blue eyes always had a hardness to them. But there was something else in her eyes, a softness to them everyone had when they looked upon him or whenever mother was mentioned.

Robb glanced back at him, brow creased as though he might say something, but his mother’s hand on his shoulder steered him away. Sansa didn’t even look back, still humming to herself, her eyes only for the babe in their mother’s arms.

And then they were gone, swallowed up by the woods.

Aemon stood alone beneath the red leaves, the heart tree’s face weeping its sap. The tree looked sad, like it knew.

He never understood what was so different about him, he knew he was just a nephew but he loved Uncle Ned just as much.

 His stick-sword suddenly felt silly in his hand, so he dropped it, the clatter loud in the stillness.

She said he’d see Uncle Ned later. He tried to hold to that, but the words gnawed at him all the same.

The leaves whispered overhead, and Aemon wondered if the heart tree knew why Aunt Catelyn never smiled at him the way she smiled at Robb.

Winterfell was never so busy as when the Lord was coming home.

Aemon darted through the yard, weaving between servants carrying baskets, stableboys running with brushes and buckets, and guards polishing their mail until it gleamed. The air smelled of hay and horse, and the sound of hammers clanging on the gatehouse echoed over the walls.

Everywhere he looked, something was being scrubbed, swept, or set in place. Robb had been sent off to wash, and Sansa too, but no one had thought to stop Aemon, so he wandered free, drinking it all in.

It was always like this when Uncle Ned came back. Everyone hurried, everyone fussed. Aemon liked it, the noise, the rush, but he noticed things too. He always noticed.

Like how Uncle Ned never let him stand by the gates when important lords came to call. Robb could be there, straight backed and solemn like a true Stark, and even Sansa sometimes, if she held Cat’s hand. But not Aemon. Uncle Ned always found some excuse. A lesson in the libraryr, a task in the yard, a quiet word to go elsewhere.

He didn’t understand why.

Today, though, he wanted to see. The Iron Islands were far, and Uncle Ned had been gone so long. Who would be with him? Captured foes? Great lords? Maybe he had great treasures to give out to his favourite nephew.

The yard buzzed like a beehive. Servants hurried about, sweeping mud from the stones and hanging banners of grey direwolves from the walls. Grooms tugged at reins as stableboys wrestled with the horses, while the kitchen sent out smells of roasting meat so thick Aemon’s stomach growled every time he passed by the doors.

He darted between them all, watching, weaving, keeping out of reach whenever Old Nan or Septa Mordane spotted him. It wasn’t often Winterfell was so alive, and Aemon didn’t want to miss a thing.

The guards on the gatehouse leaned out, craning their necks to the road. Someone said they’d seen the banners already.

“The direwolf, aye,” a guardsmen muttered, “but alongside it rides the crowned stag.”

Aemon froze at the words. A stag? That meant the King. Uncle Ned had told him before to be quiet, to be still, whenever lords came to Winterfell. But what was he supposed to do when it was the King himself?

He chewed his lip, uncertain, but his feet carried him forward all the same. Curiosity burned too hot to resist. He squeezed through a gap in the press of smallfolk gathering at the walls, slipping beneath an arm and darting past a maid’s skirts.

Would Uncle Ned’s best friend really be mad if he was there to see him? He would miss the kingsguard too! Ser Barristan Selmy was too legendary to miss. He was the best knight ever!

The shout came from the watchers above:

“Lord Stark returns!”

And then, beyond the gate, they appeared. Riders, armoured and proud, their banners snapping in the cold wind. The direwolf of Winterfell at the fore, grey on white, and beside it the crowned stag, black on a field of gold. Aemon’s heart hammered at the sight, his eyes wide in wonder.

The hero of the trident, the one who beat the evil king.

Uncle Ned rode tall, grim faced as always, his dark cloak snapping at his shoulders. But beside him, larger than life, came a broad man with a black beard and shoulders like an ox. His crown glinted in the weak sun, and laughter rolled from him as he spurred his great warhorse forward.

The King.

Aemon shrank back into the crowd. He wasn’t supposed to be seen, not when lords visited, not when the banners of other houses came. But still he stared, wide eyed, as the King of the Seven Kingdoms thundered into Winterfell’s yard, with his uncle at his side.

He watched men in gleaming white and golden armour, they were his kingsguard.

He watched entranced as the king and uncle Ned left their horses behind to meet his cousins. His uncle had one of the widest smiles he’s ever seen as he embraced his children and his wife, cooing at baby Arya.

He felt something bitter slither in his little chest, why couldn’t he be there? Was there something wrong with Aemon? He was family wasn’t he?

He watched the king greet his cousins with a wide smile, shown to the courtyard. The king had such a boisterous laugh.

He hadn’t realized the courtyard had grown quiet. The courtiers were all looking at him, waiting, for something.

He caught Ser Rodrik Cassel try to get through the crowd to reach him, to hide him away but the great King’s blue orbs landed on him as the crowd dispersed avoiding touching him.

King Robert Baratheon’s eyes had tears pooling. His fingers flexed around nothing, his mouth left agape.

The courtyard was so quiet that everyone heard his next words.

“He has her face.” The King whispered. The king looked so sad, Aemon felt frozen, stuck in place under his scrutiny.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Ned break away and run towards him attempting to put himself between his friend and Aemon.

The King’s face curled into a snarl, his fingers curling into tight fists as he glared and never has Aemon felt smaller.

“You took her from me Dragonspawn and now she haunts me with your eyes.”

His uncle stood between them, but Aemon barely noticed, just the hatred swimming in those blue eyes. He heard nothing, didn’t even feel his own tears streaming down his face, nor Ser Rodrik’s arm across his shoulders pulling him away,

He couldn’t even control his sobbing, when he realized his uncle stayed with the king, and not with him.

He faintly heard Robb call out his name and he twisted back out of Rodrik’s grip to look back.

Uncle Ned stood planted before the King, his voice sharp, though Aemon could only catch pieces of it over the rush in his ears.

“…a child, Robert. He is but a boy.”

“I never want to see him again. Stannis is here, isn’t he? When he leaves, he’ll take the boy away to his rock. Do you hear me, Ned? This is the end of my mer-“

The word broke apart in his throat, strangled by grief. Robert’s chest heaved, fists trembling, his face an ugly mask of rage and sorrow. He staggered back a step, and for a heartbeat it seemed he might strike out, or crumple where he stood.

Instead, with a hoarse growl, the King turned on his heel. “Enough. My word is final, he leaves with my damned brother.”1

His voice was thick and uneven, but his stride was heavy and certain as he stormed toward the great keep. The Kingsguard fell in behind him, armor clattering against stone.

Yet not all their eyes were forward. Ser Barristan’s jaw was tight with something unspoken as he glanced back at the Aemon, and Ser Jaime’s golden head tilted ever so slightly, his gaze lingering before he followed.

The court dissolved into uneasy murmurs.

Ser Rodrik tightened his arm around Aemon and all but dragged him away, shielding him as best he could. Aemon went limp against him, his sobs wracking his small frame.

Even as he was pulled from sight, he felt the weight of those blue eyes, hate, sadness, all tangled together, burning in his memory.

Rodrik leaned over him and spoke but he heard nothing, just pity, the same pity everyone looked at him with. As men and women dispersed, refusing to touch him, all he could hear was one word.

Dragonspawn

---

As soon as he could, Aemon ran away and hid in the godswood away from their gazes and whispers. Never in his life has he appreciated the quiet so much.

He had stopped sobbing hours ago, now his cheeks felt dirty. He wrapped his hands around his knees as he listened to the wind in the leaves.

He heard it, a branch breaking, and now knew he had been found.

He stared as his uncle came to sit beside him, pulling him into an embrace, he felt embarrassed as his snot and dried tears smeared all over Ned’s cloak but his Uncle cared little.

“I’m sorry nephew. I hadn’t meant for any of this.”

“W-why did he call me Dragonspawn? Is that why you keep me away from visitors?” Aemon stuttered.

Ned’s frown deepened. He said nothing, and the silence stretched on and on, as though even the godswood itself was holding its breath.

At last, he spoke.

“Rhaegar was… your father,” Ned said, his voice low, each word measured. “He was a prince. He was clever, and loved music, and some said he was kind. But he brought war upon the realm, whether he meant to or not. And many men died for it.”

Aemon looked down at his hands. “Is that why they hate me? Because of him?”

Ned exhaled slowly. “Some will. Not because of what you’ve done, but because of what he was. They’ll see him in your blood, and not the boy in front of them.”

“Then why are you sending me away?” Aemon’s voice quivered.

Ned let the silence stretch as Aemon shifted anxiously.

“I do not send you away because I wish it, Aemon. The choice was never mine. Robert is king, and he will not suffer you here, with your family. Dragonstone was the best I could beg for you, a place where you might be safe, and grow, and learn to be a lord.”

“But I don’t want Dragonstone,” the boy burst out, his cheeks wet again. “I want to stay with you! With Robb and Sansa and Arya and Benjen and—”

Ned pulled him into his arms again, holding him tightly as though Robert himself might come to tear him away. “I know. Gods forgive me, I know. But life is not fair nephew. You must do your duty as I do mine. I didn’t wish to be lord of Winterfell, it was meant to be my brother’s seat, just like you.”

“I don’t have any brothers.” Aemon’s tone was laced with confusion.

Ned’s gaze darkened. “You did,” he said at last, voice quiet as falling snow. “You had a brother and a sister once. Dragonstone was to be your brother’s seat. But now it is yours, and you must do your duty, Aemon. Do you understand?”

The boy wiped his face with the back of his hand, red-rimmed eyes lifting to the ancient heart tree. “Yes, Uncle,” he whispered, the words trembling but resolute. “I swear it on the heart tree.”

“Good.” Ned simply said. “I am proud of you Aemon, if things were different, I would keep you here and raise you among family but I do my duty just as you will in the south.”

“Then why keep me hidden away?” Aemon’s voice cracked, too sharp for his age.

Ned closed his eyes. His hand tightened on the boy’s shoulder.
“Because I was afraid.”

Aemon blinked at him, startled. “But… you’re never scared.”

Ned managed the faintest, bitterest smile. “The only time a man can be brave, Aemon, is when he is afraid.”

Aemon gave him his best smile.

“Come nephew,” Ned stood up pulling Aemon up with him. “I have a feast to attend and so do you.” He held Aemon’s hand as he pulled him along out of the woods.

Aemon brightened.

“Can I sit with you?”

“No, Robert wouldn’t have you eat with us tonight, but Ser Rodrik and Jory have kept you a seat with the other guards and warriors, a table fit for a brave little boy.” Aemon’s mood soured but he tried keeping his face solemn like his uncle’s.

Never again would he be weak, he would be brave from this day to the last, because he was afraid but it didn’t matter.

He would do his duty to his family.

Chapter 3: Robert's Shadow

Summary:

Stannis lived for duty, even in Robert’s shadow. Bitterness was no excuse for failure.

Robert's Shadow

Stannis thought often on how little he liked his brother
He stood outside Winterfell in the early morning, cloak snapping in the wind as he waited by his horse.

The yard stirred behind him. Stark men moved about, stamping their feet against the chill, leading horses from the stables, but Stannis ignored them.

 He fixed his eyes on the gates instead, lips pressed thin.

The boy was late.

Robert had spent the entire trip fawning over Ned Stark, and Stannis had to endure it. Now he was expected to drag his hostage back to that wet rock, while Robert busied himself with petty needling. Such gracious ‘rewards’ for his part in defeating the Greyjoys.

It was embarrassing enough having Eddard Stark force him to swear an oath that he would safeguard the boy, as if his duty as regent wasn’t enough, now he had to wait like a servant for a little boy he barely saw during his time here.

Was first light such a difficult command to keep?

His face tightened as the faint rays of the sun crept over the horizon.

Stannis still did not know why he had been given the dubious honour of playing dragon keeper for Robert. He did not even have a seat, Storm’s End was to be Renly’s, and now he was to serve as glorified castellan of a poor drab rock in the narrow sea.

It should have been Renly’s task. Or Robert’s, if he wanted so badly to parade the boy about as proof of his mercy. But no, Robert was too busy hunting, whoring and calling himself a hero.

And Renly, too young, too favoured, too frivolous and immature.

So, it fell to Stannis. It always fell to Stannis.

He could almost hear Robert’s voice still: “You’ll do it, brother. You’re the only one I can trust not to get soft with him.”

Trust. A hollow word from Robert’s mouth. What Robert meant was that Stannis would obey, no matter how sour the command.

Like a dog.

He grit his teeth at the thought.

The boy came at last, ushered out by Stark’s men, his small legs struggling to match their stride. His hair was brown, his eyes grey, and his long face drawn pale with fear and weariness.

A Stark man-at-arms guiding him by the shoulder. Too delicate to even saddle his horse without help. This was the famous dragonspawn who had cost Lyanna Stark her life, who had cracked Robert’s heart in half. The living embodiment of all the death and destruction of the war.

He looked like none of it. He looked like a child.

Stannis set his jaw. He would not coddle the boy. He would keep him alive, teach him obedience, and, if need be, end him. That was the charge laid upon him. Duty. Always duty.

He did not soften.

“You are late,” Stannis said flatly.

The boy flinched, fumbling to hold the reins of the pony that had been saddled for him. He said nothing. His mouth opened once, closed again. Tear stains streaked his pale cheeks.

Stannis turned away, mounting his own horse in one fluid motion. “We ride at once. You will keep pace. I expect we reach White Harbour in ten days.”

The boy’s eyes widened. He glanced back toward Winterfell, where Lord Stark stood watching in silence from the gates. For a heartbeat, it looked as though the boy might cry.

But no tears came. He swallowed, set his jaw, and climbed into the saddle, all on his own.

Stannis gave a curt nod. At least the bastard had some steel in him.

Stannis’ horse began to trot with Aemon’s and their guardsmen loosely following behind them, men Lord Eddard gifted to his nephew for his safety.

None of them looked particularly happy.

They took the king’s road at first, heading South.

There was little of note. The North was empty, naught but plains and highlands. There were a few abandoned holdfasts and small settlements near enough to be sighted from the road, but most were left to rot and largely dilapidated.

Despite the air being cold, the ground was soft and wet. Thankfully, the wind was out in force today and most of the insects common to the north are absent.

The boy rode stiff-backed beside him, clutching the reins like he feared they would slip away. He had not spoken since leaving Winterfell. Stannis did not press him. Better silence than whining.

They passed Castle Cerwyn by midday. He saw the holdfast and the road leading to it off in the distance.

Stannis looked to Aemon, unsure what to expect. The boy was busy admiring the land, there was visible awe as he took the land in.

If he understood what little Lord Eddard had shared, the boy rarely left Winterfell nor went much further than Wintertown. The exception being a trip to the wall when he was four namedays.

He kept his eyes forward after. What mattered was reaching White Harbor, and from there a ship to carry them to that bleak rock in the Narrow Sea.

And soon Dragonstone. The thought galled him still.

Robert had castles enough to spare, yet Dragonstone was given to the dragon’s get, and Stannis chained to it, punishment dressed as duty.

Would Robert have made him Lord of Storm’s End had he captured the Targaryens all those years ago? In moments of weakness, he would let the thought fester but there was little use pondering his mistakes.

Behind him, the boy’s pony stumbled on a stone and the child gasped, a small, sharp sound, and clutched the reins tighter. He was afraid of falling. Afraid of the horse. Afraid of him.

Stannis set his jaw and looked away.

The miles passed in silence, fields became more common, and the highlands flattened, and sheep dotted the hillsides. Aemon sat in silence until the sun climbed higher, pale and cold through the clouds. When the boy wasn’t observing, he was brooding.

The boy sat stiff-backed on his pony, too tense to fidget, too frightened to complain. He had not spoken once since they left the gates.
It was near midday, the sun pale through a veil of cloud, when he finally found his voice.

“My lord Stannis… why am I being sent away? Why can’t I stay with the Starks?”

Stannis did not glance at him. He kept his eyes fixed on the road.
He had a peculiar accent, very northern as expected with the softness of youth.

“Because you are not a Stark. You are Rhaegar Targaryen’s bastard. Rhaegar abducted your mother, and she died giving you life. Robert resents you for both. You only live because Honourable Eddard Stark begged for mercy.”

The boy’s small hands tightened on the reins.

“You are Lord of Dragonstone now,” Stannis continued, his tone flat as iron. “That is the king’s will. You will do your duty. And you will not forget what you are, or why you live. I was tasked to make you loyal to the crown, and kill you if you refuse. The King would sooner have you bashed against a wall then allow you another moment alive.”

Aemon’s eyes glistened, but he blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall.

“It isn’t fair! I didn’t ask to be born. I didn’t take her. I didn’t… kill her. I didn’t… Why can’t I stay with Uncle Ned?!”

The words tumbled out raw, high and thin, edged with the fury of helplessness.

His eyes had the virulent embers of anger swimming within.

Stannis turned his head at last, regarding him with that hard, heavy stare of his. “Because the world is not fair,” he said simply. “You live, and that is more than many would have given you. You could’ve easily been slaughtered alongside your half siblings. Do not take your survival for granted, you must earn that right. Do not mistake mercy for kindness.”

Aemon kept glaring at his back like the immature little boy he was, and Stannis turned back around looking forward once more.

The boy would learn soon enough.

He didn’t have any other choice.

Stannis had expected another tirade of whinging, typical of children but instead, he heard the boy tentatively ask.

“What happened to my siblings?” When Stannis turned to look at Aemon, he was looking down, playing with the reins and his fingers. “My uncle…he said they passed on but never ho-“

Stannis steeled himself and cut him off.

“They were murdered,” Stannis said. “Your sister stabbed by Ser Amory Lorch until she was unrecognizable. your brother dashed against a wall by Ser Gregor Clegane until nothing remained but blood and bone.”

The reins slipped from Aemon’s fingers. His small chest hitched, and tears welled fast.

“But… they were only little,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Why would anyone…?” The words tangled, lost, before he managed only, “Why?”

His eyes were wide with disbelief and horror

“Because Tywin Lannister wished it so,” Stannis replied, voice flat as stone. “He called it loyalty to Robert. Others call it vengeance for your lunatic grandsire and their petty rivalry. It matters little. Robert looked upon their corpses and called them dragonspawn.” Stannis grit his teeth. “That was his justice.”

The boy looked sick, pale and green, like he might keel over and vomit.

Stannis watched him for a long moment, jaw clenched. Part of him wished the boy would steady himself, show strength instead of frailty. Yet another part, smaller, quieter, thought there was no shame in his tears.

He remembered being a boy himself, standing beside his brother in his home, as the Windproud sank in the bay, their parents aboard. Powerless. Shattered.

The boy can have his tears.

He turned back to the road. “Steel yourself. You cannot change what was done. You can only endure it.”

He let the boy be, Stannis said nothing when he heard him retch his last meal onto the road

---

The rest of the journey was uneventful.

After the first day the boy sulked in silence. Stannis left him to it.

Brooding harmed no one.

In the evenings he tested the boy with questions, as one might test a blade for flaws. Had Eddard Stark taught him anything beyond sulking?

He had. The boy was quick. He took part in lessons with his cousin, Robert’s namesake. Adept with sums and letters, at times surpassing his trueborn cousin. Yet his only real passion was the sword.

He spoke often of his bouts with Robb in the yard, pride seeping through despite himself.

Competence was not the problem. Pride was. That flaw could not be allowed to fester.

History, though, he lacked entirely; Stark had left him ignorant of his father’s crimes, blind to the fate of his half-siblings until now, and he had the sterilised version of events. The boy barely even understood that he was a Targaryen much less that his grandfather killed his other grandfather.

The boy knew only one Targaryen: his “grand-uncle Aemon,” the old maester at the Wall Robert had forgotten as well. Although the maester was far less of a concern than his ward, the men had nearly seen a century.

The task of truth, distasteful as it was, fell to Stannis.

Of course.

Ned Stark had thought to spare him grief. Fool. Mercy only delayed the choking.

And choke he would, when he learned exactly what he was, and what had been taken from him.

Aemon also had no experience talking to fellow lords, it would seem Lord Stark kept the boy out of sight, an amateur scheme in the faint hopes Robert would forget about him and allow Aemon to stay in Winterfell. A scheme even the boy himself guessed at.

What was worst was that it almost worked. Robert had all but forgotten the boy lived and his Grace was quite happy to pretend the boy never existed. While he had constant information fed to him by the Spider about the two in Essos, this Targaryen bastard he would much rather ignore and keep far away from his mind.

Robert would sooner drown in wine and women than remember the last piece of his beloved Lya.

Stannis ascertained that the seeds for resentment were planted that day Robert dubbed him dragonspawn.

Resentment could be tolerated. Ambition could not. If the boy was to be of use, he must be bent. His fire controlled, bound to duty. Better the flame flicker and wane than grow wild.

Just as Stannis learnt to control his resentment and ambition.

Stannis remembered the name whispered when Stark had carried him from the Red Keep, all those years ago.

The prince who never was.

A ridiculous nickname, a bastard cannot be a prince. Unless Rhaegar had planned on legitimising his bastard. Since his chest has been caved in, there’s little hope of ever finding out what he had planned with the Stark girl and his spawn.

Stannis forced the thought aside. Better to let sleeping dragons lie.

The days passed without much to note. As the sun began to set on their tenth day of travelling, he saw in the distance White Harbour, largest and only city in the North.

He heard Aemon gasp behind him as he took sight of the city.

“Is this White Harbour? Robb said Lord-too-fat-to-sit-a-horse lived here.”

Stannis’ mouth tightened, as if fighting off the ghost of a smile.

“Quiet. No reason to draw attention to ourselves with childish jests. You will not wander, and you will stay within sight. Are we clear?” Stannis harshly ordered.

The boy’s timid smile dropped and he nodded.

As they passed the gates, they were greeted by the Merman of the Manderlys, their banners adorning the walls proudly.

The city smelt of salt and fish. There was the incessant squalling of gulls and seabirds by the ports. The boy seemed fascinated by the goings on of the city.

The streets were empty, with a few stragglers wandering about.

Whilst he was invited to sample the hospitality by an envoy, sent by Lord Wyman Manderly, he saw fit to deny the invitation to the envoy’s chagrin. He cared little if he insulted the man, he didn’t owe him anything.

 Better to set sail tonight. The Manderly feast could wait; Aemon could not.

Already the boy drew eyes in the streets, his dark Stark look a thin cloak for the blood that ran hotter beneath. Every moment ashore was a moment wasted, another chance for word to spread.
He would not put it past the Lannisters to see Aemon join the rest of Rhaegar’s get. The boy needed to be gone, beyond their reach, and soon.

That the boy lived this long was surprising. With such a target on his back, the stranger should have found him already. But perhaps all had simply forgotten him, as they had forgotten the old maester.

Eyes fixed across the sea, blind to the wyrm growing in the North.

Fools.

As they neared the ship, the boy shrank back from the crowned stag snapping on the sails. Stannis swung off his destrier, handing the reins to a stablehand.

“Come.”

The boy obeyed, eyes narrowed but silent.

At the plank waited his onion knight. Davos bowed low until Stannis said, “Stand up straight. No need for that here.”
The knight straightened, rough hands clasped behind his back. His eyes flicked to the boy, but he held his tongue. Loyal, discreet. That was why Stannis trusted him.

“This is the boy.” Stannis said. No flourish, no titles. The truth was burden enough.

Aemon lifted his chin, daring Davos to name him. Dark hair, grey eyes—Stark’s look, but Targaryen pride in the set of his jaw.
Davos inclined his head. “An honor, m’lord.”

The boy hesitated, then bowed in return. Courtesy would need drilling. Stannis would see to it; Cressen could find tutors enough.

Aemon’s gaze caught Davos’s hand. The knight obliged, holding it out, fingers shorn short.
“A gift from Lord Stannis, for my smuggling. Don’t miss them much. I gained far more than I lost.”

The boy stared wide-eyed.

Above, the stag banner cracked in the wind. The boy’s hand curled into a fist, as though he might strike the crowned stag itself.

“Enough staring.” Stannis said. “We sail before dusk. Ser Davos, with me. We’ll see him settled.”

“As you command, m’lord.”

The boy lingered, eyes fixed on Davos as if testing him for falsehood. Always measuring, always watching. At last he followed, hesitant but steady, the sea waiting to swallow him whole.

Davos led him aboard. “Mind your step, m’lord,” he murmured when the plank creaked beneath the boy’s weight. Stannis watched in silence. The boy needed less soft words, not more.

His cabin was plain, though more than he deserved: a narrow bunk, a chest, walls tight as a cell.

Better quarters than any sailor, yet Aemon sat stiffly on the bunk, clutching his meagre pack, withdrawn and tired

One of Stark’s men entered with a bundle. Inside lay a white sapling. The northerner bowed and withdrew.

The boy held it carefully, as though it might break.
"It’s a weirwood,” he whispered. “Uncle Ned said I was to plant it in the godswood, so whenever I prayed, I’d have a piece of Winterfell with me.”

To Stannis it was a shrub, nothing more. A northern god for a northern boy. His lords would not stomach a tree-worshipping bastard, but that was a problem for another day.

“Rest.” he said. “Lessons begin at dawn. Ser Davos Seaworth and his son will teach you to sail.”

With nothing more to add, Stannis left him, to his tree, and to the sea.

Stannis and Davos came out onto deck as the sun bled into the sea, the sky dark auburn.
“Find the captain. Tell him to hoist anchor. I want us gone within the hour. Meet me in the captain’s quarters once all is ready.”
“As you command.” Davos bowed and strode off to find his eldest, Dale.

Stannis entered the solar. A small room, plain as the ship itself. He set aside his cloak and poured himself lemon water. No wine.

He sat and listened. The creak of timbers, the bark of orders, the crack of sails. Ropes snapped taut. The ship came alive beneath him.

He paused, then reaching for the letters Cressen had sent. Parchments stacked neat, seals already broken. He skimmed. Ledgers, accounts, inventories.

The treasury was poor, the navy weaker still. Littlefinger’s pittance barely kept them afloat. His wife wrote of her pregnancy, Renly of another tourney.

Stannis burned his brother’s letter to ash.

A knock interrupted his revery.

Ser Davos entered and shut the door behind him as he came inside without a word.

Stannis broke the seal on another letter, skimming the lines without much care. “What do you make of the boy?”

Davos sat across from him, cloak draped over the chair. He scratched at his beard before answering. “Quiet. Shy. Withdrawn. Not what I pictured of a dragon prince’s son.”

Stannis looked up, frown deepening. “What did you expect?”

“Silver hair, perhaps.” Davos said with a half-shrug. “Instead, he looks more Stark than Targaryen. More like a sad little boy than a pretender.” He reached for the jug, poured himself water. “Still, he’s dutiful and he listens. Watches more than he speaks. That’ll serve him, in time.”

“Dutiful.” Stannis muttered. The word landed flat, somewhere between praise and curse. He set the letter aside. “The boy does as he’s told because he’s afraid of Robert, of me, of the world. Fear is obedience, but it won’t last. Fear ripens into anger. I saw it in his eyes when I told him what he was.” He tapped the table once, sharp. “Resentment. And that fire will burn him if it’s not put out.”

Davos took a long sip, unbothered by the heat in Stannis’ tone. “He’s six, my lord. If you grind him down so young, there’ll be nothing left when he’s grown. Better let him be a boy a while longer. I doubt he’s planning a usurpation at his age.”

Stannis’ jaw tightened. “Age matters little. Men will whisper in his ear, stoke his pride, his claim. Daemon Blackfyre was a boy once. Boys grow. They grow angry. They grow envious.”

The ship rocked, the timbers groaning. Stannis’ voice dropped lower. “Best he learns to scorn his father’s line, to bind his fire inwards. He’ll be stronger for it.”

Davos met his gaze, steady. “Or strong enough to earn the realm’s trust. Not every bastard wants a crown. He may want to be better than his father. That doesn’t strike me as evil.”

Stannis said nothing, only ground his teeth and broke another seal.

Davos leaned back. “And you’ll have a child soon, seven willing. Might do you good to practice.”

“You presume much.” Stannis said, stiff.

“Maybe so.” Davos gave a small nod. “But children can surprise you. Stranger things have happened than Eddard Stark’s nephew and your babe being friends. Steffon and Prince Aerys were close once.”

“That ended well for no one.” Stannis said flatly.

The two men sat in silence, the only sound the waves gnawing against the hull.

“At least the boy is no Aerys.” Davos offered quietly.

Stannis looked to the dying candle, the flame guttering in the draft. “Aerys wasn’t Aerys once, either.”

The ship groaned again, like it agreed.

Stannis rose, pulling on his cloak. “Enough. Rest. We’ve a long day ahead.”

Davos followed him out, leaving the room dark but for the candle’s hiss, until even that flame guttered low.

Notes:

Feel free to critique and tell me your thoughts. The next chapter will be Davos and far more substantial. This is largely character work and I understand if its boring.

Notes:

I havent abandonned my other projects! I just needed a break from it and I wrote this, although this story won't be updated quite as often until I finish Bound by Cinders. Tell me your thoughts on this AU, it isnt particularly creative, there are several similar ones out there but the story should'nt be anything alike. Unless I'm not as creative as I thought.