Author's Note.
Hey fam❤️ ,
Apologies for the late upload—my phone's screen decided to give up on life, and it took me days to get it repaired. No way to write or post properly during that time, but I'm finally back and ready to dive in again.
Arc 3 officially begins with this chapter, and I couldn't be more excited for what's ahead. This arc is all about Aemon becoming. His journey and training process to become what is meant to be a prince of House Targaryen.
Massive thanks to all of you who stuck around during the break. Your support, patience, and encouragement mean everything. And to those who've been dropping comments and reviews—you're the real MVPs. I read every single one. Seriously.
Starting tomorrow, we're back to uploads once in two days. I've got some great chapters lined up, and I can't wait to share them with you.
Also, 11 advanced chapters are available now on Patreon for those who want to read ahead and support the story directly.
patreon.com/Horcruz
Thanks again for being here with me. You're the best.
— HORCRUZ ✌️
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KINGS' LANDING -- 269 AC.
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The clash of steel echoed through the royal training yard—sharp, steady, rhythmic, like the beat of a war drum.
Morning mist curled along the edges of the cobblestones, catching the golden shafts of sunlight that spilled over the Red Keep's high stone walls.
The air smelled of sweat, oiled leather, and cold steel. Sand crunched underfoot, churned by the swift, circling steps of combat.
Aemon moved like a shadow—low, fast, deliberate. He ducked beneath a broad blade sweep and pivoted, balance-tight, blade arm fluid. Every motion was honed by repetition.
Forged by failure. Sharpened by time.
His opponent—Ser Tylar Lannett, a broad-shouldered Westerlander of twenty-two—pressed hard. Golden hair slicked with sweat, eyes narrowing with each failed advance. A distant cousin of House Lannister, proud of blood and stature.
But pride didn't win fights.
Not today.
Four years of bruises and blisters for this moment.
No whispered strategies from S.E.R.A. This was all his—instinct.
Grit. Practice. And precision.
Tylar lunged—high, fast, precise.
Aemon stepped inside the arc, dagger flashing.
Clang.
The knight's sword flew from his grip, spinning once, twice—then landing in the sand with a muted thud.
Aemon's training dagger stopped just below Tylar's chin.
Silence.
"Well, bugger me," Ser Jonothor Darry drawled from the archway. "That's twenty dragons to me, Ser Gerold."
Ser Gerold Hightower gave a long, tight sigh, reached into his coin pouch, and tossed the heavy bag of gold toward Jonothor. The sound of clinking coins echoed like punctuation.
Jonothor caught it with a grin. "Best wager I've made in weeks."
Across from Aemon, Ser Tylar retrieved his sword, jaw tight. "You fight like no boy I've ever faced."
"I've had good teachers," Aemon said evenly. Polite. Steady. But with steel beneath.
A ripple of murmurs stirred from the edges, where squires, pages, and young nobles stood in loose clusters. Their eyes were wide, their faces a mix of shock and growing admiration.
Some had seen Aemon train before, but this was different.
A dark-haired squire near the benches muttered, "Did you see how he moved? Like he knew where the sword would land before it was swung."
"He's only ten… yet he fights like a veteran knight." one younger squire whispered, awe softening his voice.
Their voices faded as the Kingsguard stepped forward—not to scold or correct, but to acknowledge.
Ser Barristan stepped forward, his pale blue cloak stirring gently in the breeze. He gave a faint nod toward the onlookers.
"Let them talk," he said quietly to Aemon. "Let your skill speak louder than words."
His eyes swept over Aemon's stance with calm, measured scrutiny.
"Good form," he said. "You didn't just anticipate the strike—you read the man. But next time, adjust your weight a moment earlier. Precision earns the kill. Timing keeps you alive."
Aemon nodded, steadying his breath. Sweat beaded on his brow, a fresh bruise blooming above his wrist where a strike had slipped through. Dust clung to his sleeves, and his tunic stuck damp against his skin. But he stood tall—shoulders squared, chin lifted, eyes clear.
Ser Jonothor Darry, still counting his gold, let out a satisfied chuckle. "Half the squires will be begging for dagger lessons by sundown."
Aemon glanced toward the sideline where his fellow trainees stood—some shifting awkwardly, others watching him with newfound respect. No envy in their eyes. Just wonder. And maybe a bit of quiet inspiration.
He offered a nod to them—humble, not boastful.
Four years ago, he would've lost that fight.
He remembered it clearly—his first week in King's Landing, trembling fingers fumbling with a practice shield, Ser Gerold's booming voice cutting through the yard like thunder. The wooden shield had felt too heavy, the eyes watching him far too sharp. He'd been knocked flat in his first bout, breath punched from his lungs, pride stung worse than the bruises.
And yet… he'd stood up.
Again.
And again.
Until one day, they stopped laughing. Until one day, they started watching.
Today, they watched in silence.
A breeze stirred through the courtyard. Sunlight glinted off steel. The clang of another sparring match resumed somewhere across the yard, but the echo of Aemon's victory lingered.
And in that stillness, for just a heartbeat, it felt as though the realm had paused to take notice.
As the clang of steel and the shouts of instructors resumed behind him, Aemon stepped back from the heart of the yard. His breath had steadied, but the dull thrum of exertion still echoed in his limbs like a drumbeat fading into silence.
He turned toward Ser Barristan, who remained near the sparring ring, arms folded, gaze thoughtful.
"I think I'll head to the Godswood," Aemon said, loosening the straps on his padded gear. "A quiet place and a nap sound better than another round of bruises."
Barristan arched an eyebrow, the faintest trace of a dry smirk tugging at his mouth. "A prince who naps under trees instead of silk sheets… the realm won't know what to make of you."
Aemon gave a wry grin as he pulled off his vest and set it aside. "They'll have to get used to it."
"I'll find you there if you're needed," Barristan said with a nod, voice even but kind.
Aemon returned the nod, brushing sand from his sleeves. As he turned to leave, the sunlight caught the pale strands of his hair, casting a silver sheen against the warm stone.
He crossed the yard, passing squires and pages who stepped aside—some nodding, others watching in awe.
The noise of the yard dulled with distance. The clang of sparring blades faded. In its place came a different rhythm—the rustle of leaves, the distant caw of crows, and the soft chorus of birdsong drifting through the towering walls of the Red Keep.
The Godswood waited.
Cool. Green. Quiet.
And for a boy forged in stone halls and sharpened by fire, it was the only place in the capital where the world seemed to breathe.
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The clamor of the Red Keep faded behind him as Aemon slipped into the godswood.
The change was instant.
Beneath the canopy of elm, alder, and black cottonwood, the air turned cooler—damp with the scent of moss and loam. Sunlight filtered through shifting leaves, painting the ground in quiet mosaics of gold and green.
The clang of steel and shouted orders gave way to birdsong, the wind's hush, and the distant murmur of the Blackwater far below.
Aemon breathed deeply, the tension in his shoulders loosening as he stepped off the path and into the shade.
At the heart of the grove stood the godswood's heart tree—not a weirwood, but a towering oak wrapped in curling smokeberry vines. Beneath its roots, the red dragon's breath clustered low to the ground, petals flickering like embers trapped in bloom.
He reached the tree and touched its bark. It was rough and ancient. Grounded.
The oak wasn't sacred in the eyes of the old gods, but it had stood through storms and summer. Like him, perhaps—still growing, still waiting for the right season to bloom.
He crouched beneath its branches, brushing back a few leaves to look up through the canopy. For a moment, he imagined the gods watching, listening, hidden in the rustle of wind and leaf.
"Not quite a weirwood," he murmured, "but better than stone."
Maybe one day, he'd plant one. A real heart tree. With bone-white bark and a face carved into its trunk, as it was meant to be.
The Faith would scowl, of course. They always did when roots grew where doctrine hadn't allowed them. But Aemon wondered—how long could one serve a realm that refused to grow?
He let the thought drift with the wind and eased down onto the mossy earth beneath the oak. The bark pressed cool against his back, grounding him. The rustling leaves whispered overhead. A raven croaked from somewhere above, then went quiet.
For a little while—just a little while—he let the title fall away.
And became only Aemon.
Sunlight filtered through the leaves above, casting shifting mosaics of gold and green across his tunic.
The Red Keep loomed behind him—stone walls, silks, expectations. But here, they faded into birdsong and breeze.
Four years since he left Dragonstone.
So much had changed.
He'd first found this godswood not long after arriving in King's Landing—barely six, lost after a banquet too loud, too bright, too full of watching eyes. He remembered his court shoes sinking into damp earth, the hush of leaves unnerving after a boyhood spent beneath Dragonstone's howling winds.
Back then, the silence had nerved him.
Now, it felt like a sanctuary.
In the yard, every breath was measured. Every move is judged. Here, he could slouch against tree roots and forget the weight of titles.
Then-
He remembered how the Red Keep fell silent when Queen Rhaella lost her second child.
No bells.
No mourning banners.
Just whispers in the corridors and softer footsteps on cold marble.
He passed her once in the hall. Her eyes were hollow—drained, distant. She didn't look at him. She didn't need to. The grief clung to her like a second skin.
He'd wanted to speak—offer something, anything. But what could a boy say to a grieving mother who wasn't his?
No one ever said the word stillbirth.
They didn't have to.
She was pregnant again now—due any day.
And the entire Red Keep seemed to hold its breath.
If the babe was a boy, Aemon's place in the line would fall again—another step away from power, another layer of distance between him and a future that was never promised.
Not that he ever expected a crown.
He was the spare to the heir. No more, no less. A prince with no inheritance—and no voice in the matters that moved kingdoms.
But he had carved something for himself all the same.
He trained, studied, and kept his head down and his eyes sharp. He smiled when expected and bowed when required—yet still, they watched him.
Too quiet.
Too clever.
Too composed.
The boy with the violet eyes and a dagger's edge.
The Kingsguard had become his crucible. Blisters, bruises, split lips, and aching ribs. Ser Barristan taught with calm precision. Under their eyes, Aemon learned more than blade work—he understood how to read the man behind the steel. How to feel a shift in weight before a strike. When to yield. When never to.
When not at the yard, he was in the library—hunched over parchment and ink, buried in the lives of dead kings and forgotten wars. He studied everything: bloodlines, rebellions, diplomacy, strategies, histories, trades, and languages.
Not because he had the power to protect.
But because he didn't.
If the realm didn't know what to do with a second son, he'd leave it no choice.
And after it all—after the drills, the bruises, the masks of court—he came here.
Not to pray.
Just to be and to breathe.
To sit beneath the branches and listen to the leaves. Remember that somewhere in the world, there was still a place untouched by ambition or fear.
Here, the trees asked nothing of him. They listened—and let him exist.
The breeze stirred again, threading through the leaves like a whispered song.
Aemon exhaled slowly, eyes still fixed on the canopy above. The oak's branches swayed gently, stirring with the breeze—as if listening.
A half-smile tugged at his lips.
"S.E.R.A.," he murmured.
[Good morning, Host.]
Her voice bloomed softly in his mind—no longer cold or mechanical, but smooth, calm, intelligent. Familiar now. Like breath beneath thought.
"How's the second stage coming along?" he asked, flexing his fingers absently against the earth.
[Second-phase evolution is progressing within optimal parameters.]
[Muscular development has increased by 19.6%. Bone density is up. Neural pathways continue restructuring for improved recall, reflex response, and situational cognition. Current biological output exceeds baseline by 43%.]
Aemon blinked slowly, nodding to himself.
It all began on his tenth name day—barely a moon ago. One moment, he was just a boy chasing sword forms and histories of dragons.
Then, something shifted—quiet, seismic, irreversible.
He remembered the ache in his chest that morning—not pain, but pressure like the world itself had leaned in. Like something beneath his skin was trying to break free.
And when it did, he felt it in every part of him.
The strength. The speed. The clarity.
He'd looked in the mirror and barely recognized himself. The softness of youth was gone, replaced by lean muscle and sharp lines. He could pass for fifteen—maybe older. His shoulders had broadened, his frame lengthened, muscle carved in quiet definition across arms and chest. His voice had deepened as if his body had stopped waiting for time to decide what it would become.
But more than that… it was the feeling.
Like chains had fallen away.
"Feels like I broke out of a cage I didn't know I was in," he whispered.
[Correct.]
[You have crossed both biological and cognitive thresholds. Evolution Stage II has removed the initial restraints placed on your growth. Your system is now adaptive, not reactive.]
[In simpler terms, you are becoming what you were meant to be.]
Aemon let the words settle, feeling their weight press into the hush beneath the oak.
Stronger. Faster. Sharper. And still growing.
The thought stirred something in his blood—half danger, half destiny.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze drifting to the patch of dragon's breath blooming at the tree's base.
"Good," he said softly. "Because I'll need every edge I can get."
The breeze filtered through the leaves above, shifting light over his face. He let the quiet stretch before speaking again.
"What else has changed?" he asked. "Since the second stage began… what did you unlock?"
There was a pause—measured, thoughtful.
Then S.E.R.A.'s voice returned, smooth and precise, threading through his mind like silk through steel.
[1. Advanced Combat Assistance]
— Real-time analysis of combat: duels, skirmishes, battlefields.
— Predictive tactical support activated. Opponent weaknesses identified in motion.
— Full motion capture now enabled: you may observe, mimic, and internalize any combat style you witness.
Aemon raised an eyebrow.
"You're saying I can copy a fighting style just by watching it?"
[Affirmative. With continued training and neural synchronization, your body will instinctively replicate techniques across all available disciplines.]
He hummed softly, already imagining the masters he could learn from—no scrolls, no lessons. Just instinct.
[2. Second-Phase Physical Evolution]
— Night vision, long-range clarity, and high-definition perception are now integrated.
— All five senses enhanced. Sixth sense—proximity awareness and instinctive threat detection—active.
— Reflexes, balance, and environmental responsiveness elevated.
He flexed his fingers. Power coiled beneath his skin like a drawn bowstring.
He had felt it in the yard—the speed, the precision—and now he understood why.
[3. Enhanced Insight]
— Microexpression recognition and heartbeat monitoring operational.
— Deception detection exceeds 88% accuracy.
— Masking protocols available:
The Host may suppress visible reactions when needed.
Aemon blinked. This wasn't a battlefield tool—it was a courtly one.
"Useful," he muttered. "Terrifying… but useful."
[4. Warging Protocol: Activated]
— Neural link with bonded animals is now possible. Temporary consciousness transfer enabled.
— Range, duration, and clarity will improve with repetition and familiarity.
His breath caught. Warging. He knew what it meant.
To see through another's eyes… to fly, or to hunt. To vanish in plain sight.
A thousand uses flickered through his mind—infiltration, espionage, war.
He wasn't sure whether to grin or flinch.
[5. Biokinesis: Partial Access]
— Ability to alter biological functions in non-human organisms unlocked.
— Accelerated healing, enhanced vitality, and genetic trait optimization are possible.
— WARNING: All biokinetic use draws from the Host's life force. Use is taxing and should be limited.
Aemon sat still, the weight settling over him like a cloak.
Warging. Biokinesis. Combat mimicry. Insight. Heightened senses.
"I asked for an edge," he murmured, gaze fixed on the flame-shaped petals below.
"And you gave me a sharp blade to cut the world."
[Correction: I provided the whetstone. You forged the edge.]
That made him smile.
The wind whispered through the canopy. Aemon let the silence deepen, thoughts spiraling through the dark and the light.
He turned the gifts over in his mind. Each one is a weapon. Each one a step away from what he had been—and toward something else.
And still… one stood apart.
The last.
Biokinesis.
His gaze drifted back to the dragon's breath at his feet—petals curled like frozen fire. Life is brilliant and fragile.
He drew a steady breath.
"S.E.R.A.," he said quietly. "How does it work?"
A pause. Then the voice returned, as steady as always.
[Biokinesis functions through direct manipulation of biological systems at the genetic and cellular level.]
[You may enhance physical traits, accelerate healing, and optimize vitality within animals. Neural pathways, strength, endurance, and sensory evolution may be modified.]
[However, this ability is enhancement-based only. You cannot create what nature never seeded. You may only awaken what lies dormant.]
His brow furrowed slightly. "And the cost?"
[Life force. Every use draws from your vitality. The greater the change, the heavier the toll.]
[Estimated maximum lifespan of the Host: 200 years under optimal conditions. This projection will shift with usage.]
His eyes lingered on the moss-wrapped roots.
He could reshape life if he were willing to give his own.
"Only animals?" he asked.
[Correct. Current limitations restrict all biokinetic functions to non-human organisms. For now.]
He didn't speak right away.
It was the most powerful of them all—not because of its might but because of its cost.
Not paid in blood or coin… but in years.
Every use is a choice. Every change has a cost.
Not just power—but the sacrifice made visible.
He lowered his hand, pressing his palm to the soil, fingers curling into the earth.
"To give something life," he murmured, "I'll have to give it mine."
[A life does not come freely, Aemon. And to awaken it, something must be given. Every gift demands a price—and the cost is always yours.]
The words lingered like smoke in his mind.
He sat quietly, eyes on the patch of dragon's breath—still, untouched. Not even the wind dared move them.
He thought of what it meant. Of years willingly spent. Not for glory. Not for war.
But to make something live.
A prince without a throne. A boy with no dragon. And yet… maybe he could still build something that would last.
Even if it came at a cost.
He leaned back against the oak, the bark solid behind him. The breeze played in his hair. Leaves whispered overhead. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled from the Red Keep—low, muffled, forgotten.
His muscles eased.
His heart slowed.
His thoughts unraveled—not with fear, but with a quiet purpose.
And as sleep began to take him, a final thought stirred—quiet as breath:
If sacrifice is the price of legacy...
Then let it begin with me.
Sleep claimed him beneath the oak's silent canopy while the godswood kept its solemn watch.