The wind whispered over the surface of Blackwater Bay as the sailboat glided steadily east. From the stern, the jagged outline of Dragonstone Island came into view, rising like a slumbering beast from the sea.
Aemon sat perched on a short stool near the rear deck, a fishing rod gripped tightly in his small hands.
"Heave-ho," he muttered, casting the line with a dramatic flourish. The hook splashed into the bay, followed by a flurry of bait—generous chunks scattered over the waves, some even fist-sized.
"You won't catch anything that way," a calm voice said behind him.
Rhaenys had appeared quietly, resting her elbow against the ship's railing. Her silver hair rippled in the sea breeze, and her loose tunic did little to hide her statuesque figure.
Aemon barely glanced at her. "The willing take the bait," he replied coolly. "It's about patience... and knowing how to lure."
"Are you fishing for fish or philosophy?" she asked, amused.
"Neither. I'm fishing for a state of mind," Aemon said sagely, raising his chin as though pronouncing a royal edict.
Rhaenys chuckled. "Well, the ship's moving too fast. Any fish that catch a whiff of your bait won't reach the hook before we're halfway to Pentos."
"That's fine. I don't need trash nibbling at my line," Aemon quipped.
Rhaenys gave him a curious look, then without comment, reached for a rod of her own. But she didn't bother with bait—just cast the line and let it drift.
Aemon snorted. "And you accuse me of fishing wrong? You're not even baiting the hook."
"You could say I'm practicing the art of minimalist temptation," she replied loftily.
A small golden-nosed rat peeked from inside Aemon's collar, squeaking indignantly as it pointed a paw at the silver-haired woman. It looked like a tiny war general, barking silent commands from its master's shoulder.
Rhaenys rolled her eyes. "You're both ridiculous."
Time passed. The scent of Ula grass—an addictive herbal lure—spread into the sea. It wasn't long before the water beneath began to stir.
Aemon grinned with satisfaction as his line jerked. "They've taken the bait."
He reeled in fish after fish, dropping them into a nearby basket. Rhaenys raised a brow, mildly surprised.
"You really drugged the fish?"
"They love it," Aemon said proudly, re-baiting the hook. "Just like nobles love power."
Her eyes wandered toward the coastline. "We'll reach Dragonstone soon."
"Wanna stay the night?" Aemon asked casually.
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Dragonstone Island," he said as he reeled in another fish. "I could grill these for you. Nothing fancy—just fresh and well-charred."
It was a tempting offer. Driftmark, her home, was just west of Dragonstone. She could have easily disembarked there, but Aemon's proposal held a certain charm.
"All right," she agreed. "Grilled fish it is. And if you feed me well, I'll take you to see Dragonmont."
"Dragonmont?" Aemon's eyes lit up.
"It's where two young dragons just hatched," she said. "One is gold like sunlight, the other a deep cobalt blue. I think you'd like them."
Targaryens had a weakness for dragons, especially those with striking colors. Rhaenys knew her cousin wouldn't resist the bait.
And he didn't.
Aemon's fingers tightened around the rod. "I want one."
She smirked. "Then you'd better prove you're worthy."
Just as he was about to ask more, a shriek echoed across the bay.
"Screech!"
Aemon's head snapped around. "What was that?"
To the east of Dragonstone, near the rocky shore, a shape burst from the waves—a pale, gray-white blur. It swooped low, snatching a silver-scaled fish from the sea before ascending rapidly into the sky. Its body shimmered like smoke, blending into the thin clouds until it vanished entirely.
Aemon's jaw dropped. "What was that?!"
Rhaenys' demeanor changed instantly. She grabbed Aemon's arm, pulling him toward the bow. "A wild dragon," she muttered. "You don't want to mess with that one."
He resisted slightly. "But—"
"No buts." Her tone left no room for debate. "Wild dragons are unpredictable. They won't hesitate to roast you if you get too close."
"I was just watching," he grumbled. "And my fish—"
"I'll have someone collect them."
Back near the stern, fish flopped in the basket. A few wriggled onto the deck.
Definitely not petty revenge from Rhaenys for catching nothing herself.
Of course not.
---
Later That Day
The sails turned, the ship once again on course for the Vale.
Aemon leaned against the rail, staring mournfully at the receding silhouette of Dragonstone Island.
"My dragon," he mumbled, "I never even set foot on the island…"
He had imagined a bold entrance. Maybe even bonding with a hatchling. But his hopes had been dashed.
Behind him, Rhaenys lounged with a knowing smile. Her blue dress flapped in the wind, and she rested her weight against the rail, amused.
Aemon turned to her. "Why did we leave so quickly? I thought we had time."
"My lady mother," he said with a grimace. "She changed the plan."
Rhea Royce had issued the command herself—they were leaving Blackwater Bay today.
Aemon hadn't even had the chance to argue.
"Why so urgent?" he asked.
Rhea's reply had been sharp. "Your father returned. He's already claiming Dragonstone like it's his personal kingdom."
Aemon blinked. "He's… back? Wasn't he still at war?"
"He won," Rhea said simply. "Rhaenys got the letter. Your father charged into the Stepstones alone and killed the Crabfeeder himself."
Aemon turned toward Rhaenys. She nodded solemnly.
"Seven hells…" Aemon muttered, rubbing his forehead. "Of course he did."
Daemon Targaryen. The Rogue Prince. Master of chaos and flair.
It was both impressive and inconvenient.
His uncle Viserys had finally caved and sent reinforcements—too late, apparently. Daemon had already sealed the victory alone. Like always.
"And now," Rhea said, arms crossed, "he's acting like Dragonstone belongs to him."
"Doesn't it?" Aemon asked timidly.
"Not to me," she snapped. "And I'd rather burn my shoes than walk into a room with him."
He didn't press the issue.
Staying on Dragonstone might have brought a fateful encounter with his infamous father. But given their nonexistent relationship, perhaps it was for the best.
Rhea turned to him. "So, are you coming with me, or staying behind?"
"I'm with you."
"Good. Then stop whining."
She turned away with a scoff. Aemon sighed, feeling more confused than ever.
Was he supposed to be proud of Daemon's victory? Angry? Jealous? The emotions tangled like fishing lines in a storm.
---
Afternoon – Off the Coast of Driftmark
A horn sounded from the watchtower.
Rhaenys straightened. "We're approaching Driftmark. Time for me to disembark."
Aemon blinked. "Already?"
"I'll miss you," he said flatly.
Rhaenys laughed, crouching to pinch his cheeks. "Try to mean it, you little brat."
She leaned in, close enough that he could see every silver lash framing her eyes. "I promised Rhaenyra I'd watch over you. I'll ride Vermax and escort your ship part of the way."
From Aemon's perspective, the view wasn't limited to her eyes—her figure loomed over him in all its glory.
He looked away quickly, cheeks flushing. "W-Well… you're certainly not subtle."
Rhaenys stood, ruffling his hair. "Next time, you visit me on Driftmark."
She pinched his face once more, then disappeared over the deck and into the waiting skiff.
Only when she was gone did Aemon let out a groan.
"She really is shameless… Pinching my royal cheeks like that…"
He wandered back to the stern, intent on fishing again.
Fishing calmed the mind. Distracted the heart.
It was what a true Targaryen man did—resist temptation and cast his line.
Then he froze.
The basket was gone.
No fish.
Nothing.
Aemon's face contorted with disbelief. "What… where…?"
He rushed forward. The basket lay overturned. The deck was damp and covered in faint scorch marks. A charred fish bone remained, blackened and gnawed clean.
He picked it up with trembling
fingers and slowly looked up at the sky.
A shadow passed overhead—silent, swift, high among the clouds.
His eye twitched.
"Fish thief!" he screamed.
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