Chapter Text
The Fallen Leaves…
Aemon tried to like his new home, he truly did. He wanted Uncle Ned to be proud, after all.
But he was lonely. It had been weeks, and he hadn’t made a single friend. Ser Davos didn’t count, he was an adult.
He even tried playing with Davos’ sons but they were too old and had their own duties for Lord Stannis, and Lady Baratheon didn’t let him even see Shireen again! He didn’t do anything wrong.
Whenever Lord Stannis wasn’t torturing him with lessons or making him read stupid ledgers, Aemon wandered the castle.
He wished he could explore the Dragonmount, but Stannis said it wasn’t safe. He didn’t understand why, the dragons were dead, and he’d notice if it got too hot, wouldn’t he?
It’s almost his seventh nameday in a few moons, he was nearly a man grown.
He hated Dragonstone. It was always cold and barren, and his steps echoed too loudly wherever he went.
Nobody wanted to speak with him except Davos and Maester Cressen. He wished Robb was here. Or even Sansa, he could ignore that she was a dumb girl.
The servants always went quiet when they saw him. Some spoke a strange language he didn’t understand at all.
He thought he heard them whisper “tressmorn zallish” or something like that.
The other names they called him, he understood. Those were mean.
The Master of Arms especially, he always called him names and beat him so hard, he started hating his sword lessons.
One of the guards was angry with him because his son had died in the war, in his father’s war.
He hated his father. He was mean and dead and had taken his mother away. Now she was gone too, and Aemon was stuck here, far from home and far from anyone who loved him.
He hated being called a bastard. Or dragonspawn. He would always think about the King and his angry eyes, and his nightmares would come back to him.
Aemon wanted to cry but he had to be strong. Dragons are mean and the heros always killed the dragons in the songs.
Maybe if he wasn’t so bad at his lessons and he was braver, none of this would’ve happened.
Maybe the King knew he was bad and sent him away until he was better?
Aemon hadn’t even noticed but he ran away to the godswood, or Aegon's Garden Maester Cressen called it, he almost tripped on some overgrown roses as he sat with his newly planted heart tree.
He always came everyday to pray, he didn’t want the old gods to think he forgot them, even if Septon Barre made him read their silly book.
How can there be seven gods but only one at once? How do the gods guide him, do they see through the marble statues? Statues don’t have real eyes so they can’t see anything.
He always liked the Godswood in Winterfell. It was quiet in a warm, gentle way. Here, everywhere was quiet, but cold and empty. Even his little tree looked sad. It didn’t even have a face yet. The weeds around it scraped his hands when he brushed past, and he wished it could talk to him.
Lord Stannis said he’d find a gardener to take care of it.
But he still preferred to come here when he was lonely, he knew Robb and Uncle Ned were praying at home and he felt happier knowing they still prayed together.
He heard the stomping of metal feet and almost groaned, they found him again!
“My Lord, Lord Stannis has summoned you to his solar, it is time for your lessons.”
Again? He spent all day practising for tomorrow already! His stupid bannermen were to arrive tomorrow and Stannis wanted him to welcome them but now he had to learn all about oaths, what to say or not to say. Even made him remember heir names and their interests.
There were too many of them and they all sound alike and they all want stupid things like gold and respect.
As he stood up from his sitting position, he turned to see a guard, Edric or Eldric or maybe Cedric?
He was one of the nicer guards, but only because he was afraid of Lord Stannis, everyone was afraid of Stannis. The others were mean to him.
He said nothing as he followed the guard through the empty hallways, their steps echoing loudly, travelling down the stone passages.
As they went up the stairs, Aemon struggled to keep up, and he turned red when he felt the guard staring at him as he finally made it up.
The man knocked on the door.
“Lord Aemon is here.”
“Let him in, go back to your post.” A tone like steel came from behind the door.
As the guard eased the door open, the squeaking of the hinges echoed everywhere. Aemon timidly entered and sat down in the chair facing the table. The door slammed shut behind him.
A flickering candle, half-melted, cast wavering light across Lord Stannis’ face. He sat surrounded by parchment and letters, a quill and ink at the ready. He set a letter down before speaking.
“Good, you’re timely this time. Your attendance is important and-”
“Being late is a sign of disrespect,” Aemon blurted, his voice small. He twisted his sleeves in his hands, wishing he could disappear.
“Do not interrupt me when I speak to you, boy,” Stannis growled. His face softened slightly, though the steel in his voice remained. “Now listen. You have ravens that arrived today.” He pushed a neat stack toward Aemon, each sealed with a broken Stark sigil.
Aemon’s heart thumped. He reached for the top letter, careful not to tear it. When he saw the familiar handwriting, his lips curved into a wide, quiet smile. Uncle Ned had written!
It was shorter than he would’ve liked but his Uncle spoke all about his cousins, how Robb missed their lessons, and Sansa began hers about being a lady. He spoke about baby Arya and how loud she cried. Reading it felt like a warm hug. He could almost imagine himself back in Winterfell playing in the woods. He almost yelled when water hit the letter and besmirched it.
No, not water, his tears.
He rubbed at his eyes as quickly as he can, he couldn’t have Stannis see him cry, he already thinks he’s weak as it is.
“I’m not crying.” Aemon said, his high pitch embarrassing him even more as he turned red like a lingonberry. “There’s dust in my eyes.” His lie burned as he kept rubbing, stammering and sniffing loudly.
Lord Stannis stopped writing in a ledger and stared at him. Aemon tried making himself smaller in the chair as he hugged the letters to his chest.
His hard blue eyes stared, and his jaw worked until he spoke.
“The air here irritates the eyes; you’ll get used to it.” Stannis awkwardly said.
He returned to his ledger without another word.
Aemon hadn’t realized how quickly he was breathing and calmed down. He began to read his second letter, this one was harder to read than Uncle Ned’s, but he didn’t care, Robb wrote to him too!
There wasn’t a lot, and he had a hard time reading some of it, but Robb spoke about his training and how boring it was without Aemon. He spoke about how Lord Karstark came to visit, and his sons came to play.
What Aemon didn’t understand was when Robb spoke about a new friend called Theon who now lived in Winterfell. Something bitter slithered into him.
He dreaded asking but he had to know.
“Lord Stannis, who is Theon?” Stannis didn’t even stop writing when he answered succinctly.
“Youngest and only son of Lord Balon Greyjoy. Your uncle offered to take him as a hostage and Robert let him. Better your uncle than Tywin any day.” Aemon ignored the bitterness when Stannis mentioned Uncle Ned, as a horrible thought came to him.
“Robb has a new friend?” He sadly asked. He was barely gone, and they replaced him with a Greyjoy. Something burned inside him as he imagined this other boy, playing in the godswood with Robb where Aemon should be. “That’s nor fair! Why can Theon stay, and I don’t. Why can’t that boy be Lord of Dragonstone instead?”
Lord Stannis finally set aside the quill and crossed his arms on the table.
“He is a hostage, not a ward or guest. His presence there is to keep the Greyjoys from rebelling again.”
“That’s not fair! Why does Theon get to stay when his dad is evil when I get sent away?” He exclaimed. Lord Stannis face did not even twitch. He seemed to be chewing on something as the silence became longer and longer.
“You are right. It isn’t fair.” Stannis started, but by his tone Aemon wouldn’t liked what came out next form his clenched teeth.
“He is a hostage with a blade hanging over his neck for the rest of his life. You were given your own seat, a powerful one, and all you do is weep because your uncle spared you from death or the Wall. You have far more than you deserve. “
Lord Stannis leaned forward as Aemon backed away, the shame and fear crawling up his back.
“You live because King Robert made a daft mistake, any sensible man would’ve sooner put you in the ground and free themselves of the trouble your blood brings.” Stannis leaned back, picked up his quill again and began writing once more, turning the page in the ledger.
Aemon felt his tears trail down his face again, but he didn’t bother wiping them away now, he was a failure.
He understood now, why Uncle Ned sent him away. He wanted to be angry but all he felt was anger with himself.
He hugged his arms around himself as he cried, he didn’t deserve to hide these tears away.
“I-I'm sorry. I didn’t want to be bad Stannis.”
Lord Stannis looked up from his parchment, that same hardness in his blue eyes still present.
“Words are wind boy. Do you want to be deserving of your position?” He paused. “Then you must do your duty, prove Robert saw sense in letting you live and gifting you a lordship, prove you are a worthy of his mercy.” He went back to writing, his eyes lowering and Aemon felt he could breathe better, no longer struggling to gulp in air.
Aemon reared up from the chair, pushing it back and running towards the door, his wet tears streaming down his face. As he struggled to push open the door, Stannis spoke once more.
“You are dismissed. Once you’ve calmed down, return and your lesson will begin.”
Aemon stopped to listen, but left soon after, his sobs heard down the halls as he ran for the godswood.
As he ran, he ignored the servants; none tried to stop him.
Outside, he tripped and slammed into the dirt, scraping his knees, but he didn’t care. He kept going until he sat before the sapling, its few red leaves trembling in the cold wind. So small. So fragile. So out of place among the overgrown southern roses and shrubs.
He curled into a ball, his arms wrapped tight around himself and cried until his chest hurt. The tree swayed gently, pale and silent. It didn’t answer. It couldn’t.
Stannis’ words swam in his mind.
Then you must do your duty.
Stannis’ eyes, blue and hard, stared back at him from his mind. They weren’t his eyes anymore; they were the King’s. Angry. Cold. Accusing.
You live because Robert made a daft mistake.
You only live because Honourable Eddard Stark begged for mercy.
Every foul whisper he tried to ignore came to him in force, haunting Aemon.
You are Rhaegar Targaryen’s bastard.
You took her from me,
Dragonspawn.
He thought of his mother, of his siblings. Uncle Brandon. Grandfather. All gone. His father had taken his mother, and the war had taken the rest. And he had been born into it all. A mistake. A living, breathing mistake.
Then you must do your duty.
“I-I’m s-sorry I was born,” he whispered, words breaking. “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t want it… If I could… if I could be gone, and they could be here… I would.”
The wind rattled the branches, whispering past the sapling. The tree didn’t move for him. Its pale bark couldn’t see or hear. It didn’t care.
He wanted to hide. He wanted to vanish. But he was here. And they were gone. And it was all his fault. All of it.
You must do your duty as I do mine.
His uncle’s words.
The words rolled through his head, echoing like a drum in a dark hall. Duty. Deserve. Worth.
He wasn’t sure he understood them yet, but he would. He had to.
He sat up straighter, knees scraped and wet and stared at the tiny tree. One day, he would be worthy.
He would prove he was not his father. Not a mistake. Not a shadow of the man who took his mother away. He would show Stannis, show the King, show Uncle Ned, show them all.
He was Lord of Dragonstone now. He had a place. He had a duty. And even if he felt small, even if the world seemed cold and scary, he would do it. Aemon had to be brave.
He had no other choice.