The Golden Wyrm

"Madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin. Every time a new Targaryen is born [...] the gods toss the coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land".

―King Jaehaerys II Targaryen

…​

Aemond crept through the narrow passageways beneath the Red Keep, the air thick with the damp, earthen scent of old stone. The walls were rough, carved by hands long forgotten, and covered in places by creeping vines that found their way from the castle gardens above. Flickering torchlight cast long shadows, the orange glow dancing across the uneven surfaces, creating shapes that seemed to shift as Aemond passed. His small feet barely made a sound on the ancient stone floor, which was worn smooth from centuries of footsteps, yet the occasional scrape echoed softly in the narrow passage, a whisper of his clandestine journey. The warmth of the tunnels clung to him, and he could feel the draft of hotter air coming from deeper within, mingling with the faint, acrid smell of smoke and dragon.

The door to the dragonpit loomed ahead, its size intimidating, but Aemond pushed against it with all his might. The ancient door groaned, granting him entry to the vast chamber where the dragon Dreamfyre lay in her cavernous lair. Moonlight spilt in from above, illuminating the pearlescent scales of the slumbering dragoness. Her head rested against her claws, but her eyes opened at the sound of his approach, her gaze falling upon his tiny figure approaching her.

"Dreamfyre," Aemond whispered, stepping closer. He was not afraid—not of her, not of the immense power that radiated from the creature before him. The dragon's great head moved, her eyes narrowing as she examined him. The air smelled of ash with undertones of a strong, flinty, cinnamon scent. An ancient smell—and for a moment, a wave of déjà vu swept over him.

Aemond approached her eggs, nestled safely beneath her wing, and sat beside them, cradling one of the smaller ones with a careful gentleness. "How have you been, my good Lady?" he murmured to Dreamfyre, his voice soft. "I hope your keepers were not late to tend to you today."

The beast rumbled, a low sound that seemed to echo against the stone walls, and Aemond smiled in response. "I came to see you," he said, thumbing the grooves of the green egg in his hands. "The dreams have come again. I see things clearly now, strange places, strange people... a world of sand. They call it Arrakis in my dreams. There is power there, something I do not understand." The dragoness watched him, her eyes calm and knowing. Her hot breath warmed the cavern, and she made a low rumbling sound—a noise of acknowledgement, perhaps.

Aemond rested his forehead against the egg, closing his eyes. The memories were like scattered pieces of a puzzle, half-formed and elusive. He could remember voices—commanding, wise—the echo of the queer teachings. "I must not fear," he whispered, repeating the litany. "Fear is the mind-killer." Dreamfyre shifted slightly, her massive head coming to nudge him slightly.

It was there, hours later, that the Dragon Keepers found him, curled asleep within her nest as if he belonged there. They spoke in hushed tones as they coaxed him away, but Aemond did not resist, dazed and half-blind in the darkness. The Keepers brought him to Queen Alicent, who stood in her chambers, her expression a mix of fury and worry. The lingering scent of lavender floated in the air, and the sunlight bleeding in from the windows cast a warm glow against the rich tapestries that depicted scenes of Targaryen triumph. His mother's bed was draped in deep green and the air inside the room felt almost stiflingly intimate.

"Aemond! What did I say about sneaking off to the pits? That place is dangerous, especially for a boy as young as you!" Alicent's voice trembled as she spoke, her hands gripping his shoulders.

Aemond looked up at his mother. "Dreamfyre was kind, Mother," he said groggily. "She lets me sit with her eggs. I just wanted to speak with her." Alicent sighed, pulling him into her embrace, but her worry remained.

Helaena, sitting nearby, regarded him. Her eyes were distant as always, her fingers playing idly with a silver spider, the light catching its delicately wrought legs. "How was she, Aemond?" Helaena asked softly, her voice almost lost beneath the weight of the moment.

"Sated," he said simply. Helaena smiled, a fleeting look of contentment crossing her face before she returned to her quiet musings.

Queen Alicent sighed heavily as she regarded both her children. Shaking her head, she turned Aemond towards the courtyard, where his brother and nephews were already at practice. "Ser Criston sent a serving boy up to ask for you. He hadn't seen you in the yard all day. You have to train, Aemond. You are a prince. You cannot keep running off like this," she insisted, though the worry in her eyes lingered.

Aemond nodded, but his gaze was distant, the dreams still playing behind his eyes. Instead of going to the courtyard, he slipped away, his small feet carrying him to the quiet sanctuary of Maester Orwyle's study. The room was dimly lit, the scent of parchment, ink, and dusty tomes permeating the air. Shelves reached up to the ceiling, filled with old scrolls and volumes bound in cracked leather.

The chamber was cluttered with all the detritus of a scholar—quills scattered across a heavy oaken desk, jars of strange powders, and the golden glow from the solitary window casting uncertain shadows upon the wall. Aemond liked it here; it was far away from the noise of the training yard and the whispers of court, a refuge where the voices of the past could be heard.

There, surrounded by dusty tomes and ancient scrolls, he could think. He opened one of the old books, his small fingers brushing across the page. The histories of Aegon the Conqueror, the tales of dragons and conquest—it was all there, written in words that spoke of power, legacy, and the will to rule. Aemond sat on a stool, letting the afternoon light wash over the words.

He closed his eyes, the dream-images flashing through his mind once again. The night sands of Arrakis, the whispers of those who called themselves the Bene Gesserit, the weight of something he had yet to name. And beyond those dreams—a darker vision. A vision of his family, splintered and at war. Fire and blood. Ashes where dragons once soared…

Visions of a winter that knew no end.

"What does it mean?" he whispered to himself, looking up at the ceiling, his eyes unfocused. He questioned Orwyle later, asking about dreams—dreams that showed the future, dreams that showed things beyond understanding—but the man had little to offer beyond platitudes and cautious dismissals.

The maester smiled faintly, shaking his head. "The minds of Targaryens are touched by flame, or so they say. It is not for men like me to understand the depths of dragon dreams."

It was in the old histories that Aemond found his answers—or at least the beginnings of them. Power was what shaped the world. Power, the way Aegon the First had wielded it, the way he had forged Seven Kingdoms into one. Aemond knew, even then, that he would not be like his brothers. Aegon the Second, with his carefree laughter and recklessness, could never understand. But Aemond wanted to understand.

He traced his finger along an illustration of a dragon coiled around a crown, his mind filled with visions of what could be. He did not yet know what his purpose in this world would be, but he felt it—an inevitable thing.