Aenar Targaryen (292 A.C., Third Moon)
Throne Room – King's Landing
Aenar stood beside Brynden Rivers in the throne room. He saw the banners of his family, yet instead of hanging proudly, they were being thrown down. Around the room were also dragon skulls, the biggest of them the size of at least four horses combined, if not bigger.
Yet it was not those that held his attention. It was the five men who stood around the foot of the Iron Throne. He noticed his uncle, and a man in red and gold, a man in blue, a man in yellow and black, and a man in golden armor wearing a white cloak. Between them lay a cloth of red crimson, and it also held darker stains.
"That is my uncle," he noted.
"And those men around him are Robert Baratheon, Jon Arryn, Tywin, and Jaime Lannister." Aenar startled at the names.
Then his uncle spoke up. "Robert, you must sentence Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch to death. This was not justice, this was murder. They were children, and their mother was Princess of Dorne."
"Murder? I do not see children. I only see dragonspawn," Robert stated, and Aenar felt his blood boil.
"I thought you were a better man," his uncle said as he walked away.
"Better? Those were Rhaegar's spawn, they would have grown up like him. Better that they die now," Robert roared.
"I go to find my sister, Your Grace. I will dishonor myself by standing beside a man who lets murder and rape go unpunished. Or the killing of the king, who deserved better justice than a blade through the back." At that, Jaime Lannister looked at Lord Stark with a frown.
"Go, find my Lyanna, and liberate my brother. Before I forget we are friends," Robert growled.
As his father walked away and passed toward the doors and into the city, Aenar whispered, "He called them dragonspawn. He did not care what happened, he only saw my father." His thoughts went to the eggs, the last part of his murdered siblings still alive.
"Indeed he did. Rage can blind even bonds of kinship. I know the feeling, I hated my half-brother as he hated me. If I could, I would have killed him, and Aegor would have done the same. Robert forgets his own grandmother was our blood, and the founder of his house. The man was blind to the murder of his kin. Yet he already forgets that it was those blood-ties and being the face of the rebellion that put him on the throne," Brynden said.
"Robert, this act will stain your reign. We must make amends to the Dornish if we want them to rejoin the realm."
"Dornish?" Robert spat. "Dragon lovers, just like the Reach. Jon, you know as well as I do."
"It does not matter what you think," Jon Arryn insisted, eyes sharp despite his age. "You have claimed the throne. Now you must unite it."
Robert glared at the older man with open contempt, but in the end, he relented with a snarl.
"Very well. Do what you will, you are my Hand, but leave me out of it."
The throne room dimmed, the voices fading like ghosts, and the vision dissolved into shadow.
Then blackness.
A heartbeat later, they stood once more before the great weirwood, its red leaves whispering in the still air.
Brynden's voice echoed softly.
"You see now. Hate is blinding. If you let it consume you, young one, it will lead only to bitterness."
Aenar looked toward him, fists clenched at his sides. "I do feel hate toward them. Toward Tywin, toward Robert." Aenar paused.
"I want to bring both down, yet I am only a boy of ten."
Brynden smiled. "True, and you will, if you learn your lessons. Vengeance and justice are good motivators, but they cannot be all you have. When that ends, you have nothing left. Robert found that out the hard way. You need to find your own purpose, beyond that. I found mine in the dreams, and in leading the realm, doing my duty. Later I found it in this cave until the one who will take my place comes."
Aenar looked at Brynden and sighed. "I do not know yet. I feel I want to make my house great again. Bring it back. Yet it is a conflicting feeling. I know I am not a bastard, yet it is something I have been for ten years. For most of my life I wished for a small holdfast and to serve Robb when the time came. Yet now I do not know, and perhaps it is true that one of the drives I have is finding justice for my siblings, and the rest of my family."
"That is not a problem. You just need to find that purpose, and it is not something you must have now. Hopefully over time you will find it, besides justice and the destiny before you."
And the world faded to black.
Kingsroad, close to Moat Cailin
He awoke around a campfire. "Good morning, Jon," Alyn said with a smile.
He grumbled as he rose from his bed and clothed himself. The breakfast was plain, thick bread with molten cheese upon it. After which they packed up their things and started riding.
They rode for another three hours until the remaining towers of the once-great fortress of the North came into view. It was the stronghold that had kept the Andals at bay, and only his family had made the North bend the knee. Looking at the Stark banners hanging on the towers, he could not help but feel a sense of pride. He was a Stark, but not through his father, through his mother.
Yet with that also came a sore point. Looking at the tower, but also noticing the Kingsroad during his journey, he saw how it had fallen into decay. The North, and perhaps the rest of the kingdoms, needed to rebuild. Yet he wondered why. Was the need no longer there? Was it the will that was lacking? Or were the means simply gone? His uncle did have the means to partly restore it. Apparently it was his grandfather who had started saving funds for the restoration, likely as a seat for his uncle, when Uncle Brandon was still the heir.
He made a mental note to send messages to his uncle, urging him to start the rebuilding process.
"Well, as I thought it would be," he remarked to Alyn, who nodded in agreement.
"Indeed it is so," Alyn replied.
"Yes, Jon. Moat Cailin is just a fallen ruin now. Trying to bring your army up from the sides would be risky. Your heavy troops and men would be slow and vulnerable to archers or sinkholes. And as for taking it from the south, it would be a near-impossible feat. Thousands of men forced into that narrow causeway would meet a gruesome end. The North is no easy conquest, my ward," Howland said, chuckling.
"Yes, very true," he chuckled. The once-mighty fortress had few gates or intact walls remaining. Most were sunken into the mud or in a state of decay. "Well, let us meet the men that garrison it, shall we?" he declared, his voice filled with determination, and they rode hard toward the towers.
"Halt! Who goes there?" a guardsman asked, donning the colors of House Stark. He knew that Lord Stark maintained a garrison of around one hundred men at Moat Cailin, rotating them every two years due to the fort's strategic importance and relatively accommodating conditions amidst the decay.
"I am Jon Snow, the bastard son of Lord Stark. I am on my way to Greywater Watch for my wardship. This is Alyn, my sworn sword, and this is Lord Reed and his companions," he declared to the guardsman atop his horse.
"Ah, yes. Welcome, Snow. Lord Stark sent us a message, as did the group that arrived two days ago, informing us of your impending arrival," the guardsman responded, his tone tinged with disdain as he mentioned the name Snow. Though he sensed the disrespect, he chose to let it slide. In the eyes of the world, he was still considered a bastard. Alyn, positioned atop his horse, glowered at the guardsman, clearly displeased by the lack of respect shown.
"Lord Reed, I hope the roads were kind, and the horses suited for the journey?"
"Indeed they were, as were the horses," Howland replied curtly. Aenar looked at Howland with a frown.
"Well, the hospitality of Moat Cailin is yours, Snow, as it is yours, Lord Reed," the guardsman said, and he and the others lowered their spears. They rode past fallen sections of the ruin, with no intact towers in sight, only scattered rocks and debris. The three towers he had spotted from a distance were situated at the far end of the fort, still usable but gradually succumbing to decay. If the deterioration continued unchecked, Moat Cailin would be reduced to nothing within fifty years. Shaking his head at the sight.
As they dismounted, he looked toward Howland. "I thought those were your own horses."
"Sorry, Jon, but horses do not thrive in the Neck. We have to leave the horses here," Howland said.
As he contemplated his options, his gaze met that of his loyal companion, Shadow, a horse of remarkable strength and spirit. "Well, I suppose Shadow will have to remain here for the time being or roam freely on the plains north of the Neck," he deliberated aloud, a smirk forming as Shadow pawed at the ground in anticipation of open expanse. "Yes, girl, I shall set you free, but return to me when I need your strength."
"I thought throughout the journey your bond with her was remarkable," Howland said, with a tone that suggested he knew more than he let on.
"Yes, I raised Shadow from a young filly," he replied with a smile, patting Shadow's neck.
They were interrupted when a voice called from behind. He turned. "My lord, I am the castellan of Moat Cailin, Arne, my lord," the castellan introduced himself tentatively. "May I show you to your rooms for the night?" Arne asked.
"I am not yet lord, not until the Moat is restored. Call me Jon or Snow. But yes, you may show us our rooms," Aenar replied.
"Please have someone unpack the horses and stable them," he requested, scanning the area. He was surprised that no one had done so already, likely due to the lack of proper discipline and the absence of a true lord of Moat Cailin to maintain order. When he became the lord, that would have to change.
"Jon, my men and I will handle it all. Your chests and belongings shall be safely transported to the stables, ready for your departure tomorrow," Howland assured him, earning a nod of gratitude.
As they made their way toward the gatehouse tower, where their chambers awaited, Aenar could not help but notice it stood as the sole tower still straight amidst the ruins. Despite his bastard status, he was afforded the finest accommodations, a courtesy extended due to his lineage.
The remainder of the day was spent exploring the decaying fort and its surroundings. He engaged in spirited sparring matches with both Alyn and Howland's guardsmen, and spoke with the guards of the Moat. It appeared that stationed duty at Moat Cailin lacked excitement.
As dusk settled, he mounted Shadow once more and rode her across the open plain behind the Moat, knowing it would be some time before he reunited with his trusted steed.
Dinner that evening was a simple affair, a hearty fish soup made from the plentiful catch of Moat Cailin's waters. Conversations with the guards revolved around the limited traffic passing through, particularly during autumn when food wagons journeyed from the south. Though some supplies arrived from White Harbor, most provisions were sourced through that bustling port. Occasionally, a lord or noble undertook the journey, venturing either north or south. The guards dutifully trained, stood watch, and patrolled the Kingsroad, vigilant for any signs of banditry.
After dinner, he sat at his desk in his room, looking over maps of the Neck and the region of Moat Cailin. He had seen Moat Cailin now, and it had potential if they could turn it into a great fort. He envisioned it as a base from which he could expand his power and influence, conveniently close to the Neck. He wondered if he could even use it to hide the dragons if the eggs were to hatch. Additionally, he considered the strategic benefits of building a channel from the Narrow Sea to the Fever River. It would greatly benefit the North and make it almost impossible for invaders to come from the south. Moreover, it would ease power projection to the Sunset Sea and provide protection against the Ironborn.
From lessons with Maester Luwin, he estimated it would cost fifty thousand gold dragons to restore the Moat. Adding a channel and a harbor town would increase the cost by an additional twenty-five thousand gold dragons, although he did not know how quickly the process would go, so likely the cost would rise. Yet even with those concerns, he decided to write to his uncle, urging him to proceed with plans to make him the lord of the Moat. He would include the plans, and the thought of taking such action brightened his heart. Finally, he was doing something he could feel proud of, and he would have his own domain.
He thought about it all as a smile grazed his lips.
So Aenar began to write the letter. Yet his hand paused. Dear father were the words that came to mind. Was Eddard Stark his father? Truly, he was not sure. The pain of the man wanting him at the Wall, and not telling him. Yet the man had raised him and protected him.
Aenar sighed. No, Eddard Stark was his father in all the ways that mattered. Yet he still needed time to truly forgive, and to learn why he had not told him.
With his thoughts sorted, he put feather to paper.
Dear Father…
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