Rhaenyra Targaryen, The Observatory – Ocean of Souls

"By the gods…" Jacaerys murmured, unable to conceal his astonishment, utterly paralyzed by what he had just witnessed.

Rhaenyra could only nod gently, her attention entirely focused upon the images within the sphere.

Aemon had his… wand raised, its tip glowing with an intense blue radiance, an aura of frost surrounding it as it awaited the simplest command from its master to unleash its monstrous power.

Yet this woman, this… Sybill, did not appear remotely concerned by Aemon's display. Quite the contrary. It was almost as though the knowledge that Aemon commanded such tremendous power excited her.

Perhaps that was precisely the case, Rhaenyra thought with a frown, returning her attention to her beloved sons.

It still felt terribly strange to see Jace, Lucerys, and Joffrey so much younger than Aegon and Viserys. Rhaenyra could only feel guilty as she shook her head. Even after almost two centuries, she continued mourning the lives her beloved little ones had never been allowed to live.

Everything that had been stolen from them.

The prince opened and closed his mouth several times, struggling to find the appropriate words to express what he had just witnessed. Yet not a single word escaped his lips. His gaze remained fixed upon the sphere, as astonished as the rest of the Targaryens gathered within the Observatory, all of whom regarded that mysterious and terrifying woman with equal disbelief.

"Wolf or dragon, I couldn't say, but both are furious. Look at his face. He can barely contain his rage."

The words of Rhaenyra's brother prompted those around him to nod in agreement. Everyone was too absorbed in the images to concern themselves with anything else. They all wanted to discover how this confrontation would end.

"I say he should fuck her," declared, to Rhaenyra's absolute shock and disgust, her own grandson.

One of her greatest embarrassments.

Aegon IV, who had spent practically the entire encounter devouring Sybill's frankly voluptuous figure with his eyes.

Rhaenyra couldn't help feeling revolted merely by looking at him, scarcely able to believe that such a… creature had descended from her own blood. But once again, the Dragon Queen refused to give him any further attention, focusing instead upon the tense encounter unfolding before them.

By the Seven Hells, even the Potters, who were sorcerers just like Aemon, appeared astonished by the mysterious woman.

But there was one thing becoming increasingly clear about this Sybill.

She… possessed Valyrian blood.

"I cannot believe it…" Aegon III murmured, slowly rising from his seat. "Could she be a Targaryen? Is it possible that she is one of us?"

And that possibility was precisely what troubled Rhaenyra the most.

Because her beloved son might very well be correct.

Rhaenyra could be many things, but stupid was certainly not one of them.

The overwhelming majority of the Targaryens who had ever lived were gathered here, and the presence of her grandmother's ring in the hands of the Goblin King, combined with her husband's absence, suggested that perhaps Daemon had not died at the Gods Eye during his battle against Aemond.

Perhaps, somehow, he had ended up in that strange land where Aemon now resided.

Rhaenyra was no fool. She knew perfectly well what sort of man Daemon was. And if the Old Gods had somehow taken her husband's body and transported him to that mysterious place, the likelihood of Daemon finding some whore to warm his bed was rather considerable.

But the Dragon Queen refused to dwell upon that possibility.

There were more pressing matters to consider, such as discovering precisely what was happening and what this woman's existence might mean for Aemon.

On the other side of the image, the conversation between Aemon and Sybill Trelawney continued beneath an atmosphere of steadily mounting tension. None of the observers seemed willing to miss a single word. Too many questions remained unanswered, and the possibility that this mysterious stranger shared the blood of the dragon only intensified their curiosity.

Jon remained silent for a moment, lost in thought as he stared into the witch's eyes.

Suddenly, he felt something strange, as though a needle had been gently inserted between his eyes.

There was no pain. In fact, he could barely feel it at all, and he was certain that was thanks to the blood of the wolf flowing through his veins.

He knew exactly what it was.

A test of his mental defenses.

A very subtle one.

Summoning every ounce of willpower he possessed, Jon recalled Nerea's teachings on Occlumency and emptied his mind as quickly as he could.

The professor, sensing his resistance, withdrew her mental intrusion just as swiftly as she had initiated it, allowing a soft giggle to escape her lips.

"An Occlumens, Jon? At such a young age? My, you truly are full of surprises…" the professor murmured with amusement. "You rely on obsolete techniques, and you're barely a novice, but the fact that you can empty your mind at just fifteen years old speaks volumes about your discipline."

"What is an Occlumens? And why does that woman seem so surprised that Aemon is one?" Prince Baelor asked Lord James and Lady Lily curiously.

And, if she was being honest, Rhaenyra wanted to know the answer as well.

It was an extraordinarily specific and unfamiliar term, undoubtedly connected to magic, the Realm's Delight thought as she leaned forward in her chair to listen to the sorcerers.

Lady Lily and Lord James exchanged a silent glance for several seconds before turning back toward Baelor.

"An Occlumens is a wizard or witch capable of mastering Occlumency, a dark branch of magic that allows the practitioner to protect their mind against external intrusions, generally those performed by a Legilimens," Lord James explained calmly.

Several of those gathered around him widened their eyes as the implications of his words began to sink in.

"Wait… mental intrusions? Are you saying magic allows you to read people's minds?" Rhaenyra's father, King Viserys, demanded, looking toward the couple with unmistakable concern.

Her father's questions left the entire House of the Dragon apprehensive and expectant. Every gaze turned toward James and Lily, both of whom grimaced slightly at his words.

"It isn't something quite so… uncivilized as simply reading minds. Occlumency and Legilimency are extraordinarily complex branches of magic, exceedingly difficult to master. There are witches and wizards who spend their entire long lives without ever succeeding. The fact that Aemon is already a novice Occlumens speaks volumes about his discipline and power. It is a promising sign for House Stark," Lily explained with a smile.

Rhaenyra frowned.

"Targaryen. Aemon is a member of House Targaryen, not Stark," the Realm's Delight corrected firmly, thoroughly exhausted by this tiresome argument.

Aemon was a prince, the heir apparent to the Iron Throne, and perhaps the last dragon. She did not consider it appropriate for everyone to continue referring to him as a Stark.

This power, this magic… belonged to a Targaryen.

Not a Stark.

Unfortunately, Lord James's response came without hesitation.

His expression remained composed, his voice perfectly calm, but his words struck Rhaenyra and every Targaryen present like daggers.

"He wears Stark robes, possesses the Stark Ring, and Lady Magic herself recognizes him as the Lord of Wolf's Den. I cannot imagine how he could possibly be more Stark than that."

And in the face of such cold, irrefutable logic, nobody could offer a response.

There was simply no argument capable of overcoming those facts.

With a heavy sigh, Rhaenyra returned her attention to the sphere.

The entire chamber fell silent.

By then, the professor was already standing before him.

Raising one delicate hand, she gently caressed his cheek, her fingertips brushing against his skin with a tenderness that only served to awaken the desire stirring within the young wolf.

The woman was seduction incarnate.

But he had to resist.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Jon raised his wand and unleashed a torrent of frost directly at the professor.

To his utter astonishment, the attack tore through her body, destroying it completely.

Yet as the frost dissipated, he heard a soft, amused laugh coming from behind him.

Jon spun around.

There, seated upon what appeared to be a throne, was Sybill Trelawney herself, gazing at him with undisguised amusement and the purest desire burning in her eyes.

"Fuck," Jacaerys muttered, staring wide-eyed at what they had just witnessed.

Rhaenyra couldn't tell whether her son was referring to the obviously powerful frost spell Aemon had unleashed…

Or to the seemingly absolute control this Sybill possessed over that peculiar and mystical place.

Perhaps both, the queen thought, swallowing nervously.

Nobody said anything else. Everyone was far too focused upon the confrontation to offer further commentary.

"That woman is considerably more dangerous than she appears," King Daeron II declared.

Beside him, Rhaenyra's grandson Daeron I frowned.

"This magic is… unsettling," he admitted quietly.

Those around him nodded in agreement before returning their attention to the sphere.

"So much power, and at such a young age…" the professor exclaimed, regarding Jon as though he were a particularly delectable piece of meat. "Oh, we are going to accomplish such wonderful things together, my love."

"Did you read my mind? Is that how you learned about my brother and my father?" Jon demanded. "Nobody in these lands knows anything about my family, much less about Winterfell!"

The professor merely regarded him with an amused smile.

"That is something we would all very much like to know," Rhaenyra's mother remarked softly.

She held Rhaenyra's brother, her true and only brother, at least in her own mind, cradled in her arms as the little boy gnawed upon his fist.

The queen couldn't help smiling at the sight.

"How likely is it that this Sybill is a Legilimens, as you mentioned?" Prince Baelor asked, looking directly toward James and Lily.

Lord Potter remained focused upon the sphere and answered without looking away.

"Very likely, considering that, as Aemon himself pointed out, nobody besides him knows anything about his father or this… Winterfell. Those are hardly common names."

Baelor nodded thoughtfully.

"I am a clairvoyant, Jon. Very few things escape my Third Eye," she replied smoothly. "The method you used to reach these lands happens to be one of those exceptions. But your past… your power… your ambition…"

Her smile widened.

"It's intoxicating. You possess both the means and the desire to dominate and conquer. That burning hunger to rule… There is a wildfire roaring inside you, begging to be unleashed."

Jon regarded the woman with cold suspicion.

Her eyes were… intense.

Obsessed.

As though she knew something Jon himself did not.

"She knows. It's obvious that she knows Aemon's identity. Those words are far too specific," Aemond declared.

Beside him, Aegon nodded, a hamburger clutched between his hands and his eyes fixed upon the sphere without so much as blinking.

Rhaenyra had never seen him so… concentrated upon anything.

"And the plot thickens," Aegon declared, moving to the edge of his seat and forgetting everyone and everything around him.

"And you expect me to believe that, by relying upon the most inaccurate branch of magic, you somehow managed to uncover so many details about me?"

As he spoke, Jon moved his wand through three precise motions, conjuring three spectral wolves imbued with the ancient magic of House Stark.

The ethereal beasts immediately surrounded their master, their ghostly forms radiating supernatural energy as they surveyed their surroundings, ever vigilant for the slightest hint of danger.

Their paws left trails of frost wherever they stepped.

They were enormous, dangerous, and more than ready to tear that bitch apart like a helpless lamb.

"Oh, fuck!" Joffrey exclaimed, earning a reprimanding look from Rhaenyra.

"I have to admit, that's the most incredible thing I've ever seen!"

"Do you think he could create a dragon next time?"

Rhaenyra watched as everyone regarded Aemon's wolves with excitement and even pride.

The queen heard several complaints that the creatures weren't dragons, but the most interesting reactions, at least to the Realm's Delight, undoubtedly belonged to the Potters.

They were studying the sphere with critical eyes.

"That doesn't resemble any spell I've ever encountered. They aren't ordinary conjurations. They're something else… Some kind of enchantment? Perhaps a variation of the Patronus Charm?" Lily wondered, leaning forward with interest.

Lord James shook his head.

"No. A Patronus isn't tangible, and those wolves look more than capable of tearing that professor's throat out. This is something entirely different. Perhaps it's the elemental magic for which House Stark was so famous," Lord James suggested.

"Although his technique is impeccable. I recognize that stance, the slight bend in his knees. Filius has been training him in combat. It's obvious. He's still a novice, but he'll become a magnificent duelist. I can see it."

Lord Potter nodded in agreement.

And for some strange reason, every Targaryen present, Rhaenyra included, felt a surge of pride at those words.

They were pleased not only by Aemon's magical talent, but also by the recognition he was beginning to receive.

"He's still a novice, but I'm genuinely looking forward to seeing him duel. If Filius is training him, he'll almost certainly compete in the World Championship," Lily remarked with a smile.

Rhaenyra couldn't help intervening.

"Forgive me, Lady Lily, but you mentioned a World Championship and dueling competitions. What exactly do you mean?" Rhaenyra, the Realm's Delight, asked with genuine curiosity.

The princess leaned slightly forward, regarding the redhead with renewed interest.

Around her, several members of the Targaryen dynasty likewise turned their attention toward Lady Lily.

Those words had awakened their curiosity, particularly the possibility that in that distant, mysterious, and peculiar land of witches and wizards, organized competitions existed for the purpose of demonstrating a sorcerer's prowess in combat.

Although the longer she considered it, the more sense the notion made to the former Targaryen queen.

Trials of skill were common wherever civilization flourished.

For a moment, Rhaenyra imagined elegant tournaments in which witches and wizards hurled flames and lightning at one another in an unprecedented spectacle.

She sincerely hoped Lily's words were true, because witnessing such an event would surely be… magnificent.

Lily blinked, slightly surprised by the question.

For several moments, she appeared to have forgotten that her audience knew very little about the customs of the magical world.

Finally, a kindly smile illuminated her face, and the young witch settled more comfortably into her chair before answering.

"Ah, yes, of course. Forgive me. Sometimes I forget that these things may seem rather strange to you Muggles," she replied with a small smile.

Several Targaryens frowned at the word. It wasn't spoken with contempt, but even so, being so casually dismissed was… strange.

It was certainly not a sensation any Targaryen was accustomed to experiencing.

"Filius was my mentor. I was studying for my magical mastery in advanced Charms under his guidance, and he is an international dueling champion. An extraordinarily skilled and powerful wizard."

The redhead turned her attention back toward the Observatory's sphere, where Aemon continued preparing for combat.

Her green eyes narrowed slightly as she carefully examined the young man's footing, the angle of his shoulders, and, above all, the manner in which he held his wand.

"Do you see how he's holding his wand?" Lily asked, delicately indicating the image. "And notice how he shifts his body slightly to the left, maintaining a position that allows him to react quickly without compromising his balance."

The Targaryens followed the direction of her hand, studying the boy with considerably greater attention than before.

For many of them, accustomed to observing the handling of swords, spears, and other conventional weapons, it was fascinating to discover that wizards also possessed carefully developed combat stances.

"That is Professor Flitwick's classical stance, designed for someone slender and agile like Aemon," Lily continued, recognition evident in her expression. "It's a dueling position used in international competitions. It provides a good balance between defense and offense, while also facilitating the movements necessary to cast spells with precision."

The young witch paused briefly, contemplating Aemon once again.

There was a certain satisfaction in her expression, accompanied by increasingly obvious curiosity.

"If Aemon is using it, that means someone is teaching him the formal techniques of magical combat," she explained. "It isn't a position one adopts by accident. It requires training, practice, and a fairly precise understanding of how a duelist should move."

Lily gently folded her hands upon her lap, her eyes remaining fixed upon the sphere.

A small smile appeared upon her lips once again, this time accompanied by the enthusiasm of someone recognizing a discipline she knew and deeply appreciated.

"That means Aemon is receiving proper training in magical combat," she concluded with evident interest. "And I must admit, I'm very eager to see how he performs."

Rhaenyra returned her attention to the sphere, reflecting upon everything she had just heard.

The young man's stance, which only moments earlier had appeared to be nothing more than a peculiar way of holding his strange instrument, now possessed an entirely different significance.

And judging by the expectant silence that had settled over those gathered, their eyes filled with anticipation, she was hardly the only one eager to discover what Aemon was capable of accomplishing.

"Enough of your games! Speak plainly, woman!"

The flames burning within the braziers suddenly turned an intense, brilliant white.

The temperature in the chamber began to plummet, and a thin layer of frost slowly spread across the stone floor.

The woman fell silent as she observed him.

Her previously relaxed expression vanished, replaced by a curious yet distinctly cold gaze.

After a brief moment, she finally spoke.

"Very well. No more games," she replied. "You possess considerable resources, my love, more than enough to provide me with the life of luxury and pleasure I so richly deserve."

She paused, studying his reaction before continuing.

"In exchange, I offer you my knowledge. I will train you, teach you the arts of Clairvoyance and Illusionism, and help you master abilities that few wizards could ever hope to understand. All I ask is that, when the time comes, you take me as a member of your House. A most excellent arrangement, as far as I am concerned."

Jon regarded her with a mixture of disbelief and caution.

An expression shared by Rhaenyra and the other Targaryens present, although there were certain exceptions.

Daeron II leaned forward before speaking.

"She knows. She knows Aemon is a Targaryen. She isn't asking for the protection of House Stark. She's asking to be readmitted into the House of the Dragon," he declared seriously.

Beside him, King Maekar responded without hesitation.

"A dangerous precedent. We don't even know whom this Sybill descends from. For all we know, she could be descended from Daemon Blackfyre himself," he growled.

His granddaughter Daena regarded him with utter contempt before answering mercilessly.

"And why exactly would that be a problem? We've already seen what your seed produced, and it was hardly noble or powerful, was it? One son lost to leprosy, another foolish enough to drink wildfire, and yet another who burned Summerhall to the ground, along with the remaining dragon eggs. How does that make you feel? Knowing that you might have deprived Aemon of his greatest opportunity to restore our former glory?"

Predictably, Maekar was furious.

The king sprang to his feet, his face crimson with rage, clearly prepared to continue the argument.

But Daeron II's commanding voice intervened.

"Maekar, enough. Stop arguing with my aunt and pay attention. This is far more important than a distant past," the wise king declared, silencing them both.

"You're hiding something," Jon finally said, his voice cold and measured. "You wish to become a member of my House, yet you're deliberately withholding information from me. What aren't you telling me?"

Sybill offered him a small, mischievous smile.

"Oh, my love, would you really insist on having dessert before the main course?" she teased.

"No, no, no. That simply wouldn't do."

She leaned forward slightly, her eyes gleaming with amusement.

"I shall train you in Clairvoyance, and through your own efforts, you will eventually discover the answer to that question. Consider it part of your education. A sovereign must prepare for any situation, after all."

Then, extending one delicate hand toward him, she asked:

"There can be no doubt that she knows. She didn't say lord. She said sovereign, implying the title of a ruler," Vaegon declared, leaning forward.

Several others nodded silently in agreement.

"But then… does that mean this woman has seen Aemon as a king? As the patriarch of House Targaryen?" Aerion asked excitedly.

Nobody had an answer.

At least, not yet.

"So, my love… do we have a deal?"

As she extended her arm, Jon noticed something he had previously overlooked.

Intricate runic tattoos adorned her skin, stretching along her slender arms and continuing down her legs. Their patterns were strange, unfamiliar, and unmistakably magical.

Jon studied the woman for another moment, never allowing his gaze to waver.

Then, with deliberate calm, he took her offered hand and raised it to his lips.

His eyes remained as cold as two icebergs as he placed a gentle kiss upon her delicate skin.

"We have a deal."

And then the image vanished.

But the sphere had not lost its power. Instead, a peculiar gray cloud began forming within it, gradually giving way to another memory and granting the assembled Targaryens a brief respite.

"Why do I feel as though Aemon just made a bargain with a demon?" Daeron asked hesitantly.

Several people around him snorted in amusement.

"That is… probably the most appropriate description of what we just witnessed. But it's obvious that this Sybill knows considerably more than she's willing to reveal. I'm interested in seeing her again," the Old King remarked, leaning forward and stroking his beard.

"I'm not particularly surprised, actually. If wizards hide themselves from Muggles, it makes perfect sense for clairvoyants to hide themselves from wizards. I admire Aemon's strength of will. He managed to break through that illusion spell," Lily declared, clearly impressed.

Rhaenyra was about to ask another question when the image suddenly changed.

Now it showed Aemon inside the extraordinarily luxurious Stark study.

The view of Cranleigh beyond the windows, combined with the gentle rain falling outside, created an exceptionally pleasant scene.

Rhaenyra would not have objected in the slightest to living there.

It was… the most luxurious castle she had ever seen.

It made both the Red Keep and Dragonstone look like miserable hovels.

"What the fuck is that?" her beloved Jace demanded incredulously, watching as Aemon inspected what appeared to be three enormous bronze statues.

"By the gods!" Naerys exclaimed, her eyes wide with disbelief as she swallowed fearfully at the sight of the colossal magical titans.

"Are those… moving statues?" Aegon II asked with the fascination of a five-year-old child.

Although Rhaenyra could hardly blame him.

This was… extraordinary.

But as usual, Lord James and Lady Lily were examining the magical craftsmanship with critical eyes.

"They're magnificent creations. Look at that enchantment work. Only a true master artificer could have created something like this," the redhead declared.

Her husband nodded.

"Aye. And look at those runic clusters. That's Stark magic. Let's see what's happening."

"And you're telling me these things were built how long ago? A thousand years?" Jon asked, unable to conceal his disbelief. "By the Old Gods! They look completely new!"

The young Stark slowly raised his gaze, studying the imposing figures towering before him from head to foot.

Their size, the complexity of their designs, and above all, their astonishing state of preservation were difficult to comprehend.

Beside him, Nerea, the Guardian of Stark Knowledge, nodded gently.

The woman regarded the colossi with a familiarity that contrasted sharply with her young lord's astonishment.

"Indeed," she answered calmly. "They were constructed by Prince Roderick Stark, one of the finest arcane artificers our family has ever produced. During his lifetime, he commissioned an entire regiment of five hundred automaton soldiers to ensure the protection of Wolf's Den."

She regarded the towering bronze warriors with quiet pride.

"They are automatons, Jon. Even if they fall, they will repair themselves over time. Soldiers who do not sleep, do not eat, and do not die," she explained with remarkable composure.

Rhaenyra was hardly an expert in military matters, but even she understood that the notion of completely loyal soldiers who neither died nor consumed resources was… terrifying.

And judging by the expressions of ravenous desire appearing upon the faces of her family's more militarily inclined members, the mere concept was enough to fulfill the wildest dreams of any general.

"If the Starks possessed such tremendous power, what happened? What became of their magic?" her grandfather Baelon asked incredulously.

And that was precisely the question everyone wanted answered.

"We'll discover the truth sooner or later. I remember the Gods saying that Aemon would have to restore what had been stolen. Perhaps that has something to do with magic," the Old King suggested.

Everyone nodded thoughtfully.

Jon returned his attention to the figures, this time with renewed interest.

A thousand of those giants marching together must have been an extraordinary sight.

Even standing perfectly motionless, the three warriors before him projected an intimidating presence, as though patiently awaiting a command that would awaken them.

"A thousand?" he repeated, impressed.

"A thousand," Nerea confirmed. "All forged from bronze. But not ordinary bronze, Jon. Winter Bronze, reinforced through arcane techniques that were extraordinarily advanced, even by our family's standards."

The Guardian indicated the delicate inscriptions covering the automatons' armor.

Jon narrowed his eyes, discovering that those markings were far more than simple decorations.

The runes appeared to form part of the metal itself, carefully distributed across the plates protecting their chests, shoulders, and limbs.

"I can understand certain aspects of this," Jon admitted solemnly. "But unfortunately for my pride, this magic is beyond me for the moment."

"Excellent. Possessing the maturity to acknowledge that one doesn't know everything is something rarely encountered among the royal family," Daeron remarked.

Several people around him nodded silently, still entranced by the immense magical colossi.

"Gods, one of those things could crush even the finest knight with ease," Daeron murmured, swallowing nervously.

Aegon II answered him.

"Perhaps that was the idea."

Nobody responded to that grim realization.

"Do you see those runes?" Nerea asked, waiting for the boy to nod. "They're Stark runes, extraordinarily advanced and volatile. They aren't merely decorative inscriptions, but fundamental components of the enchantments keeping these creations operational."

Her expression acquired an unmistakable severity.

"And for that very reason, don't even think about approaching them too closely or attempting to manipulate them until you've mastered the fundamentals of our family's runic magic. Have I made myself clear?"

Jon frowned slightly, feeling somewhat offended by the warning.

He disliked being treated as though he were a child incapable of understanding the dangers of magic.

Nevertheless, he possessed enough good judgment to remain silent before answering.

After all, he wasn't a fool.

Much less an idiot.

Nerea was the expert.

He, for the moment, was little more than a novice.

"I understand," he finally replied, inclining his head slightly. "I won't touch anything."

The woman appeared satisfied with his answer, although Jon had not finished speaking.

"But they're still impressive," he added, raising his gaze toward the bronze giants once more.

And truthfully, Jon felt that calling them impressive was an understatement.

The three colossi stood approximately three meters tall, towering considerably above the young Stark.

Their bodies were protected by solid bronze armor, robust in proportion yet carefully balanced, their designs evoking the ancient warriors of the First Men whom Jon had seen depicted in Winterfell's records.

The plates overlapped with extraordinary precision, forming complete suits of armor that appeared to have been crafted by the finest smiths in the world.

Despite their considerable age, the metal retained an almost flawless appearance.

There were no signs of corrosion, cracks, or wear.

Every surface remained perfectly defined, while the runic inscriptions preserved their delicate reliefs, as though the artificers had completed their work only the previous day.

It was genuinely incredible to think that all three were a thousand years old.

"They will be the ones assisting you with your training," Nerea announced, interrupting his thoughts.

Jon finally tore his eyes away from the automatons and looked toward her.

"Magical proficiency is important, naturally, but we cannot allow you to neglect your swordsmanship," the Guardian continued. "Both disciplines must develop together. A sorcerer who depends exclusively upon his wand may find himself in serious difficulty when circumstances prevent him from using it."

"Wise words. I'm relieved to know that Aemon won't neglect the art of the sword in favor of magic, although watching him employ both disciplines together will undoubtedly be extraordinary."

At Baelor's words, everyone nodded without exception, genuinely interested and excited.

At least until Aegon II asked a rather… peculiar question.

"Hey, you incompetent old fool, why did our family never marry into House Stark? Ironically, they're the only family that never rebelled against the Iron Throne until that mad pyromaniac's fiasco," her brother demanded.

He was undoubtedly addressing their father, Viserys I, who could only sigh.

Rhaenyra frowned but said nothing.

Aegon and his siblings had harbored their contempt for their father for a very long time. None of Alicent's children could bear the sight of Rhaenyra's father.

It was… rather sad.

But she also understood that her father had brought much of that resentment upon himself.

To be resented by one's own children…

Unfortunately, that was something Rhaenyra understood all too well, she thought as she glanced toward Aegon III and Viserys II, both of whom maintained a considerable distance from her for painfully obvious reasons.

Nerea cast one final glance toward the three colossi before returning her attention to the boy.

"From now on, these automatons will participate in your training sessions. They will help you perfect your combat spells, improve your reflexes, and develop the coordination necessary to confront opponents capable of responding to your attacks."

"Lady Nerea speaks with wisdom. She's an excellent guide for Aemon," Jaehaerys I declared, nodding approvingly.

"Boring! I want to see spells and swords!" Aerion exclaimed, a deranged expression upon his face as he stared at the arcane colossi.

Then he continued, growing increasingly animated.

"Just imagine it! Tens of thousands of soldiers wearing black armor and red cloaks, the Targaryen dragon emblazoned upon their chests, marching across Westeros and burning everyone who ever dared defy us!" her mad descendant shouted, utterly beside himself.

At least until King Maekar struck his son sharply across the back of the head, silencing him instantly.

"The young lord appears to be lost in thought," Lady Lily remarked with amusement.

Rhaenyra chuckled softly when she noticed that, indeed, Aemon didn't appear to be listening to a word Nerea was saying.

Jon was suddenly brought back to reality by Nerea's voice.

The woman was looking at him expectantly, clearly waiting for an answer.

"I'm sorry, Nerea," he replied, somewhat embarrassed. "I was lost in thought. What did you say?"

Nerea sighed.

"I said we need to accelerate your mental training. Your encounter with Sybill Trelawney has forced me to take more drastic measures."

Her expression grew serious.

"Behind the painting of the castle, next to your desk, there is a hidden safe. Inside, you will find an iron circlet engraved with red runes. Please, take it out."

"Does anyone else have a bad feeling about this?" her beloved Jace asked cautiously.

Several Targaryens around him nodded slowly.

"Lady Nerea's expression is… terribly cautious. I don't like the look of this," Baela declared.

She was seated beside her beloved son, holding his hand.

"Although it's wise of Aemon to address this matter as quickly as possible."

Jon obeyed, opening the concealed safe and retrieving the strange artifact.

It was a small, unassuming object.

An ordinary iron circlet, or so it appeared, with crimson runes engraved along its surface.

Nothing about it seemed particularly threatening.

He turned toward Nerea, waiting for an explanation.

"This is a Mind Flayer," the woman explained. "An artifact invented by House Stark to torture enemies and extract information from them."

At those words, every Targaryen was left stunned, utterly paralyzed by what they had just heard.

"That's… barbaric," Lord James declared, frowning as he regarded the sphere with helpless indignation.

Lady Lily nodded beside him.

"Mother."

Jace's voice drew the queen's attention.

Her son's face was pale, his eyes wide.

"She… she isn't going to put that thing on Aemon, is she?" he asked hesitantly, swallowing nervously.

But before Rhaenyra could answer, Nerea herself provided the response.

She paused briefly.

"Put it on."

"Shit," Baelor whispered, his eyes widening in disbelief.

His sister Helaena covered her ears and squeezed her eyes shut, beginning to mutter to herself while shaking her head.

"What the fuck is wrong with that woman? He's just a child! How can you put a torture device on a child?!" Naerys demanded indignantly.

She rose from her seat with such fury and ferocity that Rhaenyra was genuinely surprised by the fire burning within her.

"To train him," Lord James answered.

His words stunned Rhaenyra.

An oppressive silence descended upon the entire chamber.

"Ancient magical families subject their heirs to brutal training to forge their bodies and minds. This Mind Flayer is something several families I know would use without hesitation. This… this isn't going to be pleasant to watch," James explained.

Rhaenyra swallowed and returned her gaze to the sphere.

Jon stared at her as though she had lost her mind.

"Wouldn't that be dangerous?"

"It will be," Nerea admitted without hesitation. "But it is a risk we must take."

Jon hesitated for a moment before nodding.

He placed the circlet upon his head, feeling the cold iron settle against his skin.

Then he looked toward Nerea, waiting.

The woman drew a deep breath.

Her eyes were already glistening with unshed tears.

"It will hurt, Jon. You will suffer terribly," she whispered. "But this is the price you must pay to master Occlumency."

Her voice trembled ever so slightly.

"And… forgive me, Jon."

The moment those words left her lips, an agonizing pain erupted between Jon's eyes.

It was unlike anything he had ever experienced.

He squeezed his eyes shut as tears immediately began streaming down his cheeks.

The pain seemed to pierce directly into his mind, spreading through his consciousness like countless invisible needles.

Summoning what little concentration he could muster, Jon desperately attempted to empty his thoughts and strengthen his mental defenses.

But the agony was unbearable.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the pain vanished.

Jon opened his eyes, breathing heavily.

The effect was immediate.

Watching Aemon being subjected to such barbarity, to that damned artifact known as the Mind Flayer, proved too much for practically everyone gathered within the Observatory.

What only moments earlier had inspired curiosity and fascination now became a spectacle of suffering so brutal that even those Targaryens most accustomed to violence felt their blood run cold.

The overwhelming majority of the women, including Rhaenyra herself, could barely keep their eyes open for more than a few seconds.

The Realm's Delight raised a trembling hand to her lips, horrified, before turning her face away and squeezing her eyes shut.

But even that offered no protection against the heart-rending screams continuing to echo from the sphere.

"LEAVE HIM ALONE! LEAVE MY SON ALONE, YOU FUCKING BITCH!" Lyanna roared furiously.

Tears poured down her cheeks as Rhaegar held her tightly, his own body trembling with rage at what he was witnessing, utterly consumed by helplessness.

Aemon's screams were horrifying.

They were not the cries of a warrior wounded in battle, nor those of someone who had suffered defeat.

They were screams of pure agony, torn from the very depths of his throat by a pain that seemed to surpass every imaginable limit.

Each cry sent shudders through the assembled observers, reminding them that the young dragon was being subjected to a form of training whose cruelty was almost impossible to justify.

"By the gods…" the Old King Jaehaerys murmured.

The ancient monarch stood utterly motionless, one hand pressed against his chest and his eyes wide with disbelief.

His expression reflected absolute incredulity, as though his mind refused to accept what he had just witnessed.

He had lived through wars, rebellions, and enough tragedies to fill several lifetimes, but this possessed a different sort of brutality.

A cruelty that required neither swords nor executioners to inflict unbearable suffering.

Around him, numerous Targaryen maidens had begun to weep.

Helaena shook her head desperately, squeezing her eyes shut and pressing her hands against her ears, although judging by the tears streaming down her cheeks, neither effort was helping in the slightest.

Some covered their mouths with both hands, struggling to contain their sobs, while others clung to their relatives, incapable of looking toward the sphere again.

Tears rolled silently down their cheeks, and more than one trembled whenever another scream escaped the boy's throat.

It did not matter how brave or proud Aemon had been throughout his life.

Seeing him reduced to such a state was an experience none of them had been prepared to endure.

Within the sphere, the young dragon lay upon the floor.

His body trembled violently, shaken by spasms that appeared entirely beyond his control.

Tears streamed down his cheeks as he sobbed silently, desperately attempting to withstand the torment the artifact was inflicting upon him.

Even from a distance, it was obvious that every passing instant represented a desperate struggle against a pain that refused to grant him even the briefest respite.

"This…" Daena whispered, her voice breaking.

The princess stared at the scene through tear-filled eyes.

Her hands trembled, opening and closing helplessly as she watched the young man writhing upon the floor.

There was helplessness in her expression, but also fear.

A profound fear born from the terrible realization that there was absolutely nothing she could do to help him.

"THIS IS TORTURE!" she finally cried, unable to contain herself any longer.

Her voice rang throughout the Observatory, filled with an indignation that could barely overcome the trembling of her words.

Daena slowly shook her head, as though the gesture might somehow erase the terrible image before her.

She could find nothing in what she was witnessing that resembled a lesson, much less the training a young man of her blood ought to receive.

All she could see was Aemon suffering terribly, his tears and screams bearing witness to an agony that none of those present would ever have wished to experience.

And the worst part was that they could not intervene.

They could only watch.

That realization finally plunged the Observatory into an anguished silence, broken only by the sobbing of several women and the heart-rending screams still escaping from the sphere.

For the first time, many of the Targaryens began to wonder what sort of training could possibly demand such a terrible price.

Before him stood Nerea, her expression solemn, her eyes wet with tears.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then the woman uttered a single word.

"Again."

The artifact activated once more.

This time, the pain struck with even greater intensity.

Jon clenched his teeth and closed his eyes, desperately focusing upon the defenses Nerea had taught him to construct.

His thoughts threatened to scatter beneath the pressure, but through sheer determination, he managed to establish a fragile mental barrier.

The agony lessened slightly.

For several minutes, he struggled to maintain his concentration until, at last, the pain ceased.

Jon gasped desperately for air, his entire body trembling.

Turning toward Nerea, he pleaded through his tears.

"No more… please… no more…"

"My baby, Rhaegar! My little boy! He's suffering!" Lyanna sobbed bitterly.

Her grief became uncontrollable when she saw the cursed artifact illuminate once again, unleashing another wave of screams and desperate pleas that filled the silent chamber with Aemon's agony.

His head felt as though it were about to explode.

Tears streamed freely down his face, and every instinct screamed at him to remove the cursed circlet.

Nerea regarded him in silence.

"That was the warm-up," she finally said. "I'm adjusting the artifact to level one. Prepare yourself."

Jon froze.

The warm-up?

That unbearable suffering had merely been the warm-up?

He could scarcely imagine what was coming next.

Without warning, the pain returned.

Twice as powerful as before.

It crashed against his mental defenses like a monstrous tidal wave, shattering them almost instantly.

And Jon screamed.

And then the image went black for a moment.

Only the sobs of the Targaryen maidens remained, accompanied by the absolute silence of every Targaryen man present.

"Well, now we know that magic isn't all happiness and love. It can be ruthless and cruel. That's useful to know," Prince Aemon remarked with a sigh, absently taking Princess Rhaenys's hand.

Rhaegar and Lyanna continued weeping bitterly, trembling with helplessness at what they had witnessed.

Then, suddenly, the image changed.

Now they could see Aemon lying upon the floor of his own office, unconscious and undoubtedly broken after such brutal training.

If it could even be called training, Rhaenyra thought furiously.

The session had ended.

Jon lay unconscious across his desk.

Nerea summoned the little elf.

The moment Missy appeared and saw the condition of her poor master, her expression twisted with fury.

"This is torture!" the little creature cried, glaring at the woman. "This wasn't necessary!"

Nerea looked at her.

Tears were streaming freely down her cheeks.

"He is a Prince of House Stark now, Missy," she answered, her voice trembling with emotion. "And this is merely another trial upon the torturous path that lies ahead of him."

She glanced toward Jon's unconscious form.

"It destroyed me to watch him suffer. To hear him scream… to hear him beg for mercy…"

Her voice nearly broke.

"But the enemies of our House will show him no mercy. They will not hesitate. They will not pity him. And if he is not prepared, they will destroy him."

"That is… true," the Old King admitted with a heavy sigh.

From a pragmatic perspective, he understood what Nerea was saying.

The Stark Guardian was forging Aemon's character.

Although she was employing brutal methods in the process.

Queen Alysanne turned upon him like a furious beast, tears pouring uncontrollably down her cheeks.

"This… this is torture! There is no possible way to justify what we have just witnessed, Jaehaerys! NONE!" she roared with all the fury of the dragon she was.

The old king wisely remained silent.

Everyone else followed his example and continued watching.

Nerea closed her eyes for a moment, struggling to regain her composure.

She was sobbing.

"He must be ready."

She drew a shaky breath.

"Give him a dose of Wiggenweld Potion and put him to bed, please. I must… rest. This has been terribly difficult for me."

With those final words, Nerea's form began to glow with an intense light before she disappeared, returning to her pyramid.

Missy remained silent for several moments, staring at the place where the woman had stood.

Then she turned toward her master.

With the utmost tenderness, the little elf carefully carried Jon to his bed and administered the potion Nerea had prescribed.

She made certain he was comfortable, gently arranging his blankets before stepping back to examine him one last time.

He needed rest.

And she would make certain nobody disturbed him.

Tomorrow, however, she would make her displeasure known.

There was no possible justification, in Missy's opinion, for putting her beloved master through such suffering.

No training, no matter how important, should demand something so cruel.

Nodding firmly to herself, the little elf disappeared from the chamber to resume her duties elsewhere in the castle.

And at that moment, the sphere became completely inert.

An absolute silence dominated the chamber.

Nobody said a word.

"I need… I need to rest," Lyanna whispered, her voice broken.

She rose from her seat and walked away.

Nobody stopped her.

Nobody wanted to.

"That was difficult to watch," her father, Viserys I, finally remarked.

"And something tells me this is only the beginning," Rhaenyra's son, Aegon III, replied.

And he wasn't wrong.