Deep__Aureate
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Chapter 48 Red
🕑 Added 2025-07-30 21:41:48 +0000 UTCKing’s Landing, Red Keep
The bell hadn’t yet rung, but Lysa was already at her bedside, pulling open the curtains. She always moved softly in the mornings.
“Up now, my lady. The water’s warm, and the fire’s still strong,” she said, placing Aemma’s slippers by the edge of the bed.
Aemma sat up and rubbed her eyes. “It’s not even light yet.”
“That’s why it’s called morning and not noon,” Lysa replied, gently tugging the blankets back.
Lysa had long served House Arryn. Lady Elena had sent her to the Red Keep so Aemma would have a familiar face by her side.
Marra entered a moment later with a silver tray. “Your breakfast is coming, my lady. But first, your bath.” She gave Aemma a warm smile.
Marra, another handmaiden, had been assigned by the Queen herself to serve Aemma. She had once taken care of Aegon and Daemon when they were little, so Queen Alysanne was sure she would help the new wife settle in and get used to life as a Targaryen.
Aemma’s eyes lit up. “Is there a new story today?” She was quite fond of the tales and gossip Marra shared about the royal family.
Marra chuckled. “Sure, my lady... but only once you’re washed and dressed.”
Soon after, she sat by the fire, her hair damp as Lysa brushed it in long strokes. Marra moved about the room, carefully folding the bed linens.
“Shall I tell you about the time young Daemon tried to crown himself with a chamber pot?” Marra asked, her eyes dancing.
Aemma blinked. “What?”
“Oh yes,” Marra said proudly. “He was four. Thought it was a ‘dragon helm,’ he said. Wore it right on his head and ran through the halls shouting ‘Daemon the Dread.’”
Aemma burst into laughter, nearly toppling off the stool. “No!”
“Oh, indeed. The nursemaid screamed. The Lord Hand nearly tripped over him. And the chamber pot... well, let’s just say it hadn’t been cleaned yet.”
Even Lysa snorted at that. “That boy always did have ideas too big for his britches.”
Still grinning, Aemma took her seat at the small table by the window as her food arrived: warm oatcakes, sliced pears, and a bit of cheese. She ate slowly while Lysa recited from The Seven-Pointed Star. Her voice was low and calm, but Aemma barely paid any attention. She had already mastered the skill of looking attentive even when she wasn’t.
Viserys came in after the hour of prayer. He greeted her gently, as he always did, and kissed her hand. His hair was still damp from the bath, and he smelled faintly of mint and saddle oil. Aemma was still not used to her new husband, though she smiled politely.
“Good morrow,” he said.
“Good morrow, my prince.”
He sat beside her and reached for a piece of bread, tearing it absently. “The dragon keepers say Balerion stirred again. I can feel it... it won’t be long now. Soon you’ll see your husband upon the Black Dread.”
“I believe you will, my lord. The gods favor the bold,” she said, careful to sound supportive but not overeager.
Lady Elenna had taught her that husbands should feel led, not pushed.
Viserys beamed at her, clearly pleased.
Then he asked, “Would you like to come with me to the dragonpit, my beloved?”
Aemma shook her head gently. “Not today. I was hoping to walk in the gardens. It’s nearly the end of autumn, I’d like to see the flowers before they fade.”
Viserys smiled warmly... then hesitated, stepped closer, and gave a quick peck on her forehead. Aemma, a little surprised, just smiled back.
He blushed slightly and left. The handmaidens shared knowing glances behind him, hiding their smiles.
He didn’t stay long. He rarely did, thought Aemma.
Once he left, Marra began clearing away the breakfast dishes, humming softly.
Aemma reached for her embroidery hoop again and settled back into her chair. The falcon still looked uneven. She picked at a loose thread.
Marra returned and peered over her shoulder. “You’ve nearly got the wing right,” she said, squinting at the stitching.
“It’s lopsided,” Aemma replied, frowning.
“Then it’ll be a brave falcon. One who flew crooked, but flew anyway.”
Later, they walked in the gardens. The wind was sharp enough to sting her cheeks, but the sky was clear.
It didn’t smell like the Vale. No mountain air. No pine.
Letters from her mother came every few weeks, but they were short. Measured. Her sisters wrote more, though mostly about what to do and what not to do.
Aemma felt lonely sometimes. Although there were handmaidens to accompany her, Queen Alysanne was away at Dragonstone. There were a few ladies from the Crownlands she could speak with... more like listen to, really. They never stopped chattering.
She did not dare dislike her current life. She knew this was the dream every lady across the realm grew up with.
Still, sometimes, when her maids had stepped out and the fire crackled alone in the hearth, she wondered quietly…
Is this what being married is like?
The Citadel, Oldtown
The chamber was quiet, save for the soft rustle of parchment and the creak of old wood.
Shelves crowded with tomes loomed from floor to ceiling, and the late sunlight streamed through the narrow windows in dusty gold columns.
At the far end of the chamber, an Archmaester pored over a crumbling volume. He leaned close, his brow furrowed in concentration as he traced the text with a gloved finger. The light of a single lantern flickered beside him, dancing shadows across the rim of his chain of office.
Footsteps echoed faintly in the corridor. A younger maester appeared at the doorway, clad in grey robes, a scroll case held firmly in his hands. He entered without a word, moving quietly until he stood beside the table.
The Archmaester kept his eyes on the page before him.
“Well?” he asked, his tone dry and disinterested.
The younger maester bowed his head slightly. “A letter from Vaegon.”
That made the Archmaester pause. He looked up.
Setting aside the old tome with care, his brow rose with interest as he reached out. The maester stepped forward and handed him the scroll. The Archmaester unrolled it.
Then paused.
His frown deepened.
There were no glyphs of Valyria, no High Tower script, no glyphic cipher or coded Citadel tongue. Instead, the symbols sprawled across the page were utterly foreign, angled, symmetrical, precise. The script carried no patterns he recognized, no link to known languages of Westeros or Essos. It was elegant in its own strange way, but entirely alien.
He did not speak.
The maester cleared his throat. “He said… they are transcriptions. Findings. From the little pyromancer’s study.”
“The boy?” the Archmaester said softly, still scanning the page.
The maester nodded. “Yes. Prince Aegon. Vaegon wrote that he asked the boy to explain the language, but the prince refused to cooperate.”
The Archmaester raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
“So he tried other means,” the maester continued, somewhat uneasily. “He did not elaborate. But the attempt failed. Mostly. Still, the boy claimed the language came to him in a dream. Said it was only meant for those who… wield fire.”
“Dream again,” the Archmaester murmured. He leaned back, scroll still open in his hand.
He was silent for a long moment.
Then: “He believes these writings may hold true knowledge?”
“He suspects so. He wrote that they were unlike anything he’s seen, even in the Valyrian vaults. He hoped the Conclave might help decipher them… that somewhere in our records there might be a point of reference.”
The Archmaester set the scroll down gently, fingers drumming against the table’s edge. Outside, the ravens called to each other across the rooftops of the Citadel, harsh and distant.
“Take a few of your brothers,” he said at last. “Start working on it.”
The younger maester bowed. “Yes, Archmaester.”
“Begin with the Old Blood records,” he added, eyes fixed on the scroll. “And the sealed annals from the days before the Doom. If it’s anywhere, it will be there.”
The maester nodded and turned to leave.
The Archmaester remained seated, staring down at the unknown letters that sprawled across the parchment.
It was not Valyrian. Not Ghiscari. Not even one of the obscure northern runes.
Something new. Or something very old.
Essos, Volantis
The walls were dark stone, veined with red. No torches burned, only oil lamps. The air was close, thick with the scent of cooling wax and old stone. Five figures sat around a table of black marble, cloaked in the silence of the Old Blood.
The spy stood before them, salt-stained and stiff from the long voyage. His boots were crusted with dry mud, his cloak heavy with travel. His hands trembled slightly, though whether from cold or fear, none could tell.
“You saw it?”
“I did,” the man replied. “With my own eyes.”
He kept his voice steady. “The boy conjured flame from the air. No torch. No alchemist.”
“He shaped it. Bent it to his will.”
Murmurs passed between the seated men. The sound of silk shifting, a cup being set down.
“It was no trick,” he added. “The fire moved… morphed as he wanted.”
“And the others saw?”
“All of them. Lords, knights, ladies. It was during a royal hunt, held in his honor.”
Another leaned forward, voice quiet but sharp. “Did he speak? Chant? Cut himself?”
“No. He raised his hand, and the fire came.”
Silence followed. Heavy. Thoughtful.
A voice finally broke it. “So. The blood is waking.”
“Too young to be dangerous,” said another. “But not for long.”
There was a pause.
“He rides a dragon?”
“Yes. A she-dragon. Dreamfyre.”
Someone clicked their tongue. “Two signs, then.”
The man at the head of the table sat still for a long moment. “We are the stewards of Valyria’s legacy,” he said at last. “If fire stirs in the west, it does not stir in our favor.”
No one replied.
“We watch him,” he continued. “And we plan. If he rises too high, we must be ready... to contain, to claim, or to kill.”
A single nod passed from one man to the next.
The meeting ended with no formal vote. There never was.
The lamps burned lower by the hour. Away from the meeting chamber, in a narrow room lined with scrolls and dust, one of the men sat alone at a low desk. The stone floor chilled the soles of his boots. He kept his gloves on.
The parchment was smooth. The quill already cut.
He wrote quickly, plainly. The ink dried fast in the cold. He sanded it, folded the paper, and pressed the seal, a heart wrapped in flame.
He handed it to the servant waiting in the shadows, then turned away without a word.
The servant walked through the tunnel beneath the Black Walls, the ceiling brushing his hood. When he emerged, he passed through the alleys behind a wine shop, then vanished into the noise of the fish market.
The letter passed quietly, hand to hand , a butcher’s boy, a washerwoman, a lantern-lighter. None of them paused. None of them read.
By dusk, a cloaked woman took the letter at a spice stall, her fingers gloved in red silk. The street lamps flickered behind her in the wind.
She walked alone through the lower city, past shuttered inns and crumbling arches, her steps silent on worn stone. The city grew quieter as she climbed. Snow had not reached Volantis, but the wind had teeth.
She reached the temple near the gate. A low building of blackened stone, half-forgotten by most. A single red flame burned above the door.
She paused beneath it.
Then drew back her hood.
Hair black as night. Eyes rimmed with kohl. Her face was pale, sharp, and beautiful. The robes beneath her cloak shimmered red in the firelight.
The guards stepped aside without meeting her eyes.
Inside, the air smelled of ash and incense. Dozens of candles burned along the walls, their light steady. The stone beneath her feet was warm.
She knelt.
Read the letter once.
Then held it to the flame.
The parchment curled, blackened, and was gone.
She whispered a prayer under her breath, not loud, not urgent. As if repeating something she had said many times before.
When it was done, she rose with quiet grace. The robes moved like smoke behind her as she disappeared into the dark.
Comments
Yurii Myroshnyk
Meigor's aftertaste is too strong. I doubt that while Beylon is alive and flying on Vhagar, anything can be done without solid evidence. And there is no replacement for the Meisters; they are literally the only ones who provide medical services.
valandil988
Eeh this felt odd...like sure I understand the Maesters not liking magic, but the old blood too? Why? Shouldn't they want his blood for themselves, ain't going to get that with killing him. Bizarre logic they have.
xGodOfDeathx
The more i think about it, the more i feel all his opponents are clowns, legit hes got a fully grown dragon and magic and being the prince of the strongest nation like legit if he wanted and could just burn all his enemy and no one would do shit, well other than the citadil since his family would stop him
Michael Plank
It is not like it has no Protection at all. It is kept in a tower with Guards protecting it and it is also in a different language as mlre protection. If he wants more protection then that he would need to use magic to guard it, but he has no such magical knowledge currently.
Boyo
L Wizard behavior - What kind of self respectingmage doesn’t protect his own notes?
omiguh
I mean there are guards that are supposed to keep people out of it. But Vaegon is a prince and that puts the guards in awkward situations if he tries to leverage that power.
lenkite
Just annoyed that he never even thought of locking his notes in his study. I had assumed all this while he was doing that - didn't realize anyone could just walk in and grab his stuff. That is dreadful Lackadaisicalness.
Hooli4ss
Poor Aemma , Idk what your plan for her is but i remember who was there when the Dragons sang . Maesters are chasin wild Geese, Wannabe Valyrian sages , and Red Fcking Priests! Aegon keep the flames ready and your blades sharp , Fire and Blood!
bananaphone
MC is so Popular, everyone starts moving
Atru
Tftc! The maesters will have a run around with that script for a while. We have difficulty deciphering ancient Egyptian with the rosetta stone; can you imagine where we'd be without it? And, we have the advantage of population, education and time.
Gopard
Thanks for the chapter! So... This could be Esteros' "Voiynich Manuscript" maybe...? XD at least if Aegon wasn't the MC and he was somehow killed of before ever getting to explain anything about that text to anyone... Completely unfamilliar language and alphabet with no known records of anything and no pictures or any knowlegde of details on what the texts are about... Especially since the topic itself if one nobody can guess at since its literally impossible to reference for them... "Class tree, runes, etc..." It's entirely possible this'd never be deciphered... Also I think big Sis just found out about her little brother's awakening right? The Lady in the shadowy temple should've been her I assume? Likely she has been saying the same "I pray for health and a good life for my family" prayer ever since she fled right? Thats my theory for that. Now I wager the Maesters now won't move to kill Aegon... Not unless they can by sheer luck and coincidence manage to decipher english... Perhpas they correctly guess a "giberish word" that means "magic" or "flame" or "elements" (especially this one would be lucky for decription because it also betrays the letter "e" as the most used one in english) and if that happens... Honestly with GOT languages being based on earth's ones its not impossible to happen... Anyway the free cities though could be a big problem hmm...
Tyler Karp
Thank you for the chapter
