House of the Dragon: Aegon's Infinite Class Tree Chapter 49 49: Red

King'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 mont 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 ti 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 scread. 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 ca 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 slled 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 bead at her, clearly pleased.

Then he asked, "Would you like to co with 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 sll like the Vale. No mountain air. No pine.

Letters from her mother ca every few weeks, but they were short. asured. Her sisters wrote more, though mostly about what to do and what not to do.

Aemma felt lonely sotis. 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, sotis, 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 parchnt and the creak of old wood.

Shelves crowded with tos lood from floor to ceiling, and the late sunlight stread through the narrow windows in dusty gold columns.

At the far end of the chamber, an Archmaester pored over a crumbling volu. 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 to 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, symtrical, 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 ans," the maester continued, sowhat uneasily. "He did not elaborate. But the attempt failed. Mostly. Still, the boy claid the language ca to him in a dream. Said it was only ant 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 mont.

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 sowhere 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 parchnt.

It was not Valyrian. Not Ghiscari. Not even one of the obscure northern runes.

Sothing new. Or sothing 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 fla from the air. No torch. No alchemist."

"He shaped it. Bent it to his will."

Murmurs passed between the seated n. 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 ca."

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."

Soone clicked their tongue. "Two signs, then."

The man at the head of the table sat still for a long mont. "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 eting ended with no formal vote. There never was.

The lamps burned lower by the hour. Away from the eting chamber, in a narrow room lined with scrolls and dust, one of the n sat alone at a low desk. The stone floor chilled the soles of his boots. He kept his gloves on.

The parchnt 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 fla.

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 erged, 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 fla burned above the door.

She paused beneath it.

Then drew back her hood.

Hair black as night. Eyes rimd with kohl. Her face was pale, sharp, and beautiful. The robes beneath her cloak shimred red in the firelight.

The guards stepped aside without eting her eyes.

Inside, the air slled 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 fla.

The parchnt curled, blackened, and was gone.

She whispered a prayer under her breath, not loud, not urgent. As if repeating sothing she had said many tis before.

When it was done, she rose with quiet grace. The robes moved like smoke behind her as she disappeared into the dark.

***

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