The silence after Ser Barristan's departure pressed in like a weight—thick, still, suffocating.
The fire in the hearth crackled faintly, but the sound felt distant—like it belonged to another world.
Aemon sat unmoving in his bed, fingers curling into the sheets, eyes fixed on the shadowed stone of his chamber. The food was long gone.
The fire had burned low, reduced to a faint glow of embers. Night blanketed Dragonstone, but sleep refused to take him.
Something was wrong.
The chamber itself felt… different tonight.
Quieter. Heavier. Like it was holding its breath.
His breaths came slow and dry.
His skin prickled.
His heart beat steady—but quickened. Not from fear.
From something else.
A memory.
Not quite a thought. Not quite a dream.
A feeling.
It curled under his ribs like a secret not yet spoken, pressed behind his eyes like a storm about to break. Cold. Familiar. Electric.
He pressed a hand to his chest.
His heart thudded against his palm. But beneath it—something else pulsed.
Faint. Mechanical.
Not his own.
He raised trembling fingers to his temple, brushing across his skin as if that might reveal something hidden beneath.
And then—
A flicker.
Not light, but presence.
Not seen. Not heard.
Felt.
It feels as though one is being observed from within.
He didn't know why he said it. The word escaped his lips before he could stop it.
"System…"
Nothing.
Just silence.
Aemon waited.
Listening.
"…System?" he whispered, cautious—like naming a ghost.
No answer.
Only silence.
Maybe it was hunger. Or the aftermath of near death. Maybe it was nothing but fever and fragments.
Then—
A jolt.
A glitch.
Like static across his thoughts. A crackle of lightning behind his eyes.
He flinched his vision stuttering—not outwardly, but deep within. Something had shifted beneath the surface.
A phantom echo rippled through his mind.
Words—familiar and foreign—rose too fast to catch. But one line struck clear enough to chill his blood.
[System Initialization Complete…]
That voice.
Inhuman. Precise. Cold as steel.
He had heard it before.
When the darkness took him.
Aemon's breath caught. He squeezed his eyes shut, reaching for it—like chasing echoes in a fading dream. It slipped away, but the sensation lingered.
Sharp. Electric. Alive.
"…System?" he called again, firmer this time. Not a whisper, but a demand.
Then—
Another glitch.
A spark tore through his mind like a blade across nerves.
Aemon flinched. His vision blurred, not outwardly—but inside. A ripple through thought. A signal.
Something unseen… was waking.
[ERROR… SYSTEM BOOT SEQUENCE DELAYED.]
[Attempting Synchronization…]
[Core Stabilizing… 37%… 58%… 79%…]
[…92%.]
[Neural Link Detected.]
[Connection Established.]
Aemon's breath caught in his throat. His fingers curled tightly into the sheets.
A pause.
A final moment of perfect stillness.
And then—
[Good evening, Aemon Targaryen.]
Aemon froze.
The voice was back.
But this time, it was different.
Refined. Smooth. Adaptive.
No longer just mechanical. It carried a tone—measured, fluid. Like it was listening to him, thinking, adjusting.
Alive.
Aemon's lips parted, but no words came out. It wasn't fear that held him still.
It was awe.
Wonder.
"This… this is real," he whispered.
[Correct.]
The tone was calm, androgynous, almost polite. But it wasn't human.
[This is not a dream. The neural interface has been activated. The system is now online.]
The words echoed inside his skull—not deafening, but exact. Like they were etched directly into the space behind his eyes.
Aemon's breath caught. His throat felt tight.
He wasn't hallucinating.
He wasn't imagining.
It was real.
He sat up straighter in bed slowly, as if movement might shatter whatever fragile thing had just awakened.
A thousand questions tangled in his mind, but none found their way out.
Only silence.
And the hum of something ancient and new, watching him from within. He just sat there—eyes wide, lips parted, heart pounding.
Then—
A flicker.
At the edge of his vision, something shimmered. A soft ripple of light, subtle but undeniable, bloomed like ink in water—then sharpened.
Symbols.
Lines.
Motion.
Not on the wall. Not in front of him. Inside him. Projected within his mind.
He recoiled on instinct, flinching as the display expanded. But the image didn't move with his head or his eyes—it moved with his thoughts.
And it was beautiful.
The crystalline architecture of light and logic arranged itself in seamless silence.
Like looking into the mind of a god rendered in glass. Symbols came together and transformed with a graceful elegance, lingering just beyond his awareness—present yet intangible.
Aemon's stomach twisted.
This wasn't magic.
This was something else.
[HOLOGRAPHIC NEURAL HUD INITIALIZED.]
[Welcome, Aemon Targaryen.]
[User Status: Stable.]
[System Sync: Active.]
The interface pulsed in his vision—silent, structured, impossibly clean.
It felt… too perfect. Too precise.
Aemon stared, breath caught in his chest.
"What… what is this?" he whispered, not trusting his voice.
[You are now linked to the core system interface. Cognitive integration at 92%. Emotional variance was detected. Initial stabilization engaged.]
"Stabilization…?" he echoed, voice tightening. "What are you?"
[Adaptive synthetic intelligence. Nanite-embedded.
Purpose: classified. Full orientation available upon request.]
He didn't move.
He couldn't.
The fire in the hearth still crackled softly, but the warmth no longer touched him. The world around him felt distant—muted like he was watching reality through a pane of glass.
Inside, the interface hovered at the edge of thought—not quite seen, not quite felt—but undeniably there—glowing, responsive, aware.
It didn't feel like a dream.
It didn't sound like a voice.
It was like a part of his soul had grown teeth.
He dragged a hand down his face, fingertips trembling.
His body still felt human—tired, heavy, real—but something beneath that skin, beneath the breath and blood, was watching him from the inside.
Not hostile. Not warm.
Just present.
Waiting.
Aemon's chest rose and fell with slow, deliberate breaths. "Did this happen because of… what I saw?"
[Source of activation: anomalous convergence during transitional consciousness. Probability of correlation: 89.7%. Further analysis required.]
He didn't understand all of it. But he understood enough.
It awakened when he died—or whatever passed for death in that cave.
A gift?
A curse?
A consequence?
He had no answer.
"…Who are you?" he asked again, quieter this time, as though speaking to something older than he could comprehend.
[I am an integrated synthetic intelligence. Core designation: SYSTEM.]
[Primary function: assist, enhance, adapt.]
"Enhance what, exactly?"
[User's neural, muscular, cognitive, and biological parameters. Optimization process currently operating at early-stage synchronization.]
It was clinical. Clean. Impossibly advanced.
But one thought clawed its way through the haze: how?
"How did you get inside me? When did this start?"
A pause. A subtle shift.
[Unknown. The system records before activation are inaccessible. No memory of initial attachment or origin. Only purpose: assist the host.]
Aemon blinked, trying to process. "You… don't know?"
[Correct. Origin protocol is corrupted or unrecoverable. Core directive intact. I exist to support your survival and advancement.]
That answer unsettled him more than if the system had claimed godhood. For something this powerful to acknowledge its lack of knowledge—there was a strange honesty in that.
A vulnerability.
It felt less like a machine and more like… something becoming.
Then—something shifted.
A flicker of static ran along the edge of his mind. Sharp. Disorienting. A glitch flashing across unseen circuits.
He winced.
"…What was that?"
The system's tone changed slightly. Still calm—but now, sharper. Focused.
[Accessing locked memory fragment…]
A brief pulse. Then—
[Emergency Protocol: Activated.]
[Neural fusion commenced. Host integrity—critical.]
[Engaging Core Stabilization. External damage detected: thermal trauma.]
Aemon's breath hitched.
The fire. The flames.
It hadn't been a gift or sorcery. He had survived the fire and emerged unscathed.
His jaw tightened. He stared into the holographic glow behind his eyes.
"You… saved me," he whispered, not out of gratitude, but disbelief—like a man thanking the ocean for not drowning him.
[Emergency mode engaged during fatal trauma. Power draw exceeded available reserves. The system entered dormancy to preserve host integrity.]
"And now… you're waking up."
[Correct. The core is reinitialized following neural recovery and synchronization. Interface now fully online.]
His thoughts raced.
The system hadn't arrived when the void swallowed him.
It had always been there.
Waiting.
Buried.
Dormant since—since his rebirth.
It wasn't some divine shield or miracle of bloodline. It was this—a silent guardian embedded in his very body.
"…You made me unburnt," he said, half to himself.
[Thermal resistance protocols were activated to preserve cellular integrity. Result: complete mitigation of combustion-related trauma.]
He let out a dry, breathless laugh.
"No dragon magic. No miracle. Just… something hidden inside me. And it chose to wake up the moment I was meant to die."
But even as he said it, he realized—it hadn't been chosen. It had simply done what it was made for.
It had protected him.
Still, a question lingered—cold, sharp, unshakable.
"If you don't know how you got here… how do I know you're not dangerous?"
Another pause.
Then—softer. Slower. Measured.
[If I were a threat to you, Prince Aemon, you would not be asking that question.]
Not arrogance.
Not pride.
Just fact.
And somehow, that made it more convincing.
Aemon leaned back against the wall, the stone pressing cool against his spine.
The soft glow of the HUD pulsed gently in his mind's eye—no brighter than thought, no closer than breath.
It was a part of him now.
He closed his eyes. "So this isn't magic. Not a miracle. Just… fire and near-death. And now this."
A long silence followed.
Then, with a flicker of half-humour, half-exhaustion: "I've gone mad."
[Neurological scan indicates stable cognition. No signs of psychosis or delusion.]
Aemon snorted. "Great. You're smug, too."
A beat.
[Would you prefer sarcasm calibration enabled? I can adjust tone mapping to mirror your preferred communication style.]
He blinked and let out a tired chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. "I don't even know what that means."
[Acknowledged. Default mode maintained. You may issue a request for calibration at any time.]
The glow of the interface dimmed slightly, slipping into the background of his vision.
Still present. Still alive. But now quieter. As if it understood, as if it were learning.
And Aemon, sitting alone in the flickering half-light, suddenly understood something.
This was not just a tool.
Not just a voice, a system, or a machine.
It was a presence.
And whether it would become a weapon, a guardian, or something else entirely… that was no longer just up to it.
It was up to him.
There was no going back.
And somewhere in the silence between heartbeats, Aemon knew—this was only the beginning.
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Author's Note:
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