Targaryens say "WHAT?!?"
Daemon and Aemond grew more suspicious by the minute, watching the healer intently as he moved around the room, tending to their dragons with a strange expertise. Every so often, they swore they heard the healer hiss in a way that sounded far too familiar, as though he were speaking directly to their dragons. And in response, Caraxes and Vhagar would tilt their heads, their eyes focusing on the man as though they understood him perfectly. It wasn’t just that they seemed to comprehend his commands; it was the way they reacted, the subtle twitch of their tails or the flicker of their gaze that made it feel like they were listening, responding to something beyond mere magic.
The pair of Targaryens exchanged uneasy glances, both baffled and intrigued. Daemon, ever the more volatile of the two, wasn’t shy about his growing impatience. “What in the hells are you doing to them?” he demanded, his voice low but sharp. “You speak to them like they’re your-“ He cut himself off, not quite able to finish the thought. The idea of some stranger, some healer, having such an unnatural connection with their dragons was unthinkable.
The healer, however, didn’t even flinch. He simply looked up from his work, his expression barely betraying a hint of annoyance as he replied, “I’m healing them, if you don’t mind. And speaking to them because it helps calm them. Something you clearly don’t know much about.” His voice was calm, almost too calm, as though he’d said this a hundred times before.
Aemond’s eyes narrowed. He wasn’t sure what was going on here, but it seemed as if this healer wasn’t just a healer. No, there was something far more complex about him. As he observed the healer, something about the man’s demeanor seemed... off. He was just like a typical maester, a bit brash and a bit curt, but he had this presence about him. It was impossible to ignore.
“I’ve never seen a healer who talks to dragons like that,” Aemond muttered under his breath, just loud enough for the man to hear.
The healer didn’t respond directly, but the corner of his mouth twitched upwards, a faint smirk that disappeared as quickly as it came. But it was enough for Aemond to catch. He knew something more. That much was certain.
Then came the oddest moment. When Daemon tried to lunge at Aemond, his temper flaring once more, and Aemond returned the gesture, their swords drawn in an instant; the healer simply snapped at them. “What do you think you’re doing?” he scolded them, his voice firm but somehow warm, as if they were children who had just been caught misbehaving. “Acting like bloody fools! Have you learned nothing?” His tone was less of an annoyed healer and more like an exasperated father scolding two unruly sons.
Both Targaryens froze, momentarily stunned by the man’s audacity. Daemon glared at him with a sneer. “What did you just call us?”
The healer simply rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath, something that sounded like “Bloody youngsters.”
Aemond’s brows furrowed, and he turned to Daemon, his voice low. “Did he just... call us youngsters?” His words hung in the air, disbelief mixing with frustration. The healer, despite his youthful appearance, likely no older than they were, seemed to consider them nothing more than children; his patience had grown thin, but his tone never faltering.
Daemon growled in irritation. “I’ll have you know, “
But before he could finish, the healer waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t need to hear it.” His voice was cutting, dismissive, yet with an odd tenderness that irritated Daemon all the more. “You two need to calm down. You’re not children anymore, but you sure as hell act like it.”
Aemond’s eyes narrowed even further, his hand instinctively tightening around the hilt of his sword. This man was infuriating. But there was something else there too, something unsettling. The healer spoke with authority, as though he’d dealt with people like them before; like this wasn’t his first time breaking up petty arguments between powerful men.
Daemon’s annoyance was palpable. “You think you can talk to us like that?” His voice dropped low, dark with the threat of violence, though it wasn’t fully aimed at the healer. Aemond shared his uncle’s frustrations, his expression tightening.
But the healer didn’t bat an eye. In fact, he almost seemed amused by their anger, his lips curling upward in an almost mocking smile. “If you’re going to act like children, I’ll treat you like them. And if that’s too much for your delicate high born egos, then perhaps you should sit back and shut the fuck up.”
Aemond’s hand twitched toward his sword again, but Daemon, of all people, stopped him. There was something about the healer’s presence, something about the way he moved, spoke, and carried himself that made it impossible to strike out, at least not without consequence.
“By Merlin,” the healer muttered under his breath, clearly irritated with the bickering. It was a phrase that seemed out of place in this world of Valyrian fire and blood, but the healer said it so easily, like it was part of his everyday vocabulary. And it only added to the mystery. Merlin? The name, so foreign to their world, seemed almost like a playful curse, but it also spoke of worlds beyond their own. Strange.
Daemon’s brow furrowed. “Who the hell is Merlin?”
But before the healer could respond, Aemond’s mind raced back to the thought that had been gnawing at him for the last hour, the thought of the boy the healer had mentioned. A year ago… There was something about that statement that didn’t sit right, not when it reminded him of the fall of Lucerys and Arrax. Aemond swallowed hard, his eyes lingering on the healer with a growing sense of suspicion.
And then, the healer muttered again, “Sweet Circe...” His voice, though, was tired this time, as though the weight of it had finally worn him down.
Daemon’s eyes darted to Aemond. They both heard it, the healer’s words. Circe? Another phrase that didn’t belong. It wasn’t a Valyrian word, and it wasn’t something any of them had ever heard before.
Aemond’s voice broke the silence. “Who are you?” he asked, his tone dangerously quiet.
The healer didn’t look up. He simply continued tending to their dragons, seemingly indifferent to the pair of Targaryens watching him with newfound suspicion.
“Just someone trying to keep you both alive,” was all he said, his voice laced with sarcasm. “And trust me, you’re lucky I’m here at all.”
The room fell silent once more, but the questions lingered, heavier than ever. Who was this man? And why did everything about him feel so... wrong?
Later that evening, Daemon swung his legs over the side of the bed, gritting his teeth as the dull ache in his muscles reminded him of his injuries. He ignored it. He had more pressing matters to attend to figuring out what in the seven hells was going on with their so-called healer.
Just as he stood, however, a sudden thump rang through the air, followed immediately by a sharp thud as something collided with his face. Hard.
Daemon stumbled back, cursing as a book tumbled to the floor in front of him. His hand shot up to his nose, checking for blood. His glare snapped to the nearby bookshelf, where the book had apparently flung itself from, yet there was no one standing there. No gust of wind, no disturbance, just the lingering certainty that the damn thing had moved on its own.
Aemond, having witnessed the entire scene from his place by the fire, raised a single eyebrow. “Did that just-?”
Daemon’s scowl deepened as he bent down, snatching up the offending object. He turned it over, only for his eye to twitch in barely restrained fury as he read the title: ‘Manners for the Woefully Ill-Mannered.’
There was a beat of silence before Aemond let out a low, amused hum. “Fitting.”
Daemon launched the book at him. Aemond dodged it with the ease of someone who had grown up dodging knives at family dinners.
The healer, who had been sitting at the far side of the room tending to the still-miniature dragons, barely spared them a glance. “Honestly, you should be thanking the book,” he drawled, utterly unimpressed. “I’d have hit you harder.”
Daemon bristled at that, but before he could respond, Aemond beat him to it.
“Why?” he asked, tone sharper than before, his single eye locked onto the healer with a calculating glint. “Why do you keep stopping us?”
The question hung in the air, weighted with more than just curiosity.
Aemond wasn’t a fool. Their family thrived on violence. Betrayal, bloodshed, the endless cycle of war; it was as natural to them as breathing. And yet, every time he and Daemon had so much as looked at each other wrong, the healer had stepped in with all the exasperation of a long-suffering tutor breaking up a classroom squabble.
The healer sighed, rolling his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t get stuck in the back of his head. “Believe me,” he muttered, sounding utterly unimpressed, “I’ve dealt with enough insufferable, murder-happy idiots in my life. You two? You’re barely above schoolchildren compared to them.”
Aemond narrowed his eye, his grip on his knee tightening.
Daemon, meanwhile, was still rubbing his face, grumbling under his breath about bloody magical books and insufferable healers.
But that statement, barely above schoolchildren, lingered in the back of both their minds, gnawing at them.
Because if they were nothing compared to the people this healer had dealt with before…
Then who the hell had he been dealing with?
The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows against the warm glow of the tent’s walls. Daemon leaned against the edge of his bed, arms crossed, watching the healer move about the space. The man was an enigma, his methods unorthodox, his speech riddled with strange phrases, his very presence an irritation.
And then, without so much as a glance, the healer flicked his fingers, and a cup from across the room soared into his waiting hand.
Daemon’s gaze sharpened. That wasn’t sleight of hand. That wasn’t some conjurer’s trick. It was seamless, effortless, as though the very air itself obeyed his will.
“That’s not sorcery,” he murmured, eyes narrowing. “That’s something else.”
The healer, completely unfazed by the scrutiny, took a leisurely sip of his tea before deadpanning, “Good observation. Gold star for you.”
Daemon twitched. He wasn’t sure why, but that tone, the flippant, casual dismissal, annoyed him far more than outright mockery would have.
Aemond, sitting nearby, was less amused. His mind was already working through possibilities, piecing together every strange thing about their so-called healer. The hissing at dragons. Effortless command over magic was unlike anything he’d ever witnessed. The way he felt old despite looking young.
And, most of all, the vague answer he had given earlier.
“You said you saved a boy and a dragon a year ago,” Aemond said suddenly, tilting his head slightly, watching him like a hawk. “What happened to them?”
The healer paused.
It was barely a hesitation, a split second of stillness, but Aemond caught it.
His grip on his cup remained steady, his expression neutral, but he didn’t answer. Not immediately.
Daemon and Aemond exchanged a glance.
The healer finally exhaled through his nose, setting his tea down with deliberate care. He didn’t look at them as he replied, “I did what I could.”
That was not an answer.
Aemond, his unease growing, shifted tactics. “You hissed at the dragons earlier,” he drawled, watching for a reaction. “They understood you.”
The healer gave him a dry look, as if unimpressed with his observation skills.
Aemond’s eye narrowed. “Are you Valyrian?”
The healer scoffed. “Not even remotely.”
The certainty of his answer didn’t sit well with Aemond.
Daemon watched the exchange with mild interest, tapping his fingers against his arm.
“And what are you, then?” Aemond pressed, gaze sharp. “Where did you learn to heal dragons?”
The healer leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. His expression remained unreadable, but there was something in the way he regarded them, something just amused enough to be infuriating.
“I’m a healer,” he said simply. “Been to many places, helped many people.” His eyes flickered between them, dry amusement curling at the edge of his lips. “You lot are particularly troublesome.”
Daemon smirked at that, despite himself. Aemond, however, wasn’t so easily deterred.
But no matter how long he stared, the healer didn’t elaborate.
And that, more than anything, unsettled him.
Daemon, ever the stubborn one, swung his legs over the side of the bed, testing his balance before standing. His body protested, muscles aching from injury and disuse, but he ignored the discomfort. He had no intention of sitting here like a helpless convalescent under the watch of some insufferable, magic-wielding nursemaid.
He moved swiftly toward the entrance, intent on making his escape, only for the door to slam shut right in his face.
Not by wind. Not by an unseen hand. Just… Shut, as if the very air itself had denied him passage.
Daemon glared at the solid wooden frame, half-tempted to drive his fist through it.
Behind him, the healer sighed, long and dramatic, like a man dealing with the world’s most exhausting burden.
“Reckless patients are the bane of my existence,” he muttered, rubbing his temples.
Aemond, watching with mild amusement, decided to take a different approach. He studied the room, then grabbed the nearest chair, weighing it in his hands before hurling it at the door.
The chair flew through the air, only to halt mere inches from its target, hovering as if caught in an unseen grip. It floated there, taunting them, before gently lowering itself to the ground with almost mocking delicacy.
Aemond’s eye twitched.
The healer clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Honestly,” he said, unimpressed, “you two are like toddlers throwing tantrums.”
Daemon crossed his arms, scowling. Aemond clenched his jaw. The fact that they were trapped, held by a force neither of them understood, made them both bristle.
The healer, seemingly unfazed by their frustration, stretched out in his chair and regarded them lazily. “If you’re that desperate to reach someone, why don’t you write a letter?” he said, voice almost bored. “I’d be more than happy to send it off for you.”
Daemon and Aemond exchanged a glance.
They didn’t trust him.
But they also didn’t like their options.
Aemond had always prided himself on his ability to observe, to notice the smallest details others overlooked. It was what had made him a deadly warrior, a skilled tactician, and, most importantly, a survivor.
So when he glimpsed something unusual beneath the healer’s long, dark hair, he didn’t dismiss it as a trick of the firelight.
As he worked, the man tilted his head slightly, his deft hands wrapping fresh bandages around Vhagar’s tiny form with meticulous care. His hair, usually kept in a low, messy bun, had come loose in places, revealing a thin sliver of skin just above his brow, marred by a scar unlike anything Aemond had ever seen before.
It was jagged, almost like a bolt of lightning, etched into his forehead as though the heavens themselves had struck him down and left their mark.
Aemond narrowed his eye, mind racing. That shape, it wasn’t natural. And more importantly, it felt... familiar.
Not from personal experience, but from whispers. From stories.
The northern lords were a superstitious lot, prone to old wives’ tales and myths meant to frighten children into obedience. But there had always been one legend that lingered, one even the more practical man spoke of with careful reverence.
The Immortal Healer.
A man with long raven-black hair and a scar that no one had ever truly seen the full shape of. A healer who appeared throughout history, tending to the wounded in times of war and vanishing before anyone could ever question his origins. Some said he was a relic of the old gods, others whispered that he had once been a man, cursed to walk the earth for eternity.
Most dismissed it as nonsense.
Aemond wasn’t so sure anymore.
He studied the man, the way he moved, the effortless control he had over his strange magic, the way he spoke in phrases that no Valyrian or Westerosi had ever uttered before.
And now the scar.
His grip on the edge of the bed tightened.
The healer must have sensed his stare because he suddenly glanced up, emerald eyes locking onto Aemond’s with sharp awareness.
Aemond didn’t look away. Neither did the healer.
For the first time since waking in this strange place, Aemond felt something crawl down his spine.
Not fear.
But something close.
Later that evening, after hours of quiet observation, Aemond finally asked the question that had been weighing on his mind.
“Are you the Immortal Healer?”
The words cut through the stillness of the room like a blade.
Daemon, who had been lounging on his bed, half-heartedly toying with the ends of the bandages wrapped around his arm, froze.
Then, ever so slowly, he turned his head to stare at Aemond as if the younger prince had just proclaimed that he intended to marry a sheep.
“What.” It wasn’t even a question, more like an affronted exhale of disbelief. His gaze snapped to the healer, utterly scandalized. “You’re what?”
The healer, who had been setting out fresh bandages and muttering under his breath about reckless idiots who refused to rest, paused. He looked at Aemond with mild curiosity, then tilted his head, considering.
“Am I the Immortal Healer?” he echoed, as if tasting the words. Then he hummed, amused. “Well, I am immortal. And I am a healer. So sure, why not?” He shrugged.
Daemon let out a small strangled scream.
Aemond wasn’t sure what was more amusing, the sheer disbelief on his uncle’s face or the way his fingers twitched, like he wanted to grab his sword but wasn’t sure if that would help against a supposed god.
Daemon pointed at the healer, eyes wide. “You-you-are telling me you’re the same bloody immortal healer those annoying cults won’t shut up about?”
The healer blinked.
“Cults?”
Daemon scoffed, throwing his hands in the air. “Yes, cults! Fanatics who go around singing your praises, spreading ridiculous tales about how you swoop in and save the dying before vanishing like some ghost! They say you can cure any wound, heal any sickness, and that you’ve been doing so for centuries!”
The healer’s expression twisted into one of pure horror.
“I have cults?” he asked, aghast.
Daemon, enjoying this far too much, smirked. “Oh, several. One of them tried to recruit me once.”
The healer looked like he was having an existential crisis. “But I-I don’t do anything! I just help when I can and-” He stopped himself, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. “Merlin’s beard,” he muttered.
Aemond, still studying him, found the reaction rather telling. The healer seemed genuinely distressed by the revelation, as if he had never considered the consequences of his actions before now.
Still, after a moment, he took a breath and exhaled slowly. “…Well, at least they’re helping people,” he muttered, as if trying to find a silver lining in the madness.
Daemon huffed a laugh. “Helping people? More like preaching about their ‘Immortal Savior.’ It’s a bit much.”
The healer groaned and waved them both off. “I don’t want to hear about it anymore. Go to sleep, both of you. I am done with today.”
With that, he carefully lifted the miniature dragons, placing them in small beds, clearly meant for dogs, before straightening and heading for the door. As he left, the room’s torches dimmed on their own, casting the chamber into a soft glow.
Daemon watched him go, brow furrowed.
He considered pestering Aemond further, demanding to know how exactly he had figured it out, but then he realized he was exhausted. With a muttered curse, he rolled onto his side, deciding sleep was the better option.
Aemond, however, lay awake a little longer, staring at the ceiling.
The Immortal Healer.
His eye flickered to the shadowed doorway where the healer had disappeared.
He would get answers.
Eventually.