Chapter X: The Chained Dragon

Time passed slowly at Castle Black. Life had been slow going at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, but that was before there had been any definitive news of the Lord Commander's ranging. Now, energy and hope seemed to have drained right out of the black brothers. Not a soul knew when, or even if Mance Rayder and his wildling host would be coming for the few men of the Night's Watch that remained.

But most thought he was coming, the arguments and mutterings concerned mostly from when, where, and how the attack would be coming. Some said he'd build skiffs and bring his men across the Bay of Seals and take Eastwatch. Eastwatch had ships, a fair number even, but not enough to handle the sheer number of wildlings in Rayder's host, assuming the stories were true. He could make for the Shadow Tower instead, and some insisted this would be the smartest course of action for the man, as he was originally a brother of the Shadow Tower and would surely know the land well. Yet others believed he would simply dig through one of the collapsed tunnels and gates of the abandoned castles, and they would soon find themselves taken from the wrong side of the Wall.

Whatever the stratagem posited, the mood was unanimously low and the outlook worse. Aegon admired Pyp more than ever for his japes amidst such a storm of hopelessness.

Aegon spent the slowly lessening daylight hours in the practice yard for the most part. The men that had been left behind were mostly among the stewards and builders, and many were old or simply unfit for battle. Ser Endrew Tarth seemed to appreciate his enthusiasm, and welcomed his and Duck's presence. The recruits looked less kindly upon his skill at arms, but "It's better that we bash you up a bit than a screaming wildling does it," Duck had said, "and mayhaps this bashing means you'll survive the next one."

He found himself practicing his archery very frequently as well, but realistically, there wasn't too much use in improving one's accuracy. Aim would matter little if they ended up loosing from the top of the Wall. Seven hundred feet of air and wind would impair even the surest of shots.

Lemore had spent much of her time caring for the frankly dilapidated sept. The septon here at Castle Black was half drunk at the best of times, and falling over drunk the rest of them. Lemore had let her displeasure be known to Bowen Marsh (for lack of a higher authority), but had decided it would be better to lead by example. The sept now looked considerably better than it had in years (if Spare Boot was to believed), and attendance to organized prayer had seen a noticeable jump. Aegon was reasonably certain this had more to do with Lemore than it did any newfound faith.

Jon was most often keeping near Lemore (Haldon relieving him most times when he went elsewhere) during her cleaning and repair of the sept. He was often called away by the Lord Steward, but otherwise made himself scarce. Occasionally he would watch Duck and Aegon in the training yard, and a few times even fought, other times Aegon had seen him leave the armory. Aegon knew Jon was not comfortable here, and chafed in the waiting.

Haldon had quickly made himself a second home with Maester Aemon and his assistant (Clydas? Clyden?) in the libraries. There were few men at Castle Black who could read, and fewer still who could reliably write, so the presence of another skilled eye and hand was a boon if Haldon told it true. Aegon could only trust Haldon's word, because he had as yet not visited the aged maester.

Because now that he was here, and actual living, breathing family was only a short walk away, he found himself paralyzed. When he was young, and Jon's tales had been his reality, he knew that Jon was the only family he'd had left. It had all changed when he was told the truth, but in some ways, it was almost more torturous. His family had been massacred, and most of what was left was out of reach.

Now, it was within reach, but he couldn't bring himself to reach out his hand and grab it tight.

"If the Lord Commander does not return," Jon had said, "and they will not take us beyond the Wall, then we will go to the Shadow Tower, and try Mallister instead. We cannot sit by idly forever."

Haldon had furrowed his brow. "The Watch is depleted," he'd said, "It would be unreasonable to expect them to take us north to find an enemy that they do not even know the location of. I fear we would get much the same answer from the Shadow Tower."

Aegon grit his teeth, gripping the wool of his coat forcefully. "We did not come here for nothing; we have a purpose to serve. The ranging will return, I know it."

But he did not know it. It was hope as much as it was belief.

He'd never been a fanciful child, he'd never had delusions of some grand destiny. He would be a sellsword, probably a knight too, and win fame and fortune like his father. Then later he discovered that he was to be a king; one that was good and fair and would right the wrongs of his grandfather and the usurpers alike. Never had it been because of prophecy, but because of duty. That had all changed. Now here he was, halfway across the world because of a nightmare and a half-rotted hand with a life of its own.

"But we should be prepared in the event that they do not," said Jon. "If the wildlings come in force, as the Lord Steward believes, then we will be as sheep to the slaughter. We are not tied to the Wall, as the Night's Watch is. If it's between dying with them, or escaping with our lives, we will escape."

Aegon hated it, but he knew that Jon was right. Dying here would help no one, least of all himself.

"If we must leave with our tails between our legs, then we will go to Strickland," Aegon said. "I will convince him myself. No matter what happens here, I know the face of our enemy. I will make them see it too." Breathing deeply, Aegon took a leap of faith. "I mean to tell Aemon."

Jon's blue eyes narrowed. "Tell him what?" His voice was flat. Jon knew damn well what he meant.

"About me. Who I am and why I am here."

Haldon smirked, shooting a sideways glance to Jon. "I knew he would. Duck and Lemore too."

Crossing his arms, Jon sat back in his chair. He took a long slow breath through his nostrils, his lips pressed into a thin, grim line. He uncrossed his arms and opened his mouth, then slammed it shut and crossed his arms again.

"If we cannot secure escort north, and we do have to leave without proof of the threat, then by the time I return here, he might be dead. The wildlings will kill every sworn brother they can if they take the castle by strength of arms, and even if the Watch manages to hold them off, his age might well be the end of him." He turned to Haldon. "Have you heard any mention of my aunt?"

"None," Haldon said, shaking his head. "Not here, at Eastwatch, or among the fisherfolk. Aemon and Clydas certainly haven't heard anything."

"Then this might very well be my only chance to talk to one of mine own." Aegon clenched his fist. "And he's the only Targaryen left who remembers the Targaryens in all their splendor. My aunt remembers less than even I."

Jon looked him deep in the eye, his dark blue against his own deep purple. Finally, he nodded. "Very well. Do as you will, son, you're a man grown." He smiled. "I cannot shield you forever, or you shall end up as the bastard on the Iron Throne." Jon looked to Haldon. "Does he seem a trustworthy sort?"

"Maester Aemon? Aye. He has been nothing but accommodating to my inquiries, and the men here love him as a grandfather besides." He stood, adjusting the thick furs he'd taken to wearing in the north. "If Marsh was worthy of knowing of our link to the Golden Company, then Aemon is worthy of this. Of that I am certain."

And with that, Aegon had finally had no excuse. Jon's presumed disapproval had been his final hurdle, so with his blessing, he could no longer pin the blame on another. Every day he waited was another day he risked the old man taking ill and becoming delirious, but every day Aegon found himself in the practice yard beating on recruits instead.

Arron and Emrick, two brothers from way out in Fair Isle, were fair enough fighters, but poor Hop-Robin was a truly sorry warrior. His clubfoot was little but a hindrance when it came to his footwork, and he was surely destined for stewardhood. A ranger he was not. Only Satin showed true ferocity, though he had a decided lack of practice. Which was to be expected from a boy of his background.

He shared his story readily enough when Aegon proved himself companionable, but it wouldn't have mattered. His past was well known among the black brothers (and so circulated easily at supper when wine flowed), and was the subject of much scorn and derision. He'd been a prostitute in Oldtown. Born in a pleasure house, he'd grown surrounded by whores and had grown to become one himself.

While this changed Aegon's measure of the lad some, he was not as instinctually revulsed as the Westerosi men here tended to be. Male whores were not accepted exactly in the Free Cities (for the most part), but they were known. What a man partook in was his concern, and most did not dig deeply into others' habits and tastes. Satin proved to be likeable, and his desire to improve was admirable. Aegon had no quarrel with him.

And when a man took the black, their pasts were meant to be forgotten, or at least forgiven. Men here have done worse than lay with another man.

Pyp's jest at least was not exactly an offense to Aegon. Satin was a well-made youth, with handsome features. They were of an age (roughly), but Aegon's build was taller and stronger. A similarity to Satin was not something he would frown upon. Aegon knew that had he not had Jon frowning down on him every time a pretty girl had looked his way, he would have spent his years in Essos traveling from one woman's arms to another's.

But even Jon's disapproving glares and stern lectures on propriety had not kept him maiden. Oh, Rajja.

Finally, after days of stalling and countless defeats of the Night's Watch recruits (and on Duck as well), Aegon could no longer argue with himself. He bid Duck and the recruits good afternoon, and marched to the stout wood and stone keep that housed the maester, his assistant, and the host of ravens they tended to.

The past days had been sunny enough, so the ground was hard beneath his feet rather than the soft slush of recently melted snow it had been when they had first arrived. Black brothers milled about, seeing to their daily chores. A few rolled barrels from the storerooms and toward the common hall. Owen the Oaf, tall and blond and friendly as he was dimwitted, was hauling a large crate from the armory, from where Aegon could hear the one-armed smith Donal Noye hard at work.

Aegon prided himself on his ability to quickly remember faces and names. Jon and Lemore had pounded the skill into him from a very young age, though the purpose had not been clear until he discovered his identity. A king must know more men than he can count.

When the men weren't at their tasks, they tended to gather around the brazier's that dotted the grounds of Castle Black. Warmth was always a pleasure this far north, and those shared warmings of hands were where Aegon had heard many a story. There, and in the common hall whenever food was served.

Finding the door to the Maester's quarters, Aegon gave it a firm knock. He heard quiet shuffling from behind the door, and upon it creaking open, saw the aged form of Maester Aemon's assistant. He knew it to be him, because he had seen him fetch meals from the common hall and he knew that Aemon seldom left his own rooms. Clydas was an old man, hunched, short, and decidedly round. he stared forcefully with pinkish eyes that were clearly ill accustomed to brightness; Haldon had said he was half blind, and Aegon believed it.

Clydas's dim pink eyes probed searchingly at his face. "I do not know you. Are you one of the recruits?" His voice was faint.

"Ah, no," Aegon replied. "I'm Griff, the younger one. A part of Haldon's party?" He hoped the man's memory was better than his eyes.

Recognition flared, and the man smiled. He was an ugly old man, so it distorted his features almost grotesquely. "Yes, yes. Haldon has made mention of you, please come in." Clydas stepped aside and pulled the door open wider to allow easier entrance.

Entering the room, Aegon felt a wave of warmth. Nearly every building at Castle Black was kept quite warm by diligent stewards and countless burning hearths, but this one was almost stuffy to Aegon. He loosened the outer layer of his thick wool garments.

"Haldon has been a great boon," Clydas said as he closed the door. "Since Samwell left on the ranging, reading letters and books to Maester Aemon has been my duty." The man coughed a wet laugh. "I can tend to the ravens, and help Maester Aemon around Castle Black, but my eyes have long since passed their prime, Young Griff."

"He told me that he has been helping to preserve some of the decaying texts," Aegon said, a frown curling his lips, "but I didn't know that he was reading your letters as well." Aegon trusted Haldon, but the fact that the Night's Watch would so trust an outsider was somewhat alarming.

Clydas studied him, evaluating, "The Night's Watch is a servant of the realm as a whole. And that aside, we get little nowadays that could not be freely told to even the lowest black brother." He gestured for Aegon to follow. "The Night's Watch has fewer learned men than it ever has, and those few we get, tend to be better used as rangers."

Following behind the older man's surprisingly quick shuffle, Aegon took off his most outer coat. The cold had bothered him least of any in their party, so it was actually rather too warm here.

"The gods are with you," Clydas said, "Maester Aemon often takes short rests this time of day, but he is currently awake." He stopped before a secondary inner door. This one was in better condition than the outer door. "These are his personal quarters," Clydas continued. "If you require any assistance with him, I will be above," he pointed up to the ceiling, "tending to the ravens. Do try not to rile him too much, he is old, and the Watch cannot afford to lose him."

Aegon nodded, but felt a pang of guilt. If there was something that would rile him, a relative thought long lost might be it.

The stooping steward knocked lightly on the door and slid it open. "Maester Aemon, you have a visitor," he called.

Aegon could barely make out the faint "Send him in," that was the reply. Clydas gave him one last long look, and waived him ahead.

Maester Aemon's room was somehow even warmer than the rest of the building, making Aegon glad that he had removed some of his clothing. Dragon Aemon may be, but age had plainly dulled the fire in his blood. The aged maester sat in a chair close to the fire, facing it head on. Another chair sat near Aemon's.

"Come, sit," Maester Aemon said. His voice was even frailer than Clydas's.

Aegon took a hesitant first step. He realized suddenly that his heart was pounding in his chest. He couldn't even see the old man's face, and he was feeling… what? Anxious? Afraid? Excited? Aemon looked so small in the padded wooden chair, almost like a child. A king afraid of a little old man? If only Duck could see him now.

Half to steady himself and half to perhaps shock his body into sensibility, Aegon struck himself in the chest with a clenched fist. He breathed deeply, each breath less ragged than the last. Calm down, he thought. Then he crossed the room in a rush and took a seat.

He looked to the last living male Targaryen other than himself, and indeed, maybe the last other Targaryen entirely. What Aegon saw was a shrunken and shriveled old man. Not a hair remained on his head, not a single eyebrow or whisker on his face. The skin appeared stretched thinly across his round head, so that every vein, and even his skull itself was readily apparent. His eyes were filmy and milk white. A long and thick chain was draped around his neck, sagging low into his lap; a hundred metals decorated each link of the chain, and shined this color or that in the flashing of the fire.

For all that his age was almost terrifying, that he was nearly a specter, Maester Aemon looked kind. Laugh lines many times older than he was drooped around his mouth, and his eyes, unseeing as they were, bore not an ounce of malice. Aemon's blind eyes followed him, even as they could not pin him down. "Who do I have the pleasure of entertaining this afternoon?" Aemon asked softly.

Aegon squirmed in his hard seat. This one wasn't padded like the other and was distinctly uncomfortable. "I–Well, that's why I'm here," he said finally.

The ancient maester hummed. "Are you one of Haldon's number?"

"Yes–No. I mean– I suppose it would be more accurate to say… that he's one of mine." Aegon gripped the hand rests of the chair tightly, his nails digging in. His heart beat harder.

He'd never told anyone about who he was, not even on the few occasions he'd been allowed to get deep into his cups. He was told who he was, he'd never told anyone. It had never been his secret to share, but Jon's, or Lemore's, or even Illyrio's or Varys'. But it was his.

"Oh?" Maester Aemon hummed again. "The Young Griff then? I labored under the delusion that it was your father who brought you here." There was humor in the ghostly softness of his voice.

Clydas had said that Haldon had talked of him, so it shouldn't have set him off balance to hear their years old cover story escape the old man's lips, but it did. Griff. The Young Griff. The name that had been his, that had been his pride for so much of his life. A false name; a fiction. No. Not false. It wasn't false, but it wasn't the entire story.

Seven hells, why is this so difficult? Aegon let go of the hand rests. "Yes," he said after far too long, "but also no. Griff fathered no sons, but he is still my father."

Aemon simply nodded. "It is a good man that takes another's son as his own, but there is more to this, I feel. More than an adoption."

"There is," Aegon said. "It's–It's about my sire."

"Well I should hope it is not me," Aemon said, offering a breathy laugh. It was disconcerting that the laughter couldn't make it to his eyes. "Forgive an old man his humors, do continue."

Aegon smiled, belatedly realizing that the old maester couldn't see it. "Worry not," he said. "Duck, he–my friend– he's a man of many jests." Coughing to try to clear his throat, Aegon tried to refocus. He'd been the one to make contact, but it felt as though he'd been the one cornered. "But my sire…. You knew him."

Aemon shifted in his chair, turning to face Aegon directly. The milky white eyes couldn't meet Aegon's gaze, but he felt as though they pierced him nonetheless. "I have known many men."

"This one was different. He wrote letters to you, I'm told." He felt every breath in his chest. It was agonizing.

The old man's brow furrowed, and his mouth began to move silently. "Many have written me letters, as maester–"

"Rhaegar Targaryen." Aegon looked to the fire. "Rhaegar Targaryen," he said again as his breathing gradually eased. He breathed in and out. His eyes turned back to the filmy gaze of one of the last dragons. "My father was Rhaegar Targaryen."

Aegon was acutely aware of Aemon's breathing slowing. If this killed him, he didn't know how he should ever forgive himself.

Finally, the ancient man's lips cracked open. "A bastard?" he said, more to himself than Aegon. Then he shook his head vigorously, "No, no. He wasn't–" Aemon stopped suddenly. "Unless…"

"No," Aegon answered. "Not a bastard, but trueborn. My mother was Princess Elia Martell of Dorne."

That sunk the man back into silence, until, "…the babe Aegon–but how?"

And then it was as if a dam had broken, or a blade pulled from his chest; everything came pouring out. "The babe who died in the Sack was not Aegon Targaryen," he said breathlessly, "he was an impostor, a pauper's son traded for a jug of wine–one babe looks much like another and Gregor Clegane was a monster– and my mother, Elia, she was a part of the charade, sh–sh–she knew my grandfather was a madman, so she gave me to the Spider–and Varys could keep me safe by staying on the small council and ensuring no one knew of my survival–and after Viserys died I didn't know if I would–"

"You are sure of this?" Aemon interrupted softly, voice torn halfway between hope and suspicion.

"Would I come all this way were I a mummer?" Aegon laughed. "No, wait, I'm sorry, I mean–" He wracked his brain for the reasonable explanation he knew he had, "–my father, I mean Griff, the man who raised me. Griff is a falsity. He was a sellsword, yes, but he was more than that. He is Jon Connington." Another pang of guilt. He hadn't asked Jon if he could divulge that bit of information. "If any were to know the son of Rhaegar Targaryen…"

Aemon nodded slowly, "…it would be one of his boyhood friends, yes."

"I know that it bears the stink of fiction," Aegon said with a hard swallow, "but I didn't believe it myself, when Jon told me... I'd spent my whole life learning history, sums, poetry, swordplay, songs, everything. We moved from place to place my whole childhood, from Free City to Free City, I had dyed my hair blue for as long as I could remember. And then it all just shifted into place. The inconsistencies, the vagueness, the excuses. It all made sense… Once I got over my anger at them keeping it from me for so long, I asked about my family–about my house." He stopped, tapping his fingers on the armrest.

"No fell purpose brings me here, uncle," Aegon continued. "Of that, you have my word."

"Then what?" Aemon asked, breath bated and blind eyes wide. "Why here and now?"

"…I know the histories; I know the wars and the politics, but I do not know who the Targaryens were. I would have the history of my family from a man who bore witness to it, from a man who might have been king."

Aemon smiled a wide smile, one that touched even the milky whites of his eyes. "I never thought I would have this chance." For a moment, Aegon thought the old man was beginning to choke and nearly jumped out of his seat.

Then Aegon saw Aemon Targaryen wipe away his tears with his long woolen sleeve and a laugh. Aegon turned his gaze to the roaring fire.

All he heard was his own shallow breathing, the crackling in the hearth, and the gradually fading hiccups of the old man bundled up like an infant. The fire consumed his sight in that moment, and for just a fraction of an instant, Aegon saw snow and eyes like blue stars. He jerked.

"There is one more thing." he said unsteadily.

"Oh?" Aemon asked, smiling.

"I had a dream, you see. A dream about dragons." He looked into the fire again. "About fire…"

Aemon's smile died. "…and ice?"

"And ice."