Thank you to everyone who has read, alerted and favourited this story. Especially to those who have taken time to review. It all means a lot, so thank you very much.
Hey guys. I'm off to Dublin tomorrow (train leaving at stupid o'clock in the morning), so rather than post this chapter several days late, I thought I'd post a day early. This change of posting schedule won't affect Before the Dawn, which is due to be updated again on Sunday. Thanks, and enjoy…
Chapter Eleven: Family, Duty, Dishonour
The rooms were cold. Much too cold for a man of Maester Aemon's age and infirmity. Jon found the old man sat in a chair, wrapped in furs and as close to an open fire as Sam dared seat him. Quite alone now, there were none to call upon his counsel, his wisdom gained through long years of a life well-lived. Alone in an old wooden chair, trying to get some warmth in his ever-shrinking frame. As slight as he was, his absence from Castle Black would nonetheless strike a sore wound in the heart of the Night's Watch.
As always, Aemon knew it was Jon approaching through the heavy tread of his boots on the bare floorboards. In any other blind man, Jon thought that might be a disconcerting talent. In Maester Aemon, it was just another clever way he had overcome an age-related impairment. At the old man's invitation, he drew up another chair and sat opposite him, letting the fire warm his legs after tramping across the snowy yards.
"Lord Commander." Maester Aemon's voice was barely a whisper. "I hear I am to be sent away."
There was no rebuke in his tone. He even managed a weak smile, to show he understood Jon's decision. All the same, he felt the need to elaborate, to justify his seemingly senseless decision.
"It's the red woman, Maester. I would have none of royal blood within her grasp."
Everyone had forgotten about Maester Aemon, closeted away at the wall. Even Robert Baratheon had left him to it. But then, that was the reason he came to the wall in the first place. To be discreet. To be forgotten by those who would use him to undermine his younger brother, once Aegon V had been made King. But Aegon V was long in his grave and Aemon remained, untroubled until the arrival of a foreign priestess with a fanatical belief that king's blood was somehow magical.
"Lady Melisandre follows a cruel god, Lord Commander. But I think I would like to be in Oldtown," he replied. "That is the Lord Commander's business dealt with. Why has Jon Snow come to me?"
Just for a moment, Jon could have sworn those old blind eyes had seen right through him. He took a moment, second-guessing himself on the best way to broach the issue. It pained him to rake up the ashes of the old man's past, but now it ran so parallel to the predicament he found himself in, he felt he had no other choice.
"Maester," he began, tentatively. "Not so long ago, when my father was executed, you told me everyone's vows had been tested at least once. You said your own were tested three times. The worst was the third, when the Targaryens were massacred and you were old and your eyesight was gone."
Aemon's gaze was now directed somewhere over the top of Jon's head, but he was listening and his bald head bobbed up and down. His breathing laboured, through infirmity and regret. "Well you remember."
Jon smiled wryly. He was hardly likely to forget. "The way you said it, you made it sound like you might have done something, had you been young and strong. Would you?"
Aemon wheezed, an affectation of laughter. "Had it been within my powers to smite down the usurper and all his followers, and raise from the dead those poor slain babes … who in my position would not? Wishing doesn't change the reality: I was old, I was blind and even back then my body had betrayed me. And nothing will bring my family back from the dead."
Jon swallowed, finding his mouth dry. He had come seeking guidance from someone who knew his torment. Now he wondered if he came here hoping that Maester Aemon would just say: 'Go, go and be on your way to save your family and good fortune, Lord Commander.' It even made him feel a little guilty to rake up the unhappy past in an effort to justify his own desire to do for the Starks what Maester Aemon could not for the Targaryens. Still the anguish troubled him.
"With hindsight, Maester, do you ever regret the decision you made at the Great Council, in 233?" asked Jon. "Even your fellow Maesters offered to free you from your bonds and support your claim to the throne."
Aemon seemed to deflate, his head lowering under the weight of an imaginary crown. Or was it just regret? Regret for decisions unmade, actions not taken. Anger at the passing of time and the frailties of human flesh and the fickle oaths of men. He could even be destroying the past in his head, and building a new tapestry of events that could have occurred, had he just said "yes" to the Great Council of 233.
"I only had to say one word," Aemon said, following a long pause. "I would be King, right now, had I lived as long as I have in this life." He broke off and wheezed another laugh. "I daresay, by now, my sons and daughters would be shouldering much of the burdens of state. But Kingship, like being a chained maester, is a job for life. I would still be on that iron chair today. That doesn't seem right, to me."
"That's what I mean," Jon said, leaning forwards in his chair. "You would be King. You would be as beloved to the people as you are to the Watch, there would have been no rebellion, no massacre and your family thriving. With just one alternative decision, the whole world would have been different. Some would say 'happier' even."
"It's very kind of you to say that I am beloved by anybody, the Watch or otherwise," Aemon noted, smiling toothlessly again. "But I would be a King regretting that I broke my vows. Instead, I am a maester regretting that my family was wiped out of existence. I have lived with the grief for all these years and I will carry it for whatever time is left to me."
Jon sat back again, studying the man before him keenly. If the gods should grant him so long a life, would be rather regret the annihilation of the Starks? Or a Stark regretting that he had to forsake the Watch in order to save his family? It was a simple question with what felt like a simple answer to him. But, either way, whatever decision he made, he felt he would be damning himself. An unwitting kinslayer through cold lack of action, or an oathbreaker. The decision was his.
"Forgive my asking you all this, Maester," said Jon. "I do not mean to distress you."
"I know," Aemon assured him. "I admit I am curious about what brought this on. I think, perhaps, your old friend from Winterfell brought some news."
Sam must have told him about Harwin, but Jon did not mind. Besides, Harwin had joined a few of the Brothers and Tormund Giantsbane for a sojourn north of the wall. If he saw the undead, he would be one more person verifying Jon's story if he did decide to go south and help his brother. Furthermore, if Jon needed more help now, then it was from the man who had somehow managed to get away with having his wildling lover living with him at Castle Black.
"Hold on a minute, Maester, I think we're going to need Sam for this."
Robb followed the light of Arya's flaming torch as she ran ahead of him through the narrow tunnel. It's dancing flame reflected off damp walls, dripping with river water that seeped through the ancient brickwork. Hardly a promising sign of structural stability, he thought it would be just his luck for it to collapse and he and Arya to be drowned where they stood. Nonetheless, he kept walking.
It was an eerie place, too. Their footsteps echoed through the tunnel, making it sound as if they were being followed. Nervously, he glanced over his shoulder every few minutes to make sure they really were alone. Arya did not wait for him. She followed the twists and turns of the tunnel, deep beneath the castle cellars until they reached an old gate.
"You've got the key," she said, finally looking back at him.
Robb had it in his pocket, but the lock resisted him until he put his full weight behind it. Then the hinges groaned, the echoes loud enough to wake the dead. He had no idea any of this was even below Riverrun. But, if there were secret passageways and tunnels to be found, he could rely on Arya to root them out.
From there, the tunnel sloped downwards into a place flooded with water. They hopped across a path of wet, slimy stepping stones to a place where the tunnel rose toward the surface again. Then they were facing the water gate, where a small row boat bobbed in a waterlogged alcove facing the Tumblestone.
"There," said Arya, shining the torch flame onto the black waters. "There's the boat. You'll have to take the oars yourself."
Robb grinned. "I'm sure I can manage."
He stepped past his sister who had pressed herself flat against the wall, torch still in hand. She bit her lip as he passed, still looking worried. It seemed she still had doubts about what she was doing.
"If anyone finds out about this, I did not help you escape," she said.
He mussed up her hair as he climbed aboard the boat. "You worry too much."
She rewarded his concern with a punch in the ribs. But as he took up the oars, Arya turned serious. "Robb," she said, quietly. "Talisa sounded like she was really nice."
Caught a little off-guard by the statement, he stopped himself before rowing off into the dusk.
"She was. You would have liked her and she would have loved you."
She raised a small smile. "But she loved you. And when you love someone, you don't want them to be miserable and alone for the rest of their lives just because you're gone."
Hearing it from Arya's lips made it sound strangely poignant. She wasn't one given to matters of the heart, after all. But then, since they had been parted, he figured she had suffered some losses of her own. Who, she had not said. It was just enough to make him wonder.
"I know," he assured her. "And this won't last forever."
"Good," she replied. "Now go, before I hit you again."
He pulled up the hood of his cloak and took up the oars again. It didn't take long for him to escape the alcove he was in and find himself out on the river proper. He was meeting Margaery downstream, which made his task easier. The calm and quiet dusk helped, too. It was a pleasant evening and he could have been embarking on a pleasure ride, had he not been dressed in roughspun and disguised as a peasant to slip past the Tyrell troops unnoticed.
All the while, he kept his eye trained on the riverbank, until he saw Margaery waiting on a small wharf about a mile downstream, her brother at her side. By the light of Loras' oil lamp, he saw the smile spread across her face. Robb nodded to Loras, who handed the lamp to Margaery and took his leave. He still did not know Robb's true identity, she had kept her word and his secret.
"I wasn't sure you would come." Margaery approached as he scrambled out of the boat and back onto dry land. "I missed you, yesterday. You were not at the parley, your uncle said you were sick."
Once safely on the wharf he answered her. "Apologies, as my uncle said, I was indisposed. It was nothing, really."
She wore a full-length cloak of pale blue silk, lined with miniver. Next to his roughspun disguise, it looked even more resplendent, and he even more drab. Once they were together again, she lowered her hood the better for them to see each other.
"I feared it might have been more than that," she said. "You know … after what happened when we saw each other last."
"That wasn't your fault," he assured her. "I took liberties and I ask your forgiveness."
"How can I forgive when I wanted it as much as you?" she said, her brow knitting in confusion. "Or at least, I thought you wanted it."
And that was his dilemma. He wanted it at the same time he didn't want it. He needed to do it, while he knew he shouldn't have done it. But the heart is a lonely hunter and he began to feel like it's prey.
"I loved my wife, Lady Margaery," he blurted out. "I know I ought not to speak of such things, but I did. Despite the lies we told you, or maybe because of the lies we told you about me, I feel compelled to be nothing but truthful with you now. And, well, there is the truth. I loved my wife."
Ser Brynden would have him bury all these feelings under a wall of duty and pragmatism. Perhaps he was even right. But Robb knew he couldn't let them keep festering away. It would all come up again unless he dealt with the problem now. And he didn't even see it as a problem anyway, it was human. He was human. It was only an accident of birth that dictated he was to be a human set above many of the other humans that inhabited his benighted land.
However, now he had blurted all that out, he half expected Margaery to look appalled, or run away. Instead, she stood poised, straight-backed and dignified.
"It's such a beautiful evening," she said, gesturing toward the woods. "Walk with me."
Robb said nothing, but kept pace with her as they strolled into the woods. Although still only dusk, it was darker in the thickets of trees and he was grateful for the oil lamp Loras had left. He took it from Margaery, sparing her the effort of keeping one arm held above her head. Meanwhile, she talked about her first marriage.
"I did not marry for love, like you did," she began. "But with Renly, I was happy. In an arranged marriage, happiness can be as important as love. Some might say one precludes the other. I will never know, because Renly didn't live that long."
There was a very genuine note of sadness in her voice, one he had not expected after what he had heard about Renly. But Margaery seemed different to other highborn women. Different enough to share her husband with her brother, it seemed. Thoughts Robb was tactful enough to keep to himself.
"Oh," she said, looking up at him. "I know what you're thinking."
Robb blushed. "Am I that obvious?"
She laughed, such a sweet sound. "Everyone is the same. But love is a complicated beast, I think. The heart doesn't respect gender, or social standing, or any other false construct we care to place on human beings. That's what I think, anyway. Renly probably did love Loras more than he could ever have loved anyone else. It's certainly true of Loras, and that's why he is Kingsguard now. But Renly was kind, loving and gentle to me, at all times. When he died, my grief was real. Putting all that aside to marry Joffrey was not the easiest thing in the world."
Robb was mystified. "Then why did you do it? I didn't know Renly, but I knew Joffrey. He was an animal."
"Oh, he was," she agreed. "But Renly was murdered by a shadow with the face of Stannis Baratheon. We agreed to join the Lannisters for the sake of smashing Stannis back onto the rocks and wresting control of the Iron Throne back from the Lannisters."
"Do you believe that about Renly?" he asked. "The shadow business, I mean."
"Your mother did," Margaery pointed out. "And Lady Stark was not a woman to believe in silly fancies. Nor is Brienne of Tarth. She certainly didn't kill Renly, she was devoted to him. Loras would have seen that too, had he not been so blinded by rage."
Their evening walk continued through the trees, to a pleasant clearing in the woods. Wildflowers grew around the stumps of felled trees and the air was pleasant and cool. Robb couldn't even begin to voice how good it felt, after months of being cooped up in a castle.
"I suppose, what I'm trying to say is, that you will learn to live again," she said. "You'll love again, too."
First Arya, now Margaery. Robb was grateful for the dark, it hid his blushes. "Yes, I think I will. But I could not forgive myself if I took advantage of you just to make myself feel better about Talisa. You both deserve a lot better than that."
She took his hand again, holding it firmly in her own for a long moment. "And you deserve better than to be left languishing in your own guilt and grief, Robb. You and I have more in common than we at first thought. You and I are both in horrible positions. We could just be each other's last hope."
The air between them cleared, helping him see properly for the first time since escaping the Twins. At least, that was what it felt like. But still Robb hesitated. He felt like he was treading a high wire and Margaery was the only semblance of balance he had left. She was his all or nothing.
"I know all of what you say is true," he ceded. "But it still feels so wrong. It still feels like I'm dragging you down."
Margaery remained unconcerned. "Nothing drags me down. And what we're going to do tonight is return to our camps and think of a plan. When we meet again, we will discuss our plans and start making them a reality. The time for licking your wounds is over, my lord. Tonight, you start to heal and I will hear no more of it."
Robb found he could not argue with that.
Starting from the beginning, Jon explained all that Harwin had told him the day before. As he did so, he produced the documents Robb had sent: the decree of legitimisation, the will, the letter and all the rest.
"So, now you have been recalled by two kings," Aemon observed during a lull in the conversation.
Stannis had also offered to free Jon from the Night's Watch, but only if he burned the weirwood and after taking Winterfell. Something he could never do. All the same, he had been painfully tempted to the point where he did consider it. Meanwhile, Sam was deep in thought as they let the news from Riverrun sink in.
"Two kings," Jon agreed. "One uncrowned and unacknowledged who wanted me to desecrate my own home in return. I could never do that."
"You're going about this the wrong way," said Sam. "You're approaching this issue as if you were being forced to choose between Robb and the Night's Watch. But you're not. Yes, Robb is recalling you. But recalling you to what? The Boltons have Winterfell so you can't go there anyway. And, you said yourself Jon, while Robb lives he is your King in the North and your Lord of Winterfell. Whoever that little Mormont girl is, she clearly agrees with you."
All three chuckled at the recent memory of Lyanna Mormont's rebuttal of Stannis Baratheon, but Sam had a point. The Mormonts were the first House to go to for help with Robb, and Harwin already said that Lady Maege was still alive, somewhere.
"No," Sam continued. "What we need to do, is find a way for you to legally combine your duty to the Watch and your duty to House Stark. Now, while your vows state you can't hold lands or titles, you can accept the legitimisation. You're a Stark, Jon. That will mean a lot to the North. Robb made a lot of advances in the Riverlands, too. Which is also helpful."
Jon was puzzled. "How?"
Sam smiled. "Because now, all those houses are also dependent on your help just as Robb is."
"And this is a benefit?" he was lost.
"Of course," said Sam. "You agree to help them, in return for their helping the Night's Watch. You liberate them on condition that they liberate the far North from the Others. You're saving them, so they can save the Night's Watch."
Sam had a point and Jon liked it. But still he remained hesitant to commit to anything. Then, Maester Aemon spoke in support.
"I would not wish to sway your decision, Lord Commander, but if I may I would counsel you. The Night's Watch and House Stark have fought side by side on more than one occasion. This is not without precedent. If you manage to convince your brother to fight alongside us, the rest of the North will follow."
"And look at what you've done with the wildlings," said Sam. "It's not like you're shy of breaking precedents."
"But I need to reach my brother and Arya," he pointed out. "Before I do any of this, I must speak with Robb. How can I, when he is under siege?"
That left the room silent. Beyond the windows, night gathered again, leaving them with just the light of the hearth fire. Along with the gathering night, the tension came creeping up on Jon. While they thought of ways for him to combine his two conflicting commitments, he found himself growing increasingly anxious. To the point where he found himself picking at holes. Every hole he picked, he cast around for a solution. In the end, the solution to the siege problem seemed quite apparent.
"House Tyrell, you say?" asked Sam. "Well, that's simple enough. House Tarly is sworn to House Tyrell. I can write you a letter and affix my seal. Ask for Ser Garlan, he knows my father and I well. I'll just say you're on Night's Watch business and he doesn't need to know who you really are."
Jon laughed. "Fine, Sam. But how do I get there? It could take months and winter is coming."
"Sail with us," said Sam, quietly. "We're leaving in a few days. Come with us."
Once more, Jon prevaricated. They were setting sail on the Blackbird from Eastwatch and docking in Braavos for the first leg of the journey. Braavos was just across the water from the Vale of Arryn. From Braavos, Jon could set sail again further south to Gulltown in the Vale, leaving Sam and Aemon to continue their journey to Oldtown. For him, it would be a journey across land, almost a straight line from the Vale to the adjacent Riverlands. He might even be able to rustle up some support for the Watch among the Vale Lords. Lord Royce, whose son was so recently killed, was one who sprang to mind. They might even help Robb, if their father was remembered there.
It was almost devastatingly simple. But…
"I am needed here," said Jon. "I am Lord Commander and this could take me away from Castle Black for more than a year."
It was Aemon who answered. "You can give up being Lord Commander without giving up the Night's Watch. You can even name your successor. I might even be so bold as to suggest Denys Mallister."
It made Jon uncomfortable, a cold feeling in the pit of his belly. "I don't know, I…."
But he could not finish his sentence. Every time he found a pot hole in the plan, they answered it easily. But still he felt torn. It all seemed so simple, but still it felt like desertion. But it wasn't desertion, because he was coming back. And when he came back, he planned to do so with a vast army at his back and King Robb of House Stark at his side. Perhaps a few Knights of the Vale and the Riverlands, too. They ignored letters, but people in your face were harder to brush aside.
Sam stepped in again. "Harwin said the Mallisters are still loyal to Robb. Get Ser Denys to write a letter detailing what he's seen beyond the wall and give it to Lord Jason. It is evidence he cannot ignore, from his own kinsman."
Sam was right again but Jon was panicking inside. "How do I reassure everyone here that I am not abandoning them?"
Sam was silent for a moment as he considered acts of faith.
"Leave behind Ghost as surety of your return," he suggested. "And perhaps Longclaw."
"I need a sword, Sam," Jon pointed out. While he would miss Ghost, he needed the wolf at the wall for when he warged into him at nights. Through the eyes of Ghost, he could keep his own eyes on Castle Black and all that was happening. A supernatural talent he had not divulged to his brothers. "I'll miss Ghost acutely, he is my companion. But I'll not last a day without Longclaw."
"I have a sword you can use."
To the surprise of both Jon and Sam, it was Aemon who spoke. The old Maester had always been a man of learning, honing minds and not swords. Jon was understandably reticent.
"Thank you, Maester that's very kind of you," he said. "But I am sure I can have a look in the armoury and-"
"Humour me," said Aemon, attempting to rise from his chair.
Sam got up quickly, helping the frail man to sit back down. However, there was fire in the old dragon yet and Jon caught a brief glimpse of it as he defied the younger, stronger man. Admitting defeat, Sam lent his arm to the old man.
"Go into my bedchamber, where you will find an old weirwood cabinet," he said, his voice a little firmer now. "It is too heavy for one man to move, so the two of you will have to manage. Behind it, you will find a loose oak panel in the wall. I marked it with a scratch. Prise it open with a dagger and you will find my sword."
Jon still highly doubted he would need it, but now he was just plain curious and found himself going along with it. After Sam settled the Maester down again, he came to help Jon haul the cabinet a foot away from the wall, plenty of room for him to squeeze in behind it and lever up the loose panel with his dirk.
The oak panelling behind the cabinet was coated in old, dry cobwebs, dirt outlining perfectly the shape of the cabinet. Some webs still had shrivelled dead spiders still clinging to the threads. It was so bad, he had to have Sam fetch a damp rag to wipe it down before he could even see the loose panel. When he did find it, it offered little by way of resistance to Jon's dirk. Once removed, he propped it against the firm wall and groped into the space beyond.
At first, his hand merely closed over thin air. After reaching in a little farther, he eventually found what felt like a sword still in its scabbard. He drew it out carefully, finding it to be a fine old longsword. Mystified, he held it up to Sam.
"Why has he got it hidden in here?" he asked his old friend.
Sam shrugged, equally perplexed. "The Watch could use a sword like that, too. It's bound to be castle forged."
Jon was inclined to agree as he pushed himself out of the crawl space and into the open room again. The scabbard was filthy, shrouded in more webs, dead spiders and dust and grime. He couldn't guess at how long it had been there, but he was looking at decades. Easily. By now, the blade was probably little more than a rusted toothpick.
It probably would have been, had the blade not been forged from Valyrian steel. Growing ever more curious, Jon took the rag Sam had used to clean the wall and now used it to wipe some of the filth from the ancient scabbard. It was black enamelled, lined with soft leather. Embossed on the front was a faded three-headed dragon, the sigil of House Targaryen. Equally faded, once scarlet letters, read 'fire and blood' in delicate script around the sigil.
The breath caught in Jon's throat as he held it to the fading light of day.
"Sam," he said, his voice higher than usual. "Sam, look at this. Look at it now."
Sam was already at his shoulder, open mouthed and wide-eyed with shock. "That's not … it isn't, is it? It can't be."
"It is." Aemon was up and about again, having groped his way from his living quarters to his bedchamber through touch and memory. Now he hovered in the doorway, his old blind eyes seeking out his two companions. "It is Dark Sister."
Almost too late, Jon felt the sword slipping from his fingers in his shock, but he caught himself and the historic weapon just in time. Giving himself a shakedown, he pulled himself together.
"Maester Aemon, this is kind of you. So very, unbelievably kind of you. But I can't. This sword is … it is legendary and thought lost. I cannot."
Slowly, with shuffling steps that betrayed the Maester's ebbing strength, he crossed the room towards Jon and Sam. Sparing him the effort, Jon stepped forward to meet him, whereupon Aemon steadied himself by placing his hands on his shoulders.
"I am dying, Lord Commander," he began, with no fear at all in his voice. "I might make the journey to Braavos, but I don't think I shall ever reach Oldtown-"
"Maester, don't talk like that."
"Please Sam, listen both of you," Aemon continued. "Brynden Rivers left that sword with me before he went on a ranging and never came back. For all these years, I've held it, awaiting his return. Now all my kin are dead and I never was a swordsman, even before my body betrayed me. I am the last of us, Lord Stark … Lord Commander. When I die, this secret would have died with me. Another kind of death for my house; the death of its history. No, I am truly the last of us. So I gift Dark Sister to you as the son of King Maekar, the first of his name. Take it, for no other can do so. Take it, and use it to do for House Stark, and for the Watch, what I could never have done for House Targaryen."
Jon tried to protest, but found a rather large lump in his throat. His head was spinning and no longer knew if he was holding Aemon up or if Aemon was holding him up. Still he was torn by indecision and now his mind was quite blank.
Thanks again for reading, reviews would be great if you have a minute to spare.
Rather than stick with the show, I'm having Aemon die (off page) in Braavos.
While I did want to show Jon being assassinated by the Watch, I'm afraid if I leave him at Castle Black for as long as that, his role in the story will become quite redundant until the very end (I also don't want him to leave the Watch). Hence my totally going off-piste with this twisting things around to create a totally AU situation which brings him to Dany much earlier than in the show. Still, I hope a few readers will enjoy the changes I made.
Next week: the focus will very much be back on Robb and Marge, before they get left in the dust. Also, I'll be paying a visit to Sansa (or rather, Allayne Stone), still in hiding at the Vale, since she hasn't been seen at all since the very beginning of the story. Until then, take care.