The Quiet Wolf
"We welcome you to the capital, Lord Stark," the old Grand Maester rasped. "Lord Arryn's death was a great sadness for all of us, my lord. You were assigned to Lord Arryn's former chambers in the tower of the Hand, if it pleases you, my lord."
Ned had not been in the stinking city, they called King's Landing for more than a few hours, and already he started to hate it. The moment he had ridden through the gigantic bronze doors of the Red Keep, his presence had been requested in the small council chamber.
"My things were already taken there," Ned spoke, nodding towards the old man, who had seen the prime of his life long ago. Not quite unlike me, I must admit.
The chamber was richly furnished. Myrish carpets covered the ground instead of rushes, and in one part of the great room, a hundred fabulous beasts were displayed in bright paints on a carved screen from the Summer Isles.
The walls were hung with tapestries from half a dozen different Free Cities, and a pair of Valyrian sphinxes flanked the door, eyes of polished garnet smoldering in black marble faces.
"Lord Stark, we all very much welcome you to King's Landing," the eunuch Varys tittered. "We heard of the incident of the Kingsroad and the troubles between your daughters and the King's eldest son. A devout man I may not be, but I pray for Prince Joffrey's swift recovery."
The bald man rested a hand on Ned's sleeve, leaving behind a stain of powder. The eunuch smelled, like many men and women in the capital, of perfumes and flowers, smells that still did not do much to cover the foul stench of death and shit that lingered over the capital.
"Don't we all?" Ned asked in return, unable to keep bits of sarcasm from sneaking into his voice.
"Enough of this nonsense, I've had worse scars than the little brat at half his age," Robert's voice boomed over the chamber. "His damn mother spoils him too much. The little shit should have spent more time talking to the back of my hand, than to all those Lannister arselickers."
The king's seat was at the head of the table, the crowned stag of Baratheon embroidered in gold thread on its pillows.
Even at thirty-six namedays, the king still had the voice of a true battle commander. Noone would overhear his orders when he gave them.
The seven-year-old Tommen sat next to the king, his demeanor not changing in the slightest at the insults towards his older brother.
There's no love between those two, Ned thought with regret. Joffrey was a spoiled kid, he knew it just as much as everyone else except the queen did, yet siblings should always stand together. What has he done that his little brother already despises him before he reaches his eight nameday? What could Brandon have done, that I wouldn't have looked up to him?
The King's brothers, Lord Renly and Lord Stannis were seated to the left and right of Ned, One rather quiet and sullen, while the other seemed to be the very symbol of life.
Ned had not seen much of Stannis during the Greyjoy Rebellion, but it was clear that he was a hard and dour, yet just man. Renly, however, had the makings of a classic southern lord, one who dressed in the most expensive finery and with whom you could parlay for hours about food and tourneys.
"You look the very image of Robert when you were young," Ned told Renly politely, earning a laugh from both him and Robert.
"A poor copy is what you mean to say, Ned, isn't it?" Robert asked good-humouredly, letting his hand run over the worn-out black and yellow fabric that adorned his clothing.
"Though I dress better," Renly smiled, ignoring the jape. "If only Robert would spend half the money he uses for weapons on clothing, he might look like a king."
"That you spend more money on clothing than half the ladies at court does not make you better looking, Renly," the king replied. "The great Storm King, who brought down a dynasty, is who they truly want."
"Let's focus on the task at hand," Ned interrupted finally, ending the amicable back and forth between the brothers. He was eager to finish whatever tasks there were and fulfill his dream of a long, hot bath, then lying down into a featherbed with a roast fowl and a flagon of northern ale. "There is surely a reason why this council was assembled?"
"To welcome the newly named hand at court, of course," Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin answered with a sly, slimy smile that carried the appearance of insolence. "But there are also, of course, other matters to be addressed."
"Yes, yes, get on with it before I fall asleep," Robert added, waving his hand impatiently. "What is there to be said."
"The matter of Daenerys Targaryen for one," Stannis started, speaking up for the first time. "There has been increased activity at Bloodstone. Ships sailing north and east, her dragons flying further and further. Some sailors say they spotted them as far as the Broken Arm and Ghost Hill."
"Dorne," Robert grumbled. "They're being spotted only a dozen leagues east of Sunspear. The Dornish are plotting something, that I can tell you. Probably conspiring with that thrice-damned dragon bitch."
"The Dornish were never truly pacified after the Rebellion," the Grand Maester added. Wispy strands of white hair fringed the broad bald dome of his forehead above a kindly face. "I fear many of them still resent the Iron Throne as well as House Lannister. They need to be dealt with, your Grace."
The old man wore the longest chain Ned had ever seen on a Maester. It was no simple metal choker such as Luwin wore, but two dozen heavy chains wound together into a ponderous metal necklace that covered him from throat to breast. The links were forged of every metal known to man: black iron and red gold, bright copper and dull lead, steel, and tin and pale silver, brass and bronze, and platinum. Garnets and amethysts and black pearls adorned the metal-work, and here and there an emerald or ruby.
That chain alone is worth more than most minor houses earn in a decade.
"They won't dare to invade the seven kingdoms," Renly stated, confidence ringing in his voice. "I have good connections to the Tyrells, they are loyal to the crown and will be able to repel any attack the Dornish snakes may muster."
"They would indeed never invade the Seven Kingdoms," Ned added, warfare being the only point where he could truly hold his own against the other council members. "But what stops them from declaring their independence? Few have ever managed to conquer Dorne, and none have been able to hold it."
"Nothing. But then they will be dealt with," Littlefinger stated, his voice as slimy as always.
"An invasion into Dorne? A folly. Not only would it be doomed to fail, but Sunspear is too close to Bloodstone. It might appear like a threat to Daenerys Targaryen."
"And that is, why we will need to take care of her now. Once and for all." Robert stated harshly. All the previous joy and carelessness was gone from his voice, as he grew more serious than Ned had ever seen him since he had come to Winterfell.
"She's been on that damned Island for a while now, her little empire is secure enough to expand further," Littlefinger said. "What is left for her to conquer, I ask you? Only Volantis, the First Daughter of Valyria remains, after that there is truly nothing left. Braavos and the Iron Bank support her, Pentos had sued for peace with her, and Lys and Tyrosh are neutral and surely won't rise against her. They even freed their slaves, if only in name alone. Where can she go then? What remains, but Westeros?"
"We don't know if she will continue to conquer. The distance between Qarth and Bloodstone is as far as between Starfall and the Wall," Ned insisted. "She might be content with it. And even if she weren't, there are still the Summer Isles, Sothoryos and Ibben, the Dothraki and the Lhazar, the Islands in the Jade Sea and New Ghis. Perhaps she will be as bold as to try to repopulate Valyria."
"People with power always want to extend their power," Varys interrupted. "Perhaps the king has the right of it."
"He doesn't," Stannis's gruff voice stated. "The old dragonlords of Valyria could have taken Westeros if they wished. They didn't, however, since they simply had no interest in doing so. It might be the same with her. She has yet to show any interest in the dealings of Westeros."
"Very true," Baelish spoke, nodding snidely. "But we have all made horrible experiences with her family. Madness runs in their house, does it not? Do you not remember the Mad King? What he did?"
"I will never forget what he did," Ned replied gruffly. "But his daughter has not wronged me or mine."
"A matter of time, a matter of time," Baelish merely replied, as he rose an eyebrow lasciviously. "The mad king was a very promising king in his youth, we all know that. It only took one shocking event, one single bad experience - Duskendale, in his case - to start his downfall into madness. Can we truly risk such a threat to our borders?"
"Targaryens have always walked close to madness, it's true," Stannis noted. "But your suggestion to deal with her would likely only fail. And if it does, this failed assassination could be the beginning-"
"-The beginning of her downfall into madness," Varys finished the sentence, nodding his agreement. "A solution for the threat of her is necessary, yet an assassin is not the way to go."
"And if we use a faceless man?" Renly asked mildly. "They have never failed in their missions. One of them is all it takes, and we can end this, once and for all."
For a moment, silence lingered in the chamber, until each of them started voicing their opinions all at once.
"Can the treasury afford this?" Pycelle asked worriedly, his bald head pulled into a frown.
"Not without merit," Robert conceded, while Tommen's eyes were wide open.
Baelish seemed delighted, while Varys's face was unreadable.
"Impossible," Ned stated curtly. "They are far too expensive."
"Expensive they might be," Baelish stated. "But if it can avert a war, it might just be worth it. The crown is already in debt, what are a few million more?"
"More?" Ned asked incredulously. "A few million Golden Dragons more?"
"Indeed," the Master of Coin nodded. "The treasury has been empty for years. We owe Lord Tywin some three million dragons at present, we could ask for more to afford an assassin."
Ned was stunned for a moment, unable to quite cope with what he was hearing. White Harbor was by far the largest city in Westeros, and even they would need many, many decades to earn even a million Golden Dragons. "Are you claiming that the Crown is three million gold pieces in debt?"
"The Crown is more than six million gold pieces in debt, Lord Stark," Baelish corrected, and for a moment, Robert had at least the sense to look a bit sheepish.
"The Lannisters are the biggest part of it, but we have also borrowed from Lord Tyrell, the Iron Bank of Braavos, and several Tyroshi trading cartels. Of late, I've had to turn to the Faith," he continued with an overdramatic sigh. "Many are willing to lend to the crown, yet all demand it be paid back with time."
Ned was struck silent until he fully understood what he was hearing. "The Mad King was a tyrant and a fool, yet he left behind a treasury overflowing with gold. I saw it when we took King's Landing, the gold pieces were stacked higher than mountains in the vaults. What have you done, your Grace?"
"Tourneys, feasts, you name it," Robert answered sheepishly. "It went away faster than I thought."
The other councillors were all doing their best to pretend that they were somewhere else entirely. No doubt they were wiser than Ned himself was. Few people ever truly openly challenged the king like he was doing at this very moment.
Ned shook his head in silent resignment, as he kept his eyes on his best friend. "The Faceless Men charge more money, the more important their target and how well those targets are protected. You will need to pay millions upon millions of dragons to get the girl killed, gold we simply cannot afford. We will have to find different ways of dealing with her."
"They are indeed quite costly," Littlefinger complained, as he carefully stroked his pointed beard. "It is a common saying in Braavos, that for the price they demand, you could hire an army of sellswords instead. Hiring the Golden Company itself is often less expensive, truth be told. And those prices are for merchants. What they would ask for an Empress only the gods know."
"And what if she lands in Westeros?" Robert asked. "She might not have shown interest in our dealings so far, yet she remains a threat. An axe hanging over our heads, ready to come down at any time."
"There is no axe looming above you, Robert. It's a dragon who is standing above you. And throwing stones at it is not the way to deal with it."
"It is a vile thing to kill a child as young as her," the Master of Coin spoke slowly. "But it might serve the good of the realm."
"What did we rise against the Mad King for, I ask you? It was the Mad King demanding mine and King Robert's heads what sparked the war, yet this event was caused by the murder of my family," Ned spoke firmly, looking around him as if daring the other men to challenge him. "My sister's disappearance had a part as well, yet it was the unjust murders committed by the Mad King, that started all of this in truth."
"We rebelled to end the Targaryens."
"We rebelled because the king unjustly murdered men, women, and children alike," Ned replied. "Will you do the same?"
For a moment, Robert purpled, his face changing as comprehension came. His eyes narrowed, and a flush crept up his neck past the black and yellow gowns and finery. Yet finally, after a tense moment that seemed to last an eternity, he seemed to deflate a bit. Ned matched his stare head-on, grey orbs piercing into blue ones.
"Fine," Robert finally grunted in annoyment. "Have it your way. But we'll still have to find a solution for the business with the dornish cunts."
"Another day," Ned said, still feeling weary of the long ride south. "I am tired. Let us call a halt for today and resume when we are fresher."
Robert quickly nodded his consent, and Ned immediately stood up, nodding and bowing to them all before leaving the fanciful chamber.
Ned slowly strode through the godswood of King's Landing. A poor excuse for one it was at best a quarter of the size of the one in Winterfell, neglected and empty.
In Winterfell, thousands of years of humus covered the earth, giant trees, primarily sentinels, oaks, and ironwoods stood tall around the Weirwood, a long and melancholy face carved in the bark, its deep-cut eyes red with dried sap. This weirwood, unlike those of older godswoods, this heart tree was a great oak, not a true weirwood.
Only a single other tree stood close nearby, a small pine tree with twisted branches and rough bark, smokeberry vines creeping around it like snakes.
Yet despite all, despite the false heart tree and the desolate surroundings, the godswood was still something more than just that. There was something wild about a godswood; even here, in the heart of the Red Keep, inside the city where southern kings ruled and where The Fate of the Seven was always present, you could feel the old gods watching. Their eyes were everywhere, the red-sap leaking eyes of the Heart Tree and those of all the surrounding animals.
The Old Gods were one with the nature, mostly silent but ever-present. They watched with a thousand unseen eyes from everywhere, their power tucked away, rarely showing but that made it no less strong.
Suddenly, Ned found himself thinking of his good-brother, Rhaegar Targaryen. Dead for fifteen years, yet Robert's hate for him had only seemed to fester over the years. Even now, his hatred for the man lived on. Not only that, yet it had grown ever stronger, only was it now directed at his younger sister Daenerys, a girl who had not even been born at the time of the Rebellion.
Why did you not tell us, Lyanna? Why did you not call for a parley before the battle, Rhaegar?
For a moment, Ned remained silent and simply paid attention to his surroundings, as he sat down on a nearby oak log.
He could smell the typical earthy smell of the godswoods, mixed with the sweet scent of wildflowers and wild mint and herbs. He could hear the leaves of the Heart Tree were rustling, the wind whistling around trunks and rattling the leaves, birds singing and branches creaking. The rustle of animals rooting in underbrush accompanied the sounds of insects humming.
He stayed long into the evening, as guardsmen of House Stark joined him before the Heart Tree, speaking their prayers to the Old Gods and enjoying the silence and peace. It was a rare good to be found in the capital.
Finally, Jory lit a fire near them, a small flame surrounded by stones so that it would not spread, yet enough to keep them warm in the darkness.
Ned stared at the flames intensively for a while, so much his eyes slowly started to hurt. Yet just as he was about to avert them, he could hear the hissing of the flames grow louder, their fiery tongues lashing higher and higher, until the hissing started to form a melody.
The voice hissed silently, yet it was a voice all the same. It hissed and crooked, yet with its raw and untamed voice, it sang a song. A song, that every child in Westeros knew, even in the most distant and excluded strongholds in the far north.
It were only two phrases, yet they were different, rewritten in a way so that the words would burn themselves into Ned's memory forever.
And who are you, the proud lord said,
that I must bow so low?
Only a girl far more powerful
than you could ever know.
The Dreamer
The wild track that passed for the kingsroad had been rough, yet Jon was long used to journeys through a wild landscape. He had left north together with uncle Benjen, Ramsay, and Lord Tyrion just as the King had left south. Ghost and Frost roamed around them, occasionally showing themselves to the group.
He could see the old man who had whispered something about silver hair stare at him intensively. He was clothed better than most of the others, his grey-streaked black hair combed, and his cloak properly fastened.
"That one looks like a proper cunt," Ramsay muttered, as he too noticed the man.
Benjen gave a short laugh at that. "Alliser Thorne is his name. He is the master-at-arms responsible for training new recruits. Never seen a more dour man. He was a knight of House Thorne in the crownlands and fought on the side of House Targaryen during Robert's Rebellion."
"So he ended here?" Jon asked curiously. It was rare, that men were banished to the wall, simply for fighting on the wrong side. Even Ser Barristan who had killed a dozen of the king's best friends had been pardoned. He had even sat on the small council, that was until he had fled east, where he now sat on Daenerys Targaryen's small council.
"He did," Benjen nodded. "Can say about him what you will, but he was loyal to the dragons. Following the Sack of King's Landing, he was given a simple choice by the Old Lion. Taking the black or their heads mounted on the walls of King's Landing on the morrow. And so, he ended here."
"He couldn't bend the knee?" Jon asked. "It is rarely heard that such an option is not given."
"No," Tyrion spoke up from next to him. "My father was never one to give such options to men he deemed untrustworthy. Death or exile. I imagine he will not take a liking to me."
"No, he won't," Benjen replied. "But he likes no one anyways, so you're not alone with that. Never saw me as more than a traitor, that's for sure."
"He's looking at you strangely," Ramsay whispered to Jon, as they rode closer to the man.
"Wonder why that is."
"You're probably prettier than half the women he has seen," Ramsay grinned. "Would keep my chambers locked at night."
"Oh, for fucks sake," Jon grunted. "This is not the time for your japes. I've seen dead men who seemed more alive than this guy."
"Benjen!" an old man greeted, as they approached the stables to tie their horses to the poles. He and Benjen quickly grasped each other's arms in greeting. He seemed a gruff old man with an immense bald head and a long and shaggy beard, the color a shade darker than the pure white of snow. A raven was seated on his shoulder, occasionally flapping its wings and flowing around them.
"Corn," the raven cawed with a raw voice. "Corn, corn."
"Lord Commander," Benjen replied formally. "I'm back."
"And with recruits," Jeor Mormont stated, letting his eyes trail over the men that had arrived shortly after them. "Criminals, all of them, but it's the best we can get these days."
For a moment he remained silent, as he turned towards the rest of them. "And you? Have you come to join the Night's Watch as well?"
"I'm afraid not, Lord Commander," Jon said respectfully, dipping his head slightly. He could feel the presence of the raven nearby, controlled by a third eye. Brynden. "I have come to discuss a matter of importance with the Maester of Castle Black. My lord father had a few questions regarding matters of the north. It is told, that with age comes wisdom and your Maester is said to be the oldest man in Westeros."
"He is," Jeor nodded, though he seemed not entirely convinced. "Blind he may be, but Aemon knows what he's about. I pray the gods let us keep him another twenty years. His council has never failed me, not once. He is old enough to have seen seven kings upon the Iron Throne. But his wits are still as sharp as ever."
"I shall look forwards to meeting him," Jon answered politely.
"You have our hospitality," Jeor nodded. "I'll have a steward lead you to your chambers. We luckily always have some empty ones. Ever since the Watch has started to decline..."
"I will speak with my father on this matter and encourage him to have more people join the watch," Jon stated. "You have my word on that."
"Bowen!" Jeor called out to an elderly man, as round and red as a pomegranate. "Have some of yer stewards find these three lads here some chambers."
"Of course," the other man answered swiftly. "Chett! Cuger!" he called out to two smaller men who stood nearby. "Find these lads here some chambers! Then tell the Maester this one wishes to meet him."
"Yes, of course," the two of them replied, indicating for their small group to follow them.
"Come to my solar, Benjen," Jeor stated, as they left towards there room. "Something must have happened at Hardhome."
"He-Hello," a boy stuttered, as Jon approached the rookery at the far end of Castle Black, where he had been told, that the old Maester would be.
The boy was very fat, with dark hair, pale eyes, and a large moon-shaped face. "Your name?" Jon asked softly, as he saw the other boy's eyes widen slightly at the sight of him.
"Sa-Sam," he stammered
"Hello Sam," Jon said. "I would like to speak to Maester Aemon. I was told by the Lord Commander, that I could find him here."
"Who is it, Samwell?" An ancient voice croaked from behind the fat boy. Not as old as the one belonging to Lord Bloodraven, yet old all the same. It seemed kind, even as it was at times as raw as that of a raven.
"Jon Snow, a son of House Stark," Jon replied for Sam. The other boy seemed apprehensive in his presence, always looking at him slightly scared.
"Well then, see him in, Samwell," the old Maester replied, with a blind nod. His old bones seemed to creak, as he slowly moved around the rookery. "The last ravens for today are sent; I have time for whatever matters our friend here wants to discuss."
"Thank you, for your time, Maester," said Jon, stepping inside and nodding.
"I am afraid I have nothing to drink or eat to offer you, Jon, this is but a rookery."
"I ask you for neither, Maester, only your counsel."
Aemon nodded. "Very well. Counsel is all I can give these days, though words are often more powerful than we give them credit for. It is often enough a simple word in the dark that starts a war, no more, no less."
"I would hope, that no war will be started over the matters I would like to discuss with you," Jon stated, with a small smile.
"So do I, Jon Snow. I have seen much death and destruction in my life. Seven kings, I have seen on the Iron Throne, and I might live to see another. Men have approached me about matters of treason and deceit, yet I have never given any dishonest council."
"Never?" Jon asked, unable to keep surprise out of his voice.
"A few small lies in my childhood, but never more," Aemon replied, his wrinkled hand wrapped around his long metal chain. "I am a Maester, a man to teach the young and have them learn their history, politics, and courtesies. We obey and give counsel to whoever would seek it."
"An admirable goal," Jon stated softly. "There are too many dishonest souls in this world, honest men are growing rarer by the minute."
"That they do," the old man nodded. "But I do not think you came here, to discuss the honestly of the Westerosi folk with me?" He paused for a moment, before turning to Sam who was still standing in the door. "We will talk later, Samwell. Get some rest, for now, you need it."
The maester is over a hundred years old, he thought quietly. He is a very wise man.
"First... I... wanted to ask you some questions regarding the old lore of the north," Jon started, as Sam left them. "The Stark Children have recently been given Direwolves and as they grow, some of them seem to... skinchange into them as they sleep..."
"Skinchanging..." Maester Aemon muttered, so quiet that Jon had to strain his ears to hear him. "It's been decades since anyone has heard of it, most men consider it to be a myth. The last person who was said to have used it was Brynden Rivers."
"Bloodraven," Jon nodded. "He too, had the Blood of the First Men, through House Blackwood."
The old Maester nodded gingerly, as he nodded to a stack of books that were piled up in the corner of the room. "There may be some books of the old lore here. Our knowledge on skinchanging is patchy at best, but maybe that will change with the coming generation."
"Yes, thank you," Jon nodded respectfully.
"But did you truly come here, to consult me about this?" Maester Aemon asked. "I seem to recall, that the Maester of Winterfell, Luwin, has forged a Valyrian Steel link. Few would know more about magic than he does, me included. Few outside of Castle Black even know me."
"Well, one of the reasons was that those wolf dreams my siblings are having, seem similar to the dragon dreams that the Targaryens once seemed to have."
For a moment, silence lingered over the rookery. "So you know who I am?" Aemon asked. "Who I was before I came here, who I could have been had I not?"
"I do."
"I could have been king. Maybe had I taken the throne, we could have avoided this business of my great-nephew going mad and burning people altogether. Or maybe it could have turned out even worse."
For a moment, he paused. "Pardon me, I'm sure you have no desire to hear an old man's dreams of the past. It is hard to be so old. And harder still to be so blind. I miss the sun. And books. I miss books most of all."
"Actually I do..." Jon started, and for the first time in years, he found himself at a loss for words. "I... There is another reason I wanted to speak with you specifically."
"Oh?" Aemon asked curiously. "Pray tell, what is this reason? I can think of none."
"Maester... I... There is a reason I never referred to myself as Lord Stark's son."
"A son of House Stark, you called yourself, I remember. Were you not born from Lord Stark's seed?"
"No," Jon replied. "I was born to his sister Lyanna... He found me in the Tower of Joy in Dorne, my father was-"
"-Rhaegar Targaryen," Aemon finished the sentence for him. "I remember him quite well, I never met him, but he wrote to me often."
He moved closer to Jon, his blackthorn cane he used to walk discarded. When his blind eyes, clouded and milk-white, focussed on Jon, he could feel his gaze linger on him, more powerful than anything else, yet at the same time soft and gentle.
He slowly raised his thin, fleshless fingers to Jon's face, letting them trace his cheekbones and chin. "You speak true," he finally stated, tears creeping into the corners of his empty eyes. "I can feel it, you have Egg's nose... his lips, his cheekbones. I should have known Rhaegar had a child, I should have known..."
"Nobody has figured it out, uncle," Jon said softly. "You mustn't blame yourself for not doing what no one else ever did."
"I often spend half the night with ghosts, remembering times fifty years past as if they were yesterday," Aemon said slowly, his voice filled with sadness, yet at the same time, Jon could hear the joy in it. "I receive letters daily, telling me about my grand-niece in the east, her dragons, her armies. But I am still an old man, in a few moons a hundred years of age. I knew I would never meet her, that I would die alone and forgotten. But you are here."
"I am here," Jon reaffirmed, allowing the old Maester to trace his features once more.
"You are still troubled," the maester stated after a long silence. "What is it, that keeps you awake at night, Jon Snow?"
Jon hesitated for a moment. Will I scare him away from me, where we have just truly met?
"I... was north of the wall for quite some time."
"I heard of it, your fath- uncle searched for you everywhere. But please, go on."
"North of the wall, I saw things... things that no man should ever see. I saw Children of the Forest, I saw Brynden River, Bloodraven, living in a cave beyond the wall, weirwood roots running through his body, keeping him alive. I was there at Hardhome, when the Others came, slaughtering every man, woman, and child in that encampment before they rose again with those glowing, blue eyes. The unnatural cold, those wights. A deadly wave of human flesh, no more no less."
He paused for a moment, looking at the Maester's unreadable face. "This must sound unbelievable to you. I know for certain, that I would not believe anyone who told me this."
The old Maester slowly took a step away from him, moving towards the pile of old books. "I do not know you well, Jon Snow, not yet at least. But you do not seem like a mad man to me, nor a liar. What you say sounds indeed unbelievable, yet magic is returning to this world. An old friend of mine, Marwyn is his name wrote to me a few years ago. The glass candles in the citadel are alight, your aunt has awoken the magic. Fire magic."
"And this might have awoken Ice magic as well," Jon breathed.
"Yes, my boy," Aemon smiles, his grin toothless. "The Song of Ice and Fire, we call it. It's been years since I have spoken to someone about this... the last person was a prince. This song is about finding parity and unity. Ice and Fire, perfectly balanced. This will be your job."
"Mine?" Jon asked. "I asked Bloodraven the same thing. But didn't tell me much. Why me? Isn't my aunt suited far better for these things? I... have achieved more than any other person I know at my age, but she? She has done far more than I ever did. I trained in a cave to become a greenseer, while she forged an empire. She has dragons, shadowbinders, thousands of subjects of worship her."
"But you are the song," Aemon replied wistfully. "You are the Song of Ice and Fire. The Stark's Winter mixed with the Targaryen Fire. My niece, your aunt, is a strong person. But she will need guidance. Her dragons are powerful, but not invulnerable."
Jon wasn't sure how to reply. "They are more powerful than anything in this world. I have seen the Others, their strength, they are cold, harsh, beautiful, inhuman, but fire melts ice."
"Or the ice is so cold, it suffocates the flames," Aemon mused. "The gods are cruel, it seems. All my life, I have longed to see a dragon, but now, that they have returned I will never meet them. I studied them at the Citadel."
"You did?" Jon asked slightly surprised.
"Many do," Aemon sighed. "It's an intriguing topic. The Black Dread, his flames, his skull, his diet, his growth. I did not only study them, I was obsessed with them. I agreed to go to the Citadel in the first place, as a means to discover more about them, to learn and to maybe hatch them again."
"Your... younger brother..." Jon started hesitantly before Aemon finished his sentence for him.
"-was much the same. He too wanted to bring dragons back to this world. He tried, but he failed. The blackened ruins of Summerhall stand to this day. But I knew more about them than anyone else. I read every tome on dragonlore in the Citadel, except one. Only one."
"Which one was that?"
"The one they call Blood and Fire,"my boy, Aemon said hesitantly. "A fragmentary, anonymous, blood-soaked tome containing information about dragons. It is sometimes called 'The Death of Dragons'. The only surviving copy is hidden away in a locked vault beneath the Citadel."
"Take this," Aemon muttered, as he reached for one of the books behind him. "The Citadel condemned this book as provocative but unsound. Baelor the Blessed ordered the book expunged and destroyed during his reign, although some fragments have survived. This is one of two remaining complete copies."
Jon blinked. "And you are giving this to me?"
"Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns: Their Unnatural History, also known as Unnatural History," Aemon nodded. "Not for you, but to pass it on. I am too old, too frail to do it, so you will have to do it for me. Go east. Meet your aunt and give her this book."
Jon gave a short nod, carefully taking the leather-framed, old tome from the Maester's hands.
"Brynden loved this book. It helped him a lot, it will help her, too."
Jon paused for a second, looking at Aemon intrigued. "Brynden? He never told me about this book."
Aemon sighed, though there was an edge of knowledge to Aemon's voice. "Brynden is many things, but if I can call him one thing for certain, it is a man of many secrets."
"Very well," Jon stated. "I will go east and do what you asked of me. Do you wish for me to tell Daenerys about you? Of who you are?"
"You can," Aemon nodded. "I believe I will be long dead when you reach her. But if not, let her know that if she ever requires something from me, I will be here, always ready."
The old man moved closer to him, resting his pale, gaunt hand against his right cheek. "I wish I could see you now. Please allow me to give my lord one last piece of counsel, the same counsel that I once gave my brother when we parted for the last time. He was three-and-thirty when the Great Council chose him to ascend the Iron Throne. A man grown with sons of his own, yet in some ways still a boy. Egg had an innocence to him, a sweetness we all loved. Kill the boy within you, I told him the day I took ship for the Wall. It takes a man to rule. An Aegon, not an Egg. Kill the boy and let the man be born. You are half the age that Egg was, and have already left the 'Egg' behind, yet your burden will be heavier than that he ever bore, I fear."
Small tears crept into both their eyes, grey and white, as he continued. "If what you say is true, then winter is truly almost upon us. You will find little joy here, but you will need to look past that and do what needs to be done. Many good men have been bad kings and some bad men have been good kings. Brynden was a bad man, truly he was, yet he would have been a great king. You are a dragon, Jaehaerys or Aegon or Daemon or Daeron, mayhaps even Aemon."
"Jon," he interrupted. "Jon Snow."
A small smile graced the old man's face for a moment. "You're a wolf, Jon Snow, your loyal companions in the stables are proof of that. But you are not just that. You're also a dragon. Be a dragon."