(The Wall: Castle Black 10/3/298 AC) Viserys II

"Ser Brynden Rivers, called "Lord Bloodraven", was a legitimized Great Bastard of Aegon IV Targaryen and Melissa Blackwood, the king's sixth mistress. Brynden's personal arms were a white dragon with red eyes breathing red flame on a black field…." For the hundredth time, within the soft glow of candlelight, he read the history of the man in the tree. He rubbed his eyes as they had begun to glaze over, drinking deep from his nearby cup of ale. In an attempt to divine what had transpired in that cave, he found himself staring at the same words over and over again. "…believed to be a sorcerer, he…"

"And what is it that couldn't wait until morning, grandnephew?" The sudden voice of his granduncle, Maester Aemon, had startled him, nearly causing him to fall from his seat in the back corner of the library.

"Maester Aemon, you move like a ghost…" he stated, letting out a brief chuckle of relief.

"The creaking always bothered me when I would read," a wistful expression came over the aged maester, "So many moons ago now." Aemon turned, and made his way to a nearby seat, across from his own. "So I take care to mind my steps, so as not to disturb those who enjoy the comfort of reading, like that Dragonstone boy."

He began to rise, "Let me help you."

"Oh, no need. I know my way around this library, better than any other place in Castle Black. Thousands of books and no eyes to read them. Old age is a wonderful source of ironies," his granduncle grunted slightly, sitting down on the wooden chair, near his table.

"How did you know," the words escaped his mouth as an afterthought, as he placed a lit lantern between them.

"That it was you?" he questioned, a sly smile lining his aged features. "Who else, but Viserys Targaryen, would be wasting candles to read in the middle of the night? You've only left this library to sleep, ever since your return," he smiled. "But you didn't answer my question. What are you reading?"

"Bloodraven," he replied, partially ashamed of being caught reading the same thing, yet again.

"Ah! Ser Brynden Rivers, former lord commander of the Night's Watch," Maester Aemon, clarified. "I knew him when I was young. He accompanied me here along with several others."

"I know, granduncle," a thought sparked in his mind. "Maester Aemon, what do you remember of your conversations with him? What would he speak of?"

"He and I spoke on many things, Viserys," the chair creaked. "But it sounds like you wished to speak of something in particular? Hmmm?"

"Well," he hesitated, unsure if what he had seen would be accepted as anything but madness. He looked towards one of his last remaining relatives, as the old maester leaned in, awaiting the rest of his words. "What would..." he looked around the library, confirming that only Aemon and he were alone within. "What would he have thought of the stories of the Children of the Forest? Of the Others?"

"Ah," Aemon remained silent as if he had begun to gather his thoughts on the matter. "For a long time, he thought nothing of them. I knew the stories about him, but he seemed to be a regular man. He did not take the myths and tales of the Others and the Children, to heart. Until the few weeks before his disappearance. He came to the library as you did, he read, and he asked me the same question, only in regards to what I thought of those stories."

"What did you tell him?"

"The same that I will tell you. I am not closed to the possibility of their existence," he stated quietly. "Myths do not emerge from nothing, Viserys. However, I am also a man of reason, and men of reason require proof. Years spent training at the Citadel, has made me more than skeptical of such things."

"So if I told you I saw the Children, and Ser Brynden, who spoke of the Others," as the words left him, he felt something wash over him, whether it was embarrassment, madness, or relief, he did not know. "You would think me mad?"

"No! Never! That legend has stained our family long enough," though blind, the fire in the maester's eyes grew fearsome. "You, like Ser Brynden, came to speak with another on the matter. Madmen do not seek the opinions of others. But I will say if you choose to act on what you may have seen, proceed with caution. I will not deny what you think you have seen, but neither can I support you, not in this. In everything else, you have what little support an old man can offer his family, but not this."

"Can you offer me no guidance?"

Aemon's eyes softened, the silence stretching longer than it seemed. He sighed, "What did Ser Brynden wish you to do?"

"Warn the realm, warn the woman who holds Dragonstone," his heart seized, anger bubbling up inside. The memory of that night, when the woman had destroyed Ser Willem's ship, churned in his mind. He felt a hand pat his own and saw maester Aemon gazing at nothing, a look of concern on his face.

"I know what she did to you, Viserys. It serves no one to hold onto that anger," he stated softly.

Viserys knew of how Aemon had felt after hearing news of the death of their family, and he knew Aemon spoke from a place similar to his own. The anger still resided within him, but the fire in his heart died down. He nodded to his granduncle, "Apologies, maester."

"There is no need for apology, Viserys," he removed his hand and leaned back in his chair. "It is an odd request. Why would Ser Brynden wish her to be warned, and not the King? Surely he would be in more of a position to help in whatever Brynden thinks is coming?"

"The woman and her people, they have a power…" his words lingered in the air, uncertainty clouding his mind. He looked towards his granduncle who sat in rapt attention.

"What kind of power?" Aemon questioned, the chair creaking with the slight shift of his body.

"Fire, and Lightning," he replied simply, flexing his hands in a failed attempt to alleviate his dread. Guilt gripped him as he chose to withhold the parts about Azula's people and their apparent ability to enter the place 'where the gods roam.' However, he only did so because he did not know how to explain that part of Bloodraven's warnings, to maester Aemon. "That night," the words caught in his throat, the fear growing in his chest.

"You saw nothing," a velvet voice whispered.

"When the woman took Dragonstone, I saw…" the terror from his childhood conflicted with his duty to defend the realm. They warred within him, circling each other, a black dragon and its blue nemesis. He steeled himself, reciting the oath he had spoken all those years ago, "Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death."

"Why are we here?"

"I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory."

"To keep you, and your family, safe, my prince."

"I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the shield that guards the realms of men."

"We will survive this."

"I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come."

"Ser Willem!"

"I saw them wield flames as easily as one would wield a sword, or throw their fists. Even in the pouring rain, their flames struck true. But more than that, the woman wielded the power of the Storm-god. Lightning shot forth from her fingertips. Her fingertips, granduncle!" He emphasized the statement, trying to draw a response from the aging maester, who held a look of intense curiosity. The lackluster reply caused him to continue with his recollections, contented with the realization that his granduncle would reply when ready. "Many ships were lost, and the knights charged with my protection betrayed me. I saw their fear, their greed, and their desperation," he stated, the rage bubbling up within him, demanding to be set free. It was a demand that he would not give in to, not in front of Aemon.

"Desperation is a fickle mistress, Viserys Targaryen. Equally capable of changing commoners into knights, and noblemen into monsters." The old dragon replied. "What fate befell these men?"

"The Lady Azula thanked them for surrendering me," he continued. "She promised them mercy, and had the scarred woman escort them down into the bowels of her Iron ship before she turned her attentions to 'the Firewing,' …" his voice trailed off, only to be brought back by the soft creaking of Aemon shifting in his seat. "I never saw them again. Not during our voyage to King's Landing, nor my journey north, up to the Wall, with Ser Rodrik. I can only surmise she had them killed," his father's voice and cruel laughter echoed in the deepest recesses of his mind, as he reached over towards his flagon of ale to pour himself another cup.

"Traitors! All of them! Hahahahaha!"

"So it would appear that the tales of butchery may not be just tales?"

"It would seem so," he answered simply, drinking deep from his cup. "I know not how the battle for the castle went, save for that it was taken quickly. Those at the docks surrendered without a fight. No doubt realizing the futility of resistance after bearing witness to the power of 'the Ozai,'" he clasped his hands around his cup, lifting it to his mouth. "Those traitors, they killed the few still loyal to our family," he muttered before draining his cup of ale. "Then came upon the Iron ship, and all but threw me at her feet," he released a breath he had not realized he had been holding. "She wasn't an intimidating woman to behold, now that I look back on it, granduncle," he chuckled darkly. "If one ignored all the lives she had destroyed that day, that is. The short stature, stern face, and full belly would have been humorous, were it not for the expression in her eyes."

"'A black pit of malice surrounded by molten gold,' or so I've heard," Aemon stated, hands hidden underneath voluminous black sleeves. "The Ironborn in our ranks have a tendency to exaggerate," he shrugged.

"It is no exaggeration, granduncle," he warned gently, passing his thumb around the mouth of his empty cup. A brief moment of hesitation passed over him before he spoke, "Ser Brynden also told me of my sister…"

The silence grew thick, as Aemon's voice caught in his throat. "Another Targaryen?" he finally asked, tilting his heads towards him, eyes focused towards a dark corner of the library. "Where?"

"I don't know, Essos most likely. Bloodraven said she was across the sea, in the hands of…a distasteful man," he had suspected, perhaps even known what that meant in the cave, but even now he still refused to believe it. "She would be four and ten now," he whispered.

"A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing. So young, and with no family to guide her or protect her from the horrors of the world," Aemon sighed, his voice shaking. "What a cruel fate," Aemon rubbed his hands, "being so old and frail. But not you…"

"And what can I do? Brynden gave me no counsel on how to proceed in warning the woman or her son," Viserys questioned, his voice coming out rougher than intended. "He seemed to believe Ser Steffon would be the one to help my sister, Daenerys."

"Daenerys?"

He looked towards his granduncle, "It was what Bloodraven had said her name would have been at one time. But I did not understand what he had meant on that, nor did he elaborate. I know not how to contact Ser Steffon in a timely manner. Last I heard, he was in King's Landing, but afterward? He'll disappear into the wind, and tour the Stormlands, yet again. Even if a raven were sent, and did not die or get lost, how long? Weeks? Months?"

"You could inform the Dragonstone boy, or his guards. They may have a better chance at contacting the Lady Azula, and Ser Steffon," Aemon suggested.

"Sho Yu? Possibly, but what would I tell him, or them, for that matter? Had I a child of the forest with me, I could have had a much simpler time persuading others about what I saw and what I was warned of. Instead, the children left me and the others in a foul smelling tent, then disappeared. Not once, on our journey back, did we encounter these supposed 'Others' or their undead minions. Not that I would have wished to, but it would've made things easier." He rose from his seat and came to the fireplace, staring deep into the low flame. "Without that, even if I convinced them to relay my letter, what could I even put in that letter that would not sound like utter insanity?"

"A hundred and twenty-five-year-old tree man, long thought dead, and surrounded by children of the forest warned me of ice demons from myths near forgotten. Also, tell the Lady Azula an ancient ice god of death is after her child."

He let out a long sigh and returned to his seat near Aemon. "The Lady Azula may believe the last, but I would need to tell her directly. No letter would suffice. What am I to do, Aemon? I cannot go to King's Landing. Seven hells, even a mere rumor of me going there would be a death sentence. King Robert would have me executed on the spot," he slumped his shoulders. "Nor could I approach the Lady of Dragonstone, with this. Even if she believed me about her youngest, she is not known for being 'understanding.' She would, in all likelihood, turn me over, to the King, for a summary execution." He cast a glance towards his granduncle, "You know as well as I do, if I step foot outside these walls, even on official business for the watch, King Robert will find some way to have my head." He reached for his flagon of ale to pour more into his cup, before being stopped by Aemon.

"I think you have had enough, Viserys," he stated softly. Aemon's eyes stared at nothing, yet somehow he knew where to rest his hand to prevent him from pouring himself more ale.

"Hmph," he chuckled, before massaging his temples. "I won't fight you for a cup of ale, Aemon. I'll lose."

"And don't you forget it," he removed his hand from the flagon of ale. The links of his maester's chain rattled slightly with his movement.

He studied the links, remembering the stories Aemon would tell of how he earned them. 'Many years of work. Almost a lifetime of work.' His granduncle was on in years and as much as he hated to admit it, before long the watch would need a new maester. "Hmm, what did you do to become maester of the Night's Watch? Would I be able to do the same?"

"Become a maester? Why would want such a thing?"

"Perhaps I can find someone in the Citadel who can speak on my behalf?" The chair groaned as he leaned forward. "Without proof, I would need someone of note to support me. Do you think it possible someone from the citadel would believe me? I need only one to at least make this task be somewhat less than impossible."

"Well, there is an archmaester who may accept your warnings, but he is known for being…unorthodox and somewhat eccentric." Aemon remained silent for some time, before speaking again, "I must confer with the Lord Commander, and the citadel, on this. Give me time, Viserys."

"Thank you, granduncle."