Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, favourited and alerted this story. Especially to my reviewers for their vital feedback. Thank you. No copyright infringement intended. Some of the Sansa/Sandor dialogue borrowed from Game of Thrones (as in book one, rather than the TV show). No, this is not Sansan.

Chapter Seven: Aemon

Pretty girls were always the worst. Flighty, dreamy. Singing and dancing through life as if it were a song plucked from the strings of a balladeer's lute. It wasn't that Sandor minded that, as such. If he were a pretty maid he'd be doing precisely the same thing. But nature didn't exactly make him that way. No; it was the way they looked at him. If they saw him at all, they had an ever-present fear and loathing in their eyes, as though he would jump them at any moment. Sometimes, he played along just to see the looks on their faces. Most of the time, he let their whispers and sidelong glances wash right over him. But never would he hide his face from them; for he was the ugly reality behind their dreams of courtly chivalry.

This one was no different. Had Joffrey made him escort her back to Maegor's Holdfast on purpose? Just the two of them, walking in the dark under the pallid light of the full moon after the Hand's Tourney. Was it a statement of some sort? Sandor couldn't guess and he didn't much care. But this one was different. The Stark girl was pretending the scars weren't there. As they walked, she chirruped sweet little compliments that echoed empty in the air around them.

"Look at me!" he snapped, cutting through her learned by rote talk of gallantry. "Look at me, girl!"

He had her chin in his hands. He could feel her soft auburn hair falling over his rough, calloused fingers. She was seeing him now and his face brought tears to her eyes. Before he knew it, the whole sorry story was spilling from his lips. His tongue, loosened by strong wine, betrayed him and divulged his torrid past: of Gregor and the toymaker; of having his face mashed in a brazier's flame. In a fit of anger, he wanted to do the same to her: to rub her face in the truth of what her precious knights were really like, of how brutal the truth really was. He wanted to smash those silly dreams out of her pretty little head.

But the more he talked, the more the fear drained from her face. By the time he was on his knees in the dirt, she was standing over him straight backed and utterly composed. Only a strange sadness filled her eyes; a sadness he had not seen before. Something inside him knotted and twisted at the sight of it.

"Ser Gregor is no true knight," she said, so plaintively disarming.

There was little he could say to that. "No, little bird, Ser Gregor was no true knight."

Following his outburst, the rest of the journey was made in a strange and stilted silence. All through the city and back to the Red Keep. They walked all the way back side by side, just as Joffrey had commanded. But before he left her, he had one final parting shot: "If you tell anyone what I said, I'll kill you."

Even at that, the Stark girl showed no fear. Yes, she was a curious one among the usual flock of silly hens.

Snow crunched beneath Jon's feet as he trod cautiously over the courtyard he did not recognise. A harsh wind whistled through the rafters of an unfamiliar garrison that surrounded him, emphasising the fact that he was completely alone. But it was the vast structure of ice which caught his eye. Several hundred feet tall, stretching in both directions as far as the eye could see, it glittered in the pale light of the rising sun. A monstrous construction cutting through the heart of the north. If he squinted, he could just make out the mechanical elevator that ran up the face of the wall. Now, like everything else, it was dormant and silent.

Turning his attention to the garrison that surrounded him, he continued towards the nearest open door. Carefully, navigating the compacted ice and fresh snowfalls, he had to raise his arms to maintain his balance. As he moved, he became aware of an ominous feeling of being watched. As though there were something on the north tower, or hidden behind the stable door. As soon he noticed it, it suddenly felt as though he were being spied on from one and several places all at once. The fear of it brought him out in a cold sweat that quickly froze in the frigid atmosphere, but he dared not call out.

The closer he drew to the garrison, the greater his sense of dread became. Until he reached a forge that lay silent and he heard his brother call out to him.

"Jon! Jon, we're waiting for you!"

Startled, he whipped around and searched for the source of the noise. "Bran!" he called back, still in a panic. "Bran, where are you?"

He lunged for the open door of the forge, but a great raven sprang out of the ground. Its vast wings beat against his face, causing him to reel backwards and come crashing down into the snow. Dazed, he forced his eyes open, to see how the bird still clawed at his face; its sharp beak right before his forehead. Immediately he was drawn to the beast's third eye, causing him to gasp as everything turned black as its wings filled his field of vision.

"Jon! Jon!"

Now it was Robb calling his name and shaking him violently. Jon awoke with a sharp gasp, jolting upright so fast he almost banged his head against Robb's. His heart beat still raced and he was gasping for air, but as the campsite resolved itself around him he was quick to reassure himself it had only been a dream.

"Gods, Robb," he said, still breathless. Fear drained away, slowly but steadily.

The fire had burned low, but still gave enough light to see by. Robb was a few feet away, worry and concern etched in his expression. Clearly, by his dishevelled state, he had only just woken up himself.

"You were dreaming, brother," he said, carefully pulling Jon's blanket back into place. "You were crying out in your sleep."

Embarrassed, Jon could feel the blush stealing into his face. "I'm sorry," he murmured. He wanted to add more, to justify it, but there was nothing he could say.

Picking up on his discomfiture Robb positioned himself at the side of Jon's makeshift bed.

"Don't be sorry," he said, softly. Their guides and host were mostly sleeping. Only one or two were acting as guards, but they still could not run the risk of being overheard. "Given where we're going, you're bound to be a bit … you know … emotional."

Jon smiled briefly, managing to relax a little more once the warmth returned to him. "I'm probably wasting my time. What if Aemon had never even heard of father? Luwin didn't say anything about them staying in touch or sharing any kind of friendship. He's been at Castle Black for an age and more."

"You've got to try," replied Robb, understanding what Jon meant by 'father'. "I would do the same if I were in your position. I'm only sorry I can't come all the way to Castle Black and support you until the end."

Robb was only accompanying Jon to the farthest boundary of Stark territory before turning back. Given what happened the last time Jon left home for an adventure, he had also insisted on hiring guides and guards to go with him the whole way there and the whole way back. Meanwhile, Bran and Rickon had been left in the care of Maester Luwin and Theon Greyjoy. Even Osha, the Wildling girl, seemed to have fit in at Winterfell – to everyone's bemusement.

"I'm grateful you're coming as far as this," Jon assured him. "As for the rest, maybe there's some journeys I need to make alone."

Robb's brow tightened into a frown. "Don't say that. You're never alone."

Jon knew he meant well. He also knew he was never truly alone. But Aemon was his last living relative in the whole continent of Westeros. It felt like a bond the two of them shared only with each other and anyone else would be an intrusion on such an elderly man's memories of lives lived so long ago. Besides, the old doubts gnawed at him. Nothing was guaranteed. For all he knew, Aemon would toss him out of Castle Black the moment he arrived, not wanting to be reminded of the horrors that befell his family. Their family.

"Have you still got it safe?" asked Jon.

Robb reached for a strong box that was in their open tent, next to his own recently vacated bed. "It's right here, so stop worrying."

It was his father's harp. They had taken it from Lyanna's tomb before leaving – the only real proof Jon had that Rhaegar was his father. In itself, it proved nothing but there was no other logical explanation of how it came to be in the Winterfell crypts. He only hoped it would be enough to convince Aemon.

"Good. I will take it the rest of the way, seeing as you turn back tomorrow," he said, reaching for it. Now that it was out in the open, he didn't like being parted from it for too long. For the first time since learning of his true father, Jon felt like he had a piece of him. Something that finally made Rhaegar into a real, flesh and blood man. Once he had the box, he cradled it carefully in his arms. "I'll send a raven as soon as I reach Castle Black."

Robb nodded. "Good. I'll look out for it."

In the meantime, he still had the best part of three hundred miles to go until he reached his final destination.

The final leg of Catelyn's journey was by barge, along the rivers she knew so well as a girl. Ser Rodrick sat beside her, reclining against plumped cushions and looking immensely satisfied with the flatness of the waters. Clearly, the memories of their sea voyage remained fresh in his mind. As they rounded a slow and wide bend, Riverrun finally swam into view. Its outer ramparts jutting into the heart of the river itself. A sight that brought back so many memories. From marriage meeting Brandon, to marrying Ned and birthing Robb. It had all happened here, and she hadn't been back in well over a decade.

When they disembarked, however, only a small party came out to greet her. Those who remembered her and a man who was the image of her father when he was young. She had to look twice at Edmure before recognition hit. He stepped forward, beaming brightly as he greeted her with a kiss on each cheek. As they exchanged polite pleasantries, she couldn't help but glance around for any sign of her father. To her dismay, there was no sign of Lord Hoster Tully anywhere.

"Sister, you must come inside," Edmure was saying. "So much has changed since you were last here."

"Where is father?" she asked, cutting over his chitchat.

"Who?" he asked, as though stunned into ignorance.

She looked at him askance as he escorted her to the riverbank. "Father. Our father. You know, the man who helped make us."

Edmure's expression clouded for a moment, frowning just briefly. "Why don't you come inside and make yourself comfortable first?"

"Edmure, where is he?" she asked again, curtly.

Now he looked sheepish, rocking back on his heels and wringing his cap in his hands. "I was going to tell you," he began. "I was meant to write, but what happened to Bran and Ned going south-"

"Edmure!" she cut over him, exasperated. All this prevarication was fraying her nerves. "Spit it out."

After just a brief pause, he drew a steadying breath. "He's not good, Cat," he finally said. "He's been bedridden for months. We don't know how long he's got left."

It never rained but it poured, especially in the Riverlands. "You should have told me," she chided. "Stop wasting time and take me straight to him. Is Lysa here?"

The colour of his face matched his auburn beard, through which he ran an agitated hand. "Not quite…"

Catelyn heaved an exasperated sigh. "You haven't told her, either."

The flush in his face surpassed the beard's tone. Sparing him the effort of a reply, she set off across the lawns of Riverrun, showing herself inside the castle. Edmure was left to trot after her like a castle cur. He offered rushed explanations, but Cat was no longer listening. She glanced up at the highest window of her father's turret, half expecting to see him there still. Only the blank mullions met her gaze.

Unlike in his dreams, the gates of Castle Black were barred when Jon arrived. But he could still see the monstrous wall of ice, stretching off for miles in both directions, fading into dazzling white mists. He took a moment to appreciate its full enormity, shielding his eyes against the bright and distant sun as he looked upwards. Although it was bone achingly cold, there were still rivulets of water running down the face of the wall.

It was a rattling of chains as the portcullis lifted that jolted him out of his reverie. He took several backward paces to clear the way for the descent of the drawbridge and waited with mounting nerves. He sincerely hoped that Benjen was still around, but there was no immediate sight of him as he got his first look inside the infamous garrison.

Much like any other manned castle, men were drilling in the yard. While they worked, others more senior watched from on high and barked out occasional commands. To his further dismay, there was no sign of a Maester anywhere either. Clutching his strongbox, he approached the man who let him in.

"You've just missed your uncle, Lord Stark."

He was aging, well past fifty. Like the rest of his colleagues he was dressed head to toe in black; the damp furs he wore over his back had clumped together like oily feathers. When he noticed the large raven on the man's shoulder, Jon was reminded uncomfortably of the dream he'd had. Mercifully, the bird seemed partial to the Night Watchman's shoulder and remained where he was, fixing Jon with a beady black eye. It only served to up his discomfiture even further.

"Lord Commander Mormont?" asked Jon, as he passed beneath the portcullis.

"Aye, that's me," he replied, gruffly. "Your uncle once mentioned something about you wanting to take the black yourself?"

Now that Jon could see for himself how desperately under staffed the garrison was, he began to feel a little guilty about his change of heart. Even the recruits they did have were scrawny and scraggly, limply swiping at one another with wooden swords.

"I was," he confessed, squinting up at Mormont. "But something came up. I have to stay at Winterfell with my brother. Then that something led me here, to speak with your Maester if he so agrees?"

"Old brother Aemon?" asked the Lord Commander, as if there were more than one. But rather than make Jon ask twice, he looked over his shoulder to a fat boy Jon had not seen previously. "Tarly! Take Lord Stark here to see Maester Aemon." He turned back to Jon and added: "Tarly's acting as Steward for the Maester. He'll see you right."

Jon thanked the Lord Commander as the aforementioned Tarly ambled over. As he drew closer, Jon could see bruises blossoming on the boy's face and beneath his eyes. There was a dried cut on his lip, adding a dash of red to the purples. Some of the other recruits stopped drilling and called out insults in his wake, prompting the Lord Commander to issue a stern bollocking. Pitying the boy, Jon was grateful for Mormont stepping in like that.

"Ignore them," said Tarly, "I do."

With that, he led the way in silence. Into the keep and up to a turret much like Maester Luwin's back at Winterfell. Only these chambers were on the ground floor as a concession to the old man's blindness.

"What's your name?" Jon asked the other boy before he knocked on the door.

"Samwell," he answered, sounding flustered. "But everyone calls me Sam."

In an attempt to set him at his ease, Jon smiled. "Thanks, Sam."

With that, he was shown inside a wide, draughty room that was ill-lit with tallow fat candles. The shutters over the windows didn't quite manage to keep out the elements and a fire burned brightly in the hearth. As yet uninvited into the chamber, Jon remained standing in the doorway while Samwell spoke gently to an ancient man in a battered old armchair. Jon would have missed him had it not been for Sam stooping over him.

Suddenly, he was filled with doubts about what he was doing. He thought twice about raking up the memories of such a frail old man; of revealing himself to someone who looked like he died last week. But it also occurred to him that Aemon, despite his outward frailty, had survived life at Castle Black for an age and a half.

"You can come in," said Sam, ushering him inside.

Jon approached cautiously as Sam busied himself with procuring wine and food. Although he took the wine, he politely declined the food for not wanting to drain their resources. Once a second chair was produced and placed opposite the old man's, Jon sat down clutching his goblet tight.

"Is he all right? Does he need a blanket or anything?" Jon asked, glancing up at Sam. He had one in his pack, left with the guards beyond the garrison walls.

"I'm not deaf, you know," the old man cut in. "And I thank you, Lord Stark. I'm quite all right."

Jon blushed deeply, apologising hastily. But when he looked across to his elderly great-uncle, he was smiling gently. His milky eyes, white with cataracts, were trained on Jon's face. Up close, with the fire blazing between them, he could see the old man was bald, with only a few scant wisps of white adhering to his skull. As with all Maesters, he wore a large chain with links of many metals around his thin neck.

"Samwell," he said, raising one tremulous hand, groping at the empty air.

Sam stepped forward and took that hand in his own. "I'm right here, Maester," he said, soft and reassuring.

"You may leave us," the Maester instructed, wringing the boy's hand.

Jon used the time until Sam's departure to think about what he was going to say next. He had been thinking about this moment all the way from Winterfell, but now that it had arrived it all seemed to inadequate. Clumsy even. By the time the door closed behind Sam and his footsteps receded down the corridor outside, Jon still remained silent.

"M-Maester," he stammered, by way of beginning. "Forgive me for coming here like this. With almost no warning. But I had to speak with you. This isn't something that can be put into writing and sent by raven."

Maester Aemon was still smiling and did not seem in the least put out by Jon's arrival. Nor did he seem in any particular hurry, as he huddled over his goblet of wine. He cupped the bowl in the palms of his hands, as though cradling it.

"Sounds intriguing, young man," he said, his voice a hoarse rasp. "But, I cannot imagine what possible use I could be to you."

"Maester, you're my last hope," said Jon, almost pleadingly. "If you cannot do this for me, then no one can. But …" Inwardly, he was kicking himself as he struggled to find a way to explain his situation. Quickly, he drew a deep breath and ploughed on from the beginning. "About two years ago now, a raven arrived at Castle Black from my father. I don't know if you would have heard, but he thought I was travelling here from Winterfell."

Aemon's expression changed, his dull eyes widening. "It came from Maester Luwin. Your uncle told me all about what happened. But pray, Lord Snow, how can I help with that?"

Relieved that he wouldn't have to relive the whole sordid episode, Jon took up his explanation again.

"Because of what happened, my father told me who my real mother is and I think you might have known her."

He paused again, not wanting to dump information on the man. Meanwhile, the silence was punctuated by the Aemon's laboured breaths.

"You had your bastard name when last we heard of you," he said, at length.

Taking that as a prompt to continue, Jon finally said her name and opened the strongbox on his lap. "She was Lady Lyanna, of House Stark. She gave birth to me in Dorne, almost fifteen years ago and died soon after."

Aemon's brow furrowed, the laboured breath now hitching in his throat. "And your father?"

"R-Rhaegar, of House Targaryen," replied Jon, his voice barely above a whisper. He picked up the silk swaddled harp and held it outwards as some sort of offering. "Lord Stark took me as his own and refused to name my mother to anyone, not even his wife nor me. My mother was not raped; she was not abducted."

The old man fell into a stunned silence as Jon recounted everything Lord Stark had told him. But Aemon's expression was impossible to read as his gaze seemed to be directed somewhere over Jon's head. But Jon could see him trembling; his thin arms shook violently as he tried to put down his goblet. Seeing his difficulty, Jon dropped the harp and leaned forward to help guide his great-uncle's hands to the floor. Once the goblet was safely deposited, Aemon brought his hands to Jon's face.

"Jaehaerys," he murmured, while his fingertips explored the contours of Jon's face.

"Pardon?" he said, quietly.

Realising that Aemon was attempting to see through his sense of touch, Jon scooted closer to him and knelt at his feet. Once he was closer, Aemon's hands cupped his face and ran along his jawline. A thumb traced over his lips, before gradually moving upwards to his eyes. Then an index finger glided the length of his nose and pressed the curve of his nose tip. Jon tried to keep his eyes open as they came next, before smoothing his eyebrows. Every bump and contour was taken in as the old man trembled, tears leaking slowly down his pale face.

"Jaehaerys," he said again, tremulous and wrought with emotion. "He wanted to name you Jaehaerys."

Although he could not articulate why, that piece of information moved Jon to the brink of tears. It was the first time he realised that Rhaegar had plans for him. He was already a person to his father before his death on the Trident.

"Forgive a sentimental old man, Lord Stark," said Aemon, as his hands came to a rest on either side of Jon's face. "But every time I've thought about you, you've always been Jaehaerys to me. I assumed you had died with your poor mother. Tell me your colouring."

Jon drew a shaky breath. "I don't look like one of you. I look like a Stark; like my mother and Uncle Benjen. Grey eyes and black hair."

The cataracts had taken the lilac from Aemon's eyes and his silver hair was long gone. But he raised an exploratory finger to the bridge of Jon's nose again, running its length and then back to his lips.

"You have the Targaryen nose and lips," he said, hoarsely. "You were very lucky to have taken your mother's colouring."

Jon nodded. "I know, Maester. It saved me."

The hands went down his neck and patted his shoulders. "You're narrow shouldered like him. Are you tall and lean? I think you are. There's a sadness in your voice, like your father."

Jon tilted his head, quizzically. "Did you meet him?"

"Only three times," he replied. "Once as a boy, twice as a young man before he married Elia. You are the only one of his children I have met."

Aemon released him, so Jon reached to the side and picked up his father's old harp again. "Here," he said, placing it on Aemon's lap. "I brought this, because I did not know whether you would believe my story. My father – I mean Lord Stark – hid it at Winterfell, along with my mother's wedding cloak and an old locket of Prince Rhaegar's."

The harp was embossed with the sigil of House Targaryen, a three headed dragon studded with rubies that had lost none of their shine. Jon watched as Aemon took to tactile exploration of its edges, stumbling over the embossed dragon and then concentrating on it intently. Feeling dimly embarrassed, he realised Aemon probably had never seen nor held it before in his life.

"The dragon has three heads," he whispered to himself more than to Jon. Once more, his unseeing eyes were directed well overhead.

Jon raised a pained smile. "I always did think the Targaryens had the best sigil."

But Aemon repeated the line again. "The dragon has three heads."

Aemon held out the harp for him to take, which he did. Replacing it carefully in the strongbox, he barely had time to sit again before his great-great uncle beckoned him over again. As he approached, Aemon clasped his hands and pulled him downwards so they were almost at kissing distance.

"There is so much you need to know," he said. The wistfulness in his tone had been replaced by a raw urgency. "I have so much to tell you. Help me to my feet, if you would be so kind."

Jon was almost holding his breath. His mouth had run dry and his heartbeat was racing. But he gathered himself enough to do as bid. Although blind, Aemon had the layout of his chambers memorised down to the last crack in the wooden floorboards. He was issuing directions and describing where things were perfectly, helping Jon to guide him through the rooms. Eventually, the reached a solar with a large chest of drawers and Jon helped the old man sit at the desk.

In this room, the shutters were open and letting in a broad afternoon light. But it was cold, and Jon shrugged off his cloak and draped it over Aemon's shoulders. Ignoring the old man's protestations, his conscience wouldn't permit him to let the man freeze for his sake. But once that was done, Aemon instructed him towards a particular drawer.

"The bottom drawer, Lord Stark," he said. "Pull it right out and put it to one side. You will find a false base, which you will need to prize up with a paper knife. There's one on this desk."

Aemon was able to find it himself and passed it to Jon handle first once the drawer was out. He found the edge of the false bottom and did as instructed. In the hollow, he found a decorative enamelled box which he lifted out.

"You've found it?" asked Aemon.

"Yes," Jon replied, eyes fixed on the box. "May I open it?" he was growing impatient.

Aemon smiled. "Of course."

Trembling with nervous excitement, Jon did so. It released an air of dry dust and age as he lifted the lid. Inside, there was a fat wad of letters. Narrowing his eyes, Jon tilted it towards the light and picked out the one on top. They were written in a delicate and florid hand, sealed with a wax three-headed dragon.

"My dearest Uncle,

I heartily commend me unto you, praying this letter finds you in good health and hearty spirits…."

Jon skimmed over the rest, until he reached the scrawled signature of Rhaegar Targaryen. He drew a sharp breath as he read the letter properly, then searched for a date. Dust covered the pads of his fingers as he rifled through the others. They were numerous. All tied up with red silk ribbons, many with the Targaryen seal still attached.

"Can I read them all?" he asked,

"Of course you may," he replied. "There are many you will need to write copies of to take home with you. How long are you staying with us?"

Jon's heart sank as he recalled the promise he made to Robb: to get back to Winterfell as soon as he could. But Robb would have to understand.

"I will write to my brother tonight," he said, eagerly. "I'll stay as long as I need to and I'll tell the Lord Commander that I'll pay for my own board and keep. I have some gold."

He could barely wait to get started on reading and copying them. He would read them again, thoroughly and analytically, as soon as he was back in his own chambers at Winterfell. But in that moment, these dusty old missives felt like a treasure trove of the rarest gems and he was too excited to do it properly at that moment. All he could do was look at them, studying the flow of his father's hand.

"One is from your mother," Aemon said. "She wrote to tell me she was with child and that the prophecy would soon be fulfilled."

Jon had immediately started searching for his mother's letter, but stopped abruptly at the mention of a prophecy. "Prophecy?"

Aemon beckoned him closer. "Your mother was born of the icy north; your father born of the fire of dragons. You are the song of ice and fire, Jaehaerys Targaryen."

Thank you for reading. Reviews would be very much appreciated, if you have a moment.

Jaehaerys seems a popular choice for Jon's birth name, so I just went with it.