Author's Notes: I've been holding that card since TDR has started and I finally get to lay it out before you all and your reactions, lovely readers, has been so soooo gratifying to watch! Thank you for sharing your thoughts with me in the comments. They were a joy to read! Thank you also for your bookmarks, kudos, etc. You all buoy me.

Naturally, I couldn't have pulled this off without my incomparable beta reader, Catzrko0l. Thank you for beta-reading this fic and allowing me to bounce my ideas off of you. You've been so helpful, not only in editing the story but helping me where the story faltered. You're fantastic!

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Chapter 151

Aemon LIX

He stared out from the main door of the Highgarden castle, fretting over Rhaegal, who remained where he'd crashed five days prior. Though he was sitting up and alert, he was hardly eating. Little more than morsels compared to the whole cows that he was normally tearing into. That aside, he was improving daily, but Aemon was eager to get back on him and return to the front.

Ever since he'd been rudely awoken and David had tied him to his saddle, he'd heard no word from Jaime or about the army's whereabouts. Given that David had his raven, he knew that Jaime would've sent word as soon as he could. But none had come. Then finally, a raven arrived from Blackmont. Their scouts had reported a large host moving back south through the mountains and the likes of Ser Barristan and Ser Addam were spotted among the prisoners. Though Jaime was not mentioned, Aemon had difficulty believing he wasn't among those taken alive.

I would hope they'd want to spare Jaime for leverage, if nothing else, he thought. It was pitiful to be hoping that Jaime had been captured, but it was better than believing he'd died. Another frenzy of letters had been sent out. One to Blackmont telling him to keep them updated about the Blackfyre's course and one to Ser Garlan about moving in to siege Honeyholt. Ser Garlan would have to cross the Honeywine. It would put his men in a vulnerable position, but they needed a sizable army capable of confronting the Blackfyre on open ground. Whatever the Blackfyre had done to Rhaegal, Aemon would have to risk taking him into battle if it meant giving their men the advantage. He'd have to limit his use to a single swoop and avoid the smoke, assuming that was the cause of their ailment.

Aemon still found himself winded if he walked for more than five minutes, but he was down to a couple of coughs. The maester in Highgarden hadn't been particularly helpful, but he'd supplied him with various tinctures, none of which tasted good.

It wasn't until after Aemon had slept that he'd bothered going through his items and found a couple of jars stuffed into his saddlebags with a scribbled note: Spread on Rhaegal's tongue, twice daily. Apparently, David had given him what medicine he could before forcing them to take flight. He still remembered looking back and watching David, Jaime, and Ser Barristan shrink away, staring hopefully up at him before they returned to the fray. He hadn't seen anything else, turning his attention forward, as he strained to peer into the dark while still groggy from the illness.

He'd passed out at some point and was awakened by the drop in the air. He'd only just managed to steer Rhaegal so that he cleared the top of the innermost wall before crashing to the ground. Aemon had stumbled away, his own head reeling. Once he'd found his footing, he had turned to Rhaegal and rushed to him. The dragon was wheezing and producing tiny licks of flame out of his mouth with each gasp, his eyes were glassy and staring. The Tyrell men present had hesitated but a moment before they'd rushed to his aid.

"What are you thinking?" Lord Willas asked, joining him in the entryway.

"I think that Rhaegal and I are needed back on the field of battle," Aemon replied.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but that's madness," Willas shot back. Aemon raised his eyebrows at him and he grimaced. "Apologies. A poor choice of words. I fear it's not a good idea, Your Grace. We can't risk losing your dragon. Perhaps you should simply turn your attention to the Long Night and ride there."

"I can't leave the south knowing there's an invader occupying our lands and our castles," Aemon argued, "I have every faith in your brother, but if Jaime and the others are held prisoner, we must get them back, immediately, before our hands are too tied. I'd prefer not to risk their safety."

"There may not be much choice. If it's imperative that we end this threat quickly, the Blackfyre may kill them in our haste."

"I know. But what other choice do we have?" Aemon whispered.

He thought he heard a whisper back and asked, "Did you say something?"

"Hmm? No, Your Grace, I was … thinking," Willas said.

He heard another whisper, the words unintelligible. He turned around, peering into the manse. "Do you have a godswood here?"

"Oh yes, Your Grace. I can take you if you so wish," Willas suggested.

"Please. I do my best thinking there," he replied. As if in confirmation to his words, he felt an invisible tug, like when he was fishing and he could feel the fish nibble the line.

"The godswood is peaceful. In my youth, I spent days reading at the roots of the weirwood. It became impossible to do once I was injured," Willas opined wistfully.

"I miss the godswood in Winterfell. The one in King's Landing just … isn't the same," Aemon murmured.

"Given that it lacks a proper weirwood?"

"Naturally," Aemon replied with a chuckle.

"I think you'll find this one suitable to your tastes," Willas said, amusement coloring his voice.

"Thank you." Much like in King's Landing, the hallway simply spilled out into the forest. Aemon smiled and breathed in deep, smelling the earth as the wind rustled the leaves. Though the land was on the cusp of winter, the trees in Highgarden had only just started turning. He saw an array of oak, birch, sycamore, and more in varying bursts of yellow, orange, and red. "I would like some privacy please."

"Of course, Your Grace," Willas gave a dip of his head and turned to stump away.

Aemon placed his foot on the ground, feeling the crunch of leaves, and instantly felt as if he'd stepped into another world. Unlike the Winterfell and King's Landing godswoods, the Tyrells—or perhaps the Gardeners—weren't above adding furnishings. Instead of soil and underbrush filling the landscape, a red brick path had been laid, winding through the trees, and branching off in numerous directions. He looked to his left and saw that one path led to a clearing with stone benches and a statue of a man and a woman dancing, with a fountain spilling out underneath them.

Another whisper dragged his attention away and he pointed his feet easterly. Given that the path wasn't straight, he eventually stepped off it to take a more direct route. Despite fall setting in, the grass was still green and springy and it felt pleasantly soft underfoot. Winterfell's godswood held a certain wildness to it without the easy paths. The King's Landing one had a weedy undergrowth suggesting unruliness, but in reality was a nuisance. He normally wouldn't touch godswoods, but it was tempting to insist the gardeners rip out all of the bushes and weeds and replace it with simple grass. It was on a long list of many improvements he intended to do once the Long Night had been dealt with.

The weirwood tree sprawled before him, one of the biggest ones he'd yet seen—though still only half as large as the one at the Wall. Although its trunk wasn't anything thicker than the one at Winterfell, its branches sprawled widely, carving out its own large space. Like many weirwoods he'd seen, a pond had been carved into the landscape. This was a still pond, much like the one in Winterfell and he bent to stare at himself.

His beard and hair were nearly as wild as Tormund's. He'd naturally neglected its care in the wilderness without a mirror available to him. He stroked his beard and found it scraggly. Once he was done here, he'd take the opportunity to trim it.

Aemon stepped up to the weirwood and eyed it apprehensively. Apart from taking hold of him in his fight against Greatjon Umber, he'd found the Gods decidedly reserved. Yet even as he stood there, he heard the whisper again and this time was close enough to discern the words: Come to me.

He got down on his knees and pressed a hand against the trunk. "I've heeded your call, now give me an answer." He hoped the Old Gods didn't strike him for his impertinence, but given their silence since they'd brought him back, he thought they might let it slide. At first, he felt nothing. His knees were beginning to ache and he strained to hear anything beyond the rustle of the leaves as they blew in the wind. He pulled away, disgruntled, but when he turned around, he stopped in his tracks.

He was no longer in Highgarden. Though there was still a field of trees, the color had been leached from the surroundings, now cast in white, gray, and black hues. When he looked toward the weirwood, its leaves were still a blood red. He now saw that the sky was similarly bleached.

The pond was no longer still, but it trickled into a gentle waterfall behind the tree. He followed it, stepping up to the edge of the tree and stared. The land tumbled down from the tree by a mound of moss-covered grey rocks and ended on a white sand beach. Though he couldn't hear them, waves washed up onto the shore, the only froth from an ocean of water that stretched until it blended into the sky.

On the shoreline, he saw an uncountable number of people moving toward the water. They seemed not to notice one another. They didn't hesitate as they began walking into the water. Slowly, the water swallowed them. He watched as they simply walked until the water enveloped their heads and they were gone from sight.

Aemon began looking for a path down to the shoreline when a shout startled him.

"Who's there?"

He turned. Jaime was a few feet below at the base of the tree. Instead of being relieved upon seeing him, he narrowed his eyes.

"Jaime? Is it really you?"

"What is the last thing you remember when you left?" Jaime asked.

Aemon blinked. "David threw me onto Rhaegal and tied me to the saddle. I was barely conscious."

Jaime eased up a little, but he continued to reach for his side where his sword would be. Aemon then noticed that he, too, lacked his sword, Lady Forlorn.

"What happened? Where are you?"

"We're at Starfall," Jaime replied.

"Starfall? How long have you been there?"

"Only just arrived. I sent a raven to you as soon as I could. Then … something brought me to the godswood. Where are you?"

"In Highgarden. We've been waiting for news. We got word from Lord Blackmont that the army had been taken prisoner by the Blackfyre."

Jaime's face darkened. "Indeed. We were. David betrayed us."

Aemon recoiled. "What? Whuh-why would he do that?"

"He put a knife to my throat and forced the army's surrender," Jaime growled, his right hand clearly itching for his sword as it once more ghosted the spot on his waist where it should be.

"But he saved me," Aemon said. "Why would he do that and betray you?"

"You were next," Jaime muttered.

"That's a funny way of recounting how I won the war for you."

They both turned to find David standing within a stone's throw. He had a gigantic sword that was planted in the ground and was resting his forearms on it. He was relaxed, his gaze switching from one to the other in a lazy way, not unlike a cat contemplating its prey. The healer had always been so high strung, seemingly exhausted with his endless efforts at his clinic. Though he still bore his grey hair and lines of age, he seemed younger and more alert.

Aemon shivered as the thought dawned on him.

"You," Jaime snarled. "I should ring your neck."

"Yes, strangle the Stranger. I can't foresee that going poorly for you," David replied. He tilted his head back to stare down at them and smirked arrogantly.

Despite Jaime's impulsiveness, even Aemon saw him step back warily and he dropped his gaze quickly.

"The Stranger?" Aemon whispered.

"Happy now? I think it's clear we were hardly ignoring you. Had my ear and my voice at your beck and call for the last seven years," David said, shaking his head.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Aemon demanded.

David snorted. "Would you have believed me?"

"No," Jaime snapped. "I would've thought you as mad as the High Sparrow."

"Faith demands loyalty, yet you insisted on certainty. So I gave it to you," David explained, his eyes fixed on Jaime. "Go on then. Tell Aemon."

Jaime licked his lips and glanced toward Aemon, his earlier bravado having disappeared like snow melting in spring.

"We were marched back to Honeyholt. I was summoned almost immediately. It seems David insisted that I see … the results of his treachery. In front of the Blackfyre, he demanded his price: the Blackfyre himself. Never have I seen anything more foolhardy."

Aemon had to bite his tongue to keep from making a jape. Though Jaime was much improved over his former life, he was still the champion of foolhardy.

Jaime hesitated with his next sentence, frequently turning to gaze between David and Aemon. "He drowned them in his own blood!"

David chuckled. "Merely relieved them of their souls, nothing more."

"I know what I saw," Jaime snapped.

Aemon looked askance at David. "I thought you said you were a pacifist?"

David smiled. "I'm the Stranger. It's true, though, I don't enjoy killing. But, occasionally, the ends justify the means."

"Then why didn't you pave the way for us?" Jaime sniped. "Baelish? My father? Varys sooner? If you could have killed them with a mere snap of the fingers, we wouldn't have been made to take such drastic actions."

"And then what would you've learned about dealing with your enemies?" David scoffed. "Nothing! I would be forced to hold your hands like you were children the entire time. Never able to stand on your own two feet. Furthermore, it doesn't work like that! I had to gut Captain Lucia and steal her face. I cut out Euron's entrails and plucked out his eyes. There is no magic that spared me from that labor. A distasteful business."

"Then why do it?" Aemon said. "If you don't like such viciousness, then why?"

"Why do you levy threats, Lord Lannister, with no intention of carrying them out?" David asked.

Jaime glared and was as rigid as stone. "I need only levy threats because … because my father did the dirty work of showing the consequences."

"There's your answer," David replied. "Your father was certainly right about making impressions."

"But then why haven't you done your magic on the Night King?" Aemon asked. "We've carved out so much dragonglass, we've made so much armor, trained so many boys; we're throwing nearly half the kingdom at the Army of the Dead and the Night King. Yet, you could end it!"

David shook his head, clicking his tongue in dismay. "One act of God, and you demand the whole world. It. Doesn't. Work like that!" he shouted. He suddenly appeared to be towering over them and the once blazing white sky darkened as his eyes flared a fiery orange.

Aemon and Jaime both shrank back. He cursed himself for being a fool. I pray the Stranger spares me my insolence, he thought, glancing at Jaime. He thought he understood a measure of Jaime's newfound nerves.

With a deep breath, David relaxed and at the same time, the sky brightened once more and his eyes went back to normal. "Oh, spare me your self-pity," David snapped at Aemon. "I haven't just spent more than sixty years as a mortal to end you when victory is within your grasp."

Aemon ducked his head, embarrassment staining his cheeks for the chastisement.

"Then why wipe out the Blackfyre of all of our threats?" Jaime demanded.

"Because of his timing," David said simply. "If he dared to invade after the Night King was dead and his army defeated, there would be little reason to stop him. I have grown fond of my Shepherds, but they've learned enough at my knee to save themselves if necessary."

"And us?" Aemon prodded.

"Despite some of your foolishness—and your current petulance—yes, I've grown fond of you as well. But I would hope after taking your throne, keeping it, and defeating the Night King, you'd have little need of my expertise. But the Blackfyre decided to bargain with the fate of the world by demanding your attention from where it was needed most. The two wars waging at the same time would've cost thousands, if not millions, of lives. The Blackfyre, Varys, and a few thousand mercenaries are more than worth the innocents spared."

"But then why not end the Army of the Dead and the Night King? A mortal enemy is far easier than an undead one," Aemon asked, exasperated.

David scowled. "Pay attention. I will only state this one more: I took the Blackfyre and his mercenaries' souls. I cannot steal the souls of an undead army because they're already forfeit!"

"That still leaves the Night King," Jaime insisted, crossing his arms petulantly.

"The Night King has a magic that I cannot touch. I similarly have a magic that he cannot touch, if he ever made it to our plane," David said, drawing out his words.

"Your plane?"

David drew his mouth into a firm line. "Yes, there is a veil separating our worlds. Notice that you've never seen us perform such acts before now. Why? Because our power is such that we cannot pierce this veil. We can cajole, influence, suggest, and craft illusions at a mighty price. But there's nothing particularly spectacular about it. Enough to make suggestions to our followers but little more than that."

Aemon caught Jaime's eye. This would explain some things, he thought.

"I decided that you were better served by a physical presence. My powers are limited, but my knowledge is not. I bequeathed to you what I could in that time. However, when my mortal body died, there was a single moment where I was split between our two worlds. That allowed me to pierce the veil if only for a few minutes and release some of my power. Hence, why I chose to eliminate the Blackfyre."

Aemon gaped. He thought the reason for the Gods' silence was their pleasure, but they'd been guiding the both of them with a steady hand nearly the whole time. How many of their decisions were their own? He chafed at the thought.

"Will there be anything else?" David grumbled, a certain wariness hovered around him.

"And what knowledge have you bequeathed?" Jaime derided. "I'm afraid I'm coming up short."

"Wait … the Dragonsteel?" Aemon asked.

"And the king doesn't even own one such sword," David mocked. "Yes, I shared with you Dragonsteel. The Valyrian steel recipe is, I'm afraid, lost to time. Your blood is simply far too diluted to produce true Valyrian steel, but Dragonsteel should suffice."

Jaime once more reached for his waist and sighed in frustration at being greeted by air. "What does it do?"

"It holds the magic of dragonfire. It won't set the undead ablaze, but it will carve through them just as surely. And, yes, it doesn't keep its edge in the same way Valyrian steel does, but you will find it takes an age for it to dull."

With that, David stepped back, hoisting the magnificent sword to his shoulder. "You deserved an explanation and I've delivered it. One last thing: do not touch my Shepherds. My treachery was my own. I alone communicated with the Blackfyre; they knew nothing of my plans. Now, you deliver to us what we demand," he said, pointing the sword at each of them in turn. "And heed this: you've borrowed more than your fair share of time. It will come due sooner than you expect." He began to walk down the hill toward the shoreline.

"Wait! What about the Night King?" Aemon shouted.

David gave him one last glare of annoyance. "You have everything that you need. All you need now is the will."

With that, the world dissolved around them and Aemon suddenly shot awake, having fallen asleep leaning against the weirwood tree. He glanced around, noticing the falling light. Though the dream had felt like little more than a small council meeting, hours had passed since he'd placed his hand against the tree. He stood shakily, glancing at the tree and staggering away. It had felt real.

David had confessed to being the Faceless. He'd killed Captain Lucia, Euron Greyjoy, and the Blackfyre spies. He and Willas had begun to wonder, but there was nothing to link him. He was a healer after all, having taken a pledge of pacifism. He'd always found David amiable, but surprisingly arrogant and given to condescension, particularly toward certain people. It certainly made more sense that a God would mock their petty squabbles.

Did he merely sit on the information about Rhaegar until he thought it best to reveal it? Aemon wondered. David had spent more than a year trying to find out what happened between Varys, Rhaegar, and Mad King Aerys. Had he just been sitting on it all along? Had he known King Aerys had forced his father to crown Lady Lyanna. He would've been alive when it happened. Why wouldn't he intervene then? Why wait until he had been on the cusp of manhood to spring into action? Had the Gods approved of Robert's Rebellion? The questions continued to pile upon one another, but David had clearly tired of answering them. Would he ever know the truth in full?

What he found most curious was Jaime's behavior toward David. The way he had described the Blackfyre and his mens' final fate had sounded horrifying, but Jaime had borne witness to many great horrors throughout his life. Yet he went from being impatient and annoyed with David to trusting him and now fearing him. Jaime feared nothing.

The Tyrells were bound to be having their evening meal and he strode to the dining room, pushing through the door.

"Your Grace," Willas began, rising to his feet but stopped midway as Aemon waved him down, "Apologies for beginning our meal without you, but the guards informed me you were still in the grove. We wished not to disturb you."

"Thank you, Lord Willas. It was for the best," Aemon replied. "Have you received any more ravens?"

"No, Your Grace."

"I want to read them the moment they arrive, even if it means waking me," Aemon commanded.

"Of course, Your Grace," Willas intoned.

"I think we've known each other long enough now, Willas. You may call me Aemon," he said with a chuckle. He seated himself and began eating, but he found his appetite lackluster. He turned to Sansa and asked, "How are you, my lady? Are you enjoying marriage with Willas?"

Sansa giggled. "You can call me Sansa, Aemon, for Seven's sake. We grew up together. Willas is such a dear. Despite all that is happening in the Reach, I feel safe and protected behind these walls. As is this little one," she said, placing her hand on her stomach.

"I'm delighted to hear that. I beg your forgiveness for not asking sooner," Aemon replied. Though he'd spent more than a week at Highgarden, he hadn't spoken with Sansa at length. The favorite topic of conversation was typically the war, much to Lady Tyrell and Sansa's disapproval.

"Your Gra- ahem, Aemon, forgive me for prying, but when I was in the Red Keep, I spoke with your uncle and some of the Northern lords and they told me that the Gods had granted you a vision," Willas began. "Given your … lengthy stay in the godswood just now, would you say the Gods granted you another?"

Aemon frowned into his plate, contemplating his answer. He'd have to give the lord credit for his clear attention to detail. I wager David would've preferred him as a pupil, he thought with a snort of laughter. "You're observant, Willas, I'll give you that. Yuh-yes, the Gods have granted me a vision indeed," he replied. He could only imagine their skepticism if he declared David the Stranger made mortal. Did he care to tarnish David's name? He betrayed them to remove the threat of the Blackfyre. Not even the Mountain had such a high death count and he was arguably a monster.

But most importantly, would the Stranger even care about the reputation he left in his wake? He might for the sake of his Shepherds, he thought.

"The Blackfyre is dead," Aemon declared. "While much of his army remains, they'll be fractious. Easy to defeat."

The table fell silent. Willas stared agape at his words. "So … the Gods spoke with you then? The Old Gods?"

"Yes," Aemon said, drawing it out. "You have to understand, the Gods are quite … cryptic. They've been largely silent since they first gave me my vision. When they do speak, it's often in riddles. I am awaiting a raven by Jaime. It should be arriving any day now."

Willas began to speak but it became caught in his throat. "Did, uh, did the Gods smite the Blackfyre?"

You drowned them in your blood, Jaime had shouted. His friend had beheld the Night King and happily died on his blade. He'd faced death in countless ways, yet he'd never heard Jaime speak about such experiences with anything outside of arrogance or dismissiveness. There was nothing dismissive about what he saw.

"That seems likely," Aemon whispered, his face drawn.

Everyone at the table was taken aback. "You've piqued my curiosity," Willas said, though his tone was hardly airy.

"You may find your answers at Honeyholt."

When Aemon retired for the evening, sleep eluded him. He kept turning David's words over in his head. Though he had explained much, he'd hardly explained everything. The raven arrived in the middle of the night and Willas promptly had Aemon woken. He tore the Dayne seal and read the contents. It was written in Jaime's usual curt manner.

Aemon,

The Blackfyre, Varys, and several hundred of his men are dead, victims of a plague brought on by the Gods. David has similarly perished. Hightower still needs to be retaken. I am leaving Ser Addam and commanding Lord Dayne to remain in the south to help in the effort to round up the last of the mercenaries. I intend to catch a ship in the port city of Wildyr by Yronwood and return to King's Landing.

I pray that you and your dragon are in good health.

Jaime

Though Willas allowed Aemon to read the missive in private he still stood close at hand. Aemon simply handed it off to him.

"A plague?" Willas whispered, perturbed.

"I would take great care in entering Honeyholt," Aemon advised.

"My curiosity is sated; I dare not enter at all," he muttered. "Do you intend to head north as well?"

"Yes, I will leave when Rhaegal is healed." The medicine that David had prepared was quickly running low; Aemon hoped that once consumed, the dragon would be hardy and hale once more.

"Will you have any further orders for my brother, Garlan?"

"He needs to siege Hightower. With luck, it will break easily, but a determined enough commander could keep it, if only to keep from dying."

"Are there any terms of surrender?"

"We will allow them to live if they promptly board their ships and return to Essos," Aemon said. "Otherwise, rout them from Westeros and commandeer their ships for our use."

"Yes, Your Grace. I will send that letter now."

"Thank you," Aemon replied. "Should he finish and we're still in battle against the Long Night, he is to march or sail his army north. We'll discuss the details further once I have the lay of the land there."

"It will be done," Willas replied and stumped off once more.

Aemon returned to his bed, but his thoughts continued to trouble him. You have everything that you need, David had insisted. The words should've been comforting, having come straight from a God himself. Then why did he have doubts?