295 A.C

King's Landing

Varys glided through the Red Keep, walking as fast as his slippers allowed.

He had to make haste lest Baelish reach the King first and deliver the news of Viserys' death. He had delayed it for as long as possible, giving Rhaegar's son plenty of time to escape Pentos with his aunt.

Confirming his existence had changed everything. Varys had yet to learn if proof of Lyanna Stark's wedding to Rhaegar Targaryen existed, but if so, his little birds would find it. And even then, with the presence of the Sword of the Morning, it mattered not; his word alone would convince most if not all, the lords of the realm.

Though the meeting had been brief, the eunuch had ascertained several facts about the would-be king of the Seven Kingdoms. Aemon Targaryen, it appeared, was thankfully untouched by his grandfather's madness. Nor was he as uncertain as his father. Yet he was also dangerous but willing to compromise. These qualities were severely lacking in the previous and current kings.

He would have to watch him more, but Varys felt Aemon was perhaps the best option the realm had, especially if he had also been the one, as he suspected, to have reclaimed the sword of his ancestors from his Pentoshi friend.

"Ser Meryn," he bowed to the large kingsguard, pulling a scroll from his sleeve. "I have urgent news for His Grace,"

"The King ordered not to be bothered," the Stormlander knight grunted, not bothering to look down.

"I have no doubt his grace is in pleasant company," Varys smiled; he had been informed of the latest wench to have captured the King's attention; no doubt another blue-eyed, dark-haired babe would soon join the cohort of the capital. "Though I am afraid, I must insist, surely the king would wish to hear anything pertaining…" he dropped his voice, finishing in a whisper, "to the Targaryens,"

The brutish knight smirked, no doubt thinking of impending bloodshed. Varys quickly hid his own smirk. Ser Meryn would be disappointed.

Still, the white-cloaked man entered the King's quarters, and the eunuch only had to wait for a minute before a dark-haired, pretty young woman skipped out of them, her assets easy for all to assess. Though Varys had little interest in it, the kingsguard could not say the same.

"His grace will see you,"

Varys bowed his head in thanks to the large guard and passed under his extended arm, flashing a smirk to the approaching Lord Baelish.

The King's rooms reeked of sex, not that Varys was bothered by the smell; living in King's Landing, one had to learn to breathe only through their mouth if they were to survive.

"Your Grace," he bowed as the King of the Seven Kingdoms appeared, a scowl on his face.

"It better be good, Varys," the King growled, tucking in his shirt, "those pert teats of hers were a treat,"

"Indeed, your grace," the eunuch rolled his eyes, "though I believe the Lord Hand should join us,"

Robert groaned, and Ser Meryn passed his burly head through the door for the second time of the day.

"Lord Baelish is here to see you, your grace,"

"I guess I won't call that wench back anytime soon…" Robert despaired, "Fine, have Baelish fetch Jon."

Varys had trouble hiding his smile as the master of coin was used as a simple errand boy. Undoubtedly, it would remind him of his time in Hoster Tully's keep.

Only minutes later, they were joined by the two men.

The Lord Hand sighed as he entered, noticing, as Varys had done, the prevalent smell of recent sex in the King's apartments.

"I trust his grace is most satisfied with the services I offer,"

"Yeah, yeah," Robert waved him off. "It's not like it was you sucking me off, was it?"

Varys could not help but smirk at the flustered Baelish.

"Of course not, your grace,"

"Then don't fucking take credit for it," Robert chuckled as he poured himself a drink.

"Robert," Jon Arryn interrupted, reminding his former ward, "I believe Lord Varys wanted to inform us of news about the Targaryen children,"

"Call them what they are, Jon," the king sneered, "dragonspawn,"

"Indeed, Lord-Hand," Varys bowed his head, "if you will, my lord," he handed him the scroll and the Arryn Lord's eyes widened as he read the report, passing it along to Baelish, whose eyes narrowed. Varys offered the master of coin a sly smirk. While he had been given no orders, Varys assumed the Targaryens would appreciate being given time to escape the city. However, he also knew he had to bring the information before Baelish ever had the opportunity. Thankfully, the next shipment of Pentoshi whores had been delayed by an increase in attacks on the Narrow Sea.

"Well?" Robert exclaimed, finishing his cup and pouring himself another one immediately. "What is it, Jon?"

"Viserys Targaryen is dead, Robert,"

The King spat out his wine, drenching Petyr's robes.

"That little shit is dead?" the king asked, a broad smile forming on his lips as the reduced small council all nodded. "How?"

"My little birds sang sellswords killed him," Varys smiled sadly; perhaps it was better this way. "While he was trying to sell his sister for an army,"

"Ah! Mad as his brother and father that one, fuckin' dragonspawn," Robert spat. It was no hardship to see the disapproval on his hand's face. "And what of the girl? Is she dead?"

"She disappeared, your grace," Varys bowed his head once more, hiding the smile he sported. It had taken time for him to get all the details; some evaded him still, but by all accounts, it seemed Aemon Targaryen and his companions had found the princess. The traces left of the skirmish indicated the fight had been bloody and rather one-sided, given the beheaded corpses that had been found in a Pentoshi narrow street. Furthermore, his little birds had reported seeing Aemon in Braavos, accompanied by a purple-eyed brunette, no doubt Princess Daenerys, with dyed hair. Not that Varys would inform Jon Arryn or Robert Baratheon; it was better that they think the Targaryens were gone.

"Ah, no doubt she's getting passed around in those Pentoshi brothels!" The King's laughter boomed across his chambers, and Varys took a discreet but still deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. How anyone could celebrate a young girl suffering this sort of fate was beyond him. Only it appeared he was not the only if the gleam in Baelish weasel-like eyes was anything to go by. "Good work Varys; finally, we're rid of those fucking heretics, Jon; we need a feast to celebrate the end of the dragons!"

295 A.C

King's Road

"You must wait until the string is as tensed as possible," Brienne's voice accompanied Daenerys' movement as her arm began to shake from the strain, and the blonde knight did the same.

The young Targaryen detached her eyes from the tip of the engaged arrow, staring with envy at how easily the larger woman pulled the string of her bow.

"Now take a deep breath, princess," Brienne continued, "focus on the target, and release as you breathe out,"

Daenerys executed herself, and the arrow was let loose, only to fly way of course, and end up in a tree trunk a few feet away, making her sigh. "I won't ever succeed…"

"Not with that spirit, princess," the warrior chuckled, "I'm sure we could ask your nephew to increase the accuracy of the bow,"

Daenerys could not help but blush at this as she shook her head. "No, I want to learn by myself…"

Besides, Aemon had already done so much for her in the past few moons that she was reluctant to ask for more. Her nephew, though it felt weird to think of him in this term as he seemed so much older than the year that parted them, was the single reason her life had changed so much in so many ways. Had he not been there, she suspected her life would not have improved, far from it. And he was even the reason she was able to use a bow. Unlike Ser Brienne, she did not have the bulking figure and considerable strength that usually went with using such a weapon.

But Aemon was nothing if not resourceful, and the magic he was teaching her, despite his numerous warnings, seemed capable of anything.

"Again,"

Daenerys nodded; if anything, she wanted to make him proud, to prove that she, as well, was worthy of being called Blood of the Dragon. Like Vysenia, she would one day ride at his side into battle.

She engaged another arrow and pulled the string once more. Despite the magic at work, her arm still shook heavily. Though it was far from enough to deter her, she focused on the target, took a deep breath, and released it as she breathed.

Her purple eyes widened as the arrow stuck to the target for the first time, in the outer rim, yes, but still on the target.

"You see, princess," Brienne smiled, "it is only a matter of dedication. Again."

Daenerys nodded, and with a smile, she continued her efforts.

Arrow after arrow, she released the string countless times, not stopping for her hurting arm or the few scratches the string gave her as she practiced.

While she had been offered protection, she also knew that getting used to a little bit of pain would help her in the long term.

"Come on, Arthur," Aemon's voice pulled her from her thoughts as he and his loyal kingsguard passed by them. "It's time we see what song we can create."

Daenerys frowned and, all thoughts of archery forgotten, turned to see what her nephew was up to, only for her eyes to widen at the sight of a sword wars had been waged for.

She could hear Brienne gasp beside her, and Daenerys could not help but copy her sworn shield as she spotted the blade Ser Arthur wielded. While she had seen Blackfyre before, right before they left Pentos, Dawn was a sword just as, if not more, legendary. Its milky white blade shined in the early morning light as if it both produced and attracted light itself.

Brienne's blue eyes tracked the pair with envy and wonder, and Daenerys knew they could do nothing but watch what would unfold.

"Come, Ser Brienne," she smirked, "it seems my kingly nephew still needs supervision if he's not to hurt himself,"

They followed the pair, mimicking the other knights who formed their guard as Aemon and Arthur reached the open field next to their small encampment.

Stories of Dark Sister and Blackfyre had been Viserys' favorites and, thus, the ones he had often told her as they grew up in the house with the red door. Back when he was still the brother she was fond of remembering. The one that cared for her as a brother was supposed to.

While Dark Sister was as lost to them as it had been since Bloodraven had carried it to the Wall, it was no longer the case for the sword of kings.

It was said Blackfyre had been lost long ago when Bittersteel had fled to Essos, where he had funded the Golden Company. Ever since, no Targaryen King had wielded the hand-and-a-half foot longsword, that is until now.

She had even gotten to hold it briefly and had been surprised by its lightweight, so much so that she felt she could wield such a sword with training. Not that she would want to. It was rightfully Aemon's, both for his claim and because he had been the first of their family in over a hundred years to lay his hands on the fabled blade.

It was an achievement on and off its own, even if her nephew was fond of reminding her that the sword without the throne meant little.

Her brother would have argued against it, Daenerys was sure. He would have cited the names of the Houses Tarly, Velaryon, or many others whom he believed were leal to their house. And she would have agreed with him; many would follow Aemon if only for the dragons. Highborns and smallfolk alike remembered the destruction the magnificent creatures could bring. Yet she vividly remembered Aemon's words when she had voiced those thoughts.

"Would they not follow you? Follow us? If we were to reveal the existence of dragons?" she asked after one of the magic lessons he had taken to give her.

"They would," he agreed. "The Reach, I expect, would mostly fall in line. They will try to curry favor with us, especially as the Usurper has been most keen to keep antagonizing them after the war. Were he a cleverer man, he would realize the potential the Reach could bring to secure his dynasty."

"Will they not betray us again? Like they did, Rhaegar?"

"I do not know if it was as much a betrayal as it was incompetency," Aemon sighed. "Mace Tyrell is a fool, an oaf, many would say, and Lord Tarly was the only one to win a battle against the Usurper's forces. Had he remained in charge… Well, the past does not matter, only the future, and if the Reach were to follow us, the Oaf of Highgarden would be kept far from any battlefield. As for the others, I reckon the Riverlords will be as divided as they always are. House Bracken and Blackwood will likely choose opposite sides, but I do not think the Tullys would be willing to support my claim; they were the ones that allowed the rebels to have a chance, after all, by uniting three of the kingdoms in marriage. House Frey is also a big player in the Riverlands. The Twins and the number of men they can call upon are both important, but they are cravens, and as cravens are wont to do, they'll only choose a side when they know the winner, and even then, I would not trust them not to stab me in the back when it is convenient."

Daenerys nodded. Ser Willem had often told her of House Frey during her lessons. Mainly to warn her against ever trusting the Lord of the Crossing, Walder Frey. "The North won't, you think? It is your mother's realm."

"It is, but the North has always been complicated; firstly, their influence can be negated quite easily by refusing them passage at the Twins, or if you could take Moat Cailin, given it is lightly garrisoned and in utter disrepair, it would not be impossible. The Northmen are also among the proudest people of the Seven Kingdoms, along with the Dornish. They will not take well to having fought a war to unseat the Targaryens only to bleed and die again not even twenty years later to accomplish the opposite."

"Will your uncle not support your claim?" she asked. Viserys had often told her of the Usurper's dogs, who were responsible for their family's downfall. But since Daenerys had found out the truth about it. It was more complex than her brother would have ever admitted.

She was not sure if he even knew the truth. The truth was that her father's madness had ultimately doomed them. Other factors had played their role: the apparent alliances several kingdoms had been making, as if preparing for war, the foolishness of the Stark heir, the mysterious disappearance of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, or the betrayal of the Lannisters… On and on it went. In the end, thousands had died, and her whole family had been reduced to few compared to what it had once been. Monsters slaughtered her goodsister, niece, and nephew, her brother lost to the war hammer of the Usurper, and her father, mad and ready to burn everything, had been murdered by his own kingsguard.

"Mayhap he will, mayhap he will not," Aemon shrugged, "they say Stark and Baratheon are brothers by choice, and yet he hides Daemon under his very nose… And even if he does choose to back a Targaryen restoration, his bannermen might not. Otherwise, I think most of the Crownlands will back my claim; they remember the life under the Dragonlords and compare it to the one under the Stags and Lions; they are more taxed and less considered; they find it lacking."

"What of Dorne, nephew? Surely they will want revenge against the Baratheons and the Lannisters, no?"

"Dorne is as complicated as the North; I know little of Doran Martell except that he is very sickly and that, like the Red Viper, he cared much for his sister and her children. But they will not take to my mother's identity kindly. Though you are right to say they want vengeance, it might be the only way to convince them. As for the others, I believe Lannisters and Baratheons will be the main foes, as will the Vale, though as the North, their influence could be easily negated for a long time."

"But the Dragons will sway them; surely they have no wish to face fire and blood again?"

Aemon smirked. Ever since he had saved her, Daenerys had gotten to know her nephew quite well if she dared to say so. He had shown her the brutal side of their family, what Viserys had only ever manifested in words, threatening her to wake the dragon but never directed against her, not even a hint of frustration, and growing up with Viserys, she had quickly learned to spot such. While Viserys was no dragon, Aemon was one.

He had also shown her the unconditional love of family she had felt unworthy of for so long, blaming herself and being blamed by her brother for their mother's untimely passing.

He had sometimes shown his wicked, cunning side, making plans and laying traps for their enemies and potential allies.

"What have you planned, nephew?" she asked. His smirk was infectious.

"Why, me?" he laughed. "Nothing, no truly," he insisted to her raised eyebrow, "but think, dear aunt, we will first see who follows us out of fealty, who is truly leal, and then we will see who joins out of fear."

As was oft the case, her nephew had been right. Not that it surprised her anymore, as with every day that came, she learned something new from him.

Daenerys did not doubt that by watching him and Arthur fight, she would learn something new again.

They wore their full-plated armor. However unremarkable they were, they were still of good make. But definitely not the ones they would one day wear into battle. She knew both Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell could not wait to don their white armors and cloaks once more.

Aemon, for his part, would need something far more majestic. While she knew he would not settle for anything unfunctional, it still needed to identify him as a Targaryen and, more than that, as a king.

They all watched on, their previous tasks wholly forgotten, as an event the type of which one only read about in books was about to take place. Each was both worried for the fighters and excited by the prospect.

Her nephew followed a rigorous training, two sessions every day. One in the morning at sunrise and every evening at sunset, during which he trained with his longsword, plus another two hours before luncheon or after, depending on the day, when he worked on other skills, jousting, archery, or even fighting with axes, spears and the like. As Ser Arthur was fond of repeating, one did not know which weapons they might have to defend their lives with; as such, he endeavored to master any and all weapons, from his simple fists and a wooden stick to an impressive Morningstar.

Aemon, wielding the formidable Blackfyre, carried the weight of their ancestors. Opposite him stood Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, with Dawn in his hands, a blade as mythical as the man who bore it. The contrast between the dark steel of Blackfyre and the almost luminescent Dawn was stark.

"Observe, princess," Brienne, standing on her side, murmured, "each movement may teach you something new,"

Daenerys nodded, her purple eyes never leaving the spectacle as it began. For the first minute, Aemon was on the defensive, avoiding each strike by staying on the move. For a moment, it seemed Arthur was too slow to reach her nephew. Then Dawn met Blackfyre and created a song worthy of old tales. It sang of ancient days, oaths taken, battles fought, and honor upheld.

No sparks were made each time the blades met, only new notes for the song her nephew and his kingsguard composed.

Alternatively, each fighter took on the offensive. Aemon's speed almost blurred him as he danced around the Sword of the Morning, trying to find weak spots in Arthur's defense. There were none. Both his defense and attack spoke of a mastery few had ever reached. It spoke of decades of experience wielding the deathly white blade.

The more the spar went on, the more the song elongated, and Daenerys was sure that it rang for miles and miles around.

Arthur drew first blood. The milky white blade of Dawn tore through Aemon's chainmail, scoring a painful but superficial wound.

And where many would have considered the fight over, it seemed only to spurn Aemon on as he increased his attack's speed, something she had not thought possible as wariness was undoubtedly taking its toll on both fighters.

Blackfyre became a blur, and as Arthur's more advanced age began to show, the legendary blade found its first weak spots, tearing chunks of his armor each time they met—a testament to the resilience of youth.

Yet the Sword of the Morning was nothing if not experienced, and his sheer skill and experience carried him through the spar.

With a move that had both Brienne and her left mouth agape, Arthur managed to disarm his charge, and the fight ended as Dawn came to rest near her nephew's throat.

"I yield," Aemon bowed, taking his helm off as Arthur sheathed his blade.

"Very well done, my king,"

Immediately, the sound of applause rang out in the small encampment.

"It was…" her sworn sword began, clearly at a loss for words.

"Beautiful…" Daenerys completed in a whisper.

As Aemon healed the minor cuts and bruises he and Arthur had suffered while discussing what had gone right and wrong, Daenerys vowed to herself that one day, she too, would be able to fight this way.

295 A.C

Winterfell

Winterfell loomed over the entire countryside, its silhouette a constant reminder of whose lands one was in.

The ancient stone walls of the legendary fortress were coated in a thin layer of frost, reflecting the sunlight and making the grey stone gleam in places. Its towers and battlements cut a commanding figure, a silent guardian of the North's storied past.

Aemon, leading the group, halted at a distance to take in the view. Around him, his companions, bundled in their cloaks, shared quiet glances, each aware of the weight of history that lay within those walls. For eight thousand years, the Starks had held the North from their stronghold, or so the legend claimed, ever since the days of Brandon the Builder.

It was a name that often came up whenever one studied the Age of Heroes as one of its most influential figures.

Like the Hightower he was rumored to have helped build, Winterfell was in its own category. Two massive walls surrounded the fortress, which spanned several acres. The first, the smallest, was around eighty feet high, and the second surpassed it by at least twenty feet. In between stood a wide moat that would slow down even the most hardened invader, one that had breached the first wall.

The stark and imposing towers were strategically placed around the walls, offering a panoramic view for miles and ensuring no enemy could approach unseen.

The battlements atop said walls spoke of centuries of warfare, a reminder of Winterfell's storied history in uniting the North. Arrow slits dotted the walls, almost all but a few hidden by the imposing depictions of a snarling grey direwolf, the sigil of House Stark, enabling archers to defend without exposing themselves to enemy fire. Reinforced with iron and heavy wood, the main gate could withstand even the mightiest of battering rams.

This fortress was built not just for a lord's residence but as a bastion of Northern power, a symbol of the unbreakable spirit of its people. Even the most formidable army would think twice before laying siege in its shadow. There was a reason why the North had bowed only to dragons, several in fact, but the strategic location and build of Winterfell had played no small part in it.

"It's…" Daenerys breathed out, her cheeks flushed from the ambient cold. "Incredible,"

Aemon fully agreed with his aunt, "It's easy to see how they've remained Kings of Winter for so long."

For thousands of years, if one wanted to be precise.

"Indeed," Arthur commented, "though it's far from being only because of Winterfell,"

Once more, Aemon could not have agreed more. Then again, Arthur was responsible for seeing him educated in all matters of warfare, passing on his formidable experience. Still, it would be a mistake to think the Starks owed their preeminence amongst northern families only to their fortress. The isolation the North both suffered and enjoyed was far more critical. No link had existed between the northernmost kingdom and its counterparts for thousands of years. The first road to be established had been by the sea, with the development of White Harbor and the arrival of the Manderlys from the Reach. Then with the arrival of Aegon and his sister wives, who had been responsible for pacifying the realm and developing its infrastructure, resulting in the formation and protection of the King's Road that led from King's Landing to the Wall.

Their isolation had meant they were safe from the other war-mongering kingdoms, much like the Vale, and had been left to infighting. It also meant they had not enjoyed the development trade brought, nor had they changed their beliefs and faith as the South had. And thus, the Northmen and women were seen as backward people, little more than savages. Aemon knew better. North folk were a hardy bunch, used to survive in the harshest lands south of the Wall, and exceptionally resilient.

To his disappointment, his ancestors had ignored the strength the North could bring. When it had the potential to be the crown's greatest ally and greatest foe, this was proven true by both Cregan Stark during the Hour of the Wolf and Eddard Stark during the War of the Usurper.

The last Targaryen to have come this far North had been maester Aemon decades ago; before that, it had been King Jaehaerys and his good queen Alysanne centuries ago. It had been a mistake he would have made, not when the Starks and their vassals were once more poised to leave a lasting impact on the Seven Kingdoms.

Turning his gaze away from the fortress, Aemon steered his horse towards Wintertown, the settlement that hugged the outer walls of Winterfell. Wintertown was a stark contrast to the solemn grandeur of the castle. Most of the buildings were wooden-made, and the city appeared all but empty. The smoke curling up from chimneys was limited and indicated how many houses were inhabited. This far north, cold was felt even during the summer, though snow had not made itself known yet.

Aemon could not help but smile as his steed brought him closer than ever to his twin. Before he could try and feel for Daemon's magic, Daenerys interrupted his musings.

"Why are there so few people?" the still brunette-colored princess asked.

"It is in the name," Brienne answered, faithfully riding by her charge's side, "the Northmen only gather here during winters. Otherwise, only a few remain,"

Daenerys frowned, "Why wouldn't they stay? Wouldn't their lives be better if they stayed in the same place all the time?"

"They can't grow anything here, pr…, my lady," Oswell caught himself, "there is a large amount of game in the North. I doubt we'll see any villages going further,"

Aemon nodded. They had stopped encountering settlements over a sennight ago. From then on, it had only been individual farms and houses. It also explained why the North could never profit fully from its massive territory, lacking the population to settle the land and the resources to grow or attract that population.

"Where will we stay then?" his aunt asked. Aemon looked around and pondered the same question.

"We don't have much of a choice," Oswell gestured to one of the only lit buildings. As they approached, the sounds of voices and the sign made it clear they had reached their destination.

Wintertown, with its unassuming nature, was a perfect place for them to lay low and gather their bearings, far from the prying eyes that a direct arrival at Winterfell might attract. Besides, Aemon had no idea how he would be received in his uncle's holdfast.

For what reason Eddard Stark had withheld his identity from Daemon, he did not know. What did he have to gain? It was a question Aemon always found helpful to ask, yet the potential answers brought him no comfort. Did Stark hope Daemon would never learn? If so, the man was beyond stupid, for that was impossible.

Aemon doubted Eddard Stark was a fool.

Had there been only Daemon, it could have been explained more simply. Most of all, through the friendship the Warden of the North shared with the Usurper. Mayhap he would have hoped to stash his brother away to secure his friend's illegitimate reign.

In the relative confidentiality of his tent, it had been his lord commander who had raised the possibility that Eddard Stark was raising his brother to hate all things Targaryen and use Daemon against him.

Aemon had dismissed the theory in front of Arthur, at least. But part of him, the small pernicious part that reminded him to always check for betrayal, could not help but admit it would be a good plan. With so few family members left, he could hardly afford to lose one, much less his brother, and it was perhaps the one thing that could somehow prevent him from moving forward with his plans.

Not that Aemon wouldn't find a way around it, but still, he would not lie and say the idea had not disturbed him.

Was Eddard Stark capable of this? Of using one brother against another? Of shaping a child for the single purpose of securing his friend's reign? Or at least prevent another Targaryen rule?

Again, Aemon had issues believing that. It went against everything his uncle was supposed to be, a man of honor, of the likes few remained.

But there were also people skilled at making everyone believe they were something they were not. A willy, goatee-wearing, pernicious little man came to Aemon's mind.

Still, those were not questions he would get answers to that night. First, they had to settle, and he would then scout the fortress to find an easy way in and out. While Aemon could not wait to be reunited with his brother, he also knew mistakes were not an option regarding their reunion.

"Come on," Aemon urged the group as they dismounted and tied the horses. "Let's get warmed up."

Even though the cold did not bother him as much as everyone else, it was still colder than anything he had known in the past decades.

His companions quickly followed, all eager to get some much-needed warmth after a long moon of travel and, if possible, a real bed.

Mud.

It had been a constant ever since they had stepped foot outside of White Harbor.

But it only got worse the further they got. And to say it was summer. If he had hoped it would change once reaching civilization again, Aemon had been mistaken.

Winter town's infrastructure was not developed at all. Thus, the mud had followed them right up to the entryway of the Smoking Log, the only inn opened in town.

To say Wintertown was empty would be an understatement. The small town could house thousands, yet under a tenth of the houses were occupied, and even that was an optimistic estimate.

The mud continued clinging to his feet as he explored the settlement.

Though he had found it unremarkable at best, it was simply a dormitory for the smallfolk to stay during the harsh winters. And while it would have been undoubtedly interesting to see the Northmen gather in one place, Aemon could not say he awaited the winters described to him.

Winters were so long and difficult that they forced the old men of the North to go hunting, never to come back to lessen the strain on their family and the number of mouths to feed.

Still, exploring the town had yielded no result in finding a way inside the fortress. And it was no abuse of language to speak of a fortress. Unlike Harrenhal or the Manticore's Nest, Winterfell was well-maintained and adequately manned. There were no crumbling walls to scale nor lazy guards to fool.

And if there were no failure points to find in the fortress, Aemon knew the key would be in the people living and working inside. No matter how loyal, any guard or maid could get reckless repeating a gesture they had done a thousand times before. And recklessness would be the key to getting in. Though he was unlikely to find such in a single night of wandering through the northern settlement, he reminded himself as he turned back and went to the Smoking Log, ready to get a few hours of sleep.

The squelching of his boots in the ever-present mud kept Aemon company as he did so, only for the sound of raised voices to attract his attention. Looking around to verify no one was watching, Aemon tapped his wand against his forehead and disappeared. With another flick, he silenced his feet as best he could and made his approach. And he happened upon a sight that would have most men's blood rushing downward.

A group of prostitutes, all dressed in a manner that would have made most ladies in the Seven Kingdoms blush like maidens, showcased their forms. Each had an ale in hand, and they appeared to be in a rather spirited conversation if their raised voices and frequent bouts of laughter were anything to go by.

Knowing whores were the people you went to when you wanted to learn secrets, he tucked himself in a corner and listened in.

"Oh, I'd wish that new fellow with the beard and dark eyes came to warm me tonight," the eldest of the group sighed dramatically, and Aemon smirked.

She was talking about Arthur, and he would not miss mentioning it to the older man.

"He isn't young that one, is he?" another, younger one interjected.

"No," the first gave a dry laugh, "but you'll learn, Mara, sometimes it means experience, and I bet the southern wenches love his dimples,"

"Well, I, for one, would prefer if it was the youngest who did," a brunette came to Mara's rescue, "he sure looks pretty with those purple eyes of his,"

"Purple?" Mara asked, and Aemon felt a blush creeping up his neck.

"Aye," her companion answered, "purple as those dresses you see the Lady of Winterfell wear on feast days. I bet his tongue would feel as sweet as silk against my…"

Aemon was saved from a rather vivid description of where the whore wanted his tongue to visit by the back door opening with a bang, and the group was joined by another, exhausted-looking prostitute with red hair, a very distinctive feature this far North.

"Him, again?" the eldest greeted the new arrival, who sighed but nodded nonetheless.

Aemon frowned. The whole atmosphere had changed in seconds, and the group now surrounded their distraught friend.

"What did he do this time?" Mara asked.

A customer was causing trouble.

"It doesn't matter," the new one answered and almost emptied her ale in one go. Aemon was sure he could spot a darkening bruise against the red-head's neck. "It's not like we can do anything. He's Lord Stark's ward,"

Aemon perked up. If he remembered right, they were talking about Theon Greyjoy, who was not so much a ward as he was a hostage, entrusted to the Warden of the North to ensure Baelon Greyjoy would not revolt again. Were the man not a complete savage, Aemon would almost thank him for revolting all those years ago; the results had been splendid, except for the Smallfolk, who, as usual, had had to suffer the whims of more powerful men.

"But they say Lord Stark is a good man, honorable. Surely he'd do…"

"What, Mara?" the redhead asked, looking far older than Aemon assumed she was. "What do you expect him to do? Punish another highborn? I don't think so, and you'd better not think of telling anyone. We can only hope that squid will return to the hell it came from… The only comfort I can take is that his cock always goes limp after a few thrusts and that I can barely feel it,"

The group laughed at the last bit, and Aemon could not help but smile.

Part of him would hope his uncle was a better man than most nobles and would even punish his ward or hostage for transgressions against his people; after all, what was a lord if not a protector of its people? Then again, only a few remembered that.

Still, he had found the weak link. A young man riding on the high of a fresh fuck was bound to get careless on his way back, and Aemon was ready to wager Theon Greyjoy knew a way in, one he had not been able to find. It was only a matter of waiting for him to return, and if he knew anything about horny teens, it would be soon.

The Winterfell guards were not as unyielding as Aemon had thought them to be. Instead of leading him and Arthur through some secret passage, Theon Greyjoy passed through the main gates, acknowledging said guards with a nod as he unwittingly led them inside the Stark's stronghold.

He had not even needed a confusion charm or the imperius curse. As Aemon had guessed, the young man was still riding on the high of a fresh fuck and had paid little mind to his surroundings as he exited the brothel.

And so he and Arthur had followed, invisible and silent, as the Greyjoy heir made his way through the first and then a second inner wall, taller and thicker than the first. The ground rose slightly, leading up to the Great Keep.

Steam rose from the ground here and there, evidence of the hot springs that were said to lie beneath the castle. These springs lent warmth that belied the external cold.

The walls were several feet thick, almost a hundred feet each, and littered with hundreds, if not thousands, of murder holes.

It would take sheer incompetency or treachery for Winterfell to fall. Neither of which Aemon considered possible if all he heard about his uncle was true.

The sun had just set, and it was likely that the Starks had long finished their supper. Most were in their rooms. Still, they passed by numerous guards, all awake and aware but not equipped to detect invisible intruders.

While they could have demanded an audience with the Stark Lord and likely would have been received, Aemon had heeded his mother's warning. Westeros was filled with spies, from the tip of Dorne to the Wall. Winterfell was undoubtedly being watched, even if little happened in the North that interested the Southern Lords and Ladies.

Their path took them through shadowed courtyards and past closed wooden doors. The scent of woodsmoke hung heavy in the air, and the distant sound of voices, muffled by the stone, hinted at the life within these walls.

"Point me, Eddard Stark," Aemon whispered under his breath, and the elder wand moved, aiming directly at the godswood inside the fortress.

A couple of guards stood at the entrance, but neither noticed the two invisible figures as he and Arthur walked past and soon joined the Lord of Winterfell.

Aemon froze as his breath hitched in his throat.

His uncle sat only a dozen feet away, underneath the massive weirwood that towered over the rest of the godswood, right next to a pool of black water. His mind was seemingly elsewhere as he methodically cleaned the large valyrian steel greatsword.

Ice. The ancestral sword of House Stark.

Few houses had valyrian steel to call upon. House Tarly was one of them, with Heartsbane. House Corbray was another, with Lady Forlorn. House Mormont held Longclaw. Though given the nasty business House Mormont's heir had gotten himself into after wedding a Hightower, Aemon had no idea if it had followed Jeor Mormont to the Wall or stayed on Bear Island. There was also Nightfall, which House Harlaw had previously held for decades. Given its fall at Tywin Lannister's hand, Aemon imagined the Lions now held the valyrian steel sword. Red Rain was now the sole Valyrian blade in the possession of Ironborns. House Drumm, to be precise, though it used to belong to the Reynes. Vigilance was the only other Aemon knew where to find in Oldtown, in the possession of the Hightowers.

As far as he knew, nobody alive knew where to find Orphan Maker. The ancestral sword of House Roxton. Though he found the name distasteful, the Roxton had been one of the Houses who had suffered the most for supporting his father and grandfather. Neither did he know where to find Lamentation, the sword of House Rhoyce, last seen during the storming of the Dragon Pit. Which left Truth, his best guess being that House Rogare, though extinct, had managed to keep it in Lys. And the last blade he knew of was as, if not more, lost as no one had seen nor heard of Dark Sister in decades, not since Bloodraven.

With a flick of his wand, Aemon canceled the disillusionment charm and cleared his throat.