Chapter Text
Chapter Summary: Jon meets Viserys and reunites with Robb. Aemon learns a truth a millenia in the making. In our interlude, Ned and Aemon speak of their guilt.
299 AC – Jon Snow
“Father always said whoever passed the sentence should swing the sword.”
“Father is not here and how do you think the Dornish would feel if I took Gregor Clegane’s head myself?” He replied.
Robb opened his mouth to reply, but instead Viserys cut across him.
“Jon is right, Robb,” Viserys said quietly. “Ser Arthur is Dornish first and foremost. That he swung the sword will not be lost on House Martell.”
He watched his brother carefully.
It had been moons since they had seen each other – well over a year, in truth – and it was not lost on him that their first proper conversation was ending in an argument. He had known an argument was likely, given he had left Robb as a Stark and now that they were seeing each other again Robb knew who Jon truly was. But he had thought that was what they would argue over, he had not expected this. He supposed, it was – almost – the same thing. For Robb did not understand why Jon had asked Ser Arthur to swing the sword instead of taking Gregor Clegane’s head himself. How could he?
Eventually, Robb pursed his lips and then nodded once as though he had come to the same realisation that Jon had.
“Very well. If I might be excused?”
“Of course,” he murmured.
Robb barely waited for him to finish speaking before he turned and left the tent. Jon glanced over toward Ser Oswell and Ser Arthur, desperate to speak to them both but knowing that he must speak to Viserys first, and they inclined their heads and vanished behind Robb.
He sighed and ran a hand down his face. Outside, hidden from view, he could still hear screams of pain from the men who could be saved but who still waited for treatment. He shivered and turned slightly on his chair, so he was facing more toward his uncle.
“Forgive me, uncle, this was not how I had imagined our first meeting going.”
“Brothers are difficult, I am told,” Viserys murmured, his eyes flicked away from Jon toward the tent flap and then back again. “He has missed you. This was his first battle though, and I do not think he expected you to react as you did to Gregor Clegane.”
“You understand though?” He whispered. His voice cracked slightly, and he learned forward and grabbed the mug of mead in front of him and took a long gulp.
“To rise and rise again,” Viserys replied. There was a brief pause and then his uncle pulled out his own chair and threw himself down into it. “Our way is not the Old Way.”
“Fire and Blood.”
Viserys smiled wryly and him and raised his own mug of mead before he took his own gulp.
“You look well,” he said a few minutes later when the silence between them had dragged for a moment. It had not been an uncomfortable silence, but nonetheless Jon felt compelled to break it. “Healthy. Happy.”
“I am,” Viserys agreed. “I am home. How could I not be happy?”
“Tell me everything.”
Viserys gave him a broad smile that made the sides of his eyes crinkle up, just like Aemon’s did, and he took another swig of her mead. Then he began talking.
He listened carefully as Viserys told him all of his life since they had last exchanged letters – moons before Jon had left Winterfell – and all that had happened since he had arrived in Winterfell. He smiled as he heard of Daenerys’ wedding to Robb and that they had a child on the way, even as Viserys muttered, “I hope he does not gut me for telling you.” He laughed as he heard Viserys recount Lady Dacey Mormont’s more than slightly forceful attempts at seduction, which judging by the faint blush on his uncle’s face had worked marvellously. Eventually when Viserys had finished speaking the two of them settled into another silence.
“Will Lady Dacey,” he began, choosing deliberately to pick the least uncomfortable topic first. Still, his throat closed, and he had to clear it before he could continue, “will Lady Dacey come South? Have you asked her?”
“I did not wish to presume,” Viserys murmured quietly. “Not given her place and not without speaking to you.”
He smiled at his uncle’s embarrassment. “We agreed long ago, did we not, that you would be my Hand and you would take Dragonstone? Your choice in wanting to take Dacey as your wife does not change that in any way. All it means is I must be sure to ensure the rest of the Kingdom’s are represented.”
“I know,” Viserys replied. “But it would have been easier if Arianne and I had found something we liked in each other. I do not wish to let you down.”
“You have not,” he replied, his voice a touch sharper than he had intended. He sighed and flushed, embarrassed to have spoken in such a way. “All I have ever wanted is for you and Daenerys to be happy. If Dacey and Robb are what makes you and Daenerys happy, then I will do everything I can to support you.” He paused, wondering whether he should be so honest and then decided there was no use in hiding from his own blood, “I got to wed someone that I not only care about but who I consider to be a good friend. If I, as King, am allowed to wed for – and I dare not say it yet to Margaery yet – love, why would I stand between you and Dacey? We will deal with any fallout, I promise you.”
Viserys flushed a deeper shade of red but did not reply and instead bought his mug of mead back up to his lips. Once he had swallowed, Viserys turned slightly toward the tent flap – as though to check they were not likely to be overheard – and then murmured, “and Margaery – the Queen, forgive me – she is with child Lord Tarly said?”
“Margaery is indeed with child,” he confirmed, unable to stop the smile from spreading across his face. “I had thought that once we had taken Golden Tooth I would fly to her, to let her know that the Lannister army is destroyed...but I am not sure that Hellfyre is up to the flight.”
A roar echoed in the distance, even before he had fully finished speaking, and opposite him Viserys raised an eyebrow. “I believe she thinks differently.”
“She always thinks differently,” he muttered. “I do not think there is a single thing we agree on.”
“She is a dragon.”
He barked out a laugh. “Aye, she is a dragon.” He glanced toward the tent flap again and then said, “and yours?”
“Vaegal.”
“For Vhagar?”
Viserys nodded. “When Dany and I were young, she always used to say that she would have taken Balerion for her dragon if she had been alive when he was.” There was a brief pause as Viserys eyes closed for a moment and a smile flickered across his face as though he was remembering something particularly amusing, “she always said that Vhagar would have bent her wing to me – for we were both ferocious.”
“And what was her logic for taking Balerion?”
“She thought he would accept anyone as his rider – he took Maegor and Viserys, after all.”
He laughed again. “I cannot fault her logic.” Viserys opened his eyes again and they shared a small smile. “And the eggs Aemon sent you?”
“Dany has them,” Viserys said quickly. “In Winterfell.”
“Along with all three dragons?” He asked, then as watched as colour drained slightly out of Viserys, he said quickly, “what is wrong?”
“You will not tell Robb.”
He raised an eyebrow at Viserys order but did not comment and instead inclined his head, knowing based on years of sharing letters with his uncle that Viserys would not make such a command – for it had been a command and not a request – without good reason. “You have my word. I will not tell Robb.”
“Dany is at the Wall, as are the dragons.”
He froze with his hand outstretched toward the jug in the table that held more mead. Then, once a second or so had passed and he realised that his uncle was watching him carefully he forced his hand to continue moving and murmured, “why?”
“I do not know,” Viserys replied.
He took a moment to pour mead into his own mug – topping it up to the rim – and then leaned over and poured more for his uncle before he put the jug on the table and surveyed his uncle carefully. “What do you know?”
“I am not mad.”
He raised an eyebrow, and murmured, “I have never thought you mad, uncle.”
A ghost of a smile flickered across Viserys’ lips before it vanished. “I dream. Not all the time, but sometimes. It has grown more...pronounced since we arrived in Westeros.”
“Dragon dreams?”
Viserys nodded. “I have shared some of it with Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell, but not with Robb for I did not wish to worry him...or with Aemon for it has only been happening since we left the North.”
“Tell me,” he breathed, trying not to make the words come out as an order despite his desire to know what his uncle was dreaming on. Without meaning to, his mind drifted to the stories Aemon had told him of Daenerys and of the greenseers that were rumoured to have once lived in the North.
“I dream of death marching on the Wall,” Viserys whispered, his eyes fixed on his mug of mead and his lips downturned. “I dream of men and women made of ice marching South. And I dreamed of Daenerys...fighting men of the Night’s Watch.” There was another brief pause and then Viserys whispered, his voice barely loud enough for Jon to hear, “and I have dreamed of Aemon’s death – consumed by ice and snow whilst ravens circle overhead.”
“Are you sure?”
Viserys nodded tightly, his eyes still fixed on the mug of mead. Then, his eyes glanced up toward Jon and he was surprised to see his uncle’s eyes were wet. “In my dreams, he walks to it gladly.”
*
Hours later he stood on the edge of the encampment with a slightly less sombre Viserys who Jon had plied with, perhaps, slightly more mead than was appropriate and with Robb. Together they watched as Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell engaged in what appeared to be a passionate argument in hushed whispers. He raised an eyebrow as Ser Oswell, finally, took a step away from Ser Arthur with a smug smirk spreading across his face.
“I suppose Ser Arthur lost then,” Viserys muttered.
“It is quite interesting watching their desire to protect Jon clash with their desire to not be anywhere near a dragon,” Robb murmured. “Daenerys would certainly have views.”
Viserys and Robb snorted, and, for a moment, Jon felt a pang of annoyance that he could not join in with their joke, but he squashed the thought and frustration down immediately. Although it was instinct to feel like an outsider when Robb and Viserys were together, he was glad that they had built such a close bond during their travels because, despite everything that had happened, he was not sure he could choose between the two if they had quibbled.
“I shall go and speak to Ser Arthur,” Viserys declared. “Perhaps I shall offer some words of comfort.”
“Or just torment him.”
“Quite so.”
He watched as Viserys spun and headed off toward where Ser Arthur had reinstated the hushed squabble between himself and Ser Oswell.
“I know you did not have a choice,” Robb murmured, breaking the silence between them a few moments later. “It still sits uneasy with me. But I should not have reacted as I did. I am sorry.”
“You need not apologise, brother. As you say, I had no choice,” he replied. “Aemon and Prince Doran came to an agreement many years ago about what would happen when I pushed my claim. That a Dornishman take Ser Gregor’s life, and that Lord Tywin meet the executioner’s axe, were two agreements I cannot renege on. They lost too much, Robb.”
“And that is not your fault. By the Gods Jon, you were but a babe in arms.”
“Aye, I was. But we want peace. I do not wish to fight the Dornish for the next fifty years, because that is what would happen. It took so long to get them to be truly part of the Seven Kingdoms, and it was only, truly, solved by marriage. We do not have that option, not anymore.”
Robb stared at him for a moment and then sighed, his eyes flicked to Viserys and back again to Jon. “Viserys was part of the deal?”
He jerked his head slightly.
“Not Daenerys?”
“No,” he murmured. “After what Rhaella endured...Viserys and the Kingsguard were adamant that Daenerys wed a man she chose.”
Robb sucked in a sharp breath. “And Viserys and Dacey?”
“It will complicate matters,” he admitted. “Viserys is aware, and he will do his duty if I ask it of him...but how can I Robb? No. I shall not ask him to sacrifice more for me. Once I am done in Highgarden, I shall fly to Dorne. Better I speak face to face with Price Doran.”
“You will be alone.”
Behind him, Hellfyre let out a deep rumble as though taking offence at his brother’s words. He grinned as Robb took half a step away from the dragon. “I think she may disagree, brother. And even if I do not have her with me all day and night, I shall have Ser Arthur.”
“What if something goes wrong when you tell them about Viserys.”
“They will not,” he said trying to sound more confident than he felt. “They do not want a war, not really. They wanted vengeance, and we have given them that.”
Robb hummed thoughtfully. “We do not yet have Lord Tywin.”
“But we have a plan. Your plan,” he replied. “You and Viserys will capture him, and you will bring him to King’s Landing to meet with Dornish justice.”
Robb nodded and shifted slightly. “I missed you.”
He smiled and glanced down to where his direwolf and Grey Wind were sitting a few meters away, staring at Hellfyre in apparent fascination. “At least someone did,” he murmured. “I fear Ghost is more Aemon’s than mine.” He glanced away from his direwolf and toward Robb who was watching him cautiously and then took a step toward his brother and pulled him firmly against him. “I missed you. More than I can say.”
Robb let out a noise halfway between a sob and a laugh and gripped him more tightly. “I wish you had told me.”
“How is Lady Catelyn?” He asked as he pulled away from his brother.
“Mother misses you,” Robb breathed softly. “She was furious that Uncle Aemon sent you South with father – and most of all that you were put in harm’s way.”
“She shall always be Lady Catelyn to me,” he whispered.
“Perhaps,” Robb allowed. Then his brother glanced toward Viserys and away again so quickly that if Jon had not been looking for it, he would have missed it. “But even if to you mother is Lady Catelyn, to her you shall always be her son.” Robb’s hand came up again and clasped onto his shoulder. “No matter if you are Lyanna’s son, you are mother’s son as well. Remember that, please. Even if you cannot bring yourself to call her such.”
He pulled his brother back toward him but did not speak – for he could not say what he wished to say – and instead closed his eyes and breathed in heavily. Despite having found enough water for a quick wash, Robb still smelt like sweat and blood. At any other time Jon would have pushed him away, yet now he pulled his brother closer and did not let go. Robb’s arms tightened around him.
Eventually, they pulled away again.
“You’ve grown up.”
“I had to,” Robb replied. “You rode South leaving me with nothing but a letter telling me that you were a King and one day war would come to Westeros. Then, a few moons later, I receive word you are missing, and father is to lose his head.”
“I am sorry I did not tell you.”
“Don’t be,” Robb said sharply. “If I had known...I would not have let you go South, brother. Mother was furious enough that you were going as it was, I hate to imagine how much worse it would have been if neither of us wanted you to go.”
He ducked his head, not used to such words coming from Robb. “Viserys told me Daenerys is with child.”
A brilliant smile erupted over his brother’s face, making him look far more like the boy that Jon had left behind in Winterfell and not the older, battle worn, soldier that stood in front of him. “He keeps threatening me that the babe will need both a direwolf and a dragon,” Robb replied. “Where am I to find another direwolf?”
He barked out a laugh.
There was a slight lull in the conversation between Viserys and the two Kingsguard nearby and he watched as Robb glanced away.
“Viserys is not subtle, is he?” Robb remarked quietly.
He glanced over toward his uncle, watching as he re-engaged in a rapid exchange with Ser Oswell whilst continually glancing toward where he and Robb stood. He hid a smile. “Not subtle at all.”
Robb pulled him in for one final embrace and breathed, “send father my best,” and then took a step away toward Viserys.
He took a second to compose himself and then turned toward Ser Arthur. “Ready, Ser Arthur?”
Ser Arthur gave him a long look – resignation mixed in with frustration – and then nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Best you mount her first. I’ll settle in position in front of you.”
**
Not two days later he could feel the smile spreading across his face as Hellfyre swooped out from the thick clouds above Highgarden. He had not noticed how beautiful Highgarden was the first time he had seen it all those moons before, and six moons since he had seen it last. In the early morning sunlight, the castle’s white stone walls seemed to almost shine – he spared a passing thought to wonder just how much time and effort Olenna Tyrell spent ensuring that there was not a spot of dirt on any of the walls.
Through their bond he could feel Hellfyre beginning to tire, and she let out a slight shudder as she began her descent. His hand ran fondly down her neck as he leaned forward and pushed his gratitude towards her down the bond – he knew she was exhausted, even moreso than he was, and words could not describe just how thankful he was that despite that, and despite her injury, that she had still flown them to Highgarden so swiftly. Behind him, he could feel Ser Arthur lean closer against him and he grinned to himself, wondering if the other man had opened his eyes yet.
They landed with a bump and Hellfyre staggered underneath them for a moment. He dismounted swiftly, not even sparing Ser Arthur a cursory look as the other man toppled onto the ground with a dull thud and glanced toward the castle gates which were beginning to creak open. Immediately, a man began crossing over and behind him several other soldiers appeared all dragging dead sheep behind them.
“Your Grace!” Erryk called, his voice carrying in the silent morning. “For your dragon. Where would you have us put them?”
He gestured slightly to the west, slightly down the hill toward the Mander, and watched as the soldiers did as bid. He glanced back toward Hellfyre who was eyeing the dead sheep with interest and then murmured, “Jikagon. Ipradagon.”
She nudged him slightly with her snout and then walked past him toward the food. The soldiers skittered back quickly toward the castle walls and watched, wide-eyed, as Hellfyre unleashed a quick burst of green flames at the dead animal before she settled in to eat.
He watched her for a moment and then turned and headed over to Erryk. “How was your journey back?”
“I made good time,” Erryk replied as they crossed under the main gate. “Lady Olenna was pleased both with the speed of my return and your response.”
“And my wife?”
“The Queen is well,” came the cautious reply. There was a brief pause and then Erryk said, “men, return to your duties. I shall escort His Grace to Lady Olenna.” Once the men had vanished into the stables nearby, he continued, “she has experienced little sickness and is in good health. I hope you will not take offence if I do not tell you more, but I fear the Queen would prefer to speak to you of her health directly.”
He shook his head. “Hearing Margaery is well is more than enough. My thanks for your discretion. Is Lady Olenna awake?”
“She will be shortly, if not already. Do you wish to see her first?”
“My wife first, I think.” He paused, wondering whether he should ask for a bath. “Then a bath. Although I am sure she will not thank me for the smell, I do not wish to chance my luck by indulging in a bath before I greet her.”
“You are most wise, Your Grace.”
299 AC – Aemon Targaryen
“Daenerys writes,” Catelyn said. There was a pause, and Aemon knew she was scowling at the ground because, even after all these years, she did not like sitting on the ground as he and Ned did. Suddenly there was the shifting of material as she gathered up her dress. A few seconds later her should brushed up against his as she settled down on the ground, her back pressed up against the Weirwood tree. “The Night’s Watch brothers attacked her and Ser Gerold.”
He stiffened slightly, in anger and concern, before it immediately gave way to relief. “If she writes, then they must have failed.”
“Rather embarrassingly, by all accounts. She says that Ser Alliser Thorne fought with them, and that together the three of them and her dragons managed to fend off the attackers.”
“We cannot afford to send any men to her aid.”
“And she cannot return to Winterfell – she fears she is too far gone with child now.”
“She will need a Maester then,” he mused.
“You shall certainly not be going.”
He turned toward Catelyn, unable to see her but knowing already that she was cowering under his gaze. “I am sure you do not mean to give me orders, as though I was still your Maester, Catelyn.”
“Aemon, you are a hundred and one name days. You cannot run around the North as though you are only twenty name days. We shall send Marwyn.”
“And who will act as his escort?”
“Ser Rodrik.”
“Ser Rodrik and Marwyn are only two men. No, that will not do.”
“Ser Rodrik and Marwyn are less likely to find themselves getting into trouble than you and Ser Barristan.”
“I am also a Targaryen,” he said quietly. “Write back to Daenerys. Tell her to send Rhaegal to me - he will respond to me, I think. Once he arrives, Ser Barristan and I shall travel to the Wall with him and once I am safely there, I will send Benjen back to Winterfell and then onto Moat Cailin.”
Catelyn did not reply but he could hear her shifting slightly and knew she was fiddling with her hands – likely clenching her hands together and twiddling her fingers around each other. It was something she had always done, as long as he had known her.
“Will you tell me what this is really about?”
“I’ve never been in Winterfell without you,” came the soft reply. “Even when I came North all those years ago, you were by my side. I have never run Winterfell by myself. Even when Ned has travelled, or when he went South, I have had you.”
“I may have been here, but I have not needed to advise you in a long time, Catelyn,” he murmured. “You are very much your mother’s and father’s daughter. You seek my advice to confirm your own assessment is correct, rather than because you need it. I am in no doubt you will more than rise to the occasion. But, perhaps, if you are worried you could ask Sansa for her help.”
Catelyn made a thoughtful noise and then said, “perhaps I ought to. It would do her good and I fear that she is far too naïve. Perhaps this would help.”
He turned slightly and, even though he could not see her, he could feel the weight of Catelyn’s gaze on him. “She’s not Lyanna.”
“I know.”
“Yet you worry.”
“I fear Sansa is turning Jon’s parentage into a romance that she should aspire to – only without such a tragic ending,” Catelyn said softly. “She dreams of duty. But she dreams of love more. Love and princes and knights.”
“Will you take some advice?”
“Always.”
“Let her be a girl, Catelyn. You say, she dreams love and duty – show her what that duty is. Show her how to be Lady of her own Keep, and how to build friendships with other Lords and Ladies and all that comes with it; the responsibility, the privilege and the love it earns you when it is done right.”
“You think it will work?”
“I think what Sansa wants, more than anything else, is to make you proud. She knows you despair of Arya – yes you love her, of course you do. But we all despair of Arya sometimes. And Sansa is young. She sees you despair of Arya, her clothes, her chaos and her wish to be a knight and she strives to be the opposite – to be the daughter you wish Arya was. She wishes to make you proud.”
“I don’t think that about Arya and I am proud of both of them.”
“I know,” he replied gently. He raised his hand and groped out until he could clasp Catelyn’s tightly. “You cannot give Arya what she wants – you are not a swordsman. But you sought out someone who could help her, in Ser Gerold. Give Sansa what she wants – the opportunity to make you proud and use that to show her the sort of life she should aspire to have. She’s still young. She’ll listen to you, and by showing her the life you have built with Ned I am sure you will be able to convince her that duty is just as important as love – even more so when it comes to marriage.”
“Very well. I just hope you are right.”
“Sansa is not Lyanna, Catelyn,” he murmured. He squeezed her hand tightly again before he loosened his grip, although he did not pull away for Catelyn was holding his hand just as tightly. “I imagine the true reason she has glorified what happened with Lyanna and Rhaegar is because she cannot comprehend the truth. Give her something else to aspire to – to stop her getting lost in dreams and fantasies.”
“Will you take Arya with you?” Catelyn said quietly, a few moments later. “She grows restless and unhappy here without Ser Gerold and Daenerys. It does her no good to be cooped up here like a prisoner and if you believe the Wall to be safe for Daenerys and for you, then I trust it will be safe for her.”
He nodded, his eyes still closed. “Yes. I’ll take Nymeria as well. No harm will come to them, I promise.”
Catelyn huffed out a noise and he could feel her settle down further against the tree as she sought to get comfortable. “You do not need to promise to take care of my children, Aemon. I trust you with their lives. I always have.”
**
He was dreaming.
The man next to him was dead – no matter what Osha had said. He could not possibly be alive, for if he was he would be well over a hundred and twenty name days. And yet...yet it felt so real. If this was a dream it was not like any dream he had experienced before. Snow brushed against his cheeks as he walked and, in the sky above, tens of thousands of ravens soared – using the wind to carry themselves so they did not even need to flap their wings.
He stopped walking and took a moment to watch them as the ravens turned as one and followed the man he had been following further into the blizzard. Next to him, his companion sighed softly and also stopped walking. Then, when Aemon started walking, the man began walking again.
“You never liked me,” the man said, long after the silence between them have begun to grow from mildly uncomfortable to oppressive. “I never liked you either. I am not quite sure why we disliked each other – I suppose the why so often fades with age.”
“I suppose that we disliked each other is something,” he replied. “Mutual dislike is far more palatable than to like someone who dislikes you, I have found.”
The man let out a throaty chuckle. “I do not think you have ever met a man, woman or child, who you could not convince to love you, Aemon.”
He did not reply to comment that felt more like a scalding than a compliment and instead asked, “is this a dream?”
“In a way,” the man replied. “You are asleep, of course. You have been for several hours now. I am as well. I sleep so often these days. But this is not a dream.”
They fell silent again and kept walking.
He sped up slightly, taking a small amount of joy in the fact that his legs moved faster than they had in years, until he was a bit closer to the man he had been following. He stared at him as he drew level, for he had not expected to see such a face under the heavy furs of the hood of the cloak. The boy – for he truly was more boy than man – had fuzzy brown hair all over his cheeks and chin and wide, grey eyes and a long, solemn face. He seemed not to notice Aemon as he kept walking and so, as surprised as Aemon was to realise he was following a Stark, he managed to get ahead of Aemon again. Long, elegant steps carried him further into the blizzard as Aemon froze, staring at the man’s back.
His companion reappeared at his side and together they started walking again.
If Aemon had been in his real body and not in a dream, he would never have been able to keep up and, more importantly, would also not have been able to see where he was going. Yet, he could see. He could see the heavy snowflakes that fell from the sky, the ravens that cawed overhead and he could see the back of young man in front of him – a Stark – as he disappeared into the blizzard. But why was he dreaming of a Stark he did not know?
“It had to be a Stark.”
“Do you read minds now as well as your cheap tricks in making the eyes on the Weirwood move?” He asked sharply, turning toward Brynden Rivers.
“And now I remember why I always disliked you as a child. Sharp. Cutting. Arrogant. So, like your father in so many ways,” the man murmured. “You dislike the comparison, of course. Yet it does not mean it is not true.”
“And I disliked you as you always spoke in riddles and of things you ought not to know,” he replied. “Why did it have to be a Stark?”
“Magic.”
“Of course,” he muttered.
Together they kept walking. They followed the boy, the Stark, for what felt like hours and yet, despite the wind whipping around their faces and the heavy snowfall, Aemon did not feel the cold. In fact, he could not feel anything – not the cold, not the snow falling onto him and not the ache that he should have felt in his bones. Nonetheless, he tightened his cloak around himself and huddled down into the thick fur of the hood.
Eventually in the far distance, he could see mountain ranges through the snow. They loomed high above them, casting the ground beneath them into shadow. The raven’s cawed loudly and began to flap their wings properly and, within moments, were lost into the snowstorm. He squinted in the direction they had vanished and took half a step forward as though to follow but found himself unable to move that way and instead his feet made him follow the Stark.
“Where are they going?”
“They are going to wait for us,” came the reply. “This story is not for their ears.”
He hummed and let his feet carry him in the direction the Stark had taken. They walked in silence for an age. Eventually they walked between the mountains – cutting a path straight through that Aemon had not even been able to see before and, quite without knowing how, he realised that the land around them was changing, even as they walked, as though to make the journey easier for them.
Suddenly the Stark stopped, and Aemon nearly ran into him. He stumbled slightly but managed to catch himself – not that he was sure he could fall in this dream for his movements did not feel quite right. He gathered his wits quickly and cast his eyes around, squinting against the heavy snowfall as he tried to make out the shapes appearing in the distance.
Around them, icy walls suddenly shot up into the air and arched overhead creating a domed hall that must have been a hundred feet high. He glanced up, watching as the last of the snow fell, and then around. His eyes skimmed over the icy walls taking in the ornate ice crystal decorations, the white and blue flames in brackets on the sides and then the dais in the middle of the room.
He took half a step back without meaning to as his body reacted to what his eyes were seeing. On the dais, at least a meter above the ground, stood something he had only ever read about in the eldest books in Winterfell and the Citadel and, despite how many times he had seen the drawings of them, it looked almost nothing like he expected. The drawings had not done it justice, not at all.
The Other was tall and gaunt, with cheek bones sharp enough to cut glass, and was possibly the whitest creature that Aemon had ever seen. It was the colour of fresh snow – so pale and yet so bright that it hurt Aemon’s eyes to look at it for too long. It was strangely beautiful in a way that set him on edge and made him think they were not quite normal, not even by the standards of magic. Even the distance away that Aemon was, he could feel the cold radiating off the Other. Abruptly, he took another step back as he realised this was the first time all dream that he had felt anything.
As though sensing him, the Other turned slightly away from the Stark and toward him. Its bright blue eyes rested on him for half a second – and Aemon had the strangest sense that the creature knew he was there – before it turned away again.
“He’s beautiful,” he breathed. He clamped his mouth shut instantly, not knowing where the words had come from.
“He is ice made flesh. Just as dragons are fire made flesh. A gift from the Gods to those who do what no other can.”
He did not reply and watched the boy in front of him carefully. The Stark took a step forward and Aemon instantly moved as well, heading around to the side so he could watch the exchange properly. The boy raised his hands in front of him – almost as though to show he was not armed – and then began to speak. Aemon was not as familiar with the Old Tongue as he, perhaps, should be...but even with his limited understanding he knew what was being said.
“He is apologising?”
“As he should.”
He cast a quick glance at his companion, but the other man’s attention was fixed on the Stark and the Other.
The creature said something, it’s voice like ice cracking across the frozen lake. Whatever was said, the Stark seemed to understand for he nodded and held out his arm. The creature stared at him for a moment before its head cocked to the side and then, slowly, stuck out its own arm and the two grasped each other’s forearms for a moment. Then the boy said something, too quiet for Aemon to hear, and the creature smiled sharply – exposing ice-white teeth that shined like the diamonds that Aemon had only ever seen in King’s Landing – and the inclined his head.
The boy turned away from the Other, presenting his back to the creature in a way that conveyed complete trust, and left the hall without another glance.
“Brandon Stark,” Brynden murmured as the scene around them began to fade and his voice became so distant that Aemon knew he was about to wake up. “The first Stark.”
Interlude: 292 AC – Aemon Targaryen
“I HATE YOU!”
The door slammed shut behind Jon before Aemon had even fully risen to his feet. He sighed and ran a hand down his face and settled back into the chair by the fireplace. He felt older than he had in years, as though suddenly his age was catching up with him – nipping at his heels like a puppy that was determined not to be ignored. His eyes fixed on the flickering flames and the dragon egg contained within. He had hoped that the presence of the egg might have made the truth easier for Jon to hear – pairing the good with the bad, but clearly he had not appreciated just how hurt Jon would be.
“Aemon?”
He glanced toward the door, surprised that the person stood in the doorway had managed to open it without him hearing them. “Ned.”
“May I?”
He gestured toward the armchair opposite himself and waited whilst Ned closed the door and settled down opposite him.
“He will understand,” he said softly. “In time, he will understand why it had to be this way.”
Ned heaved out a sigh and closed his eyes. Aemon took a moment to observe him, taking in the dark hair that was starting to grey at the roots and the lines around the man’s eyes and lips – Ned was aging, and it made Aemon realise just how much the last few years had taken their toll on everyone.
Whilst he had been so mindful that age was catching up with him, he had failed to notice that it had likewise begun to sink its teeth into Ned. He had long known they did not have forever – not if they wished to bring Daenerys and Viserys home – but the knowledge that Ned was no longer a young man either made for an uncomfortable realisation.
“I wish it did not have to be this way,” Ned breathed. His eyes were still closed, but Aemon knew that it was not because he did not care about what they were discussing, but rather because Ned was worried that the statement had disappointed Aemon and he could not bear to see it in his eyes.
“So do I,” he murmured. “I wish Lyanna had trusted me more. I wish that she had lived. I wish Aerys had never been King. I wish that Egg had never gone to Summerhall.” He paused and whispered, “most of all I wish that Egg had never been King.”
Ned opened his eyes and gave Aemon a long, piercing look. “Do you ever wish it had been you? That you had taken the throne?”
“No.” The words had come out before he could even fully process what he had been asked. He met Ned’s eyes again and sighed. “No. I do not wish I had taken the throne.” It was the truth because, no matter how much he thought that House Targaryen and House Stark might never have suffered under Aerys had Aemon taken the throne, there was always a chance something worse might have happened once Aemon had passed – indeed, he might have passed sooner than he otherwise had. “There will always be those who wish to be King yet should never be allowed such power. If it was not Aerys, it would have been someone else...eventually. And whoever it was, they may have been worse than my great-nephew.”
“I feel the same,” Ned whispered. “I see Lyanna’s face every night, as I see father and Rickard. I miss them. But I know that if you had been King and all that had happened to House Stark in the years before my father died had stayed the same, I might not have the family I do today. I would not have Cat. I would not have my children. Benjen would not have Janna or Helaena. And we would not have you.” Ned was silent for a moment and the murmured, “as much as I wish it did not have to be this way...I fear what the alternative might have been.”
He nodded in understanding. “It is a horrible thing, Ned, to think of what you wish had happened and know that, even if it had, your life might be worse off for it.”
“I don’t know how to live with it. How do I live with myself for mourning them and yet being grateful for the life I have now?”
“I do not know.”
They settled into silence after that. When the last embers in the fireplace began to dull slightly indicating how late in the night it was, Ned finally rose to his sleep and crossed over to press a brief kiss to Aemon’s brown. His hand lingered on Aemon’s shoulder for a moment, and Aemon raised up his own hand to grasp Ned’s for a second before he let it go.
“Goodnight, Aemon.”
“Goodnight, Ned,” he whispered as the door shut behind the man.
He did not sleep that night and, in fact, did not even bother leaving the comfort of his chair.
When the knock came shortly after sunrise the next morning, he rose carefully to his feet and pottered over to the door. He opened it carefully and smiled softly at Jon as his nephew struggled under the weight of a tray heavy with porridge and bacon and a jug full of watered wine.
“I’m sorry, uncle.”
“Oh, Jon," he sighed. "There is nothing to forgive.”