Game of Thrones White Wolf

Chapter 216 218: Aemon’s Wish

The Wall was quiet for once—no howling wind—just snow drifting down like silent ghosts, coating the black cloaks of the Night's Watch until every man looked half-buried.

"If only Jon were still here," Lord Commander Jeor Mormont said, watching a line of wounded brothers being carried past on stretchers. "The Wall would never have come to this. We should've kept those wildlings north of it where they belong."

The small, gray-eyed envoy beside him offered a gentle smile. "Lord Commander, if the Duke had stayed at the Wall, the South would be in chaos right now. We can't exactly protect a kingdom ruled by a bastard boy, can we?"

Mormont sighed. "Aye… the realm can't seem to do without him."

These days the Night's Watch had been reduced to little more than scouts for Robb Stark's army. Their only real job was slipping beyond the Wall to count wildling bands and send word south so the King in the North could ride out and stop them. It left a sour taste in a lot of brothers' mouths. They weren't growing their own food anymore; supplies poured in from the South without end. It didn't feel honorable.

Mormont and the envoy made their way to Maester Aemon's chambers. A plump young man in black opened the door—more scholar than soldier, with the same soft, bookish air as the Citadel's novices.

"Lord Commander," the boy said.

"Sam." Mormont gave him a nod. He still remembered the day Samwell Tarly had first arrived at the Wall: round as a sausage, soft as apple pie, and scared of his own shadow. The boy had toughened up nicely. These days he handled most of the maester's duties. With a little more training he might even be fit to travel south to the Citadel one day.

Mormont glanced sideways at the envoy. The man carried royal seals and spoke with royal authority; there was no question of his credentials. His orders, though, were strange. He had come to take old Maester Aemon south. The Crown claimed the elderly maester had served the realm faithfully for more than fifty years and deserved to spend his final days in comfort.

It went against the spirit of the Night's Watch vows, but Aemon Targaryen was no ordinary brother. A man of his ancient blood had given half a century to the Wall. Anyone with a shred of decency hated the thought of the old man dying alone in the snow and ice.

Mormont had already agreed. Now they were here to break the news to Aemon himself.

Sam led them inside.

The old maester looked exactly as he always did—wispy white hair, pale pink scalp showing through, blind eyes turned sightlessly toward the ceiling. You could never quite tell if he was awake or asleep.

But he was awake. His hearing was still razor-sharp. The moment he sensed people approaching, a faint, odd little smile touched his lips.

"Maester Aemon, the Lord Commander is here to see you," Sam said gently.

"Ah, Lord Mormont."

Even after all these years, Aemon still used the respectful title with everyone. He had every right to speak plainly—he was the oldest living soul on the Wall—but he never did.

"Maester Aemon," Mormont began.

"Hm? The Lord Commander brought a guest?"

Despite being blind, Aemon had already caught the faint southern scent on the visitor's clothes.

The envoy stepped forward with polished courtesy. "Maester Aemon, I am Petyr Baelish, sent by Her Grace the Queen. We wish to escort you from the Wall. You are the last of the Targaryen line and have served the Seven Kingdoms for more than fifty years. His Grace, in his mercy, grants you leave to return south and live out your final days in comfort."

Sam's face lit up with instant joy for his mentor, though a flicker of sadness crossed it too—he still had so much left to learn from the gentle old man.

Mormont watched Aemon closely. He expected the maester to refuse. When the Targaryen dynasty fell, Aemon had been heartbroken yet stayed at his post. Why would he leave now?

Still, Mormont felt he should at least try to persuade him. "No one would think less of you for going, Maester. Fifty years of service is more than any man could ask. The Watch would honor it."

Aemon was quiet for a long moment. The only sound was the soft creak of the floorboards under their boots.

Finally the old man spoke. "Ah, Ser Petyr… please thank His Grace for the kindness. In all the long history of the Night's Watch, few have served longer than I. My life is nearly spent. Sam, do you remember how Jon put it? 'Burn bright.' I would like to spend whatever light I have left right here on the Wall."

He refused, politely but firmly.

Mormont had expected it. He tried once more, assuring Aemon that no stain would touch his honor, but the old maester's mind was made up.

Petyr, however, had not come all this way to fail. Taking Aemon south was his ticket back to real power. A man as ambitious and ruthless as Littlefinger was not about to let the chance slip.

He leaned in and whispered a few quick words to Mormont. The Lord Commander nodded, then motioned for Sam to step outside with him.

Once they were alone, Petyr sat down across from the blind maester.

"Ser Petyr," Aemon said with dry humor, "these old bones of mine might fall apart on the road. Are you truly set on dragging me back?"

Petyr smiled. "Maester Aemon… the truth is, the Crown does not truly wish to bring you south for a peaceful retirement."

"Oh?" The blunt honesty caught Aemon by surprise.

"Do you know of the Dragon Queen, Daenerys?"

"Daenerys… Rhaegar's sister." Aemon's voice was soft. He had given up his own claim to the throne for the good of the family; that did not mean he had stopped loving them. He had quietly celebrated every new Targaryen birth. He knew the bloodlines—Rhaegar's children, Aerys the Mad's line. He had always hoped Rhaegar would become the next Jaehaerys the Conciliator.

"Yes. Rhaegar's sister. Maester Aemon, the dragons have returned. Daenerys hatched the stone eggs. She rules Slaver's Bay and has raised the Targaryen banners once more. Your family is rising again."

"What!" The strange little smile vanished from Aemon's face, replaced by raw shock. "The dragons live?!"

"I have only heard the tales, but if they were false, how does a girl of sixteen or seventeen command such loyalty? Merchants from the east swear they have seen the beasts with their own eyes. Smoke from the east has reached the west—proof that the skies there are already burning. The new Duke of Casterly Rock—you know him—kept King Stannis from losing even Dragonstone. Yet now Stannis sits the Iron Throne and rules nothing but a ruin. His authority cannot compare to the three-hundred-year weight of House Targaryen. The Crown wants you taken south simply to hold a hostage."

"A hostage…" Aemon murmured, the pieces falling into place.

"Maester, I am a plain man who craves power and position. I will be rewarded handsomely for bringing you back. But you… you should return to King's Landing. You said yourself your time is short. If the Dragon Queen sails west and restores your house, you could close your eyes knowing the Targaryens sit the throne again. Even if you do not live to see it, you would hear the news sooner, hear the roar of dragons while you still draw breath."

Aemon's heart stirred.

To see the day House Targaryen returned to Westeros… He knew he would never live that long, but to hear a dragon's roar, to hear a queen's command before he died—that would be enough.

Slowly the old maester turned his blind face until it pointed straight at Petyr. "Ser Petyr," he said quietly, "you are an honest man."

The news that Maester Aemon was leaving the Wall could not be kept secret from Alliser Thorne. He still remembered the task Jon had given him.

Mormont tried to soften the blow for the men, claiming the old maester's health had failed and the Watch wished to honor his half-century of service by sending him south for proper care.

Most brothers understood the old man would never return, but the older veterans—those who had served ten or twenty years—did not begrudge him. Few men in Westeros even reached fifty.

Alliser, however, took the raven Jon had left him and prepared to send word south at once.

Jon learned of it quickly. He didn't need to guess why the Crown suddenly cared about a blind old maester. In the original timeline he had smuggled Aemon away to keep Melisandre from burning him. Now his own warning about Euron's blood magic had given the queen the same idea.

He was debating whether to send word to the Manderlys at White Harbor to intercept the ship when the Citadel suddenly issued a public appeal to every lord in the Seven Kingdoms.

The Citadel demanded that the Iron Throne respect Maester Aemon, who had served the realm faithfully for fifty years, and not strip him of his life without cause. They also demanded the Citadel itself be shown proper respect.

Stannis Baratheon faced the first true public-relations crisis of his reign.

Handle it wrong, and the Iron Throne would turn the entire realm against him.