It took a fortnight to reach White Arbor. The winds had not been very good, and the trip took a few more days than average. The time on the boat had not been boring for Aemon, however, as he asked the captain to participate with the sailors' duties. The man had a long look at him, and it was only after Aemon assured him that he wanted to learn how to sail and that it was better than being bored doing nothing that he accepted.
The prince was not given the duties of a cabin boy, not because of his status as no one knew who he was, but because he was a passenger who had paid good coin.
Rich from this new experience, Aemon knew that he would never become a sailor. It was a very repetitive and boring job that he was glad to leave behind when his feet touched the ground of the docks. He had spent the last five years locked up in a room, and spending fourteen days on a boat made him feel the same. Caged. He had his freedom now, something that he wouldn't let anyone take away from him. He was free to go wherever he wanted, do whatever he wanted, and no one could stop him. Despite his curiosity, he didn't linger and explore the market; he needed to go to the Wall first, as was his goal. He went to a city guard patrolling the market and asked where the nearest stable was, spinning a fake tale about his father giving him the task to buy a horse. Varys gave him ten gold dragons, which was more than enough to last at least a decade if he lived as a smallfolk, and it would be a good life.
With the information from the guard, he easily found the stable after a fifteen-minute walk. It wasn't a big stable, but there were at least half a dozen horses, which was enough for him. He examined one after the other, if they looked strong, sturdy, and more importantly healthy. The mounts were not from a good breed, he could tell; some were old and ready to keel over. Putting them down and selling the meat would have been both a mercy for them and a better deal for their owner. It was still summer and had been for five years; sooner rather than later, winter would come, and the coins the owner would get for selling horse meat could be used and invested to make it easier to survive.
In the end, he opted for a black garron, the most healthy of them, and when he turned around, he saw the owner a few feet away leading a man dressed in black. His thick black beard was hiding the features of his face along with his long black hair. He had a sinister air about him, and Aemon could clearly see his twisted left shoulder. The most interesting thing about the man was his cold and hard black eyes.
'A brother of the watch. I guess I'm lucky and maybe won't have to spend my coin.' the prince thought as the two men reached him.
"This is not a place for you, boy. Leave," the owner said rudely.
"I came to buy a horse, but since you're a rude cunt and your selection is shit, I think I'll do that," Aemon replied with narrowed eyes.
He wasn't about to get treated like shit by a man below his station. True, he was no one officially, but in his veins was flowing the blood of a dragon and a wolf. The blood of kings. He didn't like that one bit, but it was what it was.
The stable owner's face flushed with a mix of surprise and anger as he struggled to find words. "Why… you…" He stammered, visibly staggered by the audacity of the young lad speaking to him so insolently. His lips parted as if to say more, but before he could muster a retort, the boy turned sharply, dismissing him entirely.
The boy's gaze shifted to the man dressed in black, his voice cutting through the air like the chill of winter. "You going to the Wall?" A simple question, but one that hung heavy with unspoken meaning, a curiosity masked by an air of indifference.
The black-robed figure regarded him with an unreadable expression, the faintest glimmer of recognition flickering in his eyes. "Aye," he replied, his tone flat and unyielding, as though the very idea of the Wall was something he had long since made peace with. "Why? Willing to join?" His eyes lingered on the lad, a brief spark of interest betraying his otherwise stoic demeanor.
Aemon, the boy, met his gaze with an unwavering calmness, his thoughts hidden behind a mask of cool detachment. "Maybe," he said simply, the word holding more weight than it seemed. His eyes flicked briefly to the stable owner, who stood frozen in his stunned silence, before refocusing on the brother of the Night's Watch, waiting for the man's response.
The black brother looked at the boy in front of him with curiosity. He recognized the Stark's features, long face, dark brown hair, grey eyes so dark they could be almost black. Benjen Stark was one of his brothers at the Wall, a first ranger, and he saw the man often to know what a Stark looked like, and if that wasn't enough, the many encounters he had with Benjen's brother, Eddard "Ned" Stark, the lord of Winterfell and the North, were proof enough of the lad's parentage. Except Benjen had fathered no children, and Ned's children had almost all his wife's looks. The Tully look, red hair and blue eyes. The only one looking like a proper Stark was Ned's second daughter. A daughter, so the lad was clearly not her. That left only one possibility for the man of the watch.
'A Snow.'
He couldn't believe that Ned Stark, the most honourable man in the realm, or at least the North, would have a bastard. Benjen was out; he wouldn't have slept with a woman and discarded her, whether he knew if she was with child or not, and whores were out, it wasn't his style. Lyanna Stark was in King's Landing with her princely children, so it left only one option.
'The wild wolf. I guess he did father a snow after all.'
Brandon Stark had been known to be impulsive, his wolf blood strong. Many women lost their maidenhead to him, from lowborn to highborn, if the rumours about Barbrey Ryswell, now Dustin, were true. Yet, it was believed that despite his wildness, he never sired any bastard. Something that apparently wasn't true if the lad in front of him was any indication.
Rick stood with a quiet intensity, his posture casual yet his words precise. "Would you allow me to travel with you there? I can pay for my own food, and I'm pretty good with knives if needed. Either throwing or stabbing." His eyes met the man's, steady and unwavering, though his tone remained calm, almost matter-of-fact. The offer seemed simple enough, but there was an edge to it, as though Rick wasn't just offering his company, but something more—something the man might find useful.
The man considered him for a moment, his gaze narrowing slightly as he weighed the offer. It wasn't an unreasonable proposition. And from the lad's quiet confidence, he could sense the boy wasn't just boasting. "I don't see why not," he finally muttered, though there was a flicker of something in his eyes—a recognition, perhaps, or a suspicion.
Rick gave a small nod, the barest hint of a smile playing on his lips. "I'm Rick." The introduction was brief, but it felt like a marker in the air, as if this name might soon carry more weight than it seemed.
The man's mind worked quickly, sifting through memories as the name landed. 'Rick, huh… Like Rickard Stark, Brandon's father'. The thought passed through his head in a flash, unbidden but noticeable all the same. He glanced at the lad once more, trying to read something in those eyes. Perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps it was everything.
"Yoren," the man replied simply, offering his name with little fanfare.
Rick didn't seem to expect much more, his focus still on the road ahead. "When do we leave?" he asked, the urgency in his voice slightly sharper now.
Yoren scratched at his jaw thoughtfully, a frown pulling at his lips. "Once I buy a horse." His gaze turned back to the stables, as though the thought of the purchase was the only thing standing between him and the journey.
Aemon nodded and left the stable to wait outside. As he walked, Yoren looked at his back and wondered if he should warn Lord Stark but decided otherwise. If the lad wanted to take the black, there was no need to warn his uncle of his existence. Besides, Benjen was at the Wall, it would be better to deal with him than to deal with his lord brother.
Buying the black garron that Aemon wanted to buy, he led him outside the port city, where the rest of his brothers and the criminals sentenced to the Wall were waiting. He briefly introduced Aemon under his false name and his wish to take the black. To the dissuasive comments the Night Brothers made to him, Aemon was simply silent and ignored them. Yoren saddled his new horse with the carriage containing the criminal and offered the seat next to him to his new travel companion. During their travels, Yoren wondered many times if the lad didn't die from the cold. He had been unmoving and silent the whole way, as if he were a corpse, but looking through his peripheral vision, he saw Aemon's eyes taking everything around him, as if it were the first time he was seeing the North. That puzzled him greatly but he never voiced any question he had.
That wasn't the only thing that got him curious. Aemon's skill with a knife was high, clearly, he had a lot of practice to have such steady and precise hands, wielding the knife as he had done it his whole life. No fur and no meat was wasted from the few rabbits they had caught, or from the fish they got in White Arbor. He kept watching the young boy in silence, his brothers having given up long ago to talk to him as he never answered back unless necessary. Finally, after almost a month of travel, thanks to good weather, they had reached the Wall. Yoren suppressed a grin at the sight of Aemon having stars in his eyes when he saw from up close the Wall. The awe was evident in his travel companion, and he wondered how long it would last before it disappeared. Life at the Wall was more than hard. Duty above all else, never-ending chores while being always alert from the men around you as most of them were criminals, from simple thieves to rapists and murderers.
Passing Castle Black's gates, Yoren led the horse and carriage to the middle of the Yard and saluted his Lord Commander, Jeor Mormont, who was overseeing what his men were doing, as he stood beside Maester Aemon. As always, he wondered how the old man was still alive. He was pushing a hundred name day. At the Wall. Some recruits couldn't even last a year while being in the prime of their life, and the old man was still there. The oldest Night Brother to date and the one who served the longest since the creation of the Watch, 8000 years and so ago. He got out of his seat and landed his feet on the muddy cold ground of the yard. As he turned around to tell the lad what to do, he noticed he was gone. Looking around, he saw him climbing the wooden stairs in the direction of the Lord Commander and the Maester. He was about to call out to him but decided against it, it wasn't his business and he had work to do.
_________________________________________________________
"Not this one, this one," the lad said, his eyes flicking briefly to Maester Aemon, who stood quietly by his side.
That subtle, almost casual revelation made Jeor Mormont do a double-take. His gaze sharpened as he took in the boy, his brow furrowing slightly.
'What the fuck is the second prince doing here? And alone?'
For a moment, the thought was so outlandish that Jeor could scarcely believe it. But the boy's demeanor, and the quiet certainty in his voice, made it clear. This was no simple visitor. This was a prince, and not just any prince—one of the most notable in the realm. The silence hung heavy in the room.
Without wasting another second, Jeor stood, gesturing for the two of them to enter. His mind was racing with a thousand questions, each more urgent than the last. But the overwhelming flood of thoughts left him uncertain—where to begin? What to ask first? He felt like a ship caught in a storm, tossed between conflicting currents.
Just as he was about to speak, Maester Aemon, as always, was the calm in the tempest.
"What are you doing here, nephew?" he asked, his voice soft but tinged with a sharpness that only years of experience could bring.
The young prince gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug before responding in a voice so flat, it was almost as though he were speaking from some great distance.
"I wanted to meet my namesake."
Jeor's eyes narrowed at the words, sensing something deeper beneath the surface. But before he could probe further, the boy continued, his tone unchanging.
"There's more than that," the lad added, his gaze never leaving the floor. "I wanted advice. To see if you shared the opinion of our family. To get to know you... if you didn't."
Aemon's expression grew more somber, and Jeor felt an uncomfortable shift in the air, as if they were veering into treacherous waters.
"What opinion?" Aemon asked, his voice quieter now, more careful.
The prince's eyes lifted, meeting theirs for the first time. His gaze was cold—icy, even—and it sent a chill through both men.
"That I should never have been born," he replied, each word heavy with a gravity that felt entirely too mature for someone so young.
Both older men frowned deeply at his words. They shared a glance, silently questioning what they had just heard. A prince, a child born into such power and privilege, should not carry the burden of such self-doubt. And yet, here he was, speaking of his birth as if it were a curse, not a blessing. But it was the way he said it—disinterested, almost detached—that truly unsettled them. His voice, stripped of emotion, carried a hardness that neither of them liked.
"Why shouldn't you have been?" Maester Aemon asked, his voice filled with a quiet concern.
The prince's lips curled into something like a wry smile, but there was no warmth in it. "Because of the war that tore the realm apart."
Aemon's expression softened, but Jeor couldn't hide the deep frown on his face. It was a strange thing to hear such a confession from the mouth of someone so young, someone who should have only just begun to understand the complexities of his world.
"That wasn't your fault," Maester Aemon said gently.
The prince nodded, but his eyes were cold. "I'm aware. I wasn't even born when it started, but that doesn't mean people aren't blaming me for it."
Jeor's voice broke in, thick with disbelief. "Your father let people say those things?"
The prince's eyes seemed to darken at the mention of his father. A bitter edge crept into his voice. "He couldn't care less. As far as he's concerned, I'm still locked up in my room back in the Red Keep."
"Locked up?" Maester Aemon asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.
The prince's lips tightened, his gaze distant as if recalling a painful memory. "Five years ago, he ordered my... imprisonment. In my room. I defeated Aegon in a spar, and, well... he's a sore loser. When I turned my back, he attacked me. I fought back, just reacting on instinct. I gave him a nasty scar above his eye. It wasn't intentional—I didn't mean to hurt him—but it was enough for the king."
The boy's eyes grew colder still. "I was confined without food or water. No one was allowed to see me until he said otherwise."
Jeor felt his throat tighten, anger rising within him. "That's... monstrous," he muttered, though the prince wasn't finished.
The boy's voice remained level, unfeeling. "Had it not been for a servant who took pity on me... using the secret tunnels of the Red Keep... I would have been dead long ago."
The words hit both men like a sudden gust of cold wind. They were left reeling, their minds struggling to fully grasp the weight of what the prince had just revealed. Neither of them had expected such a confession. They knew the boy wasn't lying—Maester Aemon's keen ears would never miss the truth, and Jeor, after years of experience as a lord and commander, had a sharp instinct for when someone was deceiving him. But this... this was a horrid truth, one they could scarcely fathom.
"Your mother…" Jeor started, his voice faltering for the briefest of moments, unsure whether to pry further.
The prince cut him off with a harsh, almost bitter laugh. "Doesn't care either. Not since she gave birth to Visenya, the king's chosen child."
The words stung, and Jeor's gaze hardened, darkened. There was a cold fury in him now, a deep resentment for the woman he had once known, a woman who had betrayed everything she was supposed to stand for. He had no love for Lyanna Stark, not after what she had done. The North, all of it, hated her—blamed her for the deaths of thousands of men who had fought to free her from the clutches of Rhaegar Targaryen. But in the end, it had been a lie. She had willingly gone with the crown prince, and the North had paid the price for her betrayal. Her father and brother, dead because of her choices, and still, she seemed unrepentant. The thought of her discarding her own son filled him with such fury that for a moment, he wished he could deal with her in the old way, the Northern way.
"What about…?" Jeor began, but his voice trailed off, unsure of how to continue.
"No one." The prince's voice was flat, the words delivered without a hint of emotion. "I saw no one but the servant who risked his life to bring me food for the past five years. They forgot about me. Completely. To the point where no guards were even posted outside my door anymore."