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Chapter 03
Out For Karma: Game Of Thrones by Hrist_Waltz
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Chapter 03
The week in Castle Black passed quickly for Aemon. He spent his time helping his uncle in his duties and listening to stories from his youth. Maester Aemon often spoke of his time at the Citadel, recounting tales of Aegon the Unlikely and the towering figure of Ducan the Tall. These stories were like whispers of another world to Aemon, who had grown up far removed from the politics of kings and lords. When they weren't talking about the past, the two discussed a wide range of topics—everything from the mysteries of magic and dragons to the history of Valyria, the strange plants of the North, and the science behind healing and agriculture. It was a deep well of knowledge, and Aemon drank from it eagerly, fascinated by the breadth of his uncle's experiences and wisdom.
But as all things must, Aemon's stay at the Wall came to an end. The Lord Commander received a raven from his sister, agreeing to foster Aemon as he had proposed. Though the letter made no direct mention of his true identity, Jeor Mormont, with his years of sharp instincts, warned Aemon that his sister would likely deduce who he was soon enough. Still, the Lord Commander was confident that his sister would keep that knowledge to herself, understanding the delicate balance that came with harboring the prince.
Aemon thanked the Lord Commander for his hospitality, feeling a deep sense of gratitude for the old man's kindness. When the time came to part ways, Maester Aemon simply pulled him into a hug. It was an awkward moment for Aemon, who stiffened at the unfamiliar warmth, but the old maester couldn't help but notice.
"Not used to hugs?" Maester Aemon asked with a soft chuckle.
"I don't remember ever experiencing it. It's... strange. But nice," Aemon replied, his voice quiet as he processed the gesture, a feeling he hadn't known he'd been missing.
"You'll have plenty more one day, I do not doubt it," Maester Aemon said with a wise smile, squeezing him gently before pulling away.
"If you say so," Aemon muttered, unsure but willing to believe in the possibility.
"I say so," Maester Aemon repeated with a wink, making Aemon smirk despite himself.
As they walked toward the lift that would take them up to the top of the Wall, Aemon was accompanied by a group of black brothers who were heading west to the Shadow Tower. The journey would take them four to five days on mules, and from there, another twenty days by boat, hugging the coast. Although the trip was long and uneventful, it offered Aemon plenty of time to read through the small collection of books his uncle had given him from his personal library. These books had become a comfort to Maester Aemon, now almost blind, and he'd read them so many times that he was glad to pass them along to his nephew. When he wasn't reading, Aemon took the opportunity to train with a sword. The black brothers had suggested it, a way to keep warm during the long, cold journey, and Aemon welcomed the chance to hold a sword again.
His footwork, honed over years of practice, quickly impressed his traveling companions. Although his actual skill with the blade wasn't remarkable, his ability to move with precision and grace was undeniable. The black brothers were astonished at how quickly Aemon adapted, and by the middle of the journey, they were amazed by his ability to handle himself in a fight. In gratitude for their help, Aemon took on the task of cooking their meals whenever they stopped at the shore for the night.
Finally, they arrived at their destination—Bear Island. The welcoming party was not composed of guards but of armed women, a fact that piqued Aemon's curiosity. He had heard of the women of Bear Island, who had learned to fight in defense of their home against the ironborn and wildlings when the men were away at sea. However, what surprised him more was the lack of guards altogether. The women seemed to simply be going about their work, armed and prepared for any attack.
Aemon followed the lead recruiter to Mormont Keep, the seat of House Mormont. The keep itself was not made of stone but of wood, an architectural style that struck Aemon as both beautiful and symbolic of the harsh, wild nature of the North. They passed through a set of large wooden doors adorned with a carving of a woman holding a baby at her breast in one hand and a battle-axe in the other. Inside, they made their way to the hall where a stout, gray-haired woman sat at the high table, busy with paperwork. The recruiter gave his respects, and after a brief exchange, left Aemon behind.
Aemon stood before the woman, who was none other than Jeor Mormont's sister. Though she was small in stature, her presence was formidable, and her sharp eyes quickly assessed the prince before her. Aemon was no fool—he knew she was as much a keeper of secrets as her brother, and he would need to be cautious about what he revealed. But for now, he had no choice but to wait for her judgment.
The lady, as Aemon understood, studied him in silence for a moment, her sharp eyes assessing him as if weighing the very air around him. After a long pause, her patience seemed to wear thin.
"Well, what's your name, boy?" she asked, her voice tinged with amusement and challenge.
Aemon raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a half-smile. "What's yours?"
She gave him a look that might have reduced a lesser man to dust. "You come into my home to be fostered, and you don't even know the name of your host?"
Aemon's smirk widened. "The old grumpy bear never mentioned your name. He just said you were a hoary old snark, stubborn, short-tempered, willful, and sharp. Though, I can't tell if that's from the heart or if he just accidentally sat on his freezing balls and was pissed off."
To his surprise, the lady burst into a hearty laugh, the sound filling the room with warmth and life. Her eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint. "Knowing my brother, it's probably both," she said, grinning widely. "I'm Maege Mormont, Lady of Bear Island."
"Well met, Lady Maege," Aemon replied, bowing his head slightly in a gesture of respect, though his tone was more casual than reverent.
Maege raised an eyebrow, her lips twisting into a wry smile. "Still not telling me your name?"
Aemon leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "Your brother told me that in the North, you get what you earn, and you haven't earned my name yet."
Maege's eyes flickered with a flash of irritation, one eyebrow twitching ever so slightly. "Did he now?" she asked, her tone laced with a hint of challenge.
"Aye, but fuck your brother," Aemon replied with a shrug, his voice cool and unconcerned. "He's the one who sent me here, after all. I'm Rick."
The moment the name left his lips, a flicker of suspicion crossed Maege's face, but she hid it well, her smile not faltering. "Welcome to Bear Island, Rick Snow," she said, her voice laced with dry humor.
Aemon stiffened at the mention of the surname. "Not Snow. Just Rick."
Maege chuckled darkly, crossing her arms as she regarded him with amusement. "Ain't no way you're not a Snow. You look too much like Ned Stark in his youth to not be of Stark blood. Though, truth be told, I don't give a shit. If I was a betting woman, I'd say you're Brandon's bastard."
Aemon's expression didn't change. "Doesn't matter much, does it?"
Maege's grin widened. "Nay. But I do wonder why you're here and not in Winterfell. Surely your… 'family' would want you there, if you were truly one of them."
Aemon's jaw tightened for a moment, but he kept his voice level. "Being the bastard son of Lord Stark's elder brother could cause all kinds of problems. Especially with the trout and all being betrothed to Brandon. The southerners and their fucking gods…" He trailed off, shrugging as if the whole matter were unimportant to him.
Maege's eyes glinted with understanding, and she nodded slowly. "True. Not from Ned, at least. But the trout would probably raise a fuss. The southern lords and their damn gods…" she muttered, rolling her eyes in disdain. "So that's that, I suppose."
Aemon tilted his head slightly, studying her with quiet intensity. "Except you're not Brandon's, are you, lad?"
Maege's words hung in the air for a long moment, but Aemon didn't flinch. He simply held her gaze, the silence stretching between them. "You said it, not me," he replied coolly. "Honestly, I don't really care who my father is."
Maege blinked, her mouth curling into a crooked smile. "Never thought I'd hear a prince say he didn't care about his kingly father."
Aemon gave no outward reaction to Maege's comment. He didn't flinch or offer any sort of response beyond a silent look. His eyes were steady, almost bored.
"You're not surprised I figured you out?" Maege continued, watching him carefully.
Aemon allowed a small, almost imperceptible smile to tug at his lips. "Not really. Grumpy Bear said you were sharp. I've got good clothes, no bastard could normally afford that. My speech is educated, and I don't have a northern accent. It wasn't hard to figure out."
Maege chuckled again, her laughter low and full of amusement. "Yeah, too smart to be Brandon's boy. I'll give you that."
Aemon, sensing a shift in the conversation, leaned forward slightly. "What are my duties here?" he asked, eager to move past the personal questions.
Maege indulged him with a smirk as she began listing the few chores he'd have to do around the keep. It sounded simple enough: helping where needed, fixing things, cooking meals, and occasionally hunting. As she spoke, Aemon found himself more intrigued by what he would be expected to learn. There would be time for training and lessons with a maester, though Aemon insisted he didn't need the latter. Maege, however, remained firm, much to his irritation. She would not relent, but he finally conceded—on the condition that he would be allowed to write to his uncle at the Wall. Maege agreed without hesitation, and with a gesture, she led him to his room.
Aemon paused as he entered, surveying the small but cozy space. The floorboards creaked with age, and the room smelled of wood and warmth. A thick fur rug lay over the bed, offering comfort against the cold. He was most pleased by the small window that gave him a glimpse of the wild landscape outside, a view he had never had in the Red Keep. In this quiet room, far from the politics and intrigue of the capital, he felt a strange sense of peace.
Turning toward Maege, he gave her a simple but sincere thanks.
"Don't thank me yet," she said with a sly smile. "Soon enough, you'll want to head back south."
Aemon smiled back, his tone unconcerned. "I doubt it."
He dropped his travel bag onto the bed, the familiar weight of his sword still hanging by his side. "So, where do I start, my lady?"
Maege raised an eyebrow, the corners of her lips curling upward. "Oh, it's my lady now?"
Aemon smirked, his voice dripping with playful sarcasm. "I can use the expletives your brother used, if you prefer."
Maege's eyes flashed with a mix of amusement and challenge. "Cheeky brat, aren't you? I wonder how long that'll last after a round in the yard."
Aemon's response was cool, his voice steady as stone. "As long as I breathe."
Maege's grin widened, almost predatory. "Oh, really? Let's test that."
With that, she turned and led him outside to the small yard adjacent to the keep. The ground beneath their boots crunched with the weight of frost, and the wind howled over the barren landscape. Maege gestured toward the weapons rack and instructed Aemon to choose his armament. She herself picked up a blunted morningstar, the heavy head of the weapon swaying slightly in her grip as she took her position.
Aemon hesitated, unsure of how best to approach the spar. He was still unfamiliar with the intricacies of sword and shield, and his swordsmanship was little more than a patchwork of self-taught lessons from his youth. After a moment of contemplation, he opted to forgo the shield, the thought of it interfering with his balance nagging at him.
"No shield?" Maege asked, her voice casual but curious.
"I don't have experience with one," Aemon replied, stepping into a ready stance. "I'm not sure how it would affect my balance, especially since wielding a blade is still... relatively new to me."
Maege's eyes sharpened with interest. "No one taught you how to fight?"
Aemon's jaw tightened slightly at the question. "Not really," he said, his voice a little quieter now. "Had to teach myself how to use knives and daggers. The little I know with the sword is from my early years and the time spent traveling."
Maege's brow furrowed as she processed this information. She had no doubt of his identity—he was the prince. That was no secret. What was a secret, however, was why he had left for the Wall and now found himself here on Bear Island. She had a million questions swirling in her mind, but she didn't care to press him for answers just yet. She was content to let time reveal them, knowing that answers would come when Aemon was ready to share them.
Instead, she raised her arm with the morningstar and swung it at his head. Aemon, swift as a shadow, dropped low to the ground, letting the weapon sail over his head. He didn't simply avoid the blow—he immediately moved to the offensive, rushing forward with a burst of speed. His blade cut through the air, aiming for her midsection.
Maege, taken off guard by his decisiveness, jumped back just in time to avoid the slash. She hadn't expected a counterattack so quickly, and certainly not with such aggression.
Aemon didn't give her time to recover. He pressed forward, his footwork quick and precise. He delivered a swift kick to her leg, making her wince, but it wasn't enough to knock her off balance. Maege swung her morningstar again, aiming for Aemon's head once more. This time, she wasn't aiming to strike—she was looking to create space between them. Her weapon arced through the air, forcing Aemon to retreat a few steps.
"Not bad," Maege grunted, her voice tinged with respect.
"Not bad?" Aemon said with a raised brow. "Had I more strength in my legs, I would've broken your knee. You'd have been at my mercy."
Maege chuckled darkly, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead. "Perhaps. But let's see what you can really do."
Aemon's eyes glinted with a challenge. "Good. I wouldn't want you to go easy on me."
With that, Maege closed the gap between them, swinging her morningstar with calculated force. Aemon parried the blow with the flat of his blade, the jarring impact sending a shiver up his arm. He used the momentum to spin to the side, repositioning himself to strike from a better angle.
Maege's eyes narrowed as she watched him, appreciating the skill in his movements. "You've got spirit, I'll give you that."
Aemon didn't respond, his focus locked on the fight. His movements were sharper now, more precise. The rhythm of the spar became faster, the clash of their weapons ringing in the cold air. Despite his lack of formal training, Aemon's instincts guided him well, and Maege couldn't help but admire his tenacity.
"You're good," she said, more impressed than she cared to admit. "But that's not enough. Not in the North. Not when it's the difference between life and death."
Aemon's response was cool, almost detached. "I'm learning. And I'll keep learning."
Maege regarded him with a new respect, the smirk never leaving her face. "We'll see, lad. We'll see."
And with that, the spar continued. Each blow and counter brought them closer to the truth of each other, but for now, that truth remained locked away—unspoken and hidden beneath layers of deflection and training. Time, Maege knew, would eventually reveal it all.
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For the next hour, Maege grew more serious with each exchange, and Aemon could sense the change in her approach. Her movements became sharper, more deliberate, as she tested his limits. He responded in kind, his footwork as precise as ever, dodging each strike she aimed his way with an effortless fluidity that spoke to years of training and instinct. With every swing of her morningstar, Aemon remained just a step ahead, never staying in one place for long enough to be caught. When the opportunity arose, he would counterattack with cold precision, targeting key pressure points and weak spots in her stance.
Maege noticed the careful thought behind each of his strikes. He didn't aim for vital points, the kind of blows that would end a fight instantly. Instead, he aimed at the joints—the ankles, the knees, the shoulders. The areas where a strike could weaken, disorient, or disable without bringing immediate death. An incapacitated opponent, he understood, was a dead one. This was no ordinary sparring technique; Aemon's understanding of combat was far beyond his years.
She marveled at this, impressed by his ability to think beyond mere strength and aggression. It was clear that he had a tactical mind, one that focused on disabling the enemy rather than overwhelming them. It reminded her of the wolves she'd seen as a girl—ruthless, calculated, and always looking for the quickest way to bring their prey down.
"Not bad," Maege muttered, the challenge in her voice growing more serious as she increased the speed and intensity of her strikes. Her morningstar began to whip through the air with greater force, aiming to break through Aemon's agile defenses. The clash of weapon against weapon echoed through the yard, and soon enough, Aemon found himself struggling to keep up with the increased tempo.
The moment came when Maege's morningstar connected with his sword, sending the blade flying from his grasp. Maege's mind raced, already thinking the fight was over. She stepped back, her gaze sharpening as she watched Aemon. But Aemon, ever resourceful, didn't hesitate for a moment. The second his sword was gone, he drew a knife from his belt and rushed forward with a predatory snarl, attacking without hesitation.