One month later.
North. Wall.
Freezing wind howled. Snow blanketed ground half a foot deep. Biting cold cut right to bone, feeling like dead of winter.
"Prince, this is Castle Black."
Davos wrapped himself in a heavy coat, rubbing his hands together as he led way for Prince.
After a rough journey, they had finally reached Wall.
Daeron exhaled. His warm breath turned into a cold mist, blurring his vision.
Beneath towering Wall, Night's Watch fortress of Castle Black stood right in front of them.
Skreee—!
Caraxes circled in sky, his snake-like body twisting constantly to shake snow off his red scales.
Ever since arriving at Wall, dragon had been restless.
Like a fish thrown onto shore.
Tessarion and Toothless were in even worse shape. Their tempers grew increasingly volatile. They spent most of day curled up together, only calming down slightly when Dragon Guards fed them sheep.
"We can't stay long."
Daeron realized dangers of playing away from home.
Massive gates of Castle Black slowly opened.
Lord Commander of Night's Watch strode out to greet them. "Welcome, Prince Daeron of House Targaryen."
A squad of Night's Watchmen followed, offering hot soup and thick furs.
Daeron was treated with warm hospitality.
After entering Castle Black, Lord Commander expressed his gratitude.
"Thanks to you sending over eight hundred criminals to Wall, Night's Watch has replenished its ranks. We have more manpower to brace for winter."
Pleasantries finished.
Daeron was led to a tower and told person he was looking for was inside.
Creeeak!
Pushing open old wooden door draped in animal skins, latch scraped with a harsh squeal.
Daeron shut door behind him, locking freezing wind outside.
Inside, room was packed with bookshelves and tomes. Wall sconces in corners flickered with weak flames. Smell of burning grease mixed with scent of old parchment, creating a unique vibe.
"Who is it?"
Deep within rows of bookshelves, an old man's soft voice asked, sounding as gentle as someone asking if you'd eaten.
Daeron's Adam's apple bobbed. He couldn't help but feel a flicker of nerves.
He was finally going to meet oldest living Targaryen—his great-grandfather's third older brother, family elder who had stood watch on Wall for decades.
He walked forward slowly.
A silver-haired old man in black robes holding an oil lamp stood up. His large, wrinkled hands felt along desk as he straightened his slightly hunched back.
Daeron stopped a short distance away, quietly watching old man.
He had a full head of silver hair and a gaunt frame. Night's Watch black robe was far too loose on him, but it provided solid insulation, keeping cold at bay.
Old man had his back to him, but suddenly his body stiffened.
Daeron reacted, stepping forward to check on him.
"Child, is that you?"
Maester Aemon spoke, his soft voice turning urgent, like seeing a fire in pitch black.
Daeron was about to answer.
"I know. It must be you."
Maester Aemon didn't turn around. He could already feel shared connection of fire and blood. His tone grew emotional.
They had exchanged letters beforehand, with Daeron promising to visit him at Wall.
Daeron stepped closer, speaking with his youthful voice. "Great-uncle, I came to see you."
"It really is you, child!"
Leaning on his cane, Maester Aemon hurriedly turned around. His heavily wrinkled face was already streaming with tears.
Before Daeron could even get close.
Maester Aemon set down oil lamp and cane—two old friends he relied on to survive—and opened his arms, pulling his blood relative into a tight embrace.
Daeron hugged him back, offering warmth of a Targaryen. He whispered, "Take it easy, Great-uncle. I'm here."
Maester Aemon choked on his sobs, unable to speak. He nodded vigorously while clapping young man's sturdy back.
From this young, strong body, he felt a scorching heat—boiling dragon blood of a true Targaryen.
Deep in dead of night.
Daeron and Maester Aemon sat across from each other, discussing family's future.
Maester Aemon's eyes were cloudy. By light of oil lamp, he dug out a stack of letters and smiled. "Look. Before you, your brother used to write to me constantly."
His smile was pure, as if talking about a rare burst of warmth in freezing wind.
Daeron was curious. "What did Rhaegar talk about?"
"We talked about everything. Sometimes state of Seven Kingdoms, sometimes your father's madness."
Maester Aemon looked both happy and sad before letting out a sigh. "He was always asking for my advice. I tried my best to give him solid, reliable solutions. I don't know how well he carried them out."
"Are you two still writing?"
Daeron asked.
Maester Aemon shook his head. "No. I stopped hearing from him about six months ago."
Six months ago—right around time Tourney at Harrenhal was being set up.
Daeron understood. He reassured old man. "Rhaegar is doing great. He's always done well. He's wildly popular with lords of Seven Kingdoms."
"Heh, don't bullshit this old bag of bones."
Maester Aemon smiled, speaking with a hint of regret. "If Rhaegar was doing fine, why would you trek all way out to this frozen wasteland to see me?"
Daeron was left speechless. He realized old man knew exactly what was going on.
"Don't hide it from me. I want truth."
Maester Aemon squeezed his hand, emphasizing his point. "While I still have breath in my lungs."
Facing worried elder, Daeron explained his rivalry with Rhaegar, laying out how Rhaegar was currently playing with fire.
Finally, he brought up his request: asking him to leave Night's Watch and return to King's Landing to serve as Grand Maester.
"Sigh. I knew from his letters that boy had a dangerous obsession. I never thought he'd stray this far down wrong path."
Maester Aemon let out a long sigh, completely rejecting Rhaegar's actions. "Prophecies are just tools to warn future generations. How can you treat them like absolute divine mandates and force them to happen?"
If prophecies were actually useful, why didn't every noble house in Seven Kingdoms keep wizards and warlocks on payroll?
If prophecies could avert disaster, his uncle Baelor Breakspear wouldn't have died, and his father King Maekar wouldn't have lived a life full of regret.
And he wouldn't have had to hide away at Wall, enduring brutal winter torment.
Daeron asked, "Will you come back with me?"
"Of course."
Maester Aemon was far more proactive than expected. He immediately got up from bed and started rummaging through his trunks.
"Once I pack my things, we leave immediately."
Family was facing a massive crisis.
Fact that younger generation could still count on an old relic like him filled him with nothing but joy.
Daeron grabbed his hand, bringing up one last thing. "Great-uncle, do you have any leads on Bloodraven, Brynden Rivers?"
Meanwhile, shockwaves rocked Seven Kingdoms.
Crown Prince Rhaegar had abducted betrothed Lyanna Stark.
But anyone in know understood perfectly well that it was a premeditated elopement.
Eyrie.
Kept in dark for far too long, Robert finally learned his fiancée had cheated. Filled with explosive rage, he tracked down his best friend Ned for a confrontation.
"Look at this, Ned! Your sweet sister ditched Lord of Storm's End to elope with handsome, charming Crown Prince Rhaegar!"
He was grieving, furious, and bitter at world.
Robert's eyes were bloodshot. He glared at his best friend, desperately demanding an explanation.
"Calm down, Robert."
Ned was drowning in stress, trying to defend his sister. "Maybe things aren't what you think. Lyanna is honorable. I'd bet my life she wouldn't just run off for no reason."
"She didn't run off, she eloped!"
Robert bit down hard on his words. Before he could spit out any more harsh insults, his eyes suddenly welled up.
Seven Hells!
Gods know how much he had looked forward to this marriage.
She was his best buddy's sister. Gorgeous, bold, and she rode a horse faster and steadier than he did.
But woman of his dreams just ran off with Rhaegar.
Ned was completely blindsided. "Robert, don't do this, man. Please."
He would rather Robert swing those massive fists and smash his skull in than stand there crying in front of him.
"I'm going to kill Rhaegar!"
Blind with rage, Robert's face twisted with absolute, homicidal resolve. "I, Robert Baratheon, swear I will kill Rhaegar and take my woman back."
Even if it cost him everything. Even if it cost him his head.
King's Landing.
Outside Dragon Gate, a squad of cavalry galloped hard, kicking up clouds of dust.
"Hyah! Hyah!"
Brandon "Wild Wolf" whipped his horse mercilessly, desperate to charge into King's Landing just a second faster.
Behind him, a few Northern bannermen and Elbert rode fully armored.
A full two weeks ago, Rhaegar and Lyanna had eloped.
Lord Arryn got news first and immediately sent his heir, Elbert, to Riverrun to inform Brandon, who was busy finalizing his wedding date with Lord Hoster's eldest daughter.
Moment Brandon heard, he exploded with rage.
Part of him couldn't believe his sister Lyanna would pull a stunt so deeply shameful.
Other part of him hated Rhaegar with a burning passion, wanting to hack man into bloody pieces.
Elbert panted heavily, trying to talk sense into him. "Brandon, cool off! Even if we storm Red Keep, we aren't going to get any answers."
"I don't give a fuck! I'm going to find Rhaegar, or Mad King is going to give me an explanation."
Brandon was completely beyond reason.
Before they even rode out, Lord Rickard had sent a raven explicitly forbidding him from going to King's Landing.
Brandon obviously ignored it.
Suddenly, a squad of soldiers blocked road ahead.
"Whoa!"
Brandon yanked on reins, cracking his whip and shouting furiously, "Who hell are you? You dare block my path!?"
Soldiers had mixed gear—some wore half-plate of Gold Cloaks, others sported Lannister armor.
A young figure in silver armor and a white cloak stepped forward, drawing his sword and pointing it straight at arrogant Brandon.
"You Northern idiot. Who do you think you're screaming at?"
Brandon sized him up, surprised. "Jaime Lannister? Why hell are you wearing Kingsguard armor?"
Standing at head of troops, Jaime wore his white cloak with an arrogant, rebellious sneer. "I'm not wasting my breath on you. You're not worth it."
He waved his hand, ordering his men to disarm and capture lot of them.
"Lannister, you wouldn't dare!"
Brandon roared, drawing his sword to fight back.
But he was no match for Jaime. In two or three moves, he was knocked to dirt, tied up tight, and dragged into King's Landing.
Jaime scoffed. "Northern savages. Thinking you can just charge wild through Iron Throne's territory."
In a realm flooded with bad news, he had some great personal news.
He had been promoted to Kingsguard by King!
Not only did he get white cloak, but he also got to level up his Life Frequency.
Red Keep.
While Jaime was thrilled with his "brilliant" maneuver to become a Kingsguard, Tywin was so fucking furious he almost resigned as Hand of King.
His only competent heir had been drafted by Mad King into Kingsguard, voluntarily giving up his right to inherit Casterly Rock.
What an absolute fucking idiot!
Tywin's face was dark as a thundercloud. If hatred could kill, Aerys would have died a thousand times over.
Door opened.
Jaime walked in, looking incredibly smug. "Father, I captured Brandon Stark and Elbert Arryn. They're locked up secretly in Red Keep's dungeons."
Smash!
A wine goblet flew across room, nailing him right in forehead and drawing blood.
Tywin's scowl deepened as he ground his teeth. "You stupid fuck. Don't call me father."
"If our grand plans weren't still in motion, I would have abandoned you here and gone back to Casterly Rock already."