That night, candlelight flickered within the Maesters Tower of Castle Black.
Maester Aemon's room was filled with the scent of herbs and old parchment. The old man was currently wrapped in a heavy wool blanket, sitting in a heavily worn high-backed chair.
His eyelids drooped and his eye sockets were sunken, but his wrinkled face was turned toward the door as if he were waiting for something.
When Viserys pushed the door open, despite his light movements, the old man's keen ears still caught the sound. Clydas had already retired, leaving only the two of them in the room.
"Great-great-uncle," Viserys called out softly as he walked up to him.
Aemon's hand trembled as he reached out to feel Viserys's cheek, but he was still stopped by him. After all, Viserys really couldn't stand a stranger, especially an old man, touching him.
Aemon could only murmur, his voice raspy, "Child, how old are you?"
"Twenty years old."
"Twenty..." Aemon let out a long sigh. "The last time I saw a Targaryen was many years ago. Back then, I was still in The Red Keep of King's Landing... Time, time is truly the cruelest thief."
He motioned for Viserys to sit in the chair beside him.
"I've heard of your deeds in the East," Aemon said, his hollow eye sockets 'looking' in Viserys's direction. "Ravens brought snippets of news, and some newcomers to the Night's Watch from the south would gossip. They say you tamed dragons, freed slaves, and built a new empire... Are these things true?"
"They are true," Viserys replied. "I have more than one dragon, and one of them is very special. It's the one that came today; she has three heads and is golden all over. I call her Ghidorah. There is also Black Flame, a pitch-black dragon currently guarding the family in Valyria. Nine more Young Dragons are growing, four of which are already capable of carrying riders. My sister Daenerys hatched three, and my niece Rhaenys also has one."
Aemon listened quietly, his wrinkled face devoid of expression, but a single cloudy tear slowly slid from the corner of his eye. "A Targaryen living alone in the world is a terrible thing. I once thought the bloodline of our family would truly end with this blind old man."
He paused for a long time before speaking again, his expression as if he were beginning to recall the past.
"Do you know, Viserys, I once faced a choice. Many, many years ago, when I was still a young man, the throne was placed before me. After my father, King Maekar, passed away, the Great Council chose me to inherit the iron throne."
Viserys nodded; he knew this part of history. "But you gave it up and went to The Citadel."
"Yes, I gave it up," Aemon repeated, a bitter smile touching the corners of his mouth.
"Not because I didn't want it, nor because I wasn't brave enough. It was because I had seen enough at the time. I saw how my grandfather, Daeron II, worked hard to heal the rift between Dorne and the kingdom; I saw my uncles fighting for power; I saw those insatiable desires and conspiracies in the court."
"So I chose another path, a path I thought would be quieter and more meaningful. I gave the throne to my younger brother, Aegon, that kind but overly idealistic boy." His voice dropped, filled with deep regret and sorrow.
"He was a good man, heart set on doing real things for the common people and breaking the privileges of the nobility, but the reforms touched the interests of too many. In the end, he wanted to rely on dragons to consolidate the family's rule, but the tragedy at 'Summerhall' burned him to death, along with his heir and so many others."
"When I received the news, I was here transcribing an ancient book about the Night's Watch. My hands shook so much I couldn't write; the family was dwindling, and I could only be trapped behind this wall of ice, praying for my family and spending every night in endless nightmares. Yet in the end, Aegon was mockingly called 'The King Who Should Not Have Been' by the world."
Viserys remained silent. He knew this history, but hearing it from the lips of one who lived through it made the experience completely different.
"Then there was Rhaegar." Aemon's voice grew even lower. "He wrote to me, mentioning prophecies, mentioning 'a song of ice and fire,' mentioning that 'the dragon has three heads.' I advised him to be cautious; prophecies are like paths in the mist—seemingly clear, but actually dangerous. But he was too much like Aegon, believing too much in those ancient words."
The old man looked up; though his blind eyes could not focus, he seemed to be 'looking' at Viserys. "When news of the War of the Usurper arrived, I was already very old, but I still felt my heart break. Aerys was dead, Rhaegar was dead, and then Aegon and Elia... and you, Viserys, you and Daenerys and Rhaenys were exiled across the sea."
He paused, his voice becoming lighter, almost like a whisper. "Do you know, Viserys, when Robert's rebel army was winning victory after victory, I thought of breaking my vows. I wanted to go south, I wanted to stand by my family, even if only as a symbol. But I didn't. It was the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch at the time who stopped me. He said, 'Aemon, your battlefield is here; your family is the Night's Watch.' So, I stayed."
"You chose the vows of the Night's Watch," Viserys said. "That is noble."
"Noble?" Aemon smiled bitterly. "Child, a vow is a heavy shackle. Every time bad news arrived, I would sit in this cold room and ask myself the same question. If I hadn't given it up back then, if I were sitting on the iron throne, would everything have been different? Does a part of the responsibility for that blood, those tragedies, and those who died lie with me, the one who ran away?"
Viserys did not answer immediately; he could feel the heavy self-reproach in the old man's words.
He finally spoke, his voice calm. "History has no 'ifs'; every choice had its reason at the time. You chose The Citadel, choosing to serve the kingdom with knowledge instead of swords; there is no wrong in that. Just like Aerys, my father—his madness was caused by many factors, not just a curse in the blood, but also the incitement of those around him. It wasn't any one person's fault."
Aemon slowly shook his head. "You are right, child, but rational understanding does not lighten the burden in one's heart."
He took a deep breath, trying to steady his emotions.
"But now, you have returned. Bringing dragons, bringing power. Though I cannot see, I can feel something special about you, Viserys."
Then the topic turned back to the Wall and the Night's Watch.
"I have spent my life here," Aemon said. "I swore vows to take no part in the affairs of the Seven Kingdoms, to hold no lands, to father no children, and to wear no crown. I have kept those vows, even when I most wanted to go south and fight for my family. But now..."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping even lower, though there were only the two of them in the room.
"I am having the same dream more and more frequently. Ice-blue eyes, figures walking silently through the snow, a bone-chilling cold... and trees. weirwood trees, those trees with eyes—they are weeping, they are bleeding. The Citadel teaches us that prophecies are deceptive tricks and magic is ignorant superstition; I used to believe that firmly as well. But I have lived too long and seen too many things that cannot be explained by common logic."
"So I believe your words today, and I believe those prophecies Rhaegar pursued back then might not have been entirely hollow. He said 'the dragon has three heads'; I always thought that referred to three members of the Targaryen family. But now I know it might refer to that dragon of yours."
Viserys's heart stirred slightly. Although Aemon did not know of Jon Snow's existence, his intuition had already touched the edge of the truth. It was just that Ghidorah, the outsider, had confused him, and Viserys had no intention of correcting him.
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