Castle Black.
Maester Aemon's quarters were inside a sturdy wooden keep, directly beneath the Ravenry.
The old maester was advanced in age and physically frail, so two stewards were assigned to care for his daily needs and help him handle his affairs.
One was Clydas—short, bald, with a face so fat it nearly lacked a chin, and a pair of small pink eyes. He looked like a mole that had learned to stand upright.
The other steward, Garth, had a swelling on his neck as big as a pigeon's egg, and his face was covered in sores and bumps.
The Watch had a joke: the two ugliest stewards were put under Maester Aemon because he was blind—spared the suffering.
But tonight, neither of them was there.
A fire crackled in the hearth.
Maester Aemon wore a robe, the chain of his office hanging at his throat.
"Maester, you're still up this late?" Jon asked, draping a fur over Aemon's feet.
"I find the older I get, the less I need sleep—and I am very old," Aemon said softly. "Often, in the deep of night, I keep company with the ghosts of the past, remembering things from more than fifty years ago as if they happened yesterday… Go on. Keep reading. I'm listening."
"Yes, Maester."
Jon Snow lifted a thick tome and continued, as Aemon had requested.
In Westeros, literacy was the privilege of the nobility.
Yet Jon—a new recruit—had been assigned to read aloud for blind Maester Aemon.
"In the depths of darkness, the Others came upon the world.
They hated light and warmth. They rode enormous ice spiders and dead horses raised from the farthest North.
They raised the dead to fight for them, and no army could withstand them…
The ancient books of Asshai foretell the Others will return:
After the long summer, the stars will bleed, and cold darkness will cover the world.
In that dreadful hour, a warrior will draw a burning sword from the flames. That sword is Lightbringer—the Red Sword of Heroes. The one who bears it is Azor Ahai reborn, and he will drive back the darkness…"
Maester Aemon listened in silence, his blind eyes turned toward the fire. With each word Jon read, his expression grew heavier.
"Do you think the one in the prophecy—Azor Ahai reborn—could be Ser Domeric?" Jon asked.
"Why do you think that?" Aemon replied.
"Because everyone's been saying it lately." Jon told him what he'd been hearing over the past few days.
"I see." Aemon's bony, wrinkled fingers rose to the heavy chain around his neck, stroking it slowly.
Ever since the wildlings beyond the Wall had been utterly defeated and taken captive by Domeric's army, the prophecy had begun spreading through the Night's Watch.
"Ser Domeric of the Dreadfort is the figure foretold in Asshai—the one who will lead everyone, defeat the Others, and save the world…"
It wasn't only whispered among black brothers. Wildling shamans were speaking it too, chanting it from camp to camp until it spread through tens of thousands of mouths.
Aemon was old, but his mind remained sharp. The timing felt too convenient—too neat. Something about it was wrong.
Yet he couldn't tell whether this was the will of the Seven… or a rumor planted by someone with an agenda.
The old maester closed his eyes, thinking.
Jon said nothing. He sat near the hearth, warming his hands. The cold of Castle Black made him think of Winterfell's hot springs—how he missed that warmth.
The two of them remained there—an old man and a boy—while silence slowly expanded to fill the room.
Maester Aemon's full name was Aemon Targaryen—once a prince of House Targaryen, elder brother to a later King Aegon. That Aegon was the Mad King's grandfather, and the Mad King was Jon Snow's grandfather.
Following the thread far enough meant this: Aemon was, in truth, Jon Snow's great-great-uncle.
But neither of them knew any of it.
And even if they did—what then?
House Targaryen had fallen. Would a grandfather and grandson with dragon's blood simply weep together and plot a restoration?
It was fantasy.
Aemon was at the very end of life. He had served the Watch at Castle Black for nearly a century as a maester; the Seven Kingdoms had all but forgotten his Targaryen blood.
And Jon Snow had no hunger for crowns. Compared to sitting the Iron Throne, earning his family's recognition at Winterfell meant more to him.
In truth, Jon had chosen the Wall because he wanted to make something of himself here—wanted to prove to Lord Eddard Stark that he was worthy, that he could be useful, even as a bastard.
"Jon," Maester Aemon asked at last, breaking the silence, "how long have you been here?"
"About a month."
"Traditionally, after two months of training, recruits speak their vows and become true brothers of the Night's Watch—men bound to the Wall until death. Have you truly made up your mind?" Aemon asked.
His voice was gentle, but his counsel carried weight. People listened to him because he spoke with care.
Though blind, Aemon could see the hesitation and conflict inside the boy, and he meant this as kindness.
He had seen too many men come to the Wall, only to break their vows.
Every brother who remained had been tested by the oath at least once. Aemon himself had been tested three times—the hardest of all when he learned the Targaryen dynasty had fallen in Robert's Rebellion.
Jon was silent.
Aemon smiled faintly. "Jon—do you know why I wear this chain, heavy as it is?"
"A maester's chain is meant to remind him of the vows he swore," Jon said after a moment.
"Just so. You're a clever boy. But you must understand: the vows of the Night's Watch are far heavier than any chain I wear."
Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win
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