Chapter 311: Blood of the True Dragon
Perhaps this was a case of out with the old, in with the next?
The serene expression on the face of Castle Black's maester suggested he had passed without much suffering; Egger could only offer himself that much comfort in his heart. His position as the new Lord Commander had just been decided, and he had yet to deliver his inaugural speech, let alone prepare for Maester Aemon's passing. Furthermore, with every manner of schemer and rogue present...
After careful consideration, he chose not to speak at the funeral. Instead, the addresses were given by the First Ranger and Sam, Aemon's hand-picked disciple.
After the two finished their heavy-hearted reflection on the old maester's life and proclaimed that his watch is ended, the wood beneath the body was lit with torches. Aided by oil, orange-yellow flames whooshed from the ignition points, snapping and crackling as they rapidly engulfed the entire pyre.
This was Castle Black, and the Night's Watch would normally have full burial rites for the dead. However, since the surrender of the wildlings confirmed that buried corpses could still rise from the earth as wights, the black brothers had begun to adopt and accept the common practice from beyond the Wall: replacing other methods of disposal with cremation.
Coincidentally, this was also the method Aemon had requested for his remains in his final testament.
The firelight gradually reddened the faces of the onlookers and reflected in their eyes. The various factions, each with their own hidden agendas, remained silent, staring quietly at Maester Aemon as he was slowly swallowed by the flames.
Bowen Marsh, Othell Yarwyck, and the other native Castle Black powers huddled together, racking their brains for a way to break the deadlock and smooth over relations with Egger—who had fought his way to victory despite their opposition—and perhaps offer a show of loyalty in the process.
Meanwhile, Yohn Royce, who had risked his life to lodge a formal complaint against Egger a week prior, still couldn't fathom how his actions had somehow paved the way for his enemy's victory.
As everyone stood in silent mourning, he was trembling with rage.
"Yohn, Denys has already written to me. He made it clear that Egger won't move against us. Don't stick your neck out again; keep a low profile, and I will protect you."
"You actually take Denys at his word? Without his betrayal and flip-flopping, how would a lowborn scoundrel like Egger ever have had the chance to rise?"
"Say no more, Yohn!" Cotter hissed in a low voice. "Denys was never one of ours to begin with, so where is the betrayal? As for Egger, I hate him as much as you do, but regardless, a win is a win. He is now the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, with the power of life and death over every black brother. You either rebel to overthrow him or you obey unconditionally. The Wall is not like the South; there is no third path! Everything that happened before could be called electioneering. From now on, don't give him a single handle to use against you!"
Yohn understood that Cotter meant well. He fell silent, staring hatefully at the fire and clenching his fists in secret.
"Don't worry. Once the funeral is over, Egger is bound to 'set a few fires' to mark his new administration. If he dares to publicly announce my removal as Commander of Eastwatch, or insists on transferring you away to make it easier to strike, I'll gut him on the spot." Cotter likewise stared straight ahead at the flames, squeezing the words through his teeth. "The Kingslayer's skill is astonishing; one must respect it whether they like it or not. But I don't believe for a second that a man like Egger, who spends all day mired in conspiracies, can stop my battle-axe."
Also staring into the flames were a large group of expectant reformists, ordinary neutral soldiers confused about the road ahead, and a woman in red robes from Asshai.
Priests of the Red God were adept at finding truth within the flames, but today, Melisandre was not seeking a prophecy. She was waiting—waiting for a miracle.
Months ago, during a conversation with her, Egger had shared his theory that King's Blood was synonymous with Targaryen blood. The logic of the argument was self-consistent and lacked obvious flaws, successfully convincing her to leave Mance Rayder and his child alone.
And now, there was no better opportunity to test the truth of his words.
Maester Aemon, full name Aemon Targaryen, was the third son of King Maekar I. He had resolutely come to the Wall to join the Night's Watch to avoid being used in a plot to usurp his brother. So much time had passed, and he had so deliberately hidden his surname, that almost everyone in the Seven Kingdoms, including most of the black brothers, had forgotten his identity.
As a Red Priestess with close ties to the King, Melisandre had begun searching for surviving members of the dragon's bloodline. She soon discovered one right beside her—and not a bastard or a distant relation, but a true Targaryen with both the blood and the name.
In the months following this discovery, while the internal factions of the Watch were locked in bitter conflict, the Red Woman had been trying everything to obtain a sample of Aemon's tissue or blood.
Regrettably, the old man had been bald for years, leaving no hair to shed. As for blood or flesh—harming him would likely have resulted in her being hacked to death by the enraged men of Castle Black, so the matter was repeatedly delayed.
Melisandre had originally planned to wait for the old man to trim his nails... but that was no longer necessary.
Within the fire, all is laid bare. If there truly was power in the bodies of House Targaryen—in what was commonly called the blood of the true dragon—then the moment the flames consumed Aemon's body would be the moment that power was unleashed!
The fire spread rapidly, licking the hem of Aemon's robes. Some Watchmen who had been touched by his kindness began to weep silently or even sob, while Melisandre narrowed her eyes, her focus intense as never before.
A few seconds later, her eyelid flickered.
It was here!
The instant the tongues of fire touched Maester Aemon's flesh, a faint but clearly perceptible ripple of magic radiated from the funeral pyre. Aemon was not a sorcerer, nor had he been trained to manipulate extraordinary forces; the magic wasn't particularly powerful or refined, but it gave Melisandre a sudden, startling sense of familiarity. It felt as if she had been transported back to her youth. Decades ago, when her mentor—that unfathomable High Priest of the Red God—had appeared before her like a god descended to earth, picking her from the slaves to be an apprentice and demonstrating the powers granted by the Lord of Light for the first time, this was the sensation she had experienced.
Egger was right. In the blood of the Targaryens, there truly was power!
But this was only the beginning. The violent combustion occurring in the courtyard would not stop just because Melisandre had her answer. The magic ripple just now was caused merely by the fine hairs on Aemon's face being singed away. One had to remember—what was currently in the fire was the entire body of this Targaryen. Skin, bone, blood, and flesh, not a single hair missing!
After a few heartbeats, the fire wrapped around the entire pyre, igniting the clothes Aemon still wore. As the fur and cloth burned away into ash, the old man's torso began to be scorched directly. Half a minute later, the late Maester of Castle Black was completely engulfed, becoming a human-shaped torch.
Along with the smell of burning flesh and fat, that previously faint ripple of magic surged like an explosion. In the blink of an eye, it intensified to an incredible degree.
It was like a survivor in the desert who only wanted a few drops of water to live, but instead dug out a powerful underground spring. The water surged out, instantly forming a lake! In a heartbeat, the entire courtyard of Castle Black—the very air between heaven and earth—seemed drowned by this aura. Surprise quickly turned to shock. For the first time since completing her training, Melisandre was stunned into helplessness. In a daze, she even felt as if the god she worshipped—R'hllor, the Lord of Light—had descended upon Castle Black, floating in mid-air and quietly looking down upon the mortals in black, spreading His power and grace!
Looking up, the gray sky was empty, save for the snowflakes being driven away by the heat or melting rapidly. After a moment of dazed stillness, the witch suddenly realized that she shouldn't be standing there in shock; she needed to use this power as quickly as possible, lest it dissipate and be wasted!
Silently casting, the witch began to draw in the surging, masterless magic from the air. The fire burned hotter and brighter, the heat soon forcing the surrounding Watchmen back a step. Accompanying the growing blaze was a fountain-like eruption of massive amounts of magic, the volume soon reaching a level that would make any sorcerer's heart ache... because the owner was dead and could not control it, this gargantuan amount of magic could only scatter aimlessly in all directions. Ninety-nine percent of it vanished into the cold air of the Wall; only a tiny fraction could be harvested and made her own.
If only I could get closer to the pyre, or even walk into the flames to touch Aemon's remains!
Reason helped the witch suppress the mad thought, and reality soon proved that it didn't really matter.
Melisandre hadn't consumed much mana lately. Suddenly facing this seemingly inexhaustible energy while her internal stores were nearly full was like that survivor in the desert: no matter how thirsty they were a moment ago or how much they wished to drink the world dry, once submerged in a sudden lake, they still had to worry about drowning.
Melisandre was fortunate; at least a lake of magic couldn't drown a person, and she knew how to swim in it. First, she extravagantly and regardless of cost repaired the lingering internal injuries caused by the White Walker's ice spear that had forcibly interrupted her casting earlier. Then, she saturated every part of her body—down to her nails and hair—with magic. Finally, seeing no other choice, she began to cram the energy into her external possession: the large red crystal set into the necklace at her throat.
Lord have mercy, this necklace was not intended for such a purpose. Its original function was to continuously absorb stray energy in this magic-sparse world and store it, providing a backup or life-saving reserve of mana when the wearer was injured, poisoned, or exhausted from casting powerful spells. Magic crystals were not single-use items, but they rarely accepted mana filled from the outside—mages usually didn't have enough mana for themselves, so how could they feed it back into an object?
The ruby, which normally saw every bit of accumulated magic greedily taken by its master, was now being infused continuously until it glowed white-hot, reaching the point where even one more drop of magic would cause it to shatter.
Having done all this, the survivor was not only full, but every bottle and jar she carried was brimming. Yet the funeral pyre burning a hundred-year-old Targaryen continued to spew magic as if it cost nothing.
(Stop! Let me collect and preserve this Targaryen's body and blood. At the critical moment... it would be an inexhaustible source of mana or casting material, surely capable of achieving miracles in this War for the Dawn!)
Melisandre screamed in her heart, but she knew very well that if she committed the act of publicly desecrating a funeral and turning Aemon's corpse into ritual material, there would no longer be a place for her at the Wall. The Red Woman, omnipotent in the eyes of common men, could only watch helplessly as the fire reached its peak, despairing as the massive amount of magic—enough to last her years of casting—erupted and scattered back into the world.
What pained her most was that there wasn't a second person on the scene who could feel this power, to witness this miracle with her and share this heartache.
Is that truly so?
She looked around the scene unwillingly, finally resting her gaze on the new Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, the Prince That Was Promised. Since this magic was going to be wasted anyway, she might as well use it to perform a few tricks and do something meaningful.
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