After ten days, the great host that had set out from Winterfell and marched north along the Kingsroad at last reached the Wall.
Castle Black, the stronghold of the Night's Watch, was a fortress of ancient standing.
Once, this castle had held more than five thousand men. Now, counting the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, the maester, the cooks in the kitchens, and all the rest together, they could not muster even fifty.
A handful of men in a vast stronghold, bleak and desolate. Days of heavy snow had choked the fortress full. At a glance, it was plain that there were not enough hands here.
Looking upon the castle before him, Kal let his gaze pass over them and turned it toward the towering ice wall behind Castle Black, and the winch-lift built along the ice all the way to its summit.
With his keen sight, Kal saw two tiny black specks at the top of the Wall, huddled within a small shelter, craning their heads as they looked toward him.
"You have not abandoned the patrol atop the Wall?"
Seated upon his horse, Kal lifted his head and asked suddenly, his eyes fixed on the distance.
Benjen Stark, Lord Commander, riding at the King's side, was taken aback. By reflex he looked ahead as well, yet saw nothing. They were still some distance from Castle Black.
Though he did not know how the King had perceived it, Benjen inclined his head and replied, "Yes, Your Grace. It is the quickest way for us to learn whether any foe approaches from beyond the Wall."
Kal neither affirmed nor denied his words. With fewer than fifty men, the Night's Watch could not even manage the daily upkeep of Castle Black, much less speak of keeping watch in earnest.
Yet such steadfast devotion to duty was not something Kal would shame by speaking that harsh truth aloud.
Or rather, to speak more plainly, Kal was well pleased by it.
"Have the host I have brought settled among the nineteen castles along the Wall at once. And along the way, at every league, raise no fewer than three watch posts. Prepare signal fires and set a rotation."
"I will see that along the length of the Wall there is not a single span left without word."
Nearly three times the strength the Night's Watch had possessed in its most prosperous days gave Kal but two words when he made his arrangements: bold extravagance.
At this, Benjen turned and looked behind him in a daze. Across the white waste, a long black line stretched to the very edge of sight, as though without end.
"See it done. This is what I expect of you."
While Benjen still stood stunned, Kal's words drew him back to himself.
"Yes, Your Grace!"
"I pledge my life to you!"
The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch said little more, yet the solemn look upon his face was enough to show that he knew what must be done.
Kal smiled at that, then suddenly spurred his horse and galloped toward the distant castle.
The sky was seized at once by a fierce wind, and a dragon's roar rang out.
Before the gates of Castle Black, a cluster of men stood gathered together. Led by an old man, they waited there in attendance for the King's arrival.
All eyes were fixed upon the long line of banners flying in the distance, and smiles bloomed upon their faces, impossible to restrain.
At their head stood a bent old man, blind. He could not see what lay ahead, yet from the hurried breaths and whispered talk at his side, he knew the King they awaited was close at hand.
Beside him, a child of no more than seven or eight years supported him, though his own gaze and thoughts remained fixed upon the distant sight—a sight he had never once beheld since the day he was born.
Just then, the boy, who had been forcing down his rising excitement, let out a sudden cry. In the next instant, a sound he had never heard before came from the sky.
The shouts and clamor at his ears grew louder still, stirred by that thunder-like roar.
"Cyril, can you tell me what has happened?"
Maester Aemon, his body bent and withered, turned his face toward the sound. His hand trembled, yet the milky eyes beneath his brows could not grant him what he wished to know.
"Ma… Maester, I… that should be—it is a dragon! A dragon from the stories you told me…"
"Gods, it is so large—it is coming this way!"
Cyril had grown up in Mole's Town. He did not know who his father was, nor could his mother say.
Those black-cloaked brothers who dared only to slip from Castle Black under cover of night to Mole's Town to dig for "buried treasure" would never admit to such a thing.
All understood without speaking.
His mother was a whore. She needed coin to live, and she had to raise him as well.
And for Cyril, who from childhood had rarely seen a gathering of more than two hundred souls at once, the first thought that struck him when faced with the colossal beast—its body radiating heat, vast enough to fill most of his sight as it swooped down—was terror. He fell to the ground in fright.
Maester Aemon would not blame him.
For he too could feel the creature that had loosed that unheard roar pass overhead, trailing a gust of hot wind.
The wave of heat tore the rabbit-fur cap from Maester Aemon's head, which he wore for warmth, yet he did not even react in time to press it down. He could only let it fall to the ground.
In the year 153 AC, on the final day of that year, Daeron II—son of Aegon IV and Naerys Targaryen—was born.
Prince Aegon Targaryen, the Fourth of His Name, wed his sister Naerys Targaryen.
And most important of all, the last dragon of House Targaryen also died in that year, during the reign of Aegon Targaryen the Third, called the Dragonbane.
The books say it was a green she-dragon, sickly, small of stature, deformed and stunted, with a pair of wings shriveled behind her like wrinkled leaves.
The last dragon vanished from this world, and a century and a half had passed since then.
In former days, he had only heard of them in books and in the tales spoken by men.
And now, a dragon stood before him, yet he could not see it.
Two lines of hot tears rolled down his face, and the old man who had lived a full century let the corner of his mouth curve faintly.
But at that moment, a gentle and resonant voice sounded before him.
"This maester—might I know your name?"
…
The King's Tower was one of the towers of Castle Black, generally used to receive visitors of noble rank.
It was a tall and sturdy round tower, its crown set with arrow slits, its door made of oak studded with iron.
Yet though it bore the name "King," in truth no king had come here in more than a hundred years.
When word reached them that King Kal Baratheon would arrive at Castle Black, the few remaining brothers of the Night's Watch hastened to clear out the tower.
Firewood burned brightly in the hearth, bringing warmth to the cold chamber.
Yet in that warm room at this hour there were only two: a young king, and an old man so aged that none would have been surprised had he died at any moment.
"Maester Aemon…"
Kal looked upon the old man before him, robed in black and bent upon himself, and spoke.
"Your Grace, you have asked to be alone with me and even brought me to so high a tower. I suppose you must have something you wish to say," Maester Aemon's voice was very soft; without care, it was hard to hear.
He sat calmly near the hearth to take its warmth, as though none of what the King had done surprised him.
"Yes," Kal did not deny it. "Perhaps I ought to address you as Aemon Targaryen, the third son of Maekar the First and his queen, Lady Dyanna Dayne."
Kal's blunt words drew the chamber into silence, save for the faint crackle of burning wood.
"I had thought the world had long since forgotten me…" A sigh came, neither wholly glad nor wholly sorrowful.
"But Your Grace, from the moment I became a maester, I relinquished my house and my name. I am only an old maester called Aemon."
"House Targaryen has long since become a thing of the past, like those who remain in history only in scattered words."
Maester Aemon spoke what lay in his heart; he truly thought so.
In subtle fashion, he was telling the King before him that there was no need to guard against him.
Kal naturally understood what he meant.
"You are right, Maester Aemon. Robert Baratheon's overthrow of House Targaryen was indeed a course history was bound to take."
"If there had been no Robert Baratheon, there would have been a Robert Duncan, a Robert Field. No house endures forever, and no kingdom lasts for all ages."
"The wheel of history rolls ever forward. Its weight can easily crush all that stands before it."
"So I do not concern myself with such things—even if Rhaegar Targaryen were still alive, and even if he sat before me as you do now."
When Kal's words fell silent, the chamber once more sank into stillness.
At last, Maester Aemon smiled and shook his head.
He could feel the sincerity of the young man before him. He was not lying.
"You possess wisdom, courage, magnanimity, mercy… You are a worthy king. Perhaps you may yet become a great one."
Aemon turned slightly, his blind eyes "looking" toward Kal.
At Aemon's praise, Kal merely waved a hand.
"I have never cared for such things. What I care for is the purpose for which I have come here."
"You are the maester of Castle Black. What I wish to know may be better restored to its true nature if spoken from your lips."
Kal spoke plainly of his aim. What Aemon was or had been did not truly concern him.
Even had Aegon the Conqueror himself been seated before him, Kal would not have felt the least stir of mind.
Kal's words gave Aemon pause, and he could not help but recall the letter he had received explaining why the King was coming to the Wall.
"You refer to…?" Maester Aemon asked instinctively.
"I wish to know all that the Night's Watch possesses—every account and every scrap of knowledge—concerning the Others."
Though Aemon could not see, Kal still inclined his head.
Once assured that this was truly the King's sole concern, Maester Aemon found himself uncertain what expression to wear.
He "looked" deeply at the King before him, and the smile upon his face broadened.
"Grant me some time. I will do my utmost to gather and arrange all that you seek to know concerning the Others."
Having spoken, Maester Aemon rose and bowed to the King.
He then made to turn and depart. His newly taken young apprentice, Cyril, waited for him beyond the door.
Yet he had taken but a single step when Kal called him back.
"Would you like to see the dragon?"
Kal's sudden words halted Aemon where he stood. He thought the King must be jesting.
"Your Grace, I am but a blind man. I cannot see what stands before me, though I can feel its presence."
"That you have earned the dragon's acknowledgment is proof enough of all things."
"I mean—would you like to see it with your own eyes?" Kal continued.
Aemon could no longer wholly steady the expression upon his face. And just as he wondered what the King truly intended, something was suddenly placed into his hand—a small vial.
"Robert is just outside the window. If you wish to see him, then drink the potion in that bottle. It will grant your wish."
With that, Kal rose and departed at once, leaving the blind old man standing where he was, at a loss, gripping the bottle in his hand.
The sound of the door closing echoed, and the chamber fell quiet once more. Only the hearth, which had been lit three days earlier, continued to burn, its firewood still aflame, lending warmth to the cold room.
Aemon held the bottle in his fingers, not knowing what thoughts stirred within him.
Just then, from the yard of Castle Black beyond the window came several deep barks of dogs, followed by a somewhat impatient dragon's roar.
"So foul-mouthed?" Kal, descending the stairs, heard the dragon's roar and the dogs' barking outside, and could not help but laugh.
He had not brought Aemon Targaryen, this centenarian, to so high a tower for idle amusement.
There was much Kal wished to know from this living history of Westeros, and so he had brought him here and placed that vial in his hand.
The dragon's roar gradually subsided, while the barking grew louder, tinged with a note of vexation.
Aemon squeezed the glass-smooth bottle again and gave a faint, amused shake of his head.
He did not believe Kal needed such a method to harm him.
After all, for a living Targaryen—even a maester—as King and a Baratheon, Kal would have had reason enough to hang him outright.
There was no need for such means.
"To see it?"
Aemon murmured softly, his hand instinctively finding the stopper and drawing it free.
He first lifted the bottle to his nose and caught its scent. It was peculiar; he had never smelled the like before, yet there seemed to be a trace of blood within it.
His eyes shifted faintly in their sockets. In the end, Aemon lifted the bottle and drank every drop of the liquid within.
As he swallowed the potion, beyond his already keen hearing, within the boundless darkness that had long since claimed his sight, a glimmer of light slowly began to bloom.
Half an hour passed. Cyril, still crouched outside the window, braving the cold wind atop the high tower and shivering as he gazed at the dragon in Castle Black below, heard the door open behind him.
"Maester Aemon… ah—my pardon, my lord. I thought you were Maester Aemon.
Seeing that the one before him was a young man with silver-white hair and violet eyes, Cyril hurriedly lowered his head in apology, fearing he had given offense.
Many great personages had come to Castle Black, and he had been told time and again to take care not to slight them.
Yet as his apology fell, a slender hand came to rest upon his head.
"Cyril, so your hair is brown-black."
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