In the cramped room of the inn, Quhuru Mo, the dark-skinned mate of the Cinnamon Wind, recounted the rumors sweeping the jade seas. He spoke of a silver-haired Queen with three dragon heads who had broken the chains of Meereen and Yunkai. In the flickering firelight, he painted a vivid, bloody portrait: how the "Breaker of Chains" had used her beauty to beguile a Great Khal, how she had stepped into a funeral pyre to hatch three thirsting monsters, and how she had bound eight thousand Unsullied to her will through dark sorceries.
To the listeners, the legends made Queen Daenerys Targaryen sound like a crimson specter.
Gilly, the young Free Folk mother, huddled by the brazier clutching her babe. She shivered, her eyes wide. "Heavens... is she a demon?"
Quhuru Mo's expression remained grave. "No, girl. She is a nightmare to the masters, but a savior to the slaves. If even a tenth of the tales are true, men will follow her to the ends of the world."
"No one thought of a girl," Maester Aemon whispered, struggling to pull his frail body upright. "The prophecy spoke of a Prince, not a Princess. I thought it was Rhaegar—smoke rose from the fires of Summerhall the day he was born, and salt came from the tears of the mourners. He believed it too, until he sired Aegon. He saw a comet over the capital that night—the Bleeding Star."
The old man's wrinkled face twisted into a bitter smile. "We were fools. Self-important fools. We forgot Septon Barth's warning: dragons have no gender. They are as fluid as the flame, shifting between sun and shadow. Language misled us for a thousand years. Daenerys was the one born of salt and smoke. Her dragons are the proof."
Just speaking of her seemed to ignite a spark in his tired spirit. "I must go to her. I must. Oh, if I were but ten years younger..."
Samwell Tarly hurried to the bed, gently guiding the agitated old man back to the pillows. "Maester, please, lie still. Dareon has returned; we have coin again. I will buy you the finest medicines tomorrow."
Seeing the Maester's precarious state, Jon pulled Quhuru Mo into the hallway.
"Quhuru," Jon said, pressing a handful of silver into the sailor's palm. "My thanks for tonight. Your stories have given an old man peace. When does your ship sail? I hope to buy you a drink before you weigh anchor."
The Summer Islander pocketed the coin without tallying it. "Jon, you are a generous soul. With your care, the old one may find his strength. My ship sits at Ragman's Harbor; we sail in five days. Whether you seek the Seven Kingdoms or Slaver's Bay, find me. I have friends in every port."
Jon saw him to the door. "We will be in touch, Quhuru. Soon."
Inside the room, Maester Aemon's blind eyes wandered. He reached out with a trembling, skeletal hand, clutching Sam's thick fingers. "You must tell them, Sam. Tell the Archmaesters at the Citadel. My letters to Oldtown will be treated as the ravings of a centenarian dotard. But you can make them see. Tell them of the Wall. Tell them of the cold that walks. Tell them of the wights."
"I will, Master," Sam promised, his voice cracking. "We'll tell them together."
"No," Aemon sighed. "I am dying, Sam. I can feel the warmth leaving my bones. For a man as old as I, the dark should not be frightening, yet I fear it. Is that not foolish? To spend a life in blindness and still fear the night?" He wept then, silent tears tracking through his deep wrinkles. "I wonder what waits when the last ember fades. Will I see Egg? Will Daeron be happy? Or will I ride a horse of fire across the stars? Who has ever crossed the Wall of Death and returned with the truth? Only the wights. And we know what they are."
Jon had returned to the room and sat on a low stool, listening to the dragon's lament. During a pause in the old man's breathing, Jon spoke. "Maester, why not tell her yourself? You have lived through a century of wisdom. You share her blood. Your words carry more weight than any youth's."
"Jon Snow..." Aemon squinted toward the voice. "I never thought to hear you again. After you left the Wall for Winterfell, word vanished. Your uncle Benjen believed you dead."
"I am very much alive," Jon said, giving a brief account of his time with Aldric. "And I am fortunate to find you here."
Aemon shook his head. "Your teacher, Aldric... he is a powerful man. A sorcerer-king in the making. If Daenerys did not exist, perhaps he would be the promised Light. But he appeared as if from the void. No one knows his root. I do not know if he can save the realm, but the girl is of the blood..."
Jon didn't argue. The Dragon Queen had her monsters, but Aldric had a hundred Sunwalkers, a number that grew with every moon. "My Master does not seek a throne, Maester. He seeks a world where the poor are no longer the meat for noble knives. If Daenerys is a 'Breaker of Chains,' their paths will not cross in violence."
Aemon sighed. "A dragon has but one head. There is only one sun in the sky. The realm can have only one leader, whether he is called 'Lightbringer' or 'Mother of Dragons.' I pray they unite, but the pride of House Targaryen is a fierce thing."
"Then she needs your wisdom to temper that pride."
"My body is a ruin, Jon. I have outlived every man I ever knew. This journey has drained the last of my oil."
"No," Jon said, stepping forward. He placed his hand on the Maester's sparse white hair. "Great Anshe, mend this guardian of the realm. Restore the vessel that has stood for a hundred years."
Jon closed his eyes, channeling a pulse of Solar Grace followed by a Purify spell to cleanse the damp-fever from the old man's lungs.
"Oh... oh... what is this?" Aemon gasped. He felt his muscles shiver and his chest clear. A flush of color returned to his cheeks before he collapsed into a deep, healing sleep.
"Jon... Master Jon... what happened to him?" Sam asked, terrified.
"I have mended what I could. It is not youth, Sam, but it is strength. My Master once did the same for Lord Hoster Tully. Sam... I am coming with you to meet the Dragon Queen."
Jon turned to Dareon, who was huddled in the corner. "Dareon, stay here. Guard the Maester and Sam. You know the price for desertion. If you flee this room, I will put a price on your head that every bravo in Braavos will notice."
Dareon, having seen the golden flash of Jon's magic, had lost all desire to be a simple street singer. To follow a Sunwalker and a Targaryen royal—and perhaps find a Queen with dragons—was a far more lucrative "gig."
"I was a fool, Jon," Dareon stammered. "I'll stay. I'll guard them with my life."
Jon gave Sam a heavy purse of iron and silver. "Find a better room. Higher up, away from the damp. Buy wood for the hearth. Hire an experienced wet-nurse for Gilly; she needs to learn how to care for the babe in this climate. If Lord Commander Mormont sent you out, you shouldn't have to live like rats."
Walking back to his own inn, Jon reflected on his decision. Was it an impulse to sail for Slaver's Bay?
No, he decided. As a Sunwalker, he had to act as the Order's eyes. Aldric always said that while the lords of Westeros were dangerous, they were "husks of a dying age"—dry bones destined to be replaced by the Light. But the Mother of Dragons was something new. She liberated slaves. Her ideals echoed Aldric's. She possessed overwhelming military force.
The Jon Snow of the Riverlands was just one of the Master's hands. But the Jon Snow who joined the Dragon Queen would be the Master's eyes and ears in the East.
But what of Arya?
He found her the next morning at the docks. She was haggling with a deckhand, her "Cat" persona in full swing. When the crowd thinned, Jon stepped in and helped her push the heavy oyster cart toward a quiet corner.
"I am leaving, Arya," Jon said softly.
Arya's eyes went wide. "Where? Back to the Riverlands? To your 'Master'?"
"No. I found brothers from the Watch. Duty calls me south, across the sea to Yunkai. I want you to come with me."
Arya's face twisted in pain. "You're leaving me again? For your 'duty'?"
"I swore an oath to the gods and to the Dawn. A storm is coming from the East, and I must see it for myself. Please, Arya. Come with us."
"No!" Arya shouted, her jaw setting. "You have your duties. I have mine. I have things I cannot leave behind."
Jon stood in silence for a long moment. He pulled his coin pouch from his belt—every gold dragon he had earned from mending bravoes—and pressed it into her small, calloused hands. "Protect yourself, little sister. If the day comes when you wish to leave this city, buy a passage to Saltpans. Seek your mother at the hollow hill, or find my Master at St. Maur's."
Arya stared at the gold, then lunged forward, throwing her arms around Jon's waist. Her voice was thick with sobs. "Live, Jon. You have to live."
Jon stroked her hair one last time. "Live, Arya. We will find our way back to each other. By the Sun and the Snow."
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