Aemon Targaryen – Castle Black
Aemon smiled as he walked out of his chambers with Shireen and made his way to the Shieldhall. Along the way, he saw men and the occasional free folk looking at him. It had been a long time since he had felt this way, at least at the Wall. Happy. Even after everything that had happened, he felt happy.
As they walked on, Shireen stopped. He followed her gaze, and it landed on a man who made his free hand curl into a fist.
Stannis, now clad all in black leather, looked at them. The man looked old, as if he had aged years. The black hair he had had when Aemon first met him was all but gone, and the rest of his face looked like that of a man who had not slept in days.
Good, Aemon thought. Let the man live with his choices. The Wall will be his punishment.
"Come on."
Shireen looked a bit startled before nodding and walking on with him.
Soon enough, they arrived. As they entered, cheers greeted them.
"To King Crow and Queen Stag!" Tormund cheered, the big man grinning.
Soon, other cheers of King Stark and Queen Shireen were heard. Aemon only smiled as they took their seats at the head of the table beside Edd, Ser Alliser, Tormund, Howland, and Maege.
Then Rickon came at him like a little wolf, all elbows, fur, and wild curls.
"Aemon!" he shouted, crashing into him hard enough that Aemon nearly laughed.
Aemon caught him with one arm and lifted him from the ground. "You are getting heavy."
"I am getting strong," Rickon declared.
"That too."
Rickon grinned, then looked at Shireen. "Are you queen now?"
Shireen smiled softly. "So they keep telling me."
Rickon seemed to consider that, then nodded as if he had judged the matter settled. "Good. You are nicer than most queens."
Aemon wondered if Rickon remembered cold Queen Cersei at all.
That earned laughter from those nearby, even from Edd, though Ser Alliser only grunted into his cup.
Below them sat a number of lords now sworn to them: Skagosi, Stormlanders, and a few Crownland houses.
As Aemon looked at the crannogman, he wondered if Howland perhaps knew about the dreams. It was said the Neck was one of the few places in Westeros where magic still thrived.
As he looked around the crowded hall, it was truly filled with people from all over Westeros, and for now, that bond held. Yet how long would it hold?
He looked to Edd then. "Lord Commander, how goes the manning of the Wall? I know we started the process when I led the Watch. How does it stand?"
Edd looked at him, then to Ser Alliser. "Well enough, but provisions are the main concern. I received word from Cotter. Yesterday, the first shipment of food arrived from Braavos. Hopefully, it helps. The loan might have been hefty, but without it, we would all starve."
Aemon nodded and thought that when he sat the throne and dethroned the damn Lannisters, he would make sure to send aid to the Watch and pay the loan in full. Although currently, he was not up to date on the kingdom's finances. He would ask either Shireen or Davos. They might know about the current finances of the Seven Kingdoms, since Stannis had served for many years as Master of Ships.
He could ask the man himself, but currently, he doubted he could do so without punching the man in the face.
"When the South and North are sorted, I will send what aid I can. Soon, we will stand against what is coming," he said, as the blue eyes of that thing's leader still haunted him.
"It would be a great relief," Edd noted.
Then Aemon turned to Howland and Maege. "How are the men? Are they ready to march to Last Hearth?"
"They are, Your Grace. They move out soon. If the march goes well, we should reach the castle in two weeks," Howland noted.
"Good. That gives me time to travel to the Gorge on Nightwing. It should not take me more than a day or two to set it in order."
"Ah, the Weeper will piss himself when he sees you arrive on that thing," Tormund said with a laugh.
"Indeed. Any advice on how to deal with him?"
"Trick him into fighting you one-on-one. You can kill him honorably, and the warriors he brought will respect you."
Aemon shook his head.
"I thought as much. Is he a good fighter?"
"He is, but he is getting old," Tormund noted with a grin. "A man does not lead the free folk if he is not strong. We did not name you or Mance king for no reason."
"Indeed, you did," Aemon said.
He sighed and went on with eating.
Aemon smiled faintly as Tormund laughed and returned to his drink. Around them, the Shieldhall roared with life. Men drank, sang, argued, and laughed. Free folk shared cups with black brothers. Northmen sat beside Stormlanders, and Skagosi warriors told loud tales that had several Crownlanders staring at them in confusion.
It was strange.
For years, the Wall had been a place of cold, duty, and death. Now it felt almost warm.
Shireen sat beside him, speaking softly with Davos, her hand resting close enough that he could take it whenever he wished. Rickon had fallen asleep against Maege Mormont's side, the boy's wild curls half-hidden beneath a fur cloak. The sight made Aemon's chest ache with something fierce and tender.
Aemon's smile faded as his gaze found Shireen again. She sat beside Davos, speaking softly with him. Rickon was near her, half-awake and wrapped in furs, looking more like a sleepy wolf pup than the Lord of Winterfell. The sight made something in Aemon's chest tighten.
He did not wish to leave them.
Not today.
Not so soon after the wedding.
But the Weeper waited near the Gorge, and the Shadow Tower needed to know what was coming. If that wound was left untended, it could fester behind them while the armies marched south.
Shireen must have felt his gaze because she looked up.
For a moment, the cold hall and all the watching men faded.
There was only her.
His wife.
His queen.
Aemon rose from his seat, and the low murmur in the Shieldhall began to quiet.
"My friends," he said, his voice carrying through the hall.
Men looked up from their bowls. Lords straightened. Free folk turned toward him. Even Tormund stopped drinking.
"Yesterday, we celebrated. Today, we move. Lord Reed and Lady Mormont will lead the march toward Last Hearth. Sigorn, Alys, and the Skagosi will make ready for Karhold. Lord Commander Eddison Tollett will hold Castle Black and the Wall."
He paused, letting his gaze pass across them all.
"I will fly with Nightwing to the Shadow Tower, then to the Gorge. The Weeper and his followers must be dealt with before they become a knife in our backs."
Aemon placed both hands on the table.
"We are not many, not yet. The Boltons still hold Winterfell. The Freys still draw breath. The Lannisters still sit in the south. And beyond the Wall, the dead gather." His voice hardened. "But we are moving now. The North will hear that the Starks still live. They will hear that justice marches from the Wall. They will hear that winter has come for oathbreakers, murderers, and flayers."
A low sound moved through the hall. Not quite a cheer. Something deeper.
A promise.
Aemon nodded once. "Eat quickly. Say your farewells. We leave within the hour."
Chairs scraped against stone. Men rose. Orders began to pass from mouth to mouth. The Shieldhall filled with movement.
Shireen came to him then.
"I wish you did not have to leave," she said softly.
"Me too, but I need you to look after the little dragons and Ghost."
"I know. We spoke of it, but that does not mean I like it," she muttered as she kissed him.
Aemon returned it eagerly. "Nor do I, but do not worry. I will return."
"You had better."
"I mean it, Shireen."
"So do I."
He kissed her again, gentle at first, then firmer, as if he could leave a promise upon her lips. When they parted, her cheeks were flushed, though her eyes were wet.
Rickon came up beside them, scowling. "You are leaving?"
"For a short while," Aemon said.
Rickon crossed his arms. "You said you would not leave me."
Aemon crouched before him. "And I will keep that promise. This is not me leaving you. This is me making sure no enemy comes behind us while we take back your home. You will have to look after my wife."
Rickon looked toward Shireen.
"I will come back," Aemon said. "Then we move on to liberate the North from the Boltons."
At that, Rickon's expression shifted.
"Good," the boy muttered. "Because I want to see the Boltons dead, and I will protect Shireen."
Aemon felt pride and sadness. His little brother wanted someone dead. Yet he looked at his brother and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"So do I."
Davos approached next, his weathered face grave. "I will watch over them, Your Grace."
"I know you will. I shall take care of your son," Aemon replied.
Then he looked to Edd and Ser Alliser. "Castle Black is yours."
"Try not to die again," Edd said.
Aemon huffed. "I will try."
Ser Alliser gave a stiff nod. "Ser Denys is good, and will listen to reason, and when you arrive on your black beast, he might be even relieved. Just like me, he changed his mind if his letters are to be believed."
"Letters?"
Ser Alliser gave him a small smile. "He will tell you, when you arrive, Your Grace."
Tormund clapped Aemon hard on the shoulder. "Give the Weeper my love."
"I doubt he wants it."
"That makes it better."
Aemon shook his head, then stepped away from the table.
Ghost waited near the doors, silent and pale as snow, with the two little dragons upon his back. The direwolf's red eyes fixed on him, and Aemon felt the familiar pull of his oldest companion.
He walked toward him. "Look after Shireen and these little ones," he said as he petted him.
Ghost only looked at him, not making a sound, yet Aemon felt his acceptance. The small dragons only chirped.
Then he felt him.
Outside, beyond the walls of Castle Black, Nightwing waited for him. He could feel the dragon's restlessness like a raging fire in the back of his mind. The desire to fly. To go west. To go for the Weeper.
Aemon looked once more at Shireen.
She stood tall, though he could see the fear she tried to hide.
His queen.
His wife.
His Rhaenys.
For her, for Rickon, for the North, and for all the living, he would do what needed to be done.
The doors opened, and the cold morning rushed in.
Aemon turned and walked from the Shieldhall.
The yard of Castle Black was alive with movement. Men loaded carts. Horses snorted clouds of white breath into the morning air. Black brothers carried bundles of spears and arrows. Northmen checked saddle straps and tightened belts. Free folk moved in rougher groups, carrying axes, bows, and whatever weapons they favored. The Skagosi stood apart, grim and eager, their strange mounts stamping at the frozen ground.
Above it all, the Wall loomed silent and pale, catching the weak light of dawn.
Aemon walked toward the gate, where his two squires waited for him.
Devan Seaworth stood straight-backed, trying very hard to look fearless. Satin stood beside him with the travel gear bundled and ready, though his eyes kept flicking toward the gate.
"Everything packed?" Aemon asked.
"Everything is ready, Your Grace," Devan said, pride clear in his voice.
Satin nodded. "Food, waterskins, extra furs, rope, and what little gear we thought might survive dragonback."
"Good," Aemon replied. "Stay behind me when we approach him. Do not make sudden movements. I do not know how Nightwing will react to you both."
Both boys nodded, but Aemon saw the nervousness in their eyes.
"As you say, Your Grace," Satin replied.
Devan swallowed. "He will not eat us, will he?"
Aemon looked toward the gate.
"Not, if you do anything foolish."
"That is not very comforting," Satin muttered.
Aemon gave him a faint smile. "Well, it is what it is with a dragon."
The two boys exchanged a worried look.
Aemon turned toward the guards above the gate. "Open the gate."
The order rang out across the yard. Chains rattled. Wood groaned. The great gate began to open, slowly revealing the snow-covered field beyond Castle Black.
And there they were.
Silverwing lay upon the snow, elegant and still, her silver scales gleaming with pale blue beneath the morning light. Her eyes were open, watching him. Calm. Knowing. Beside her, Nightwing rose from the ground like a living shadow.
The black dragon was immense.
Even after bonding with him, even after riding him, the sight still stole Aemon's breath. Nightwing's scales were black as coal, scarred and uneven in places, each one thick as armor. His horns curled like dark blades, and smoke drifted from his nostrils. His green eyes fixed upon Aemon with terrible intelligence.
Behind him, Satin made a faint sound.
Devan whispered something that sounded like a prayer.
Aemon did not blame them.
If Nightwing wished it, he could swallow all three of them whole and barely notice.
Aemon walked forward slowly, boots crunching in the snow.
Nightwing lowered his massive head.
The movement alone sent a gust of hot, smoke-scented breath over him. Aemon lifted his hand and placed it against the dragon's snout. The scales were warm beneath his palm, almost hot, like stone left beside a great fire.
"Lykiri," Aemon murmured.
Nightwing rumbled.
Aemon felt the dragon's impatience. The desire to leap into the sky, to spread his wings, to race the wind westward. The dragon did not fear the Weeper. He did not truly understand the man as a threat. To Nightwing, the Weeper was only something that stood in the path. Something to be broken, burned, or made to kneel.
"We fly west today," Aemon said, his words coming in a rough mixture of High Valyrian and the common tongue. "To the Shadow Tower first. Then the Gorge. They come with me."
He gestured back toward Devan and Satin.
Nightwing's green eyes shifted toward the boys.
Both went very still.
The dragon gave a low huff. Smoke rolled across the snow and curled around their boots. Then he let out a deep trill and lowered his body closer to the ground.
Aemon exhaled.
"Good," he whispered, stroking the great snout once more. "Good, Nightwing."
He turned back to his squires. "All right. Let us mount."
He took the travel gear from them first and began to climb. It was not graceful. Without a saddle, climbing Nightwing was a test of strength and nerve. His fingers found holds between scales and spikes, and his boots searched for places that would not slip. The dragon remained still beneath him, though every breath Nightwing took shifted Aemon slightly.
At last, he reached the place between the dragon's shoulders, where he could sit between several ridges of warm black scale.
He tied the gear as securely as he could, then looked down.
"Devan, you first. Satin, follow after."
Devan stared up at him, his face pale.
Aemon gave him a firm look. "Slowly. Use the ridges. Do not look down too much."
"That is difficult, Your Grace," Devan called back.
"I know."
The boy climbed. His hands shook, but he did not stop. Satin followed, quicker but no less pale. Twice, Devan slipped, and Aemon reached down to steady him. Satin muttered curses under his breath that he probably thought Aemon could not hear.
Finally, both boys settled behind him as best they could.
Devan gripped one of the ridges with both hands. "There are no straps."
"No."
"No saddle."
"Sadly, no. Although I plan to order one to be built at Winterfell when we have taken it back."
Satin took in a shaky breath. "Flying without one seems unwise."
"It is not safe, no, but for now, we have to fly without one," Aemon said. "Hold tight."
Nightwing gave a rumble beneath them, as if amused.
Aemon looked back toward Castle Black.
Shireen stood upon the battlements with Rickon beside her. Davos was there too, as were Edd, Ser Alliser, Tormund, Howland, Maege, and others. Ghost stood below them in the yard, white against the snow, with the two little dragons still perched upon his back.
For a heartbeat, Aemon let himself look only at Shireen.
She lifted one hand.
He nodded to her.
Then he took in a deep breath and leaned forward, placing his hand against Nightwing's scales.
"Nightwing," he commanded. "Soves."
Nightwing rose.
The movement made Devan gasp and Satin curse again. The dragon spread his wings, vast black sails that blotted out the pale morning light. Snow scattered in every direction as the first beat of those wings struck the ground.
Then Nightwing roared.
The sound rolled over Castle Black like thunder, shaking the very air.
With a few powerful beats of his wings and a mighty leap, the black dragon launched himself into the sky.
Aemon gripped the spikes tightly as the world dropped away beneath them. The yard, the men, the gates, and the Wall all grew smaller with every beat of Nightwing's wings. Cold wind struck his face, sharp enough to steal his breath, but the heat rising from the dragon beneath him kept the worst of it away.
Behind him, Devan shouted wordlessly.
Satin clung on for dear life.
Nightwing climbed higher.
Castle Black spread below them, small and fragile against the endless white. The Wall rose beside them, immense and gleaming. For a moment, Aemon looked south, toward the North that waited to be reclaimed. Then he looked west.
The Shadow Tower waited.
The Gorge waited.
The Weeper waited.
The Shadow Tower
The Shadow Tower appeared upon the horizon shortly after midday.
Aemon spotted it through a break in the clouds, a dark shape standing against the white foothills of the Frostfangs. As Nightwing descended, the castle became clearer.
It was smaller than Castle Black. The tower itself reminded him of Winterfell's Broken Tower, though sturdier and still whole. Around its base sat a small keep, barracks, stables, and storehouses. It was not a grand fortress, only a lonely sentinel guarding the western end of the Wall and the road to the Gorge.
Beyond it, the mountains rose sharp and cold.
Aemon looked west.
The Gorge waited there, a great wound cut through stone and snow. A perfect place for the Weeper and his raiders to hide.
Behind him, Devan swallowed. "It looks small."
"It is small," Satin muttered, his hands still gripping Nightwing's scales.
"The Wall is the fortress," Aemon said. "The castles only support it."
Below, men began to notice them. Horns sounded. Brothers ran across the yard, pointing upward as the black dragon came down from the clouds.
Nightwing rumbled beneath him.
"No," Aemon warned.
The dragon ignored him and roared.
The sound rolled across the mountains, sending birds bursting from the trees. Men scattered inside the Shadow Tower's walls.
Devan gave a nervous laugh. "I think they know we are not a dream."
Nightwing landed on the road beyond the gate, snow flying around him. Aemon climbed down, followed by Devan and Satin. The braver guards on the walls raised crossbows and bows, though none loosed.
"Jon Stark, King in the North, comes to seek Commander of the Shadow Tower Ser Denys Mallister," Devan called.
Aemon smiled faintly at the boy. He knew his courtesies well.
The gates opened, and Ser Denys Mallister stepped out. The old knight looked from Aemon to Nightwing, wary but steady.
"Your Grace," he said with a bow. "Welcome to the Shadow Tower. Though I admit, your arrival is something of a surprise, especially on dragonback."
"Ser Denys," Aemon replied. "Lord Commander Tollett sent word."
"He did. He failed to mention the dragon." Denys glanced at Nightwing again. "Still, I am glad to see him. We have lost rangers to wights and the Weepers men, and now the man himself gathers near the Gorge and the Bridge of Skulls. I wouldn't be surprised if he tries to move for the bridge once again."
"Good, I planned to deal with him, with either the blade or fire and blood," Aemon said. "I need to return to my forces quickly. We have the North to return order."
"As you command. I will have rooms prepared. Come to my solar, Your Grace, and we shall speak further."
Aemon nodded. "Lead the way, Commander."
The Bridge of Skulls
The following morning, Aemon stood on the southern side of the Bridge of Skulls and looked across the Gorge.
Far below, white water crashed against black stone. The wind howled through the cliffs, making the old bridge sway. Bones and skulls still hung from ropes and spikes, remnants of older battles between the Watch and the free folk.
Behind him stood brothers of the Night's Watch, and Ser Denys with fellow officers on shaggy mounts. Nightwing rested upon a rocky rise nearby, black scales gleaming in the cold morning light.
The dragon wanted to cross with him.
Aemon felt it through their bond. Fire. Hunger. Impatience.
He looked back at Nightwing, No he said mentally.
Nightwing snorted smoke.
Aemon turned away. This fight belonged to men, and even if he let Nightwing join him, he wasn't even sure if the dragon could. The Gorge was as much a bode to the far north as the Wall was. Perhaps what prevented the dragon's form passing was also here.
Across the bridge, perhaps two thousand of free folk had gathered. Raiders, hunters, warriors, women and children, and old people stood shoulder to shoulder. At their center stood a tall blond man with a scarred face and a great war scythe resting across his shoulder.
The Weeper.
The envoy had done his work. Aemon had praised the man for his bravery when he returned. Now only his challenge would need to be answered.
Aemon wore only part of his armor: a breastplate over his gambeson, with a shield on his left arm and Longclaw in his right hand. Enough protection to keep him alive, not enough to slow him.
He stepped onto the bridge.
The old wood creaked beneath his boots. Halfway across, he stopped and raised his voice.
"I have come to challenge the Weeper to trial by battle!"
The free folk fell silent.
"If you win, your people may pass into the Gift. If I win, your followers join me, as the rest of the free folk already have. They have named me King Beyond the Wall and King in the North. Let this be settled with steel instead of slaughter."
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then came the jeers.
"Crow!"
"Liar!"
"Southron king!"
"Bastard!"
Aemon almost smiled. Some things never changed.
The Weeper raised one hand, and the noise died.
"King Crow wants to fight me?" he shouted, grinning cruelly. "I will cut you to pieces, little crow. But I accept your terms."
He pointed the blade of his scythe toward Nightwing.
"On one condition. When you die, I take that black beast."
Aemon laughed.
Nightwing lifted his head, smoke curling from his nostrils.
"You are welcome to try," Aemon called back. "Though I suspect he would rather burn and eat you."
The Weeper spat over the side of the bridge.
"I am the Weeper. Raider of the Hills. Reaper of the lands south of the Gorge. I will tame that beast and become king. If two crows can be kings of the free folk, then so can I. Weeper King Beyond The Wall."
Aemon's expression hardened.
Mance had united the free folk.
Aemon had saved parts of them and now let them.
The Weeper only let by strength, and would only make his people bleed more.
The blond warrior stepped onto the bridge. The timbers groaned beneath him as he advanced, scythe in hand.
Aemon drew Longclaw fully.
Valyrian steel gleamed in the morning light.
The Weeper attacked first.
His scythe swept toward Aemon's neck. Aemon stepped back, and the blade cut through empty air. The free folk roared.
"You're quite quick, King Crow!" the Weeper laughed.
He struck again. Aemon raised his shield. The scythe slammed into it hard enough to numb his arm.
The Weeper pressed him, swing after swing, forcing Aemon back across the swaying bridge. The man was strong, and his reach made the scythe dangerous, especially in such a narrow place.
But Tormund had been right.
The Weeper was getting old. When he saw the man more clearly, he saw the man's grey hair in his blond locks.
His attacks were powerful, but wasteful.
Aemon waited.
The Weeper swung low. Aemon jumped back, and the blade bit into the wooden planks, sending splinters into the air.
The free folk cheered.
"Not so brave now, are you?" the Weeper snarled.
Aemon smiled.
The Weeper charged, bringing the scythe down from above. Aemon stepped aside. The blade struck the bridge and stuck for one brief heartbeat.
That was enough.
Longclaw flashed.
Valyrian steel cut through the wooden shaft, and the upper half of the scythe spun away into the Gorge.
The cheering stopped.
Aemon slammed his shield into the Weeper's face. Blood burst from the man's nose. Before he could recover, Longclaw opened his chest, then his thigh.
The Weeper staggered.
For the first time, Aemon saw fear in his eyes.
"You lose, Tormund Giant's Bane sents his love." Aemon said.
The Weeper spat blood. "Fuck you."
He drew a knife and lunged.
Aemon stepped aside.
Longclaw rose and fell.
The Weeper's head left his shoulders, bounced across the bridge, and rolled over the edge. The free folk watched as it vanished into the Gorge and dropped into the river far below.
His body stood for one heartbeat longer.
Then it collapsed.
Silence fell.
Aemon stood over the corpse, Longclaw dripping red.
Then one of the Weeper's followers roared and charged onto the bridge with an axe in hand.
"No!"
Aemon sighed.
The man came on wildly, blinded by pride and rage. Aemon stepped inside the blow and thrust Longclaw through his chest. The warrior froze, blood spilling from his mouth, then fell dead at Aemon's feet.
No one else moved.
Aemon raised Longclaw.
"The Weeper is dead!" he called. "The trial is finished. You know the terms."
For a long moment, the free folk stared at him.
Then an old warrior stepped forward. He looked at the Weeper's body, then at Aemon, and slowly dropped to one knee.
"The Weeper is dead," the old man said. "Long live the King Beyond the Wall."
One by one, others followed.
A dozen.
A hundred.
Then the rest bowed their heads. .
Axes lowered. Spears dipped. Heads bowed.
Aemon looked across the kneeling host.
The Weeper's people were his now.
"You are free folk," he called. "I will not take that from you. But winter is here, and the dead are coming. Alone, you die."
He pointed south.
"Follow me, and live."
The old warrior rose. "We follow the King."
A roar burst from the gathered host.
"The King!"
"The King Beyond the Wall!"
"The Dragon King!"
"The Crow King!"
Behind Aemon, Nightwing roared, and the sound echoed through the Gorge like thunder.
The western free folk had been brought into the fold.
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