The morning meal at Castle Black was always a meagre thing with a hard tasteless bread, a strip of pork that tasted much salty, and water cold enough to freeze the teeth. Aemon sat alone at the long table, the hall still empty with the early rays of the sun. Then came the bootsteps, heavy and deliberate as two men comes and sit opposite him, saying nothing.
Ser Alliser Thorne keeps his eyes fastened to the wooden table, searching for right word and moment to start with. Ser Jaremy Rykker sat by his side, a broad man by shoulders, his face hard doing harsh ranging missions beyond the wall also sat silently with his callused hands folded together. Neither spoke and Aemon let the silence stretch continuing with the food in front of him.
At last, after he finishes the fast, he turns to both men once loyal men to House Targaryen, their House serving his own for years. "Do you wish to leave the Night's Watch, Ser Alliser? Ser Jaremy?" His started in low voice, but it carried on across the empty hall. "I could speak to the Lord Commander. By the power I hold as a king, your release could be arranged."
Ser Alliser's head snaps up. His obsidian black eyes meets red of his own, and he sees how much the man wants to be by his side. "I do wish it, Your Grace," he rasps, his words unsteady, as though bringing up difficult memory pained him. "I want go with you. And I would have my vengeance for the treachery Tywin Lannister dealt that day." He swallows hard, the sound loud in the quiet room. "When he entered the capital, feigning loyalty to the Targaryens… We watched from the battlements of the City Watch, Your Grace. He fooled each and every one of us."
Ser Jaremy starts next, his voice soft. "We saw everything that day, Your Grace," he whispers. "We saw the hell his men brought down upon King's Landing. None were spared, not the women and nor the little girls. They were just screaming things his men caught. True Aerys was mad, as they all say, but it was the golden lion sitting at his side that poisoned him so."
Aemon sat in the stillness, letting their unpleasant memories run their course and letting the truth settle like in between them. "What do you ask of me, sers?" he asks again at last.
Ser Jaremy's gaze drifts from Aemon's face to the hall they were sitting in. "Do you have any task you wish done here by us, Your Grace?" he asks. "Anything that must be tended after you take flight?"
Aemon leans forward, knowing full well how easily men turn to take revenge. "There will be many new arrivals to the Watch in the days ahead," he said. "I want the maester kept safe."
Ser Alliser's back straightens to a rod and did Ser Jaremy's, both nodding instantly, their eyes lit fierce.
"It will be no trouble for us, Your Grace," Allister confirms. "Lord Mormont always keep good men close and we will see that none trouble the old maester."
Aemon nods. Although seeing Allister's face brought cruel memories, he knew they had said the truth. His eyes, crimson as blood sees clearly the sincerity or the deceit behind any man's face. These two bore their guilt of what happened in Kings Landing like a physical weight, and they spoke no falsehood even once.
"Thank you, sers," he speaks at last. "For your service."
At the gates of Castle Black, Jeor Mormont stood with his gloved hands clasped behind his back, his heavy beard filled with fresh snow, watching Meleys from afar. The dragon's red scales catching the morning light making them shine like rubies.
"Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Commander," Aemon starts, walking up to him.
Jeor's head turns to him hearing his voice. His eyes still fixed on a topic with a lingering concern. "Do you think its wise allowing the wildlings south of the wall?" he asks, blunt as any true northmen. "Is that the right thing to do, Your Grace? Breaking law that has stood for many years?"
Aemon nods, his mind resolute on it. "The realm must know the danger it faces. The Night King hunts without reason, without mercy and without borders. Uncle Benjen will bring them. And their presence together with the wights we have caught, will speak more than a thousand letters. Innocents must live, Lord Commander. Wildling, smallfolk or lordling it makes no difference to the dead."
Mormont grunts, "Aye. I know that. But convincing the Umbers, the Karstarks, the mountain clans… that'll be a battle in itself. These don't forgive pasts easily." despite the words, he seem much relaxed after hearing his resolution.
Aemon allowed himself the smallest, briefest smirk. "I have a dragon," he starts. "That tends to hurry the slow minds."
Soft footsteps sounds behind him, as Shiera descends from the King's Tower, her silver hair fastened in a beautiful braid and face hidden behind red lacquer mask .
"I wish to see you in good health when we meet again Lord Commander," Aemon tells Jeor. "At Harrenhal, in a moon's time."
Jeor's stern features ease a little. "I will set things in order here," he promises. "Before riding south with few men of night's watch bringing wildlings from beyond the wall and those creatures in chain. What's coming will be the greatest council in the history of Westeros, Your Grace, and all of them will likely choke on their own pride."
Aemon shakes arm to arm with the Lord Commander in parting, then climbs on Meleys. Ghost already settled onto the front as Shiera swungs up behind him.
"You sent a chainmail to my room at dawn," she states, as she settled herself against his back. "Dear nephew."
"I did," Aemon answered. "Have you put it on?"
"I have," she said. "Do you feel danger in Winterfell?"
"Sōvegon Meleys" he calls out, and the huge she-dragon crouches below, her body tensing like a drawn bowstring before jumping high with strength of her rear limbs, stretching wings wide, that stirred the snow at the ground.
He did not look back at Shiera as he answers. "The Starks are not what they once were, Aunt. When we slept in the Umber's mountain caves, after dealing with Ironborn in Deepwood Motte, I warged unconsciously in the direwolf of my youngest cousin. I heard the truth of her intentions and plans she means to follow. I do not fear danger for myself, only what I might unleash if I am pushed beyond the boundary I must not cross."
Shiera's hand touches his shoulder, calming out his anger. "Then it is your foolish cousin who should be afraid," she says, her voice soft and comforting against his ear. "Not you. What matter the whispers of wolves, lions, fish and vain little birds? Dragons do not heed the squawks of selfish people. You walk the path you must, for the realm."
Far south in Riverrun, in the castle surrounded by water, the Tully dining hall seem filled with inescapable tension. Ned Stark sits rigidly at the long table, his hands clasped before him, opposite him, Robb sat silent, a young king wearing a crown. Catelyn watched them both with anxiety and tension in her heart.
The silence was broken by Lord Hoster, his voice papery and thin, "Where is Brynden?"
Edmure answers, shifting miserably in his seat. "He's left for the Eyrie, Father. Uncle believes that with Targaryen men in Vale marching to the Eyrie, they will soon march to Riverlands through Bloody gate, and he said he has his own duty there."
Hoster Tully's hand trembles, at the word Targaryen, a thick bile rising in his throat. He turns his face to Ned Stark, pointing his shaking and accusing finger toward him. "Honourable, trustworthy man, are you, Lord Stark," he hisses, the word honourable tasting like poison. "Raising a Targaryen nephew, a enemy of the realm, in your own home. Robert's face would be a sight worth a thousands gold dragons now. A dead king betrayed by the honourable friend he spoke most of."
Many face of Norhtmen present change but before anyone, Ned snaps, his voice low but cutting, "Still better than a father who trades one daughter to a man older than himself," he continues, "while pushing another toward a boy who loved another and seem grieving for the family he lost, all in hope of raising his own station."
Catelyn stiffens hearing Ned's word, a flicker of pain crossing her face hearing her husband confess to loving another. Edmure looked angry, but seem craven to not even look Ned in the eye. Robb stared at the table, his jaw clenched so tightly it began to ache. The air went brittle, ready to snap when the great hall door slammed open with a jarring thunderclap and Maester Vyman rushes in, gasping of air.
"Oh, for fuck's sake, not again?" Graetjon Umber barks, throwing his massive hands up, not ready to hear another devastating news.
Vyman ignored the great lord, thrusting a parchment toward Ned. "From Winterfell, my lord. The Ironborn... they have entered the North. Moat Cailin has been seized."
The blood drains from every face at the table, leaving them ghostly white. Robb's chair scraped against the floor as he stands upright hearing the words, only to fall back down, his strength leaving him thinking of the fate of thousands of smallfolk. Ned turns sharply, his eyes cold, to the guards. "Bring me Theon Greyjoy. Now."
But the guards look back towards their king. Robb meets his father's eyes at last, his voice thin and weak. "I'm sorry, Father."
Ned stares at him. Shock settling his face, as for first time in history, the Starks fights war of south leaving their home for the reavers to be razed and sacked to the last stone.