Castle Black – The North, 269 AC.
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The wind howled against the stone like it had teeth.
It slipped through every crack in the walls of the rookery tower, whispering down the stairs, biting at the ankles of men who had long since stopped feeling their toes. Snow drifted sideways past the arrow slits, light and sharp as ground glass. Above, the sky was a flat sheet of grey, hung low over the Wall like a lid pressed over a pot.
The cold here wasn't just cold—it was old.
It sank into bones, stiffened joints, and slipped through the cracks in the stone.
It crept into ink bottles, made wax brittle, dulled fire, and shortened conversation.
It didn't just chill.
It quieted the world.
In that silence, the sound of wings.
A lone black raven circled once above the Watch's tower, then dove down through the wind like a knife. It landed on the iron perch outside the rookery window, talons clicking. Its feathers were rimmed with frost, but its eyes were sharp and black as night.
Clydas, the steward, opened the window with gloved hands and pulled the raven gently inside. The bird didn't squawk or fight. It only looked at him, then looked past him.
A strip of parchment was tied to its leg, bound with red wax.
The wax bore the imprint of the three-headed dragon.
Clydas stepped carefully down the spiral stairs of the rookery tower, boots tapping softly on stone. The parchment was clutched gently in his gloved hand, its red wax seal unbroken. He kept his body hunched forward, instinctively protecting it from the drafts that crept through the hallway like smoke.
He moved with purpose but not haste. After all, messages from the South were rare—and rarely good.
The halls of Castle Black were quiet this hour. The wind outside howled like a hungry beast, but inside the old keep, only the low murmur of voices carried from the solar. Clydas paused just outside the door, straightened his spine, and gave a short knock.
"Enter," came a voice—measured, dry, and unmistakably Maester Aemon's.
Clydas stepped inside.
The warmth of the fire greeted him first, a stark contrast to the cold stones of the hallway. A brazier glowed in the corner, casting long shadows along the wooden walls. Maps and old books lay spread across a central table, along with two cups of hot mulled wine, half-finished.
Maester Aemon sat beside the hearth, his blackthorn cane resting against the arm of his chair. At seventy-one, he looked older than his years, though his eyes still held their full sight, pale violet, sharp beneath the silver of his brow. The links of his maester's chain glinted faintly in the firelight: gold, iron, lead, tin, and more—each one earned, each one remembered.
Across from him stood the 996th Lord Commander of Night's Watch, Gillian Qorgyle, tall and broad-shouldered, his sun-scarred dornish skin weathered by years beyond the desert. His hair was streaked with smoke and steel, his armor plain but heavy. He stood with arms crossed, eyes unreadable, watching Clydas enter without a word.
"A raven," Clydas said softly, holding out the letter. "From King's Landing."
Aemon didn't answer right away. He reached out slowly, and Clydas stepped forward, placing the letter in his hand.
The wax seal stood out—deep red, marked with the three-headed dragon.
Aemon stared at it in silence.
Qorgyle glanced at the seal. "Royal sigil."
"Aye," Aemon said. "It is."
"You don't get many of those," the Lord Commander grunted faintly.
"I've gotten a few," Aemon said. His voice was quiet, almost flat. "The last one was four years ago. Told me my niece Shaera was dead. Before that… Jaehaerys. And before that… Summerhall." He paused. "Most of them came with names crossed out."
Qorgyle didn't say anything for a moment. He glanced at the letter, then back at Aemon. Qorgyle finally spoke again, his voice low. "Bad news?"
Aemon shook his head slightly. "No. The seal's clean. No black ribbon."
He unfolded the letter and began to read, his eyes growing damp as he followed each line.
For a while, there was only the crackle of the fire and the sound of the wind battering the stone.
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To my dear Uncle,
I hope this letter finds you well, though I imagine the winds beyond the Wall are rarely gentle. I often wonder what the world feels like at its end. Cold, yes—and perhaps quiet. Still, it seems fitting that a Targaryen's last fire would burn there, at the frozen edge of the realm.
You are far away, Uncle—but never forgotten. Not by me.
You are the last of an older generation—one who remembers more than the maesters allow and more than the court prefers to forget. Though I was an infant when we last met—at Summerhall—I remember your hands. That you kissed my brow. That you said goodbye with eyes heavy as ash.
I've often thought: "A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing." Perhaps that is why I am writing to you now. Because I do not want either of us to be alone.
Rhaegar has grown thoughtful and quieter, though his music remains beautiful. King Aerys rules with grandeur and drama, as kings often do. Queen Rhaella is with a child again.
And as for me… I have spent the last four years buried in the library, trying to remember what the world has chosen to forget.
Recently, in the old hatchery beneath Dragonstone, I found three dragon eggs. Real. Warm to the touch. They feel… alive. Waiting. But I do not know how to wake them.
I have scoured every book, scroll, and account in the Red Keep and Dragonstone. Yet I've found no genuine knowledge—nothing of substance. No guide to hatching. No clear understanding of the bond between dragon and rider.
So I write to you.
You are a maester. Older, wiser, and of the same blood. If you know of any surviving texts, memories, or truths about dragons—not songs or fables, but facts—I humbly ask you to share them with me.
And if you have the time… I would like to hear from you again.
Send a raven if you ever wish. I will do the same.
With hope—and fire unspent,
Aemon Targaryen.
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Aemon's hands stilled over the parchment. For a long time, he didn't move—just sat there, eyes on the ink, as if the letter might vanish if he blinked.
Then, softly—almost to himself—he chuckled.
It was brief but sincere, drawn from deep in the chest where old pain and older memories still lingered.
He leaned back in his chair, the parchment still in his hands. His face softened, the lines around his mouth easing. His eyes—sharp and pale—looked a little less tired.
He glanced down at the letter again. The way he held it—gently, with both hands—made it seem fragile. Precious. As if it carried more than words.
He didn't move. The firelight flickered across the silver in his hair. He closed his eyes momentarily, as if trying to hold onto the feeling a little longer.
"A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing," he said, quiet but clear.
And then, he smiled.
Not the tired, polite smile he wore during Watch duties or reports he'd heard a dozen times. This was different. Slow, unguarded. A real smile. One that pulled at the years and cut through the weight he usually carried like it was sewn into his shoulders.
For the first time in years, he didn't feel forgotten.
Didn't feel like the last crumbling remnant of a fading house, left to rot in the cold.
He just sat there, quietly letting the warmth sink in.
Qorgyle watched him, brow raised. Eventually, he asked, "What's the letter about?"
Aemon blinked, still half in the moment. He looked up, then exhaled through his nose. "It's from my great-nephew. Prince Aemon. Named for me."
Lord Qorgyle shifted in his chair, watching Aemon with a rare glimmer of curiosity in his eyes.
"You said the letter was from the Prince?" he asked, brow raised.
Aemon nodded. "Yes. Duncan's son. My brother's grandson."
Qorgyle tilted his head slightly. "The unburnt prince, then. That's what people are calling him, right?"
Aemon gave a quiet breath of amusement. "They are."
"You believe it?" Qorgyle asked. "That he survived Summerhall without a scratch?"
"I don't believe it," Aemon said plainly. "I know it."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice low but steady.
"I held him. Two days before it happened. He'd just been born. I remember his skin—warm but not fevered. Quiet little thing. Didn't cry much. His mother said he was too calm for a babe."
Aemon paused.
Across from him, Qorgyle shifted slightly in his seat. His gaze flicked to the fire, the flames dancing in his dark eyes. He said nothing.
"And then the fire came," Aemon finished, voice quieter now.
He looked toward the flames in the hearth. They snapped and twisted, but couldn't touch the calm on his face.
"There wasn't much left after Summerhall," Aemon went on. "But they pulled him from the ashes. Not a single burn. No blister. No mark. Everyone else… they didn't make it."
Qorgyle was silent for a moment. Then: "And that's when they started calling him unburnt."
Aemon nodded. "Not just street rumors, either. Even the court started to believe. Some said it was sorcery. Others said it was old blood—Valyrian magic waking up. The first Dragonriders were said to walk through the flame. Who knows what's true anymore?"
Aemon shifted his gaze to the letter. His expression softened, the earlier warmth returning.
"I didn't think he'd remember me," he said. "I only held him once. Thought he'd forget like the rest did. But he didn't."
He tapped the letter lightly with two fingers.
"It means something, Gillian. To be remembered. To still matter to your family after the world's moved on."
The Lord Commander glanced at the parchment. "Then you should write him back."
Aemon gave a quiet laugh. "You sound like Clydas."
"Clydas is right."
Aemon smiled a tired but honest one. "He is."
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He reached for a fresh sheet of parchment, the fire casting long shadows over his chain as he adjusted on his chair.
The room was quiet—Qorgyle had left without a word, sensing the moment was one Aemon needed for himself.
The fire had burned down low, casting a soft orange glow across the table where Maester Aemon sat hunched over parchment. His quill scratched steadily across the page, ink drying slowly in the chill air. He paused once to warm his fingers near the brazier, then continued.
His script was slow but steady, each letter deliberate. He didn't try to sound wise or mysterious. He wrote as an old man would write to the boy who'd made him smile.
He wrote what he knew of dragons and his advice to his great-nephew. He lingered on the line about the eggs. Something old stirred in his chest—equal parts awe and dread.
When the letter was finished, he laid the quill down and exhaled softly, his breath fogging in the air. It had taken him longer than it once would have, but the words were honest. Measured. And meant.
He reached for the small wooden box at his side and opened it gently. Inside were two sticks of wax—one deep red, the other pitch black.
He picked up the red one first, holding it over the flame until it softened. Slowly, he dripped the wax onto the fold of the letter. Then, from a pouch he had not opened in years, he withdrew an old, worn ring bearing the sigil of House Targaryen: the three-headed dragon.
His fingers trembled as he pressed the signet into the red wax.
"Blood remembers," he murmured.
He let it cool.
Then, taking up the black wax, he lit it next and let it drip on the opposite corner of the fold. No ring touched this one. No sigil marred its surface. It remained plain and unmarked, just as the Night's Watch had done for centuries.
Duty and blood, sealed side by side.
He sank back into his chair, joints aching more than usual. The wind moaned beyond the cold stone walls of the tower, a steady and faithful companion.
Then he stood—slowly, with the help of his cane—and made his way up the cold stairwell toward the rookery.
The wind met him at the top. Harsher than before. He pulled his cloak tighter and stepped inside the rookery, the air filled with the rustling of feathers and the faint clicking of beaks.
"Clydas," he called.
The steward looked up from his post. "You're out of bed late, Maester."
"I have a letter to send," Aemon said, offering the sealed letter. "To King's Landing. To my great-nephew."
Clydas stepped forward and took it carefully, nodding. "Same raven?"
"Yes," Aemon said, already glancing toward the perch.
The bird was there—sleek and still, its feathers black as soot, eyes sharp and patient. It didn't move as Clydas approached.
The steward tied the scroll to the raven's leg with practiced ease. The bird let out a low croak but didn't resist.
Once the letter was secured, Clydas turned and placed the raven gently into Aemon's hands.
The old maester ran his fingers lightly along the creature's wings. "Good bird," he murmured.
Then he stepped toward the narrow window.
When he opened it, the wind pushed in like a cold breath, tugging at his blanket and thinning silver hair.
Aemon leaned forward and raised the raven to the sky.
"Go on, then," he said softly. "Fly south. Fly swift."
With a sudden beat of wings, the raven launched into the cold, fog-draped night—its flight slicing through the wind like ink across the parchment. It vanished into the grey sky without a sound.
Aemon stood a moment longer, his hand resting on the cold stone of the window.
The raven was gone, lost in the mist.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
"He's chasing the fire," Aemon thought, "just like Egg did."
His fingers curled slightly against the stone.
"May it not burn him as it burned us all."
Then he turned and made his slow way back down the tower, the empty rookery growing still behind him.