Laenor Velaryon (103 A.C., Twelfth moon)
Skies above the North.
He had thought the autumn winds in the Narrow Sea were cold, but no. This was true cold, the kind that came only with Winter in the North. In the South, winter was harsh by all accounts, especially when it was a long one. Yet this freeze he felt now, flying beside his mother on dragonback, was something else entirely. The cold winds struck him as he looked out over the snow-covered landscape.
He hoped this winter would be a short one, for if it lasted long, he might spend his entire wardship in its grip. His father had warned him of this, saying, "The North is a cold son. I have made many voyages, but once I took a ship to see if one could travel by sea to the far west, in the North. It was the hardest of journeys, the cold, the great pieces of ice that floated through the seas, and the endless freeze once you pass the Wall. Beyond, the cold never ends. The farther you go, the colder it becomes, and so too does the darkness. Where you are going, the men are hard, for a hard life breeds hard men. If this winter is cruel, the old ones will walk into the snow for one final hunt. Be brave, be strong, and be true to our house words. The Strong, the Brave, and the True."
"The Strong, the Brave, and the True," Laenor repeated, though his teeth chattered in the Northern wind.
The trip to Winterfell had taken them eight days. His mother had made the journey once before with her father, during a royal progress north. Yet that was in the time of a different King and a different Lord of Winterfell. He had already met the current Lord, Benjen Stark, a gruff and broad-built man who spoke directly and meant every word.
His mother held a fondness for the North, for they had voted for her during the Great Council. Part of it, Laenor knew, was because Aemon was betrothed to Laena. Someday, Aemon would become King-Consort, and Stark blood would sit upon the Iron Throne. Yet another reason was that many in the North had been displeased with the granting of the New Gift to Watch, which stripped lands from many lords. Those lands, it was said, were already being vacated as the Watch declined. Though not spoken of openly, the revocation of the right of the First Night had also left many Northern lords grumbling.
So some had chosen to stand with his mother against Jaehaerys. Laenor also knew that the North viewed women leading men differently. The Mormonts were the prime example, having no shortage of female warriors or ladies ruling in their own right. Aemon had even told him he had two of them in his employ at Seadragon Point, serving in his own guard.
Still, the journey north was long and hard. When they stayed at Moat Cailin, he had thought they were almost there, but they were not. With everything white, much of the King's Road disappeared beneath the snow, and they had drifted west. They ended up at Barrowton, hosted generously by Lord Rodrik Dustin, who later sent them on their way with fresh directions. From there, they arrived at Castle Cerwyn as the sun was sinking in the west. The Cerwyns proved as generous as the Dustins, giving them shelter for the night.
Now at last, he knew they were close. Yet the gods toyed with them this day, for the winds rose and a storm of snow swept down on the land. They flew low, keeping to the King's Road, which was barely visible beneath the drifts.
Then, at last, he saw it: Winterfell. The twenty-four-meter-high outer granite walls loomed gray against the white landscape, just as he had read about and seen in drawings. Behind them rose the taller inner walls, thirty meters high. In front of Winterfell sprawled the Winter Town, its roofs heavy with snow, smoke curling from chimneys into the sky. Beyond the walls, he glimpsed the First Keep's tall crown, and more towers, one every fifty meters. The front gatehouse alone was as large as some keeps in the South.
He wondered how it would feel when he saw the godswood and the hot pools Aemon had spoken of. At that moment came a cry, as a small pale-grey dragon slightly larger than Seasmoke darted out of the sky, and darted past them toward Winterfell. Grey Ghost, Arya's dragon, Laenor thought with a grin. He remembered his cousin, still young but quick of mind, and full of mischief.
Melelys and Seasmoke echoed the dragon's cry and carried him to the courtyard of Winterfell. He watched as the courtyard was larger than any he had been in before. Even then, at the Red Keep, what surprised him yet was that, as he landed, he already saw a crowd gathering.
As they descended into the courtyard, Laenor saw Princess Lyanna waiting with Arya at her side. To their left stood the Lord of Winterfell, with his son Rickon beside him.
Laenor slid down from his dragon's back, followed by his mother. Together, they crossed the yard toward Benjen Stark, who offered Rhaenys a respectful bow.
"Princess Rhaenys, Lord Laenor, welcome to Winterfell. I fear winter has given you a harsher greeting than I would have wished. I trust the journey was not too cruel?" he said.
"Thank you, my Lord. The road was hard, yet we saw much of your land along the way. It feels different now than when I last came with my father, back when your own still ruled these halls," Rhaenys replied.
Benjen's mouth curved into a sad smile. "Yes, I remember when the Blood Wyrm landed in this very courtyard. I thought him immense then, until I saw my nephews' dragons. May the gods be thanked, I need never face such beasts in battle. Some still claim Torhen erred in bending the knee, but when I beheld Balerion above Harrenhal, I knew the truth." His voice carried the weight of iron.
"I know. I felt the same before I first mounted my Red Queen. Dragons are a power that has truly no rival in the world." Rhaenys said fondly, as Meleys gave an echoing roar that rolled across the yard.
"Maybe Winter your grace, as doubt even a dragon can survive one if it lasts a century, as they say the long night did," Benjen stated. "Perhaps that is so." His mother replied, smiling.
Laenor drew a steady breath and stepped forward. "My lord, I thank you for your welcome and for the chance to serve as your ward."
"There is no need for thanks, Lord Laenor. My kin have spoken warmly of you and yours. I trust your time here will prove worthwhile, and that the bond between our houses will be strengthened." Benjen smiled as he clapped Laenor firmly on the back.
As they parted, Laenor saw his mother embracing Lyanna and Arya, while Rickon stepped forward to greet him. Pulling Laenor into a rough hug, he said, "It is good to see you again, Laenor. How have Visenya and the others fared since our parting?"
"It was difficult at first," Laenor admitted, returning the embrace. "But Visenya's spirits rose once her horse arrived. Still… she misses you all."
"As do I. I miss my cousin. It has been quieter without her," Rickon said.
"Laenor!" a small voice cried out as something collided with his waist.
"Arya," he laughed, bending slightly as she clung to him. He loved that little fireball, so quick to leap from place to place. In her restless energy, he often saw a reflection of himself, for he too had never been able to sit still. Around them, the gathered crowd chuckled at her enthusiasm.
"Arya," Lyanna chided gently, though not without fondness. "Perhaps next time, approach with a touch more grace. You are a princess."
Arya's face fell for a heartbeat before she gave a solemn nod. "Yes, Mother."
Benjen's voice carried across the courtyard. "Come, the cold grows no kinder. The fires are lit, food shall be served, and I shall order a feast tonight to honor your arrival."
Laenor and his mother both turned their gaze briefly toward the dragons. "The dragonkeepers will see to the unsaddling and unpacking of your luggage, and no doubt they will soon find Grey Ghost lairing in the Wolfswood," Benjen stated.
"As you say, my Lord. I would also wish to meet the Lady of Winterfell. I have heard wonderful things about her from Lyanna," Rhaenys replied.
Benjen's expression warmed. "She is inside with Bennard, my mother, and my daughter. A raven was sent south with the news, but it seems the winds carried it astray."
"Truly? Then my congratulations, my Lord, I hope she gives you much happiness." Rhaenys said.
"Thank you. Lyarra is a beauty," Benjen answered fondly.
They walked on, passing beneath Winterfell's looming gates. As they crossed into the keep, Rickon and Arya pressed close to Laenor, their voices tumbling over one another with questions about King's Landing, about Visenya, and about their cousins. Their eagerness made the distance between their homes feel smaller.
It wasn't long before they reached the Great Hall. The Winter Throne stood at its far end, carved from ancient stone, dark and solemn. The walls were hung with heavy tapestries and great pelts of wolf, bear, and beasts Laenor did not recognize. His gaze lingered on one in particular, a massive, white, painted pelt, rough yet still tough-looking, with the grey direwolf of House Stark painted upon it. It hung directly behind the Winter Throne, a stark guardian watching over the hall.
Seeing his stare, Rickon's eyes swelled with pride. "A mammoth fur. My grandfather, Rickard, hunted it beyond the Wall once. He carried it with him everywhere until he returned home. Then he had it dyed, and our cousin Edric hung it here, behind the throne."
Laenor's brows lifted. "He hunted a mammoth beyond the Wall? My father once told me he saw a herd on his voyage north, though he was never able to bring a pelt down south."
"Mayhaps in the future your father will receive one," Rickon replied with a grin.
Laenor gave him an odd look, half amused, half wondering if Rickon was serious, but said no more as they walked on. Soon they were seated, and steaming pots of stew were set before them, along with bread and salt. Guest right was sacred in the North, and the offering was made with solemn care.
"Princess Rhaenys, Lord Laenor," Benjen said proudly, gesturing to the bowls, "please enjoy. This stew is made from an elk taken in the hunt last week. The cooks added other ingredients as well, though I confess I cannot recall them all. Still, it is most savory."
He urged them to taste it. Laenor took a spoonful, the warmth chasing away the chill that had clung to him since they landed. At that first mouthful, rich and hearty, he knew he would enjoy his time here in the North.
Aemon Targaryen (104 A.C. First Moon)
Solar of Seadragon Point
He was grateful that the pipes had been installed before the winter. Now, with the pumps pumping heated water through the stones, the castle was warm. As well as part of it. Sadly, only two buildings in the town had been ready in time to receive the heat as well. This winter reminded him of the last three years of his former life, when even the North had broken beneath the wars that followed Robert's death.
He looked out the window as the cold sea crashed against the rocky shore. Smoke curled from the chimneys of the town below, while his men trained in the biting wind, in the oathmen's barracks as well as those of the oathguards. These were his own forces, sworn and paid, professional soldiers meant for two things: war and maintaining order. He had the wealth to keep them, and when the world came to know what he was building, the gold would flow.
Yet for now, the city still grew. Even in these bitter moons of winter, new settlers arrived by sea and land, eager to trade in the port or work the soil.
"Winter I thought knew in King's Landing, and again in Oldtown. I thought I knew cold, but these Northern winters make the ones in the south look like child's play," Vaegon said.
"I agree, uncle. The chill of King's Landing is but a breeze compared to this," Aemon replied, his gaze falling to the rising foundations of his Citadel. "Tell me then, what do you think of my plan?"
"It shall rouse the ire of many," Vaegon admitted. "The Citadel has long claimed dominion over knowledge. I learned much there, and when I rose to Archmaester, I was treated with courtesy enough, yet I always felt there were doors barred to me. The higher mysteries in particular, those they scorn, for they fear what they cannot master nor understand."
"I thought much on that as well," Aemon said. "I remember when I pressed my lessons in King's Landing. Mellos and Ruciter would wave me off, saying only that magic was once a part of the world, that dragons were creatures of fire, and that the lands we knew had passed from the earth.
But Maester Dussard told me other things. That we are no different than common men or the lords of Westeros. That dragons are abominations of Valyria, as are we," he spat. "That Daenys did not dream of the Doom, but that our house fled when our power waned in the Freehold. They say of the North, too. Yet here I stand in the Drumtower, raised by my will, my blood, and dragonflame."
"Indeed. At times, I forget how young you are, not yet twelve, though near it. What you have in mind with this new Citadel will shape the world to come. Whether for good or for ill, time will tell," Vaegon replied.
"Well, I have thought the same. Yet even without the gifts I hold, this western port would be of great worth. Already, it brings food and trade, and if we strengthen our fleet in time, this harbor will stand as a bulwark against the Ironborn. It was folly our forebears did not scour them out, or at least break their strength. Even now, their reavers raid our shores and harry our ships." Aemon's voice had hardened.
"True. Even without the Valyrian craft, you would hold a powerful position," Vaegon said.
Aemon studied his uncle. At forty namedays, Vaegon looked older than his years. His build was scrawny, his hair more white than silver, and his eyes a pale purple.
"Uncle, I will need a master for this new citadel, a head to govern its order."
Vaegon narrowed his eyes. "I could take the charge, Aemon. Yet I would be no more than a headless fowl following your lead. Still, my loyalty would never waver."
Aemon smiled. "I ask for no less. Without pushback, there is no growth. If you only ever hear what you would hear, you learn nothing."
"From what I understand, this new Citadel will be similar in its structure and setup. People can join to learn and become part of this new order. Yet there will be someone at the top, strictly loyal to our house, and not afraid to explore things that we do not truly understand," Vaegon said.
"Indeed. But its vows will not be the same. I would have women admitted, and its members free to wed if they wish. Too many bright bloodlines have withered because their gifts were never given leave to flourish."
At that, Vaegon's eyes widened.
"To marry, and to allow women to join it?" Vaegon asked.
"Indeed. Tell me, uncle, was your mother not learned, well-versed in politics, and a dragonrider like your father? Or Visenya and Rhaenys, for example? I do not judge someone by what lies between their legs. My own mother was as capable a rider as I am, and she is proficient with a blade. So tell me, why should women not be allowed to join?" Aemon asked.
"It is against the norm… but then again, what you plan to do with this Citadel is against the norm as well. Yet marriage? The idea of the maesters has always been that they serve only the castle they are sent to, not their family," Vaegon noted.
"That may be, yet here you are, serving our family, not this place, nor the Citadel itself. Blood, on many occasions, wins out over duty."
The words caught in his throat. He had seen the coin spin both ways. He had died for Sansa once, when he learned she was to be wed and held by Ramsey, and he would have protected her with his life. Blood had won out then. But with Daenerys… with Dany, it had been the opposite. Then duty had risen above blood, and he had slain her with his own hand.
At his reasoning, Vaegon sighed.
"Also, uncle, tell me honestly: do we know as much of a woman's body as they do themselves? Across the realm, it is midwives who deliver babes, and herb-women, not maesters. I believe more knowledge could be uncovered there. The Citadel seeks to destroy magic rather than study it, for true study would mean surrendering control. But if I invite women into this new Citadel, it will grant me more power instead, as well as loyalty."
"Very well. I hope you are right. I can see some of your reasoning," Vaegon admitted. "What else do you plan for its future?"
"Well, I wish for a guard to watch over the Citadel, around two hundred strong. It will be a place of knowledge, but also a place for our house to command and to keep secure. Another matter we must slowly seek to draw other maesters into our orbit. I know the current maester of Winterfell is loyal, and so too is Dragonstone's maester, Gerardys, a young man. In many cases, those who study the higher mysteries are more inclined to follow our lead, or those raised in the North. Look at Dussard, he did not take much convincing," Aemon said.
"I understand. I still have contacts at court and at the Citadel who might be like-minded. But I would need to travel, meet them, and speak with them," Vaegon replied. "There is something I wish to add. You plant hereb mayhaps, if it proves a success, we could raise another upon the western shore. It would be wise to reach across the sea. In Westeros, we forget that across the waters, there are learned men too. A different insight might be of use."
"I agree. Just look at the glassblowers. They are masters of their craft, and though they are still learning the language, they have already settled among our people." Aemon grinned. His uncle seemed brighter now, as more of the plan came into the open.
"Then there are the names. They shall not keep the title of maester; it would be too confusing. Of course, those we recruit from the Citadel must keep their title to preserve appearances. But for our own order, they will be known as scribtors. At the summit will stand the Master of the Citadel, the Master-Scribtor."
Vaegon chuckled when he heard the name. "That could work. The Citadel already does much work in script and copying."
"Tell me, Vaegon, how does the Citadel truly work? I know some. That one enters as a novice and may rise to acolyte, then to maester or Archmaester. But the steps between remain unclear to me." Aemon asked. Sam had told him some, but had returned north early, as the Citadel didn't take the threat of the Others seriously.
"You begin as a novice, little more than a servant, set to clean and assist the maesters in their work. After that, you are raised to acolyte and begin training in the fifteen subjects, each marked by a different metal. Few gain a full chain; it is nearly impossible, as each link represents mastery of a discipline. I myself forged ten of fifteen. Many novices also serve as scribes at first, copying works. It is both practice and study, for by copying, you learn the subject matter," Vaegon explained.
"That does sound extensive," Aemon noted, before Vaegon continued.
"There is more, and some of it was barred to me, as I told you before. The vows, for one, always troubled me. When an acolyte completes his chain, he must spend a vigil in a vault with only a black glass candle for light. If he cannot light it, he spends the night in darkness. Then, when he takes his vows and dons his chain, he casts aside his House name. He swears to hold no lands or lordships, and to remain celibate," Vaegon ended.
Aemon chuckled. "Celibate, you say? Mmm. I doubt that holds true. The Night's Watch swears the same, yet it is well known many of their brothers visit the whores of Mole's Town."
"I have heard as much. Some vows are wise to keep, others less so. But I think it would be wise to create two paths. One for teachers and advisors, as the maesters serve now. The other to mirror the Archmaesters, men who specialize in certain masteries. It will help to gain knowledge as vast as men specialists and will have extra inside," Vaegon suggested.
"I see the benefit in that." Aemon nodded before adding. "As for novice duties, I think we can hire staff for the menial work. Too many good recruits might turn away if forced to mop floors and carry slop. Tell me, uncle, were you made to do such work?" Aemon asked, with a grin. Enjoying the image of Vaegon mopping floors and carrying shit.
"No, I was a prince. Yet I was still given other labors," Vaegon replied. "The privileges of being a royal," Aemon noted.
"So then, what shall be done with those who fail? Those who cannot master the studies? Shall they return home as scribes? They may, or they may be sent away. But this Citadel will be ours to shape. Especially if you begin to teach them things you yourself have learned," Vaegon noted.
"Well, if they fail, they can become Watchers of the Truth or join the ranks of the Oathmen. As for the women, they may marry within the Citadel or wed men of the Oath ranks. I suppose in time we can also enlist them in other jobs." Aemon said firmly.
"Watchers of the Truth?" Vaegon asked with a frown.
"The name for the guard," Aemon explained. "I thought it fitting. We want the world to know magic is real, not myth. It is part of our truth, not a lie. Magic is of this world, even if septons and maesters deny its existence."
That made his uncle chuckle. "A fair point."
"There is also another branch I wish to begin. One that includes warging, and may in time be expanded into a spy network, or scouts for our armies," Aemon went on.
"A shrewd move indeed. I have seen its worth already. Without it, we would never have learned the truth of Dussard," Vaegon admitted.
"As for the wargs themselves, they are rare. I know I am one, as is my sister Arya. I do not know if my mother or Visenya shares the gift. It is why I invited Larys Strong here, the boy has the sight, and if I can train it, it will prove useful. I plan to make him part of that network, and in time, as well as Arya. She has a keen sense for mischief and for slipping where she should not be. Still, I mean to keep this hidden as long as I may. I have no doubt the South would call me and mine abominations if it were known." He explained.
"Well, I do not disagree. It will take time to set all this in order, but the more I hear, the better I feel. For far too long the Citadel has hoarded the knowledge of Westeros. It is time we changed that," Vaegon said, lifting his wine cup and toasting him.
"On that, we are agreed, uncle. Now come, let us refine these plans," Aemon replied with a grin.
As their cups touched, he felt the watered-down wine run down his throat.
Outside, the sea crashed hard against the rocks, and winter winds battered the walls of Seadragon Point.
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