Aemon Targaryen (106 A.C. Eleventh Moon)
Seadragon Point – Aemon's solar
Spring had come to the North, though here it arrived more as a whisper than a song. In the South, spring meant flowers in bloom and rivers brimming with melted snow.
Here, it meant only that the wind cut a little less sharply and the days stretched a little longer before some of the cold remained. Yet even that faint change felt wondrous to him after so many moons in this frozen land.
He had spent most of this turn of the year north of the Wall, and still the North surprised him. He had sailed with his ships toward the lands of the Frostfangs. In his journeys with Jeor, with Mance, and with Tormund, he had kept mostly to the central and eastern wilds.
For moons, he had labored with his men to build an outpost upon a stony rise against the sea, overlooking the misty peaks of the Frostfangs. It was a place meant for trade, shelter for the Watch, and the gaining of valuable ironwood. But in their work, they had uncovered something that none had expected, not even him.
Balerion had crossed the Wall.
By every teaching of old Valyria and every tale from the Citadel, dragons could not pass beyond that ancient barrier. The Wall was not only stone and ice; it was magic, bound in spells thousands of years old. Even in Aegon's day, when Aegon himself had flown upon the same dragon, his companion had turned away, and Balerion had described it as if ramming its head against stone. Silverwing, his grandmother's beloved dragon, had refused to fly beyond it, roaring and circling but never daring to pass the threshold.
Yet Balerion had done so. He had traveled there before, to speak with the Watch, to gain knowledge of the lands, and to inform them of his plans. They had called it folly, yet they had provided the maps and intelligence they possessed.
When he next flew, he tried again to cross the Wall and felt it then: a tremor deep within his chest, as though the Wall itself protested his dragon's flight. Yet instead of turning around, Balerion had soared over it and into the far North.
He had spoken with Balerion after, about the strange feeling and the reason behind it. Balerion's mind was vast, intelligent, and ancient, yet even he pondered the same question: Why us?
The answer, Aemon suspected, lay in blood and in how he had come to this world, and how Balerion he had flown again and recovered after his rebirth.
Fire and ice.
His mother's northern blood flowed in his veins, the line of Stark, of the First Men, the line thought to have once forged a pact with the Children of the Forest, and the element of ice that lingered within him. His father's blood, pure Valyrian, carried the fire of old Valyria and the magic that bound dragons to men. Perhaps together, and through the bond he shared with Balerion, it had formed something the Wall could not deny.
He wondered if Arya could also travel past the Wall with Grey Ghost. Arya had told him she could occasionally Warg into the dragon, though not as deeply as Aemon could with Balerion. Their bond was different, something else entirely.
During his time beyond the Wall, his thoughts often returned to the Wall itself and to the cursed horn that had once caused its collapse in his other life, and caused the dragon's and the dead to pass the barrier that was broken. Euron had captured the horn from the warlocks of Qarth, Bran had said when he was still partly Bran. A black horn, said to command dragons.
Euron Greyjoy had claimed it, believing it could bend dragons to his will. But Aemon now knew the truth. The fool had not found a dragon horn, but the legendary Horn of Joramun, a relic of an ancient age, said to bring down the Wall, and it could. Euron had thought it was made by Valyria to control dragons, but it had been crafted by an older race, built by the empire of the Dawn. It was not meant to control dragons but to break enchantments, to serve as a counterweight to the magic woven by the Children of the Forest and by Aemon's ancient kinsmen, or perhaps by the monsters beyond the Wall. Not even the three-eyed raven could see all, a mist that clouded the truth, the raven had said. Or Bran, if his brother was still in that thing.
When Euron blew the horn in his arrogance, he shattered the spell that had sealed the North for thousands of years.
The sound had been the most terrible thing Aemon had ever heard, worse than the shrieks of wights or the piercing cries of the White Walkers.
With it came the first crack in the Wall. Then another. Before long, the thing had shattered like glass, like the White Walkers themselves when Longclaw struck them.
Even now, the memory of that sight gave him shudders.
With the Wall's fall came the ruin of the North, the desperate retreat toward Winterfell, and Viserion's death at the hands of the Night King. Soon after came the battle for Winterfell, ending, or so they had thought, with Arya's blade striking the Night King's heart and the coming of the Dawn. How wrong they had been.
Now, he had time to prepare, to strengthen the Watch. After his return to his lordship, he had flown to the Wall and spoken of further cooperation, sending funding northward. Still, if he wanted lasting reform of that ancient and failing order, he would need the crown's support. It was something he meant to pursue when he traveled south within the year to wed Laena.
The thought made him smile. He sent letters to her almost every moon to keep their bond strong, though not all had reached her during the long winter. Still, he truly felt as if he knew her, and he was glad of it. He would rather marry someone he didn't know. Soon, he would stay at Driftmark for a time before traveling to King's Landing for the wedding.
The wedding, however, was not only for him and Laena. Aemma was with child once more; his brother had told him the perfect time to combine the two in celebration. Aemon prayed that both mother and babe would live. He intended to bring his scibtors from the Black Citadel, now firmly established, to aid her, perhaps even to save her. He knew the sting of growing up without a mother, and in all likelihood, her survival would prevent the damnable Dance.
His next concern was the creeping ambition of the Hightowers. He knew what Otto intended. He had even heard whispers that Otto had tried to have Alicent seduce Daemon. Apparently, Daemon had taken a liking to the girl; funny enough, the future texts did not mention this incident.
As for Daemon's taking a liking to Alicent, it could be true; the last time Aemon had seen her, she had been but five-and-ten, now blooming into a beauty. He could understand Viserys falling for her in time, even if it was not for the good of the realm. Laena, or a bride of wealthier birth, would have been the better match.
Still, the fact that Otto had tried to set Alicent upon Daemon was not entirely unexpected. Even in the histories, their rivalry was well known. Perhaps this had been the first seed of that contention, Otto's attempt to offer his daughter to the most available Targaryen male. Perhaps he dangled annulment before Daemon's eyes, for his brother's ill marriage was known to all. Yet apparently Otto's plan had failed, and Daemon's courting of Alicent had ended, and Daemon was once again pushed from the council.
After the death of the new Master of Laws, Daemon had briefly replaced him, only to be dismissed once more. Aemon had since sent word to Viserys, recommending that Lord Lyonel Strong take the office instead. It was a move he expected would succeed. Aiding Lyonel would place the Strong family in his corner, and inviting Larys to be a companion of his did the same.
A knock on his door broke his musings. The door opened, revealing Ser Harrold.
"Ser Wylard Manderly and Edward Poole wish to speak with you, my lord."
"Send them in."
Soon enough, his castellan and his steward entered, each carrying ledgers.
"My lord, we've brought the yearly reports for you," Wylard said.
"Well, thank you for finishing them early, as my departure toward Winterfell is imminent. Edward, are you also packed, and have you trained your replacement?" Aemon asked with a smile, gesturing for them both to sit.
"I have, my prince," Edward replied. "Ryan Fisher, younger brother to Lord Oscar Fisher. He's been at Seadragon Point for two years and served as port administrator of the New Port. He's been at my side for the past two moons and has admirably taken up the charge. As for packing, it's all done. Myra, Devin, and Dalla are excited to see their kin in Winterfell once more and to visit Driftmark and King's Landing."
"Good," Aemon said warmly. "The coming year will be a new environment for all of us. The South is different from the North, yet we have friends there and a natural deterrent for troublemakers." He poured wine for them both. "Now, tell me, what are the significant reports for the year? Let's begin with the protection of my holdings."
"Over the past year, at least ten small holdfasts have been built," Wylard began. "That's added around five hundred well-armed men-at-arms and increased the levy size by about five percent. Not much compared to other lords, with the system you have implanted ensuring at least two men stay at each farm during wartime, the Oathmen have grown steadily.
"The expansion has halted for now, as our current charter limits the standing force to five thousand men. Sailors, guards, mercenaries, and levy troops are not included in that number. Currently, the Oathmen total four thousand two hundred, with six hundred stationed at Icedragon Point and three hundred ready to depart for Driftmark to serve as your personal guard.
"The Oathguards number six hundred, with eleven Oathmen promoted recently, as well as ten younger sons of lords. The Watchers of the Truth have also increased by another hundred at your instruction, a hundred of the most trusted Oathguards."
"Well done," Aemon said thoughtfully. "I shall petition the King to raise our charter to six thousand, if not more. And our obligations to Winterfell, how many men must we provide in time of war? If I recall correctly, the current agreement stands at twenty percent of our standing forces and sixty percent of our levy, including men-at-arms."
"Indeed, my lord. Those are the correct numbers," Wylard confirmed. "As for our fleet, development continues rapidly. We now possess sixty-seven warships, twelve war carracks, thirty-three galleys, and twenty-two longships, not counting the twenty-two ships from other northern houses docked at our harbor. That brings the total to eighty-nine, though our charter allows a navy of seventy-five."
"Good. And it's correct that half are used for commerce?"
"Indeed, my prince. Our merchant fleet contains forty-four ships, with new ones being built every half-year. We're also repurposing older war vessels, replacing them with ironwood ships now that shipments from north of the Wall are arriving."
"Very good," Aemon said, smiling faintly. "As much as I enjoy our shields, gates, and doors from House Forrester, having our own ironwood supply grants us great mobility. Perhaps if we can import saplings, we might plant them in our own forests, even sell them to the Whitehills. Their feud with the Forresters has lasted centuries since they lost their ironwoods through overharvesting. It might even end that rivalry."
"Indeed," Wylard said. "My brother's been asking for ironwood to build a ship. We have one now, though it's nearly a hundred years old and took five years to build, given how rare ironwood shipments are. I believe my grandfather built the one we have for Princess Vissera so she could visit King's Landing often. Those ships are fast and sturdy, only the summerwood ships compare."
"Does your brother intend to come to the wedding?"
"He does."
"Then send him a letter. I'll discuss the matter with him there." Wylard nodded, and Aemon turned to Edward.
"Speaking of trade and coin, how are we faring?"
"Well, compared to last year's accounts, despite the expenses for the settlement at Icedragon Point and the expedition, our income has grown, likely due to the end of winter," Edward replied. "We're earning roughly one hundred twenty-three thousand gold dragons a year. Last year, it was seventy thousand. The imports of food to the North and the exports of coal and grain granted us this gain."
Edward flipped another page in his ledger, his quill tapping softly. "We're also preparing for the next harvest. The last season's improvements, even through the winter moons, increased yields in the glass gardens by nearly thirty percent, thanks to dragonpowder and droppings. If the glass gardens continue at this rate, they will soon produce enough herbs and greens to feed the entire garrison through winter without need of hoarded food from the countryside. That means we can store more for the people for the winter years.
"The alchemists of the Black Citadel believe that in two years' time, the soil in the glassgaradens will be rich enough to grow rare fruits from the Reach. Longer, in on the land. Five years or more."
"Fruits from the Reach," Aemon mused with a faint smile. "I love the northern ones, apples, berries, and the like, but oranges or sweet melons are missed. Though they'll cost dearly to import."
"Indeed, my lord, though perhaps a future export opportunity," Edward said cheerfully.
Aemon smiled at him.
Edward glanced down again. "Ah, one more matter, my lord. A letter from Icedragon Point, received a moon past. The overseer, Orwin Glover, writes that some of the men believe they've found signs of silver in the western mountains near the settlement. Nothing certain yet, but the samples they've sent show promise."
Aemon's eyes sharpened. "Yes, that would be quite the boon."
"Indeed, my lord," Edward said eagerly. "If the veins are real, it could open new opportunities for trade and further settlement. More smallfolk might move north for work. I wished to ask what you would have done with the find, should the reports prove accurate. Do you wish to send men to begin mining?"
Aemon thought a moment, then shook his head. "Not yet. It's a good idea, if the opportunity is there, but Icedragon Point must first become more self-sustaining. Let them confirm the findings. If there truly is silver, then we'll expand the colony. For now, the ironwood business remains our priority. I'll discuss it further with my future goodfather. I'm sure the man won't oppose increased profit. If the mines prove rich, perhaps Seadragon Point could be granted its own charter for minting silver stags. Like the Casterly Rock has for the gold dragon and the copper penny."
Edward's eyes lit with delight. "A fine plan, my prince."
He turned a page. "There are also requests for further expansion of the cloth, butcher, and smith guilds. The Old City is filling up quickly, and some wealthy parties have petitioned to build a district of villas in the New City."
"All guild expansions are agreeable, the city's growth is to be admired. But these villas, to which families do they belong? Nobles and wealthy merchants? The current population is loyal to us, but in King's Landing, such estates often belong to either nobles from around the realm or wealthy property owners. Have them petition and present their arguments in the morning. The district itself isn't a bad idea, but construction must wait until the cisterns are built, as in the Old City."
"Very well, I shall send word," Edward said.
"Is there anything else?" Aemon asked.
"Well," Wylard began, "your ship captains have suggested building warehouses in three key cities of Westeros, one in King's Landing on the east coast, another at the southern tip in Dorne, and a third on the west coast, perhaps Lannisport, the Arbor, or Oldtown. It would allow us to store goods and simplify logistics."
"How much would the cost be?"
"Around fifteen thousand gold dragons each, though that may vary depending on the port."
"Then do it," Aemon said firmly. "Put reliable men in charge; coin should not be wasted."
"It shall be done, my prince," Wylard said.
"That's all I had," Wylard added, glancing to Edward.
"Me as well," Edward said. "I'll arrange the meeting with the petitioners for the villa district."
"Very well done. You both have been among my most loyal companions in this endeavor. Your service will not be forgotten," Aemon said, pouring them both another cup of wine.
Aemon's Warg Chamber
Aemon walked into the chamber, and almost instantly, he felt the connection to his animals stir within him. It was always strongest here. Although when he wasn't close, he still felt them. Yet Ghost and Balerion were his strongest connections by far. Yet he also saw Larys sitting there, eyes clouded, warging once more. On the windowsill sat a crow, its feathers black as pitch except for a single flash of white of the eyes.
"Larys," Aemon said with a faint smile. "Warging again?"
The man turned his head and smiled back. "Indeed. It's one of the few times I truly walk or fly without the leg," Larys replied, glancing toward his twisted right leg.
Aemon smiled softly. The sight reminded him of his brother Bran, and he wondered if Bran had felt that same sense of freedom before becoming the Three-Eyed Raven. Aemon knew the wonder of inhabiting animals, the sensation of flight, of running wild and unbound as no human ever could. But he was not crippled like Larys or Bran. For them, warging was more than a bond, it was freedom.
"You know," Aemon began, lowering himself into a chair across from him, "a man I once thought of as a friend once asked me what I saw when I looked at him. He was a dwarf, and at first I thought he was trying to trick me. Then he smiled and said, 'You see a dwarf.' He spoke of how he could help his house; he had his mind, and his older brother was a great swordsman, a complicated man, both good and bad, and he told me that just as his brother's sword needed a whetstone, his own mind needed books to stay sharp.
"I've learned that it doesn't matter where you come from, though being born into the right family gives you advantages few others have, like me. In the end, what matters is that you train in whatever you are good at. Whether it's riding, swordplay, governance, or warging, whatever gifts you have, hone them. It helps you and the realm both all the better. If others give you the chance to use those gifts, you can become something more than what they expect."
When he finished, Larys exhaled quietly, his expression pensive. "Aside from my brother Harwin and my bastard sister Alys, I did not have that," he said after a pause. "My father saw my leg only as a slight. He was a clever man, and I admired him for it. I've always tried to emulate his mind. But his gaze always followed Harwin, Harwin the Breakbones, a great knight and warrior, knighted at eight-and-ten, the future Lord of Harrenhal."
Larys sighed, then looked back to Aemon with something softer in his eyes. "My sister too is a warg. A fine healer and herb-woman. Since her first pregnancy, with a child that did not live, she has served as a wet nurse at Harrenhal. She was the first to sense my connection to animals. Before long, she began to teach me. That continued until you arrived."
Aemon smiled. "I suspected as much. I felt the presence of fellow wargs in Harrenhal during the great council. Wargs can sometimes feel each other, though it's difficult to tell who exactly it is. I had my suspicions on my first visit, and on my second, I knew for certain. That's why I asked your father to allow you to join me here. You have potential, Larys, a rare gift. One I will not see wasted or twisted into bitterness."
He knew well what resentment could do to a family. Tyrion had shown him that. After his trial and false accusation for the murder of Joffrey, he had turned into something hateful. Jaime and Tyrion had come to blows more than once in Winterfell; eventually, the tension seemed resolved, but for Cersei, the mere thought of her still filled him with a purer hatred. Tyrion's bitterness had been part of King's Landing's ruin, part of the city's fire and ash. Where Jaime and so many others died, Jaime had killed his sister, her throat crushed by Jaime's golden hand, and Jaime himself stabbed in the chest by his sister. Why Jaime had done it, he didn't know; he had suspicions, but he could never know, as the truth died with them.
"When your father sees you at my side, he'll see your worth," Aemon said gently. "When I depart for Driftmark, continue your practice. And when we are reunited in half a year's time, the realm will know of Larys Strong, the good friend of Prince Aemon."
"Thank you, Aemon," Larys said with a small, genuine smile.
Aemon grinned. "Come, then. Let's Warg into our best eagles and race, one last time, before I leave."
Larys nodded eagerly.
Moments later, both men closed their eyes, their minds slipping beyond flesh. Above Seadragon Point, the sky filled with the wild cries of two great eagles diving and circling in joyous freedom. Their wings cut the air with power, their screeches echoing over the cliffs and sea.
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