A/N: Wow this chapter took a while to work on. I hope you guys enjoy it!
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Year 300 AC
Winterfell, The North
The silence that followed Jon's revelation stretched taut as a drawn bowstring. Frost gathered on the windowpanes while breath misted in the suddenly cold hall. The hearth-fires still burned, yet their warmth seemed to flee before the weight of his words.
Aemon's gaze swept the hall, cataloging reactions with the same methodical precision. The northern lords exchanged knowing glances across the tables. Wyman Manderly's thick fingers drummed against his wine cup, a satisfied smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Maege Mormont sat back in her chair, arms crossed, her weathered face showing grim satisfaction rather than surprise. Hugo Wull scratched his beard, nodding slowly as if a long-held suspicion had finally been confirmed.
But the Vale lords sat frozen, their southern sensibilities reeling. Ser Morton Waynwood's mouth worked soundlessly, his face draining of color with the sharp intake of breath from Lady Waynwood. But Bronze Yohn...
The old warrior sits there like a stone sentinel. No widening of eyes, no stiffening of shoulders. He watches me the way a man watches a storm he saw building on the horizon hours ago.
Strange. Aemon kept his expression neutral, letting nothing of his curiosity bleed through. What do you know, Bronze Yohn? What seeds has someone already planted in that careful mind of yours?
The thought flickered and died as Aemon turned his attention back to the stammering Vale lord. He couldn't afford the distraction, not when Godry Farring's hand still hovered near his sword hilt, not when half the Baratheon men looked ready to name him traitor's spawn.
One battle at a time. First, keep these fools from starting a war in my own hall.
"You ask us to believe," a Vale lord Jon didn't recognize stammered, "that the most honorable man in the Seven Kingdoms lied for near twenty years? That Stark honor is nothing but mummery?"
The Baratheon men were worse. Several had risen to their feet, hands drifting toward sword hilts. Ser Godry Farring's face had gone purple with rage, the veins in his neck standing out like cords.
"Impossible!" Robin Peasebury's voice cracked through the hall like a whip. "Lord Eddard would never—he'd never deceive his king!"
"Stark would never harbor a Targaryen whelp!" Ser Godry accused.
Ghost stirred from his place at Sansa's feet, the great direwolf's crimson eyes fixing on Godry with predatory focus. The white fur along his spine bristled as he padded forward, each step deliberate, muscles coiling beneath his coat like barely contained violence. A low rumble built in his chest that made the nearest men shift backward.
Godry's throat worked as he swallowed, his purple face draining to ash-white. The knight's fingers twitched on his sword hilt, but Ghost's lips peeled back to reveal teeth the length of a man's thumb, and Godry's hand froze.
"Ghost." Aemon's voice carried a note of command, though he didn't look away from the Baratheon knight. The direwolf paused mid-stride, massive head swiveling toward his master. Aemon extended his hand without breaking eye contact with Godry, fingers finding the thick fur behind Ghost's ears. The wolf leaned into the touch, though his gaze never left the knight.
The scritch of Aemon's nails against Ghost's skull filled the sudden silence. The direwolf's rumble shifted to something almost like a purr, if wolves could make such sounds, but his stance remained coiled, ready.
"A Targaryen whelp?" The temperature in the hall rose another degree as Aemons's steady eyes found Ser Godry's, and for just an instant, his eyes flickered red while his pupils seemed to elongate, becoming vertical slits. But it was gone as soon as it appeared. "I ask you to believe nothing. I tell you what is." His voice carried the same quiet authority that had commanded at the Wall. "My uncle's honor remains unstained. He protected an innocent infant from a king's wrath. Tell me, Ser Godry, what would Robert Baratheon have done to a Targaryen babe? No? No answer? What about Tywin Lannister?"
The knight's mouth opened, then closed. They all knew the answer. Robert had smiled when Tywin Lannister presented him with the broken bodies of Rhaegar's children.
"You question Eddard Stark's honor?" Aemon's voice dropped to something dangerous, shadows seeming to gather around him despite the torchlight. "You, Ser Godry? You who earned your name killing a starved fleeing giant? You who boasts of slaughter while wearing honor like an ill-fitting cloak?"
Godry surged to his feet, hand flying to his sword hilt. "You dare—"
"I dare much more than that." The words came out almost conversational, but the air around him shimmered like summer heat off stone. "Draw that steel, Farring. Please. Give me a reason."
The knight's face went from purple to white. His fingers trembled on the pommel.
"Because if you truly wish to test me," Jon continued, his voice carrying that same terrible calm that had preceded executions at the Wall, "I'll oblige you. But know this—there will be no songs sung of your bravery. Only whispers of the fool who challenged a dragon."
Val's laugh cut through the tension. "Never seen a man crushed to death?" Her blue-grey eyes glinted with that particular brand of wildling humor that found mirth in the darkest corners. "Though I've seen plenty frozen solid. They make interesting sounds when they shatter."
The hall seemed to inhale collectively at her casual observation. She leaned back against the table, white furs shifting around her shoulders, completely at ease among these southron lords who stared at her like she'd grown a second head.
Ser Clayton Suggs grabbed Godry's arm, yanking him back down with enough force to rattle the bench. "Sit," he hissed through clenched teeth. "For the love of R'hllor, sit down and shut your mouth."
Godry collapsed back onto the bench, his rage crumbling to fear. The Baratheon men around him shifted uncomfortably, suddenly finding great interest in their wine cups or the rushes on the floor—anywhere but Aemon.
Aemon's gaze swept to the northern lords, taking in their telling silence. "You're quiet, my lords. Why?"
The massive form of Wyman Manderly began the laborious process of standing. His chair groaned beneath him as he leveraged himself up, joints popping like kindling in fire. When he finally stood, swaying slightly, his shrewd eyes twinkled with barely suppressed mirth.
"Tell us, Prince Aemon," Wyman's voice rolled through the hall like distant thunder, savoring each word, "for that is your name, isn't it? Tell us, did Princess Lyanna truly run away with Prince Rhaegar? Or have we been singing the wrong songs all these years?"
Aemon met the fat lord's knowing gaze without flinching. Something passed between them, an understanding that transcended words. "My parents were young and foolish and in love." Each word fell with careful precision. "But they were married. Properly wed before the old gods and the new. Though I find it fascinating that many of my Lords aren't surprised. Is there something I do not know?"
Wyman Manderly's bulk shifted, sending ripples through the flesh beneath his rich green doublet. "Ser Davos here made an educated guess about your parentage, Prince Aemon." The fat lord's chins wobbled as he gestured toward the former smuggler. "Shared it with a few of us northern lords. Once we heard it spoken aloud..." He spread his thick fingers wide. "Everything fell into place like pieces of a cyvasse board."
Davos Seaworth rose from his bench, his shortened fingers drumming against his thigh. The firelight caught the grey threading through his beard as he cleared his throat.
"I never believed Prince Rhaegar kidnapped Lady Lyanna," Davos said, his voice carrying the salt-rough edges of Flea Bottom despite his years of lordship. "Not once."
Aemon felt his chest tighten as Davos continued. "Years back," Davos reminisced, moving into the space between the tables, "I'd just returned to King's Landing after a voyage. Good wind, good profit. Went to see my Marya and the boys in Flea Bottom." His weathered face softened at the memory. "Heard music coming from Eel Alley and not the usual drunken caterwauling, but something... different. Beautiful."
The hall had gone quiet enough to hear the logs settling in the hearth.
"Found a hooded man sitting on a broken crate, playing a silver-stringed harp for a crowd of street children." Davos's eyes found Jon's. "Never heard anything like it. Made grown men stop and weep. The children sat there like they'd been spelled, snot running down their faces, completely entranced."
"You're saying Prince Rhaegar was secretly playing music for children in Flee Bottom?" Ser Justin Massey asked incredulous, but Davos raised his shortened hand.
"I'm saying I noticed two cloaked men standing in the shadows not ten feet away. Trying to look casual, but their hands never strayed far from their sword hilts. King's Landing crawls with sellswords, but these moved different. Trained different." He rubbed his jaw. "Then the wind caught the player's hood. Just for a heartbeat. Silver-gold hair, purple eyes. Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, sitting in the filth of Flea Bottom, playing for children who'd never own a copper between them."
Jon's throat felt thick, strange. He didn't know what to do with this image, his father as something more than the name that had destroyed everything.
"When he finished," Davos said, "he gave each child a silver stag. More money than their parents saw in a year. Then he stood, pulled his hood back up, and walked away with his guards trailing behind." The former smuggler's voice dropped. "A man who kidnaps and rapes doesn't sit in Flea Bottom playing music for starving children. Doesn't give away a fortune to kids who'll probably get beaten for it when they get home."
"NO!" Ser Richard Horpe slammed his fist on the table, wine cups jumping. "The rebellion was just! Prince Rhaegar kidnapped—"
"The rebellion was built on a lie." Aemon's interruption was soft but it cut through Horpe's rage like Valyrian steel. "But not my uncle's lie. When King Aerys burned my grandfather alive, when he strangled my uncle Brandon while Lord Rickard watched... when he called for Robert Baratheon's head and my uncle Eddard's..." Jon's jaw tightened. "That made war inevitable. My birth parents should have told the truth, yes. They were fools who let romance blind them to consequence. But the Mad King's tyranny would have meant war regardless."
The truth of it hung in the air. Even the Baratheon men couldn't deny that Aerys had earned his fate.
Queen Selyse Baratheon rose from her seat near the high table, her gaunt face twisted with accusation. "Your timing is impeccable! My husband is dead, and suddenly you claim a crown? How convenient that you discover royal blood just when Stannis can no longer object!"
Every eye in the hall turned to watch the confrontation, the grieving queen facing the dragon prince.
Aemon's response was devastating in its simplicity. "Your husband offered to legitimize me. Make me Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North." He paused, letting that sink in. "I refused him."
Selyse's mouth fell open. Behind her, Ser Justin Massey nodded slowly, remembering.
"Robb's will named me his heir." Aemon's voice cut through the stunned silence like a blade through silk. "Written before the Red Wedding. Witnessed by lords of the North and Riverlands." He let the weight of that revelation settle into the bones of every person present. "I refused that too."
Selyse's knuckles went white against the table's edge. The wood creaked under her grip.
"King Stannis understood duty," Jon continued, his voice carrying to every corner of the hall. "As my uncle Eddard raised me to understand it. When I told Stannis my place was at the Wall, defending the realm from the true threat, he respected that choice. Even when it meant I wouldn't bend the knee. Even when it cost him the North's full support."
Jon stood straighter, and for a moment the shadows seemed to bend toward him, drawn like iron filings to a lodestone. "Does it matter if I'm Targaryen or Stark? Trueborn or bastard? The dead are coming. The Wall will fall. My duty as Lord Commander hasn't changed—protect the realm from the Long Night. I will do whatever that takes. Wear whatever crown that requires. Fight whatever wars are necessary."
Sansa rose behind him, her auburn hair catching the firelight. Her voice rang clear and strong, every inch the Lady of Winterfell. "My lords, my father taught me 'The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives'. King Aemon will always be a Stark, no matter his birth name. And House Stark will always follow him."
Rickon's voice cut through the tension like a blade through silk. "You're pack."
The wild boy stood near the high table, his shaggy hair falling into grey eyes that held none of the political calculation filling the hall. Shaggydog pressed against his leg, yellow eyes fixed on Jon with predatory stillness.
"Don't care what name you have." Rickon's fingers tangled in Shaggydog's fur, as his is eyes gleamed with something fierce. "You're still Jon!"
A warmth bloomed in Jon's chest and not the heat that had become his constant companion.
Howland Reed stood as well, though his small stature meant few noticed at first. But when he spoke, his quiet voice somehow carried to every ear. "I was there… at the Tower of Joy. I saw Ser Gerold Hightower, Ser Arthur Dayne, and Ser Oswell Whent die defending that tower. Defending the King. I heard Lyanna Stark's dying words." His moss-green eyes found the Baratheon contingent. "Yes, Lord Eddard lied to the realm. He lied to protect his sister's son from a king who was joyous about Targaryen babes being crushed and stabbed to death. Which of you would call that dishonorable?"
Noone could dispute Robert's hatred.
Wyman Manderly's voice boomed out, filling the silence. "It matters not who sired Prince Aemon. Lord Eddard raised him. He bled for the Watch. He took Winterfell for the Starks." The fat lord's eyes glittered dangerously. "Time the South learned what Stark rule means." He raised his cup high. "All hail the true King of the Seven Kingdoms, King Aemon!"
Maege Mormont shot to her feet, her voice a battle cry. "King Robb named him heir in his will! By the laws of the North—King Aemon!"
Hugo Wull barked a laugh, dark and wild. "Hah! The South doesn't deserve Stark rule, but they'll get it anyway! They'll get their dragon king whether they want him or not!" He slammed his fist on the table. "King Aemon!"
The mountain clans took up the cry, pounding fists and stamping feet until the very stones seemed to shake. "THE NORTHERN DRAGON! THE NORTHERN DRAGON!"
The Free Folk joined in with their own wild cries. "King Crow! King Crow!"
The Vale lords glanced at each other uncertainly. But Bronze Yohn Royce stood slowly, his ancient bronze armor creaking.
"I fought Robert's war against the Mad King," Yohn Royce's deep voice cut through the din. His weathered face turned toward Aemon, bronze armor catching the firelight. "Watched good men die on both sides of the Trident. Saw what Targaryen madness could do."
The hall fell silent, waiting.
"But I also knew Jon Arryn." His jaw worked, grinding out words that came hard. "A man who raised two boys as his own sons. One sat the Iron Throne and brought the realm to ruin. The other..." He gestured at Aemon with a gauntleted hand. "Raised an honorable man who has led the Night's Watch as thier Lord Commander. Led men against the dead. Took back Winterfell for his family, by himself."
A bitter laugh escaped him. "Maybe that's what the realm needs. A king who knows the weight of the crown before he wears it."
Bronze Yohn stood slowly, his ancient armor creaking like ship's rigging in a storm. "Speaking on behalf of Lord Robert Arryn," His voice dropped, rough as mountain stone. "You have the Vale's support, King Aemon."
One by one, the other Vale lords followed their senior's lead, though some more reluctantly than others.
The Baratheon men stood isolated, a pocket of resistance in a sea of acclamation.
Ser Justin Massey was the first to speak. "The realm needs unity against the dead." His voice was steady, pragmatic, as he looked around to Stannis' other men. "House Massey renews our oaths to House Targaryen and to you, King Aemon."
That seemed to stir Stannis' followers quickly, as they gave their oats after that, their submission more from fear than conviction. Even Godry Farring managed to choke out the words, though they seemed to pain him physically.
Only Queen Selyse remained standing in defiance, her pinched face pale as bone. "You are not Stannis," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "You will never be Stannis."
"No," Aemon agreed quietly. "I'm not. But I will honor his memory by doing what he would have done, whatever it takes to save the realm."
Rickon, who had been silent after his outburst, suddenly stood on his chair. "Is Jon really a dragon?" His young voice cut through all the political maneuvering with childhood's directness. "Can you breathe fire? Can you fly me around Winterfell?"
Despite everything, Aemon's face softened. He walked back to the high chair so he ruffled his little brother's hair—for Rickon would always be his brother, no matter what blood ran in his veins. "Perhaps tomorrow, little lord."
Wyman Manderly began to laugh, a deep belly laugh that shook his massive frame. "The North remembers, Your Grace. The North remembers everything. And now, at last, we have a king who can make the South remember too."
Aemon turned his gaze back to the assembled lords, the weight of command settling across his shoulders like a cloak of lead.
"My lords," he began, his voice carrying quiet authority. "You speak of unity, yet the South tears itself apart while we debate names and bloodlines. The Lannisters burn septs full of people. The Tyrells march for vengeance. Someone claiming to be my half-brother wages war in the Stormlands. Ironborn raid the Reach while slavers' fleets sail from Essos." He paused, letting the chaos of it sink in. "And all the while, the dead gather their strength."
The hall fell silent save for the pop of burning logs.
"I will force a truce upon the great houses." The words held gathered Lords and Ladies captive. "They will attend a Great Council, or they will burn. There is no third option."
Bronze Yohn Royce cleared his throat, his bronze armor creaking as he leaned forward. "Your Grace," he said carefully, testing the title like a man probing a wound. "What of this Aegon Targaryen who battles the Lannisters? Your supposed elder half-brother, if the tales are true?"
Before Aemon could respond, Wyman Manderly's massive bulk shifted forward, sending his chair groaning in protest. The fat lord's eyes glittered with shrewd amusement as he dabbed at his chins with a silk handkerchief.
"Aegon Targaryen?" Wyman's voice rolled through the hall like distant thunder. "A most convenient resurrection, wouldn't you say? Eighteen years dead, yet suddenly alive with the Golden Company at his back?" He spread his thick fingers wide, each adorned with rings that caught the firelight. "Tell me, my lords, why did only the boy survive? What of his sister, sweet Princess Rhaenys? Did the Mountain's hands grow gentle between crushing one skull and the next?"
Several lords shifted uncomfortably at the grim reminder.
"And Dorne," Wyman continued, warming to his theme. "Blood of their blood through Princess Elia, yet my sources sing that Prince Doran hasn't acknowledged this Aegon, let alone march for him. Strange, is it not? That the cautious Prince of Dorne would hesitate to embrace his nephew returned from the dead?"
The fat lord's smile grew wider, more dangerous. "No, my lords. Someone saw a broken realm and decided to plant their own seed in the chaos. A mummer's dragon, nothing more. And who has the Golden Company always supported? Who has always waited across the Narrow Sea, generation after generation, for their chance?"
"Blackfyre," Hugo Wull growled, understanding dawning in his weathered face.
"Precisely." Wyman settled back with satisfaction, his chair creaking ominously.
Cleverer than he appears, this one. Aemon filed that observation away, meeting Wyman's knowing gaze with a slight nod of acknowledgment. Playing the happy fool while seeing everything. Dangerous and useful in equal measure.
"Lord Manderly speaks wisdom," Aemon said aloud. "This Aegon has yet to prove himself a true dragon. Until he does, he remains what Lord Wyman so eloquently named him—a mummer's pretender. But there is another who needs no such proof."
He let the pause stretch, watching understanding dawn on various faces.
"Daenerys Targaryen sails for Westeros with three dragons at her command."
The eruption of voices was immediate. Lords shouting over each other, some in fear, others in disbelief. Tormund's booming laugh cut through it all. "HAR! More dragons! The southerners won't know whether to shit or go blind!"
Lady Maege's query was straightforward. "Your Grace, will you treat with your aunt? A second Dance would bring us all to ruin at this time."
"I know," Aemon finished. "Yes, Lady Mormont, I will treat with her. Her dragons would lift a burden from my shoulders as I cannot be everywhere at once, and three more dragons against the dead would be invaluable." His expression hardened, shadows seeming to gather around him despite the firelight. "But make no mistake. If Daenerys Targaryen proves a threat to the survival of the realm, if she puts her conquest before the lives of every man, woman, and child in Westeros..."
He didn't finish the threat. He didn't need to.
Aemon turned to face the northern lords directly, his next words sending shockwaves through the assembly. "The North will evacuate south."
The explosion of protests was deafening. Northern lords surged to their feet, voices raised in outrage. "Abandon our homes?" "Never!" "The North has never fled!" "Our ancestors fought for these lands!"
"Our ancestors barely survived the first Long Night! Have they faced an army of the dead a hundred thousand strong?!" Aemon's voice cracked like a whip, silencing them. "When the Wall falls, and it will fall, the North will bear the first assault. Every castle, every holdfast, every village will be overrun. Your women and children will die screaming, only to rise again as soldiers for our enemy."
Robett Glover's face had gone pale. "Your Grace, surely—"
"There is no surely, Lord Glover. There is only survival or extinction." Aemon's gaze swept the room. "This is why I must conquer the South. Not for glory, not for power, but to give your families somewhere to flee when the storm breaks. Would you rather your children live in the Riverlands for a year, or die in the North forever?"
An oppressive stillness stretched between them. Finally, Maege Mormont spoke, her voice rough with emotion. "The She-Bear doesn't run from fights, Your Grace. But... my daughters. My granddaughters." She swallowed hard. "If you say we must..."
"We must," Aemon said gently. "And we will return, my lady. When this war is won, the North will be ours again."
One by one, the northern lords sat back down, the fight draining from them as the terrible logic of his words sank in.
"The Night's Watch will return to the Wall," Aemon continued, his tone businesslike now. "With additional men to help garrison the abandoned castles. But their primary duty will be as sentinels, our early warning when the enemy moves."
Grenn stood from his place among the Watch brothers. "We'll hold as long as we can, Your Grace. Give you time to ready the defenses."
"I know you will." Aemon's expression softened fractionally before hardening again. "After the Watch departs, I will lead our combined forces to the Twins."
A savage cheer erupted from the northern benches. "Death to the Freys!" "Justice for the Red Wedding!" "Let them taste northern steel!"
Aemon raised a hand for silence. "Any lord who wishes to claim vengeance is welcome to march with me. But know this, it is not required. I will not command any man to seek blood for blood. That choice is yours alone."
"After the Freys are dealt with," he continued, his words dropping into the eager silence, "I will disband the army."
The confusion was immediate. Ser Justin Massey stood, his scarred face creased with bewilderment. "Your Grace, if you mean to conquer the Seven Kingdoms, surely you'll need—"
"An army?" Aemon's smile was sharp as Valyrian steel. "Ser Justin, I don't need an army to conquer the Seven Kingdoms."
The implication hung in the air as several men shifted uneasily, remembering the scorched earth around Winterfell, the way Bolton's forces had broken at the sight of him.
"You will all return to your homes," Aemon said firmly. "Prepare for winter. Prepare for the evacuation. Prepare for the Great Council. The realm must see that I come not as a conqueror with foreign armies, but as their rightful king, offering unity against annihilation."
He straightened, and for a moment, shadows seemed to writhe around him like living things. "Now, there are prisoners yet to judge. Bring them forward."