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Year 300 AC
Raventree Hall, The Riverlands
The earth shuddered.
Aemon felt the impact through his bones, as the muddy fields of the Riverlands rippled outward from where his claws had struck. Trees bent. Water sloshed from a nearby stream. And from the battlements of Raventree Hall, the symphony began.
Screams first. High and sharp, the sound of men confronting the end of the world they knew. Then the clatter of dropped steel, a sword falling from nerveless fingers to ring against stone. A woman's voice, frantic and raw, crying out to the Warrior for protection. Aemon heard it all with perfect clarity, each note of terror distinct in the cacophony.
Slitted eyes fixed on the ancient seat of House Blackwood, a tower rose dark against the grey sky, ravens circling its heights in agitated spirals. The birds knew. Animals always knew when the natural order had been violated.
Two voices cut through the chaos, sharp with command and desperation both.
"What are we to do, Father?" The young voice cracked with the weight of impossible questions. "We have no weapons to face a dragon! What can steel do against that?"
A pause.
"It hasn't burned us." Lord Tytos's words came slow and measured, a man forcing reason through the animal terror that must be screaming in his skull. "If it meant to destroy us, we would already be ash. There may be... there could be a rider. Someone who commands it."
Lord Tytos Blackwood. Aemon had never met the man, but he knew the name. A man who had kept faith when faith was a death sentence.
"A rider?" Disbelief colored the younger voice. "Who in all the Seven Hells could—"
"Quiet, boy." Sharp now. Afraid, yes, but thinking. Calculating. "Look at its claws. It holds something."
Aemon shifted his grip slightly on Jaime, angling the Kingslayer into clearer view, while stepping closer. The motion sent another tremor through the earth, and he heard men stumble on the battlements, heard prayers muttered in desperate whispers.
"LORD TYTOS BLACKWOOD. I COME IN PEACE."
The effect was immediate. A new wave of shock rippled through the garrison. Men pointed with trembling hands, in open disbelief.
"It spoke! By the Seven, it spoke!"
"A demon! A demon that knows our tongue!"
"The gods have mercy on us all!"
They had thought him a beast, a monster from nightmare. Now they knew he was something worse. A beast that thought and planned.
"Father—" Brynden's voice cracked, the word barely more than breath. Then louder, raw with something between terror and fury. "Father, it spoke. The dragon... it knows your name." A pause, ragged. "Let me go. Please. Raventree needs you. Let me—"
A younger man. Brave or foolish, Aemon could not yet say. The voice carried the crack of youth, untested but eager to prove itself.
"Hold your tongue, Brynden!" The older voice was steel wrapped in weariness. "Raventree needs a lord, not a martyr. I will face it. Protect our people!"
The terror in that voice was palpable. This was no warrior riding out to battle, confident in his armor and skill. This was a man walking to his execution, choosing sacrifice over cowardice.
Good, Aemon thought. Fear will make him listen. And listening is what I need.
A single horn sounded, wavering and uncertain. The gate creaked open with the groan of old iron and older wood. A figure emerged, alone.
Lord Tytos Blackwood walked like a man climbing scaffold steps. His face was ashen beneath his grey beard, his movements stiff. He had given his sword to his son. He wore no armor, no protection. Just a simple tunic bearing the dead weirwood of his house.
A sacrifice walking to the pyre.
Aemon's talons opened. Jaime Lannister dropped the last few feet to the muddy ground, stumbling as his legs remembered how to bear weight. The Kingslayer's face was pale, his golden hair disheveled, but his voice came out strong.
"He means no harm!" Jaime shouted toward the walls, toward the archers Aemon could see with their bows half-drawn. "He's here to parley! For the love of the gods, don't do anything foolish!"
Aemon began to move forward, each step deliberate. He kept his wings folded, his head lowered slightly. Tytos Blackwood had found his courage; Aemon would not make him regret it by appearing a threat.
They met halfway between the gate and where Aemon had landed. The lord stopped, rooted to the spot, his eyes wide. Up close, Aemon could see the lines of grief and exhaustion carved into that face. This was a man who had buried too many, fought too long, lost too much.
Time to speak man to man.
The transformation always hurt. Always. But Aemon had learned to embrace the pain, to let it fuel him rather than slow him. Violet fire erupted from his scales, not burning but unraveling, peeling away the dragon to reveal the man beneath.
The world lurched. His perspective shifted, falling, shrinking. Wings disappeared and talons became fingers. The furnace in his chest compressed to the small, mortal heat of a human heart.
He landed on his knees in the mud, naked and gasping. The exhaustion hit him first, stealing his breath. His muscles trembled. His vision swam.
Tytos Blackwood stood trembling, his face frozen in a state of shock as his hand protected his eyes from the blinding transformation. The lord's mouth worked soundlessly, trying to form words that would not come.
Aemon, now naked, look up to meet those shocked eyes. He had to speak now, before the moment broke, before fear turned to something else.
"My name is Aemon Targaryen," he said, his voice hoarse and painfully human after the dragon's resonance. "And I have come to parley so I ask for guest rights, Lord Blackwood."
Silence. The wind stirred the dead leaves scattered across the field. Somewhere a raven cawed.
"I could also use a cloak," Aemon said, the words came out quieter than he'd intended, almost sheepish. "Unless you prefer your guests naked and shivering."
Lord Blackwood blinked, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. His hands shook. But when he spoke, his voice held.
"A cloak. Yes. Of course. The... the gods have a strange sense of humor." The lord's eyes never left Aemon's face, searching for something, some explanation for the impossible. "You are welcome in my hall, Lord Dragon."
The hall of Raventree was smaller than Winterfell's, but it carried the same weight of history. Ancient rafters. Worn stones. The smell of smoke and old wood. Aemon sat at the high table, a borrowed cloak wrapped around his shoulders, and tried not to show how much the transformation had cost him.
The transformation had taken less out of him this time. Not nothing—his limbs still trembled faintly, his chest ached with each breath, and the cold bit deeper than it should have but the bone-deep exhaustion that had left him useless for hours after Eastwatch was... less. Manageable.
Is this what Bran meant? The thought came unbidden. Magic returning to the world. Strengthening.
Jaime Lannister sat on a distant bench, a deliberate insult. The Kingslayer seemed unbothered, his golden hand resting on the table, his expression carefully neutral.
Lord Tytos had composed himself somewhat, though his hands still trembled slightly as he poured wine. The hall was not empty. A dozen men stood along the walls, hands on sword hilts, eyes wary. Aemon did not blame them. He would have done the same.
"My house is on the brink… my Prince." Tytos's voice was strained, careful. "What can the ravens of Raventree Hall offer a dragon that speaks?"
"You ask what you can offer a dragon?" Aemon leaned forward, letting the cloak fall back slightly. "Nothing. But you can offer your loyalty once more to House Stark."
Tytos blinked. Confusion flickered across his features.
Aemon pressed on. "You may know me now as Aemon Targaryen. That name is true. But I am… I was also Jon Snow. Raised by Eddard Stark, brother to Robb Stark. I have come to repay your faith, Lord Tytos. To honor the oaths you kept when others broke theirs."
The change was immediate. The terror receded from Tytos's face, replaced by something raw and painful. Hope. Recognition. This was not some foreign beast descended from nightmare. This was Ned Stark's boy.
"Jon Snow," Tytos repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. The name hung in the air like smoke. "Ned's bastard."
"I was," Aemon said simply.
A sound escaped Tytos that was both half a laugh and half a sob. His shoulders sagged as if a great weight had been lifted. The tension in the hall didn't vanish, but it shifted. Men still watched, still wary, but the edge of mortal terror had dulled.
"Wait." Tytos raised one hand, his brow furrowed. "Forgive me, Prince Aemon, but... how?" He gestured vaguely at Aemon, at the cloak, at everything. "Ned Stark's bastard. A Targaryen. I knew Ned. I knew him. He never..." The words died. Color rose in his cheeks. "That is—I don't mean to suggest—"
Aemon felt the old shame flare its ugly head. Even now, with the truth laid bare, it scraped at him like a blade against bone. But he squashed it down.
"Eddard Stark was my uncle," he said. Each word came out flat, deliberate. "Not my progenitor."
Tytos went still.
"My father was Rhaegar Targaryen and my mother was Lyanna Stark."
Somewhere in the hall, a log shifted in the hearth, sending up a spray of embers. Tytos stared at him as if the words themselves had struck him across the face.
"Lyanna," he repeated. His voice was hoarse. "Lyanna Stark."
"Yes."
"Gods." Tytos sank back in his chair. His hand found his wine cup again, but he didn't drink. Just held it. "The whole realm went to war over her. Robert Baratheon... Rhaegar..." He shook his head slowly, eyes distant. "And all this time, Ned kept you hidden. Raised you as his own bastard."
"To protect me." Aemon's jaw tightened. "From Robert. From everyone who would have seen me dead for my father's name."
Tytos exhaled, long and slow. "Ned," he murmured. "Was a good man. The best I ever knew but he carried that lie to his grave. Let the whole realm think him an oathbreaker. A man who dishonored his wife." His gaze snapped back to Aemon, sharp now. "He loved you that much."
Aemon said nothing. There was nothing to say. The weight of it sat heavy in his throat.
"Gods be good." Tytos grabbed his wine cup with both hands, steadying it before he drank. "The North remembers, they say. I never thought..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "You've come a long way from the Wall, Lord Commander."
"Farther than you know."
Tytos set down his cup. His gaze moved over Aemon's face, searching for something familiar in the stranger before him. "And your brother..." His voice cracked. "Robb..."
"You kept your oath when it mattered," Aemon said. "That's why I'm here."
"The Twins," Tytos said suddenly, urgently. "Have you heard? The Freys are dead. All of them. Massacred in their own hall." He paused, his voice dropping. "They say a ghost of vengeance did it."
Aemon gave a single, cold nod. "I know."
Tytos leaned forward. "You know? How?"
"Justice is returning to the Riverlands, Lord Tytos." Aemon's voice was hard, unyielding. "The Freys were only the beginning. There is more to be done."
He left it at that. Let the lord wonder. The tale of Lady Stoneheart was not his to share.
"There's something else." Tytos's expression darkened. "A raven came from Harrenhal. It spoke of Rickon Stark, claimed he was found, that he would be brought south to—"
"Mummery." Jaime Lannister's voice cut through the hall like a blade through silk. He hadn't moved from his place, but every eye turned to him now. "Someone's playing games again. False heirs and forged seals."
Aemon's hand closed around the armrest. The wood groaned beneath his grip, a low, splintering sound that cut through the hall's murmur. The dragon stirred behind his ribs, hot and coiling, whispering of fire and ash.
Rickon. The thought of some southern schemer dangling his name like bait, using it to weave plots like Arya—
The armrest shattered.
Splinters burst from beneath his palm, wood cracking like bone. The sound rang sharp through the hall, sudden and violent. Men jerked in their spots and a serving girl dropped her pitcher, wine spreading dark across the rushes. Tytos Blackwood's eyes went wide and Jaime Lannister's gaze flicked from the shattered wood to Aemon's face, something unreadable passing behind his green eyes.
The hall had gone silent.
"Explain," he said, his voice flat and cold.
Jaime stood up and moved closer to the high table. "If someone's claiming to have found him now..." He shrugged. "It's has to be Littlefinger. He is the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands and the lord of Harrenhal."
"Then it seems," Aemon said, his voice carrying the cold edge of steel, "I have more reasons to find Baelish."
Tytos's gaze shifted from Aemon to Jamie.
"Last I heard," the lord said slowly, "the Kingslayer had gone missing. Vanished somewhere in the Riverlands after the siege of Riverrun." His fingers drummed once against the armrest.
"He was brought to me," Aemon continued, his voice flat. "At the Winterfell."
Jaime's mouth curved. "The Brotherhood Without Banners caught me on the road. Gave me a choice between a noose or helping them." He shifted his weight, chains clinking soft against leather. "I chose to help."
"My Prince," Tytos said quietly, his voice rough with something that might have been gratitude. "I would... I would thank the Kingslayer. For what he did."
Aemon's gaze shifted to the lord. The man's knuckles were white against the carved wood of his chair, his jaw working as though the words cost him.
Tytos turned his attention to Jaime. "My son. Hoster. How—how was he, when last you saw him?"
Jaime's expression remained unchanged, that same mask of weary indifference. But his voice, when he spoke, carried an unexpected gentleness. "Healthy. At Riverrun, under Frey care. The boy's clever. Keeps his head down, doesn't cause trouble."
The lord's shoulders sagged slightly, relief bleeding through his rigid posture.
Aemon watched the exchange, curiosity stirring beneath the dragon's restless heat. "What happened?"
Tytos drew a breath through his nose. "When the Kingslayer came to my gates to end the siege by the Brackens, Jonos wanted..." The words seemed to stick in his throat. "He wanted Ser Jaime to take my daughter Bethany. As a cupbearer, he said. But we all knew what that meant."
The temperature in the hall seemed to drop.
"Bracken's always had an appetite," Jaime said, his tone flat. "For land, for power, for an easy opportunity." He shifted his weight, leather creaking soft against stone.
Aemon studied the Kingslayer's face. No pride there, no expectation of praise. Just a man stating facts, as though sparing a girl from rape was simply the practical choice.
Aemon felt something shift in his understanding of the man. Jaime Lannister was a monster, yes. A man who'd broken every oath that mattered. But even monsters had their lines, it seemed. Their own twisted codes.
"You will have justice Lord Tytos." Aemon said. "As for the Lannister, he is my prisoner. A means to an end. An end to Cersei's madness."
Aemon rose from his broken seat, the scrape of wood against stone a low rasp in the stillness. He took measured steps as he closed the distance between himself and the Blackwood lord, unhurried, stopping only three paces away.
"So serve me," Aemon said, his voice dropping, becoming something intimate and deadly in the vast hall. "And I swear on the honor of the father who raised me, that Hoster Blackwood will be returned to you. The lands the Brackens stole will be yours again. Your line will continue and your people will not starve."
Tytos Blackwood's throat worked. Hope, that most treacherous of emotions, warred with a lifetime of caution on his face. "You can promise this? Against the Freys who still hold my son?"
"The Freys are a dying breed," Aemon said, a flicker of crimson light deep in his grey eyes. "And the Lannisters… will be dealt with. But I do not ask you to fight for lands and sons alone, Lord Tytos." He gestured with his chin toward the iron-bound rattling crate that still sat in the center of the hall, its presence a dreadful question. "I ask you to fight for the dawn."
The lord's gaze followed the gesture, his eyes lingering on the crate. A faint, rhythmic thumping came from within it, a sound that had become part of the hall's background noise until this moment. Thump. Scrape. Thump.
"What is in there?" Tytos asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Jaime Lannister, watching from the sidelines, let out a short, sharp bark of laughter. "The only thing in this world that matters."
Aemon did not answer directly. Instead, he took a step closer to the lord. "You have held this castle against the Brackens for a thousand years. You have fought for your gods, for your weirwood, for your right to exist. What is in that crate is an enemy that does not care about your gods, your lands, or your bloodline. It only cares that you are alive. And it will not stop until you are not."
He let the silence hang, heavy and cold. The thumping from the crate seemed to grow louder.
"The war for the Iron Throne is a squabble of children," Aemon continued, his voice low and intense. "A game. What is coming from the North is the end of games. I am not here as a Targaryen to claim a chair of swords. I am here as the only man alive who can lead the living against the dead. Your choice is not between kings, Lord Tytos. It is between life and death."
Tytos Blackwood looked from Aemon's grim face to the unsettling crate, to the kneeling forms of his men. He saw the absolute conviction in his king's eyes, the terrifying certainty. He thought of his son, a hostage, and his daughter, nearly defiled, and the long, bloody history of his house's survival.
He drew himself up to his full height, the weariness seeming to fall away, replaced by a grim, ancient resolve. He did not need to see the monster in the box. The monster who had brought it was proof enough.
Slowly, he sank to one knee.
"I swore an oath to your brother, the Young Wolf," Tytos said, his voice firm and clear now, carrying through the silent hall. "And I keep my oaths. Raventree Hall is yours, King Aemon. Our swords, our hearts, and our lives. Now and always."
The other men in the hall followed, one by one, until only Aemon and Jaime stood above a sea of kneeling figures. The thumping from the crate continued, a grim percussion to their vows.
"Rise," Aemon said, the weight of their fealty settling on his shoulders. "All of you. There is work to be done."
Tytos rose, his joints creaking audibly in the quiet of the hall. "Your Grace," he began, then paused. His eyes flicked to Jaime, lingering there for a heartbeat too long. The Kingslayer met his gaze with that same unreadable expression he'd worn since they'd arrived at Raventree Hall—part curiosity, part wariness, wholly contained.
Tytos turned back to Aemon. "There is someone I believe you should meet."
"Who?" Aemon asked.
"Better you see for yourself, Your Grace." Tytos gestured toward the door. "If you would follow me."
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The western sky bled crimson and gold, the last gasps of daylight fading beyond the bare branches of the weirwood. Aemon stood at the window, one hand braced against the stone frame, feeling the cold seep through his palm.
Shadows writhed across tapestries depicting long-dead Blackwoods in their eternal war with the Brackens.
Jaime Lannister occupied a corner chair, silent as a carved statue. His golden hand rested on the armrest, fingers curled in permanent stillness. He hadn't spoken since they'd entered this chamber, content to observe.
The door opened.
Lord Tytos entered first, his movements deliberate, careful. Behind him came another figure, and the air seemed to shift.
Aemon's eyes widened.
He was old, this man. Older than Aemon imagined from the stories, though he'd never seen him in truth. Tall and lean, with a weathered face that spoke of hard years and harder choices. His hair was white as fresh snow, his beard neatly trimmed. But it was the eyes that caught Aemon's attention. Blue as a winter lake, sharp, and filled with something that might have been wonder or might have been fury. Tully eyes.
"The Blackfish." Jamie said quietly but Aemon heard it all the same.
The old knight stopped three paces from him, those piercing eyes taking in every detail. Aemon felt himself being measured, weighed, judged by a man who had spent a lifetime in battle and service.
"First, a talking dragon falls from the sky and turns into a boy," Brynden said, his voice rough as old leather. "Then I learn he's Lyanna's son." He shook his head slowly.
"Even I couldn't believe it at first," Jamie said, his gaze distant. "But a dragon does make a strong argument."
The Blackfish's gaze shifted to the golden knight, something sharp and knowing flickering across his weathered features. "Didn't think I'd see you so soon after surrendering Riverrun, Kingslayer. Less so, alive, in presence of a Stark and Targaryen."
Jamie's mouth curved, though the expression held no warmth. "My fate was never mine to begin with." His golden hand caught the torchlight, gleaming dully. "Seems I've traded one cell for another. This one just has better company."
Aemon watched the two men measure each other, veterans of different wars bound by the same bitter truth: neither had chosen to be here, in this room, facing him.
Brynden's jaw worked, as if chewing on words too bitter to swallow. When he spoke again, his attention had returned to Aemon, and there was something in those Tully-blue eyes that might have been grief.
"The Seven must be drunk. I fought to put your family out of power. Now you want me to help put one back in?"
The words should have stung. They would have, once. But Aemon had learned to carry harder truths than an old soldier's suspicion.
"I don't want your help putting a Targaryen on the throne," Aemon said. "I want your help keeping the living alive when winter comes."
Brynden's eyes narrowed. "Sound words. Prophetic even. Your father was good with those too. Sang them, even. Didn't stop him from starting a war that drowned the realm in blood."
The dragon stirred in Aemon's chest, a flicker of heat that he forced down. Not now. Not here.
"My father made mistakes," Aemon said, keeping his voice level. "So did yours. So did every man who fought in Robert's Rebellion. But I'm not here to argue about the past, Ser Brynden. I'm here because the future is coming, and it doesn't care about old feuds or broken oaths or who sat the Iron Throne twenty years ago."
"The future." Brynden's mouth twisted. "Is that what you call it? Seems to me the future looks a lot like the past. A Targaryen with a dragon, demanding the realm bend the knee."
"I'm demanding nothing." Aemon took a step forward. "I'm offering a choice. Stand with me against the dead, or stand alone and die."
"Alone." Brynden laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Boy, I've been alone since the day I refused to marry the girl my brother chose for me. Alone when I held Riverrun while the realm tore itself apart. Alone when the Freys and Lannisters came with their siege towers and their lies." He paused. "Alone when I escaped that siege, leaving good men to die so I could... what? Find another war to fight?"
The pain in those words was raw, unguarded. Aemon recognized it as he'd felt it himself, the endless conflict.
"You're not alone," Aemon said quietly. "Not anymore."
Brynden's eyes searched his face. "And why should I believe that?"
"Your grand-niece, Sansa, is safe at Winterfell. She commands the loyalty of the Knights of the Vale. Your great-nephew, Rickon, is Lord of Winterfell. They are alive. They are home."
Brynden's face, so carefully controlled, cracked like ice under spring sun.
"Sansa?" The word came out broken. "And Rickon? Truly?"
"Truly." Aemon felt his own throat tighten. "Sansa survived King's Landing, survived Littlefinger's games in the Vale and even enlisted the Vale's help. She's stronger than anyone knows. And Rickon... he's wild as a wolf, but he's alive. Davos Seaworth brought him back from Skagos, where he was hiding from Bolton rule."
Brynden turned away, one hand rising to cover his face. His shoulders shook. For a long moment, the only sound in the solar was the crackling fire and the old knight's ragged breathing.
When he turned back, his eyes were wet, but his voice was steady.
"Catelyn's children," he said. "I thought... after the Red Wedding, after everything..." He stopped, swallowed.
He moved to the table, poured himself wine with steady hands, and drank half the cup in one swallow. Then he looked at Aemon again, and this time there was something different in his gaze. Not suspicion or hostility but something closer to respect.
"You're not what I expected," Brynden said. "When I heard the stories from Cat, I thought... well, I thought a lot of things. Most of them wrong, it seems."
"What did you expect?"
"A boy chasing the lordship of Winterfell because there was no one left to oppose him." Brynden set down his cup. "But you're not that, are you? You're Ned Stark's son, for all that his blood doesn't run in your veins. I can see him in you. The way you stand. The way you speak."
"I have met many a great man but he was the best man I ever knew… even with his flaws." Aemon said simply.
"Aye. Even with his flaws." Brynden moved to the window, looking out at the darkening sky. "So. You've got Winterfell. You've got the North. You've got the Vale, if what you say about Sansa is true. And now you have come for the fractured Riverlands."
"And eventually the rest of the realm. I want them to survive what's coming."
"The dead." Brynden's voice was flat. "Tytos told me. Showed me that... thing in the crate. I've seen a lot in my years, boy, but I've never seen anything like that."
"It's because they have been gathering their strength for thousands of years. There are thousands more beyond the Wall. Tens of thousands. And they're not mindless. They're led by the White Walkers."
Tytos Blackwood dragged a weathered hand down his face, fingers pressing hard against his temples.
Brynden turned, his eyes sharp. "You've fought them?"
"At Hardhome." Aemon touched his chest, where the scars from the ice dragon's teeth still ached in cold weather.
"And you think you can stop them?"
"I think I have to try. And I can't do it alone."
Brynden studied him for a long moment. Then he nodded, as if coming to some internal decision.
"All right," he said. "What's your plan?"
Aemon moved to the table, gesturing for the others to join him. Tytos and his son came forward. Jaime rose from his corner, silent as a shadow.
"The plan starts with King's Landing," Aemon said. "Cersei Lannister sits the Iron Throne, but her hold on power is weak. She burned the Great Sept, killed thousands. The Faith is broken, the smallfolk terrified, and her only allies are sellswords and sycophants."
"And you want to take the city from her," Brynden said. The words came flat, factual. "That'll be bloody work, even for a dragon."
Aemon held his gaze. "It doesn't have to be."
"Doesn't it?" The Blackfish's mouth twisted. "Cersei Lannister doesn't strike me as the surrendering type. She'll burn King's Landing herself before she gives it up. You know that."
"That's why we end it quickly," he said. "Before she has time to set her traps."
Brynden's eyes narrowed. "And how do you propose to do that?"
"That's where he comes in." Aemon looked at Jaime.
All eyes turned to the Kingslayer. Jaime met their stares with that same weary indifference Aemon had come to recognize.
"He will convince or force her to surrender." Aemon's voice went hard.
Brynden's eyes narrowed. "You trust him to do that?"
"I trust him to understand what's at stake."
"Or he'll warn her," Brynden said. "Turn on you the moment he's through those gates."
"He can try" Aemon said. "But he knows Cersei has to be stopped." Aemon's gaze locked with Jaime's. "Don't you?"
Jaime was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded, once.
"I will do my part." Jaime said quietly.
Brynden grunted, unconvinced but willing to let it pass. "And if he fails? If Cersei won't surrender and he can't stop her?"
"Then I will. I can turn the throne room to ash and leave the city standing. Jaime is my most merciful option." Aemon said in finality.
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Brynden stared at him, and Aemon saw his mind racing. Weighing the threat and measuring the truth of it.
"Gods," Brynden said finally. "You really could, couldn't you?"
"Yes."
"And after? After you've taken King's Landing, killed or captured Cersei, what then? You just... what? Sit the throne and hope everyone bends the knee?"
"No." Aemon shook his head. "I call a Great Council. Every great house, every major lord. Let them see the wight. Let them hear the truth about what's coming. Then let them choose."
Brynden's eyebrows rose. "You'd let them choose? Even if they choose wrong?"
"I'd give them the truth and the chance to act on it. What they do with that chance is up to them." Aemon's voice hardened. "But if they choose to fight each other instead of the real enemy, I'll make the choice for them."
"There's the dragon," Brynden murmured. But there was something like approval in his tone.
"The Iron Bank has endorsed my efforts," Aemon continued. "My Hand, Lord Manderly, is already organizing shipments of grain. It will feed your people and any house who rallies to us."
Brynden went still. "The Iron Bank? Those moneylenders are already backing you?"
"They know what's coming. They're pragmatic enough to understand that debts don't matter if everyone's dead."
"Those coin counters never back a losing horse," Brynden said slowly. His eyes moved over Aemon's face, reassessing. "This is... you're not just talking about taking the throne. You're already talking about logistics and supply lines."
"This is survival and we are under a timeline," Aemon corrected. "The throne is just a means to an end. The end is keeping people alive through the Long Night."
Brynden poured himself more wine, drank it more slowly this time. When he spoke again, his voice was thoughtful.
"The Riverlands are broken. Torn apart by war, bled dry by the Freys and Lannisters. The smallfolk are starving. The lords are exhausted. We need..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "We need a lot of things."
"You need a leader," Aemon said. "Someone who knows the Riverlands, who the lords will follow. Someone who can rebuild what's been broken. Ser Brynden, I name you Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, and Lord of Riverrun."
The solar went deathly quiet. Tytos's eyes widened. Even Jaime seemed surprised.
The Blackfish stared at Aemon as if he'd sprouted a second head.
"You can't," he said flatly. "Edmure is Lord of Riverrun."
"Edmure is a Lannister captive," Aemon said. "Held at Casterly Rock, used as a hostage to keep the Riverlands in line. When he is freed, I will hear his petition. But the Riverlands need a Warden now to bring stability."
Brynden shook his head. "The lords won't accept it easily. They'll see it as a Targaryen putting his own man in power, disregarding the rightful heir."
"Then they're fools. But I don't think they are." Aemon's voice went soft. "They know you, Ser Brynden. They know you held Riverrun when others would have fled. They know you escaped the Lannisters when escape should have been impossible. They know you're a fighter, not a politician. And right now, they need a fighter more than they need careful words and cautious choices."
Brynden was quiet for a long moment. His eyes moved to the window, to the darkness beyond. Aemon could almost see the thoughts turning behind them, the calculations, the doubts.
Brynden looked at him, and something in his expression shifted. Acceptance, perhaps. Or resignation.
"All right," he said. "I'll do it. Gods help me, I'll do it. But I want one thing clear, Your Grace. I'm not your puppet. I'll give you my counsel, and I'll expect you to take my words into consideration if we are to face these wars."
"Understood, Lord Brynden."
They clasped hands, and Aemon felt the strength in the old knight's grip. This was a man who'd chosen duty over comfort, honor over ease.
"Now then," Brynden said, releasing Aemon's hand and turning to the table. "If I'm to be Lord Paramount, I'll need to announce it. Send ravens to every house, let them know the Tullys are still in the Riverlands."
"More than that," Aemon said. "I need you to do something that will seem strange. Trust me on this."
Brynden's eyes narrowed. "What?"
"Send a raven to every house. Announce your lordship and declare for me. Sign it Brynden Tully, Lord Paramount of the Trident." Aemon paused. "And have Ser Jaime Lannister add his name and seal."
Brynden recoiled as if struck. "They'll think it a trick! No one will rally to that! The Kingslayer's name next to mine? They'll assume we've been captured, that it's a Lannister ploy."
"Exactly."
Understanding dawned slowly in Brynden's eyes. "You want them to think it's a trap."
"I want Emmond Frey and Black Walder to march. I want them to think it's a weak ploy they can crush. When they leave their keeps, they are vulnerable."
"And then what? We meet them in open field? It could take months."
"I have no need to wait for a battle or a siege." Aemon's voice went cold. "I am not constrained by roads or rivers. The moment their columns are leaving their castles, I will remove their commanders. A bloodless victory."
Brynden stared at him, and Aemon saw the moment the old knight truly understood what he was saying. Not just the tactics, but the doctrine behind them. A new kind of warfare.
"You'd... what? Fly over their army, burn only their commanders, and leave the rest to scatter?"
"If they surrender, I'll accept it. If they don't..." Aemon shrugged. "The dead don't care about banners or bloodlines. Neither do I."
Brynden nodded slowly, his weathered face creasing as if trying to fit this new shape of war into the old grooves of his understanding.
Aemon raised a hand. "My lord, if you would give us the room? I need to speak with Ser Brynden alone."
Tytos bowed, his weathered face unreadable. "Of course, Your Grace."
Jamie followed without a word, their boots echoing against stone.
When the door closed, Brynden poured wine for both of them. Aemon took a sip of drink before speaking.
"Lord Brynden, as your first act, help me solve the matter of the Brackens and Blackwoods," Aemon said.
The old knight sighed, a sound of infinite weariness. "That is a knot over a thousand years in the tying, Your Grace. Those two houses have been killing each other since before the Andals came. I don't know that anyone can untangle it."
"Tell me about it. The current situation."
"The Brackens hold Stone Hedge. Lord Jonos bent the knee to the Lannisters early, as his lands were severely burned. But his daughter..." Brynden's voice went hard. "Gregor Clegane took her. Raped her. Left her broken."
Aemon felt a deep anger stir at the mention of that name. "The Mountain."
"Aye. The Mountain. He's dead now, thank the gods, but the damage is done. It's a mess. And neither side will bend first…"
Then Brynden shifted.
It was subtle—a straightening of the shoulders, a narrowing of the eyes. Aemon saw it. Saw the moment the old knight's mind caught on something, turned it over, examined it from a dozen angles.
"Your Grace," Brynden said slowly. "I might... I might have a solution. Temporary, at least. Maybe even long-term, if the gods are kind." His mouth twisted into something that wasn't quite a smile. "But it all depends on you."
Aemon tilted his head. "I'm listening."