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Chapter 154: Maester Aemon
🕑 Added 2025-02-16 13:19:53 +0000 UTCAs he left Mole’s Town, Lynd could already feel the rune changing. It wasn’t that the rune had transformed into another kind of power, but rather that the power within it was beginning to revive in some way.
He recalled that The Wall held magic—not only could it prevent dragons from approaching, but it could also restore those with magic to their original state when their powers were rekindled. Melisandre had mentioned something similar, saying her magic had rapidly revived while she was at The Wall.
At this moment, Lynd no longer saw The Wall as merely a colossal barrier of ice and snow. Instead, he perceived it as a structure woven from countless magical runes, radiating an endless glow of mystical light. The sight was spectacular.
According to legend, The Wall was built by Brandon the Builder, but now, standing before this immense magical construct, Lynd was certain that unless Brandon had been a god, he could never have built such a wall on his own.
However, there was a clear connection between this towering wall and the High Tower of Oldtown. From the dense magical runes carved into The Wall, Lynd recognized some of the same markings he had once seen on the surface of the High Tower. It was evident that the builders of the High Tower had drawn inspiration from the magic of The Wall.
Withdrawing his gaze, Lynd refocused on his current situation.
There was no doubt that circumstances were now working in his favor. As the power of the Dragon Runes continued to revive, his mastery of Banished Knight Swordsmanship would also improve. If this progression continued, he might even reach the level of strength a Banished Knight was meant to possess. This would undoubtedly make his journey to the Land of Always Winter much smoother.
Before long, Lynd arrived at the gates of Castle Black at the base of The Wall. A guard standing on the bridge called out, “Who goes there?” upon spotting him.
Lynd responded, “I am Ser Lynd Tarran of Summerhall, here on behalf of Lord Tyrell of Highgarden to visit the Night’s Watch at Castle Black.”
“A lord?” The guard hesitated. “Wait! My lord, please wait here. I will open the gate after confirming your identity.”
Though the guard had clearly never heard of Lynd’s name, he still spoke with care, mindful not to offend someone bearing a noble title.
Lynd waited at the gate for a moment before hearing hurried footsteps approaching from the other side. It was clear that several people were rushing over.
As the gate opened, an old man emerged, bald-headed, with a face that bore a resemblance to Jorah Mormont’s. A raven perched on his shoulder, and a group of Night’s Watchmen followed behind him.
The old man hesitated slightly upon seeing Lynd, noting that he carried only two swords. Though the knight before him wore a dragon-helmed visor, magnificent armor, and rode a warhorse far taller than an ordinary steed—signs of a person of great status—there was still a lingering doubt.
It was well known that Lynd carried four swords, yet this man bore only two. However, the old man's uncertainty quickly faded, for more than the number of swords, the Glory that shone behind Lynd was a far greater symbol of his identity.
“Welcome to Castle Black, Lord Chosen One,” the old man greeted him, addressing Lynd not by his noble title, but by a name that was known to all.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Jeor Mormont,” Lynd responded as he dismounted and approached the Lord Commander.
“You know me?” Jeor Mormont asked with a hint of surprise.
“In a way,” Lynd replied with a faint smile before asking, “And where is Lord Commander Qorgyle?”
Jeor Mormont’s expression turned solemn. “The Lord Commander passed away ten days ago. I am the newly elected Commander-in-Chief.”
Lynd paused for a moment, then chuckled. “I’m not sure whether I should offer my condolences or my congratulations.”
A middle-aged man with graying hair, standing beside Mormont, shrugged. “Better to say congratulations! Getting out of this hellhole, even if it means being carried out, is still something worth celebrating. Not to mention, before the Lord Commander died, he finished off our last barrel of ale. I’d wager that ale is still sitting in his belly, undigested. Who knows? Maybe it’s fermenting again, becoming even more flavorful.”
“Shut up, Edd!” Jeor Mormont snapped, shooting the man an exasperated look before turning to Lynd. “This is my steward, Eddison Tollett.”
Lynd looked at the man—one of his favorite characters from the novels he had read in his previous life—and gave him a nod of greeting. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Edd.”
Edd shook his head. “No, no! My lord, you’ve got it wrong. I’m no lord, just a humble servant who washes the Commander-in-Chief’s smallclothes.”
Worried that Edd might say something even more absurd, Jeor Mormont quickly introduced the other Night’s Watchmen accompanying him before leading Lynd into Castle Black.
At that moment, all the off-duty members of the Night’s Watch in Castle Black emerged from their quarters, drawn by curiosity. They gazed at Lynd, a legendary figure from the most prestigious Seven Kingdoms, their eyes filled with wonder. As they took in his exquisite armor, finely crafted weapons, and imposing warhorse, their astonishment grew. But it was when they saw Glory that exclamations of awe rippled through Castle Black, and shock was evident on their faces.
Jeor Mormont led Lynd to the King's Tower, the residence reserved for visiting dignitaries. At the base of the tower, special stables were maintained to care for the guests' horses.
Inside the tower’s meeting room, after exchanging a few brief pleasantries, Lynd got straight to the point regarding the purpose of his visit.
"Going beyond The Wall is not a good idea," Jeor Mormont remarked, clearly taken aback. The Land of Always Winter had long been synonymous with death and relentless cold. No responsible member of the Night’s Watch would willingly go there unless duty demanded it.
Now, a man from the South was volunteering to cross The Wall. The idea surprised and puzzled the gathered Night’s Watchmen, including Old Bear himself.
Lynd explained, “I’ve always wanted to see the Land of Always Winter, but I’ve never had the opportunity to go beyond The Wall. This time, since I’m here on a prisoner escort, I can finally fulfill that wish. If I miss this chance, I don’t know when, or if, I’ll ever return to The Wall.”
Jeor Mormont considered Lynd’s words for a moment, then turned to Edd beside him. “How long until the next ranger patrol?”
“Seven days,” Edd replied.
“The Night’s Watch will send a ranger patrol north in seven days to gather intelligence on the wildlings,” Jeor Mormont said. “Ser Lynd, you can travel with them—it will be safer.”
“Yes,” Lynd nodded. “However, if necessary, I may break away from the group and act alone.”
Jeor Mormont’s eyebrows rose slightly at that but quickly pieced together what was happening. He regarded Lynd with newfound scrutiny before asking, “Lord Lynd, do you have a task to accomplish in the Land of Always Winter?”
Lynd only smiled faintly and did not answer. Instead, he changed the subject. “May I speak with Maester Aemon?”
Jeor Mormont’s expression turned wary. “Why do you want to see Maester Aemon?”
“His knowledge may be useful to me,” Lynd replied calmly.
Jeor Mormont studied him for a moment, then nodded. “In that case, come with me.”
Before leaving, he instructed Edd and the others to prepare the guest rooms in the tower—lighting the fireplace, setting out necessities, and ensuring everything was in order. Then, personally, he led Lynd across the courtyard to the wooden fortress at the other end.
They climbed the stairs to the second floor, stopping at the last door in the corridor. Jeor Mormont knocked. “Maester Aemon, have you retired for the night?”
“Come in. You know it’s not yet time for bed,” a deep voice answered from within.
Jeor Mormont pushed the door open and led Lynd inside.
The room was not large. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with volumes that were worn and frayed from frequent use. Due to the fire hazard posed by the books, there was no fireplace. Instead, a small brazier sat beside Maester Aemon’s desk, its heat faint and meager. The room’s window was slightly ajar to vent the smoke, allowing what little warmth the brazier provided to escape into the cold air.
Maester Aemon sat in his chair, as still as a wax figure, his face devoid of life. His eyes, unfocused and vacant, reflected his blindness, but his ears were sharp, attuned to every sound.
“I hear unfamiliar footsteps,” he said, his voice steady. “Heavy and sure. I also hear the creak of steel armor shifting. No man who has endured the cold of the North would wear metal armor unless he had some special means to keep warm.” Though his sight had long since faded, Maester Aemon pinpointed Lynd’s presence with certainty. “You must be the Lord Chosen One.”
“Please, call me Lynd, Maester Aemon,” Lynd replied, bowing out of respect, though he knew the old man could not see the gesture.
Maester Aemon inclined his head slightly, then turned toward Jeor Mormont. “Commander, leave us to talk. It has been a long time since I last spoke with a young man.”
Jeor Mormont nodded and quietly stepped out of the room.
“Lynd, what brings you to an old man like me?” Maester Aemon asked once he heard the door close.
“I came to see you for two reasons,” Lynd replied. “The first is to ask whether House Targaryen has ever had any success in artificially incubating dragon eggs.”
“A dragon egg?” Maester Aemon was momentarily stunned. But then something seemed to click in his mind, and his expression shifted to one of amazement. “The Song of the Chosen, the Ghost, and the Dragon Egg… it’s true. You really did acquire a dragon egg.”
“Actually, I made up the song,” Lynd admitted, pulling the dragon egg from his backpack and placing it near Maester Aemon’s hand. “But everything in it is true. I did relive the fire in the ruins of Summerhall, I did redeem the ghosts trapped there for decades, and in the end, I obtained this dragon egg.”
Maester Aemon’s hand trembled slightly as he reached out to touch the egg’s unique surface. His fingers traced its contours with the reverence of a man lost in deep memories. Under his breath, he murmured, “Aegon… Aegon…”
At that moment, Maester Aemon seemed to drift back into the past. Lynd did not disturb him but stood quietly, waiting.
After some time, Maester Aemon stirred from his memories, his hand slowly retreating from the egg. He turned to Lynd, his expression solemn yet sincere. “I cannot say for certain whether your words are truth or falsehood, but I choose to believe them. Thank you… for freeing them from eternal suffering. Thank you.”
Lynd returned the dragon egg to his backpack. “Summerhall is my land,” he said simply. “This was my duty.”
Maester Aemon sighed. “Unfortunately, I cannot help you with your first question,” he admitted. “After the last dragon died, House Targaryen tried every possible method to hatch their remaining eggs, but none succeeded. If there had ever been a success, Aegon would not have resorted to such a dangerous method, and there would have been no Tragedy at Summerhall.”
As he spoke, a flicker of hesitation crossed his face, as though there was something else he wished to say but was unsure if it was appropriate.
Lynd did not press him but waited patiently.
After a long pause, Maester Aemon sighed again. “I am uncertain if telling you this will lead you into danger.”
“Maester Aemon, I will decide for myself what dangers I am willing to face,” Lynd replied calmly.
Maester Aemon nodded slightly before continuing. “As far as I know, there are records of dragon incubation in Valyria.”
“But Valyria has already perished,” Lynd frowned.
“Yes,” Maester Aemon acknowledged. “Valyria has indeed perished, but records do not necessarily disappear with the fall of a civilization.” He fell into thought before continuing. “When I was young, I once saw a book in the Red Keep, one that our ancestors had brought from Valyria. It stated that the Dragonlords of Valyria would sometimes take eggs abandoned by their mothers and hatch them artificially. Whenever they succeeded, they recorded the method on hard black stone slabs for preservation.”
“Valyria may be gone, but those slabs… they may still endure.”
Lynd absorbed his words. “So, you’re saying that records of dragon incubation might still exist in the ruins of Valyria.”
“Yes,” Maester Aemon confirmed. “The ruins of Valyria are the most likely place to find such knowledge.” He hesitated briefly before adding, “However, there are two other places where those black slabs might also be found.”
“Which two places?” Lynd asked.
“The first is Qohor,” Maester Aemon said. “Some Valyrian survivors are believed to have fled there after the Doom. As a result, Qohor inherited many Valyrian forging techniques and other knowledge. It is possible that they also preserved Valyrian black slabs.”
Lynd nodded thoughtfully, recalling that the armor for his Banished Knight had yet to be completed. If Qohor held remnants of Valyrian craftsmanship, it might be worth a visit.
“The other place,” Maester Aemon continued, “is Asshai.”
Lynd’s expression shifted slightly at the mention of that name.
“In the book I read,” Maester Aemon explained, “it was recorded that sorcerers from Asshai once traveled to Valyria specifically to document the knowledge inscribed on the Black Slabs. Even after the Doom, Asshai continued to collect dragon eggs, and I believe they must have records on how to hatch them.”
Lynd stood still, processing the old maester’s words. Then, suddenly, something clicked in his mind—his prophetic dream in the Barrowlands of the First Men.
Could the vague figure pointing eastward have been leading him toward Asshai?
Asshai was, after all, the easternmost place in the Known World.
