108 AC
Winterfell
Aemon had stayed up all night, going over the books.
His eyes were puffy, his body was all stiff, and he had a crick in his neck.
Jahanara was adeptly handling his businesses in the Capital. In fact she had become well versed enough, that Aemon no longer needed to look into the day to day running of his ventures.
She handled all the day to day stuff now, with him only reviewing her work. Aemon instead concentrated his energies on planning the expansion of his business, through fruitful investments.
This had been a great boon, as with the expansion of his businesses things had become too hectic for him to be hands on with everything.
Aemon and his partner Mysaria, now either owned or controlled numerous brothels, taverns, inns and pubs, all throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
Starting from King's Landing, they had also gained a foothold in Oldtown, Lannisport, Gulltown and White Harbour.
The establishments in each of these locations were managed by reeves that Aemon had appointed.
Their work was to manage the day to day running of the business earning regular profits, of which they would retain one-third, with the rest two-thirds going to Aemon.
But besides this, the reeves also had to hire enforcers and spies, pay off guardsmen and other petty officials, and most importantly, gather secrets.
These reeves would send regular reports to Jahanara in King's Landing, who would then compile them all and send them to Aemon, for his perusal.
It had taken Aemon over four years, to stitch together this web of espionage. And even then, it still left a lot to be desired.
Aemon was especially dissatisfied with how long it took to relay information. It took nearly a week for the messages to get to him, this could prove problematic in critical situations.
Along with these businesses, Aemon had also built himself a fleet of thirty trading ships - ten trading galleys and twenty cogs.
These ships captained by some of the former sailors of the Sea Snake, traded their goods between the major Westerosi ports and the Free Cities.
This fleet had in fact proved essential in Aemon's burgeoning trade of silver and iron from the North, to the rest of Westeros, and beyond.
In the northern mountains Aemon had found, large deposits of iron and silver along with some modest copper and tin deposits.
And with House Stark negotiating on his behalf, Aemon had managed to acquire the permission to mine and transport these minerals.
Silver was a rare mineral in Westeros, mined only in White Harbour and in some areas of the Westerlands.
But with the discovery of this new silver mine, the North had become the largest producer of silver in Westeros.
Last year alone, Aemon had managed to sell Eighty thousand gold dragons worth of silver and iron.
And even after deducting the operational expenses involved, his profit was over fifty thousand gold dragons.
Split in half, Aemon still managed to make over twenty five thousand gold dragons from this business venture.
To put this into perspective, all of Aemon's other business ventures together, had made a profit of only thirty thousand gold dragons last year.
Meaning the mineral trade from the North accounted for nearly half of Aemon's annual earnings.
And this was when things were just getting started.
He expected much higher returns this year, than the fifty five thousand gold dragons he'd made last year.
Despite all this, Aemon knew that he was far way away from the wealth of the truly wealthy Houses. House Velaryon for instance, made hundreds of thousands of gold dragons every year.
From these fifty five thousand gold dragons, Aemon had put aside half for expanding his businesses and the rest he had invested in the construction of Fort Cailin.
Aemon was grateful for Rowan's suggestion to use Vermithor. It had reduced the immense cost of the project.
Following Rowan's suggestion Aemon had burned through the rock and soil of the stretch of marshy land around the Neck, thus melting and softening the Earth and making the digging process easier.
Instead of doing it all at once, he used Vermithor to burn through small stretches of land, then allowed it to cool for a few days, before the laborers could start digging out the soil.
This was why, Aemon spent a week every month at the construction site helping out, flying back and forth between the Fort and Winterfell.
But it was because of employing this method, that the initial estimate of two hundred thousand gold dragons for the canal had been lowered to a hundred and twenty thousand gold dragons.
And even the time required for the project to be completed was expected to take seven to eight years now, instead of the original estimate of over ten years.
The costs involved now were mostly from the bricklayers employed to lay rows of bricks along the canal walls.
This was to reinforce the canal, preventing it from getting clogged with mud and closing over time.
And as for the money that he had saved, he intended to use it to finance the construction of a fleet of warships.
Aemon didn't believe in letting the gold sit and gather dust, he would much rather invest it elsewhere for it to grow.
And he knew, that the Neck canal would soon become one of the most important shipping lanes in the world.
And since it would be bypassing trade through Dorne, the Dornish wouldn't look too kindly on it.
And even though Aemon had a dragon, he knew that he also needed a fleet of ships to defend the canal.
Moreover, if Daemon's War on the Stepstones turned for the worse, he knew that such a fleet would prove essential to turn the tides back in their favour.
And the cherry on top was that the North had plenty of cheap timber that he could use, to build such a fleet.
All he needed to do was find someone willing to sell. And with House Stark backing him, that shouldn't be a problem.
Things were looking up for Aemon, and it seemed that all his hardworking was paying off.
His businesses were flourishing, he had a rudimentary nation-wide spy network set up, the costs of building his seat, had been lowered.
And even though the brackish waters of the canal itself couldn't be used for agriculture. After draining the swamps, the land around the Neck - especially the land around the Fever river - had proven to be quite fertile, and conducive for growing crops.
Aemon's only real problem was the Manderly's protests about the canal.
They anticipated that the canal would draw trade away from White Harbour and thus had made protests to both House Stark and the Crown.
And Aemon knew, that if not for the fact that he rode a giant fire-breathing dragon, the Manderlys would have done much more than just protest.
They would have tried to obstruct his canal being built.
Aemon knew that one day he probably would have to sit down with them, to settle this issue.
And he sure wasn't looking forward to that shitshow.
A loud knocking, interrupted Aemon's reminiscence.
"Who is it?" He called.
A rough male voice, that he recognized to be Rowan's answered.
"It's me."
"What's the matter?" Aemon asked.
"Nothing much. Just that Lord Stark was enquiring where you were. You usually are at breakfast by now, after all." Rowan said, from the other side of the door.
"Wait a minute. I'll be right out." He answered.
Aemon got up and quickly dressed himself, pulling on a simple black linen tunic and breeches.
Once dressed, he pulled on his sword belt, fixing it at his side.
A growth spurt had made his old sword 'Nightbringer' too small for him to weild properly. So Daemon had sent him a new one.
It was the sword that belonged to the former Prince Admiral of Myr Craghas Drahar.
'Darktyde' it was called.
The sword was a spoil of war that Daemon had claimed, after crushing the Triarchy army and slaying the Crabfeeder in combat.
'Darktide' was a magnificent longsword, made from silvered steel. It had engravings on it, made to resemble the stormy sea.
Aemon however, had the hilt and crossguard of the sword replaced.
The sword now had a pair of black-iron dragon wings on its crossguard. And it's pommel was an onyx dragon head, with rubies for the eyes. As for the sword's hilt, Aemon had it made from dragonbone.
And even though it was no Valyrian Steel sword, it was a storied blade, that Aemon was proud to bear.
Rowan hurriedly fell in behind Aemon, as he started walking towards the Great Hall to break his fast.
"You look like, you didn't sleep very well." Rowan said, in a low voice, "Was it those weird dreams, again?"
Rowan was right. Aemon hadn't been sleeping well the last few months, whenever he slept he dreamt. And the dreams were always troubling.
Sometimes he dreamt that he was trapped in an ice coffin, unable to breathe. And at other times, he felt a massive blue eye watching him, intently.
Aemon had even woken up screaming, once. It was a dream in which, crows were feasting on his body little by little, while he writhed and screamed in agony.
But not all of the dreams were bad, in some of them he dreamt that he was Vermithor, belching flames and soaring over the night sky. A gargantuan shape, silhouetted against the moonlight.
These dreams were one of the reasons, he'd been staying up late these days. And it was also why he'd stayed up all last night, working.
As Aemon walked past the great oak and iron doors of the Great Hall, he found the Starks already seated at the high table.
Rickon sat at the head of the table, with his wife the Lady Gilliane to his right, and his mother Lady Lysa to his left.
Gilliane's three months old babe Cregan, a healthy boy with curly black hair and storm grey eyes, clung to his mother.
Bennard wasn't at the table as usual. And from what his reeve at the Wintertown brothel reported, he must be lying around passed out, there somewhere.
Aemon sat down beside his grandmother, as the servants brought in his food from the kitchens.
Warm fluffy bread, hot honey, a wedge of butter, rashers of bacon sizzling with fat, smoked salmon, fowl and poached duck eggs, they served him.
The scent of the food made Aemon realise that he was ravenous, as he fell upon the food with renewed fervor. And by the time he stopped wolfing it down, he had already devoured a sizable portion of it.
Just as Aemon slowed himself down, the servants brought in blackberry preserves, lemon cakes and Dornish blood oranges, with some honeywine and mead to wash it all down.
Once Aemon had eaten his fill, and was wondering whether he could manage another one of those delicious lemon cakes, he noticed Winterfell's Maester hurriedly walk into the Great Hall.
Maester Uric was an old man long past his prime. He was as tall as he was wide, with a great mane of grey-white hair and a flowing beard that reached past his knees.
At his neck he wore his chain of office. It's iron, bronze, silver, and gold links glinting in the early morning sunlight streaming in through the glass windows of the Great Hall.
The man had served House Stark faithfully for decades, Rickon said.
But despite that, Aemon remained suspicious of him. There was something inherently fishy about the Maesters of the Citadel, he felt. And the writings in his 'Book' only gave credence to this fact.
It was because of this, that all the letters and messages that he recieved at Winterfell, were coded. And even some of the more important messages, he had delivered to the Wintertown brothel instead, where Rowan went to pick them up.
"Milord there's a missive from Castle Black." The Maester said.
Rickon who had been busy playing with little Cregan, turned to look at him.
"Yes, what is this about, Maester? I swear, that if it is another one of those messages from the Lord Commander, asking us to hurry up with settling the New Gift, then I'm going to lose it." He said.
"That man needs to learn some patience", Lady Lysa huffed, "Raising castles and settling villages, take time."
"It is not that, milord." Maester Uric interjected, "The Lord Commander says, that there's been reports of a large Wildling force marching on the Wall."
"How many?" Rickon demanded, his grey eyes losing its usual mirth, and turning steely and grim.
"They don't have any exact numbers, but the Rangers believe them to number in the thousands." Uric replied.
"And what is the current strength of the Night's Watch?" Aemon asked.
"A little over three thousand, I believe." Rickon muttered.
"Then there's no need for your to involve yourself in this, Rickon. With the protection of the Wall three thousand men can easily hold off the Wildlings. Not to say, the Umbers and Katstarks would surely send men to assist them." Lysa said.
"I rule the North mother, I have every reason to involve myself in this." Rickon retorted.
"Maester, where do the Wildlings march?" He asked.
"The reports say that, they march on 'Queen's Gate' and 'Deep Lake' milord." The master replied.
"Call the banners, then", Rickon Stark commanded, "We'll ride North, within the fortnight."
"This is an impulsive plan, son. Listen to reason, send Ser Larence instead. There's no need for you to place yourself in danger." Lysa said.
"I understand your concern mother, but you needn't worry I'll take Aemon with me. With his dragon there, we might not even have to take the field." Rickon said.
As the Starks turned to look at him, Aemon answered, "I don't think the King would mind. An invasion of the North, is an invasion of his domain. I'm yours to command, uncle."
Aemon was intrigued, no such occurrence had been recorded his 'Book'. He wondered whether this was another change caused by his presence. He needed to check it out.
Further, a plan had been forming in Aemon's mind. From what he knew, there were wargs beyond the Wall. If he was able to recruit them, he could spy on people beyond closed doors even.
And since skinchangers could perceive their bonded animals at long distances and the words spoken to the bonded animal could be heard by the warg miles away.
Aemon could use them to expedite the transfer of crucial information.
"It seems both of you have made up your minds", Lady Lysa said.
"Go if you have to. But be careful, both of you. I would much rather, not bury another loved one." She said, her voice breaking towards the end.
-------------------
The Wall
Aemon had seen many things in his short life that had amazed him - dragons as big as small hills, the gargantuan castle of Harrenhall, the Red Keep in all its royal splendor, even the Giant's Lance towering over the Mountains of the Moon.
But none of those sights could prepare him for the wonder he felt when he saw the Wall.
Seven hundred foot tall the ice Wall rose, the sunlight kissing its crown as it rose up to meet the sky.
The edge of the world they called it. And looking at it like this, those claims rang true - an endless blue line stretching across the horizon, immense and unbroken.
Even for Aemon who had seen many strange things in his life, it was hard to believe that such a monstrosity was built by human hands.
Also, there was something eerie about the Wall. It stank of sorcery and to Aemon's senses it felt wrong, as if an abomination. A scar drawn upon the world.
In fact even Vermithor shied away from the icy Wall, preferring instead to stay coiled up a fair distance from it.
Fearing that they'd be too late by the time they reached the Wall, Rickon had marched his men hard. Still, it had taken them nearly a month to reach Queensgate. With a mustered force of three hundred horse and seven hundred infantry.
Aemon could have flown faster on Vermithor's back, but he didn't want to surprise the Lord Commander with a dragon suddenly appearing at his doorstep.
So he kept pace with Rickon, scouting ahead on dragon back then circling back.
A large force had been mustered at Queensgate. Alongside the two thousand black brothers the Umbers and Karstarks had sent five hundred men each.
Rickon's father-in-law Lord Ethan Glover had led a troop of five hundred men to the Wall, at his request.
And the mountain clans Norrey and Flint, whose territories bordered the Wall, had brought another five hundred men to answer the Lord Commander's call to arms.
Together they had a sizeable force some five thousand strong, including a thousand horsemen.
Rickon had decided to hold a War Council and all the Lords had been brought up to the castle's solar.
Other than him and Rickon, there were Lord Ethan Glover, Lord Osric Umber and Lord Torrhen Karstark. There were also the Chiefs of the mountain clans Norrey and Flint, the First Ranger Jason Mallister, the castellan of Queensgate, Ser Aenys Frey and the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Ser Jon Tollet.
The Lord Commander was an old man now. Long past his prime, he was fat, balding and toothless.
But he had different man once. A renowned knight, he had served in Maegor's Kingsguard as a young man.
That man had died a long time ago, perhaps when Jaehaerys stripped him of his white cloak and sent him to the Wall.
But even now after having spent a life in exile, at the frozen edge of the world, a shadow of that man still remained.
"We left behind three hundred men at Castle Black. And the rest seven hundred, we spread out among our other five castles, in case this attack is a feint and their true objective lies elsewhere." The Lord Commander said.
"Do you have any idea what their numbers are?" Rickon asked.
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"Milord, I personally led a ranging party beyond the Wall, and from our estimates I believe the Wildlings to be around eight thousand strong." The First Ranger replied.
"That's a lot", Rickon sighed, "It seems they outnumber us."
"I wouldn't worry about that", Ser Jon said, "The Wildlings are a raucous bunch, and lack discipline. Their only tactic in war is charging at the enemy, blindly. Not to say, they have women in their ranks, as well." He snorted.
"They also don't have any cavalry, while we have a thousand horse." Aenys Frey, interjected.
"Yes, that too." The Lord Commander nodded, in agreement.
"So what, do you want us to meet them in a pitched battle beyond the Wall?" Lord Glover asked.
"The Wall remains our greatest strength, I know." Ser Jon said, "And it is true that if we held the Wall, we could easily hold them off. Maybe even defeat them."
"But such a victory is meaningless. These defeated Wildlings would retreat for now, but they would continue to plague the Northern countryside as raiders for years to come. To deal with this, we need to give them a single crushing defeat, killing or capturing them and ending their threat once and for all." The Lord Commander finished.
"I agree with the Lord Commander", Lord Umber roared, "There's no need to hide behind the Wall. We have more horse and most of all, we have a fucking dragon on our side. A single roar from it, and the Wildlings would be shitting themselves."
The nods that universally followed, disquieted Aemon. He knew things weren't that simple, getting Vermithor beyond the Wall might prove to be an extraordinary chore.
"Who is this 'King Beyond the Wall' that leads them?" Aemon asked.
"His name is Sigvard, he's the Magnar of the Thenns. He's a wily man whose waged many wars and forged many treaties, to unite the Wildlings under his banner. He was only a young man, when he first rose as King. Three decades have passed since then, and he's remained content ruling over his people, beyond the Wall. And other than the occasional raid, he's never turned his eyes southwards. So I find it quiet peculiar, that he would chose now of all times, to wage a war upon us." The Lord Commander said.
"Where were the Wildlings, last sighted?" Lord Karstark asked.
"We last saw them camped near Whitetree, milord. If they keep their pace, they should be upon us in three days time." The First Ranger answered.
"We need to assemble the men beneath the Wall, just beyond the tree line. I suggest we do that first thing tomorrow." Lord Commander Tollet, suggested.
"Very well then, it is decided we'll meet the Wildling host in open battle. Let the men eat their fill and rest tonight, tomorrow early in the morning we'll prepare the ground for the battle. And Aemon, you'll scout ahead for us, on your dragon." Rickon commanded.
"As you say, uncle." Aemon said.
-------------------
Ever since Aemon had bonded to Vermithor, the Dragon had been a presence lurking constantly at the back of his mind.
Vermithor was no mindless beast. He was ancient and intelligent, with a vast mind and a keen intellect. And whenever he rode atop him, Aemon could feel the dragon's exhilaration, his rage, and even his sadness, born from solitude.
But never before had Aemon felt fear from his dragon.
But he had felt it, when he tried to make Vermithor cross the Wall.
Acrid and strong, Aemon felt his dragon's fear, his denial to cross the Wall so strong that it almost held a physical weight to it. Every time he would try to steer Vermithor beyond the Wall, he would circle back around.
Aemon didn't wish to force Vermithor but he knew how greatly Rickon was relying on him. Failing to deliver here would not only hurt his credibility, it would also shame House Stark, who had vouched fir him.
So he had pitted his will against Vermithor's.
Vermithor's will was vast and ancient, and before it Aemon could feel his own insignificance.
It pressed down on him like a mountain, grinding him down little by little. The dragon's years, burying him under a sea of memories.
The struggle took everything out of him and he nearly lost. He had backed out by the end of it.
And when he came to, he saw that he had somehow won.
His vision split and his mind was assaulted by a terrible throbbing pain, he felt Vermithor reluctantly fly over the confines of the Wall.
That had been two days ago.
Since then, the northern army had been camped at the base of the Wall, while he scouted ahead on Vermithor.
Of course, he wasn't the only scout. Rickon had also sent out scouting parties led by the Rangers of the Night's Watch.
With them riding into the haunted forest and him flying above, any approaching Wildling force would be easily spotted.
Aemon had been out scouting that chilly morning, when he spotted movement in the distance.
About a dozen miles north of their encampment, he could see large host approaching.
They were a ragged bunch, clad in sheepskin and boiled leather instead of proper mail and armour.
And although they marched, their lines snaked out behind them, haphazard and disorganized. And other than their outriders, they had no sentries or scouts to speak of.
The Wildlings had the numbers, but what they lacked was discipline. And in warfare, discipline beat numbers nine times out of ten.
Aemon also saw the giants. Great lumbering figures swaying atop their mammoths.
He counted sixteen of them. Eight riding mammoths and the rest walking.
They must have ranged from ten to fourteen feet tall, the largest of them. And covered head to toe in shaggy pelts of fur, with their squashed in brutish faces.
They appeared like monsters, drawn straight out of a children's tale.
Aemon chose to withdraw to their encampment. He needed to warn them of the enemy's approach.
-------------------
Over a simple padded wool gambeson, Aemon wore his chainmail hauberk, that Daemon had made for him long ago, in King's Landing.
And over the chainmail, he donned his armor for battle.
It was an intricate suit that he had crafted about a year ago. Scale armor, patterned to look like dragon scales, with the scales themselves painted black.
On the breastplate was emblazoned a single dragon, cast in silver, with all the fastenings of the armor also made of beaten silver.
It had a helm shaped like the head of a snarling dragon, from its sides sprouting two great curved silver horns.
Along with the armour, he garbed himself in a long, black fur cloak.
And securely chained to Vermithor, he wore 'Darktide' at his hip, with a dagger strapped to his side.
He was ready for the battle. And so was their army.
They were arrayed out in all their strength, beneath the shadow of the Wall, their now abandoned camp spreading out behind them.
All five thousand men stood armored in dark glinting steel, assembled in neat straight lines.
The knights atop their destriers and coursers were arrayed out front, like a wall of sharpened steel. Behind them were the light cavalry, consisting of the free riders, the men-at-arms and the mounted archers.
Last of all came the infantry, arranged in neat square formations they stood ten men deep.
While the cavalry led by the knights were to be the arrows piercing into the enemy's ranks. The infantry would advance in formation, holding the lines strong, gaining ground steadily. They would be like a hammer, with the enemy shattering against them.
Interspersed among the troops, were the myriad banners of the Houses.
And to be honest, together their forces cut quite the intimidating figure.
It had been decided, that Rickon would be holding the centre, with Lord Commander Tollet taking command of the left flank and Lord Glover taking command of the right one.
And as for the vanguard, Lord Osric Umber had been given command over them.
Aemon saw all this from over a thousand feet above, riding atop his dragon.
He also saw the approaching wildling host, all eight thousand of them. They had set off at a brisk pace, and would be upon them before long.
They had put the mammoth riding giants at the front, alongside whatever meager cavalry they could cobble together, as the van. They were being led by a tall, well muscled, man wearing a bronze helm that glinted in the midday sun. In both hands he wielded wicked double bladed bronze axes. Aemon gathered him to be a Thenn chief of some sort.
Behind them came the main force, with the King-Beyond the-Wall riding at their head. Around him rode his guard, a dozen men wearing the bronze helms, distinctive of the Thenns. The King's own helm was a bronze monstrosity, shaped like a snarling lion.
Before him flew his standard, a simple banner stitched from cowhide, depicting a bronze crown on a white field.
As Aemon watched, the Wildlings sped into a gallop, bearing down on our ranks. Waving clubs, and bronze swords and axes made of flint, they screamed out their ancient war cries.
The blare of trumpets answered them, as led by the knights their cavalry rode to meet them.
A tide of steel crashed into the Wildling van, instantly tearing through their ranks in a vicious spurt of blood and gore. The Wildlings were wild and more numerous, but the knights were both better equipped and trained. And the only reason the Wildling van wasn't completely obliterated in the initial charge, was because of the giants.
The giants fought with ferocity, swinging massive clubs as big as tree trunks. Each of their swings sent men flying from their horses, crushed and battered they fell. The mammoths were also their own challenge, their very presence causing the horses to balk and shy away. Thus muddying up their lines.
Even Lord Umber who was considered a giant among men, was no match for one of the real giants. And as Aemon watched, one of the giants dragged him off his horse. He saw the giant's massive palm close in on his head, and a shower of blood and gore spurt out, as his skull was pulverized.
The Lord was dead, and Aemon knew that if Rickon didn't intervene soon, the lines would fall in disarray.
The archers dipped their arrows in tar and set them aflame. And although it seemed to work somewhat, scaring the mammoths and even setting one of them aflame. He knew that it wouldn't be enough.
Thankfully before the situation could worsen their main force entered the fray.
Rickon led from the front, standing tall in his stirrups holding 'Ice' aloft. The greatsword's rippling and blade, served as a beacon, rallying the men to his side.
But no sooner had the ranks been reformed, the full might of both sides slammed into each other. The King-Beyond the-Wall had joined the battle.
As Aemon circled above the battlefield hidden by a bank of clouds, he saw that it had turned into a battle of attrition.
Although their heavy horse tore through the enemy lines, with the giants wreaking havoc, and the Wildlings having greater numbers. The battle remained in a stalemate.
It was upto him, to change that. At his command, Vermithor dropped into a steep dive.
The battle was being fought on the open ground beneath the Wall, with the haunted forest at the Wildlings' back.
Aemon first chose to cut off their retreat. Brilliant, bronze and gold flames leaped from Vermithor's mouth. It's heat so intense that he had to press his face against his scales, for comfort. The flames leaped from tree to tree, and soon the entire forest was afire. Long plumes of smoke rose skyward, as the Wildling's only retreat was cut off by a burning wall of flame.
Aemon didn't waste any time, and before panic could settle in fully, he fell upon the Wildlings.
"Dracarys!" He shouted, and men burned by the hundreds.
And with the smell of burning horse flesh assaulting his senses, and the sound of their enemies screaming either in fear or anger, he could feel Vermithor's exultation. He was an instrument of destruction, a beast bred to kill and ravage, and it was in this act, that his blood truly sang.
Violence was their language, and it was here that the true mettle of a dragonlord was proven - in chaining off a dragon's baser instincts, and holding off the desire to indulge in its unstoppable power.
For a true dragonlord only killed, when it was necessary.
The Wildlings had begun to panic, seeing a massive, fire-breathing, beast trampling and burning away at their rear.
Those that tried to flee were swallowed by the wall of flames, that now blanketed the haunted forest. Those who stayed, fought on hopelessly.
This battle had been decided, long before it even began.
Aemon saw the King-Beyond the-Wall turn around, and lead a sortie against him. Before he had moved a dozen paces towards him a gout of flames struck him, turning him and his men into ash and bone.
He saw the Wildling archers take aim and send dozens of arrows flying at Vermithor, all of them bouncing off his scales, harmlessly.
And as for Vermithor, he wreaked havoc within the Wildling ranks, trampling, crushing and burning men by the hundreds.
Some of the giants tried to face them bravely, swinging their massive clubs at the Dragon. It was all for naught, Vermithor's tail lashed out viciously sending one of the giants flying, while his claws raked another to pieces.
"Dracarys!" Aemon commanded, as the Dragon belched out white-hot flames, setting alight another two of the giants.
The three that remained, thought it wiser to flee.
The arrows kept coming at them, and it seemed that the archers had gotten wiser, instead of targeting the nigh invulnerable dragon they targeted him the rider. And as Aemon felt several arrows pinging off his armor, he thought it prudent to take to the sky.
The battle didn't last long after that. With their King dead, and their force caught between a fire breathing dragon on one side, and a host of angry northmen on the other. The battle had been pretty much decided.
And any remaining resistance was crushed by their knights thundering down upon the scattered enemy ranks.
And since their retreat had been sealed off by a fiery conflagration, most of the Wildlings threw down their weapons choosing to submit.
And with those who resisted, being quickly dealt with, the Battle beneath the Wall was finally over.
------------------
Three days had passed, since the battle had concluded.
They had remained at Queensgate, managing the captured Wildlings. After the battle the numbers had been tallied, the losses on their side had been light.
But on the Wildling side casualties were high. Over three thousand men had died, either fleeing into the flaming forest or facing Vermithor, or at the hands of their northern knights.
Only about a thousand had managed to flee, with the rest four thousand men laying down their weapons and choosing to submit. It was upto them to maintain discipline among these captives.
The King had perished as had many of his chieftains, those few that had survived had been placed in the ice cells alongside other notable prisoners. They had even managed to capture four giants.
Many of the Lords were of the opinion that these captives should be driven out and scattered, but Aemon counseled his uncle differently.
Rickon intended to settle the Gift, but he lacked people to do so. Also, Aemon's new lands around the Neck were sparsely populated and needed people to farm and work the land. So he proposed to Rickon that they resettle the Wildlings there.
And to ensure that they maintain the King's Peace, they would take hostages from the Wildlings. The sons of chieftains and all major leaders being taken hostage, would ensure their loyalty and keep them from wreaking havoc. They could even arrange a few marriages among the Wildlings and the northern Houses, to solidify their support.
This way, one day Winterfell might have their own giants, at their beck and call.
It was take care of this, that Rickon had decided to stay behind.
Wildlings that wished to settle in the North would have to hand over hostages to Winterfell and the Watch.
And as for those that didn't, they would be let go in small batches to prevent them from banding together, and causing the Watch further problems.
Lord Commander Tollet had been initially reluctant to allow this, but he needed to bolster the dwindling numbers of the Watch. And this problem could be remedied at least temporarily, by the hostages coming to work for the Watch.
So with the official support of the Warden of the North, he had ultimately agreed.
And even now, the Wildlings were being let in through the Wall. It was a long and arduous process, that involved a lot of checks.
On crossing the Wall, the Wildlings had to hand over hostages and submit all their valuables. They also had to swear to follow the laws of the land and maintain the King's Peace. In exchange, they would be allocated land in the North and would recieve the same rights and protections that any other northman would recieve.
The giants being too tall to pass through the Wall, were being escorted to Eastwatch where they would be ferried over by ships.
Aemon was not involved in that process, instead he was waiting in his chambers for the arrival of a special guest. A warg, named Sylas the Grimm.
As if on cue, a heavy knocking sounded on his door. And as he got up to answer it, two guards in the black garb of the Watch, brought in a chained man.
His face had an unhealthy pallor and looked gaunt and underfed, but there was no doubt in Aemon's mind, this was the same bard that he had met at Winterfell.
"Didn't expect our second meeting to be held in these conditions." The man said, giving him a crooked smile.
"Sylas, please take a seat", he said, "As for you fine gentlemen of the Watch, I thank you for escorting him here, but I believe that I can take it from here."
"Are you sure about this?.....um..milord." One of them replied.
"He's a skinchanger. He could be quite dangerous."
"He's chained, and his bonded beast is dead. So yes, I think I'll be fine." He said, guiding the Watch men out of his chambers.
"So what does the young dragonlord want from me?" Sylas asked him mockingly, once they were alone.
"Why don't we get you something to eat first, before we get down to business," Aemon said, "You hungry?"
"I could eat." He replied.
So Aemon rang for some food to be sent up to his rooms.
And a little while later, one of the page boys of the Watch brought up their food. It wasn't anything fancy, but it would suffice.
There was fresh bread and butter, a thick creamy soup of some sort, smoked salmon and roast fowl. Along with it, there was also some ale served in horns to wash it all down.
They ate in silence, Sylas tearing at his food with such ferocity that it was apparent that he had been ravenous.
Once they had finished eating, Aemon decided to broach the topic.
"So Sylas, I must say that I'm quiet surprised. I didn't expect a Wildling, to have the balls to turn up at Winterfell." He said.
"You're mistaken there I'm afraid, before me another Wildling visited Winterfell. He even ended up stealing a Stark girl. Maybe you've heard of him, he was called Bael the Bard." Sylas answered.
"I have heard of him in fact, the King-Beyond the-Wall Bael the Bard. A great singer who impregnated the then Lord Stark's daughter. Quite an interesting tale to be honest, but it's nothing more than a load of bullcrap. It seems to me, that your Bael was fond of weaving lies." Aemon said.
"Lie or not, it sure was a pretty song. It even inspired my little adventure at Winterfell." He sighed.
"And you need not worry, the woman I laid with was only a chambermaid." Sylas said, with a smile.
"Very well then, now that we are done with that, let's get to business." Aemon said.
"Tell me why your King suddenly chose to invade." He asked.
"By all accounts he'd been a cautious man. And all these years he'd been happy enough sitting on his side of the Wall, ruling over his people. What changed, that he chose this risky course if action?" Aemon demanded.
"You seem to have a lot of questions, boy. Tell me, why should I answer my captor?" Sylas said.
"Well, I did get you out of that freezing cell and broke bread with you. Hopefully, that brought me some goodwill. And to be honest I would much rather have a civil conversation with you, than have you tortured for information. The screams tend to ruin my appetite." Aemon replied, bluntly.
"Fine then, I'll speak plainly. The King was a private person, he tended to share his thoughts only with his closest Chiefs. I for one was considered too young and green to join his Councils. And the only reason I was valued was for my abilities as a warg."
"That's really a shame, almost all the chieftains perished during the fighting." Aemon sighed.
"Well I'll tell you this. The King on hearing some disquieting news, had sent out a scouting party North into the Lands of Always Winter. When that expedition returned, with only a single survivor, who also died soon after, he seemed to change greatly. He became nervous and frantic. And even sent out several search parties into the Frostfangs. It seemed like he was looking for something. It was soon after, that he declared his intent to attack the Wall." Sylas said.
"Anything else? Do you remember anything else?" Aemon persisted.
"No, I'm sorry. But that's all I know." He answered.
"Well I guess that's that, then. Your King seems to have taken his secrets to his grave." He sighed.
"There's another thing," Aemon continued, "I wanted to offer you employment. Your warg abilities, could prove quite useful."
"If this is an offer, can I refuse?" Sylas asked.
"Of course, you can refuse. But let me warn you, being a warg you might not find generous treatment elsewhere. There's many who consider you an abomination, and won't hesitate to execute you for it." He said.
"That doesn't leave me with much of an option now, does it." Sylas said, sneering.
"If it reassures you, then I'll have you know that I'm quiet generous to my people. You'll never want for anything. And it will be far better than a meager existence beyond the Wall." He said.
"Fine, I'll work for you."
"Excellent. Then the first order of business is prepare yourself, we'll soon be venturing Beyond the Wall." Aemon said.
"What? Why?" He asked, bewildered.
"I hear there are many wargs living in the settlements beyond the Wall. I intend to recruit them." He answered.
"They might not be interested in your offer. Especially if it involves coming south." He said.
"We'll see about that," He said, "Your job is to take me to these wargs, I'll handle the rest."
"Fine then, I'll be your guide. So is it just going to be the two of us?" He queried.
"Don't get any funny ideas, Sylas. I'll be taking my dragon. And to answer your question, my man Rowan will be coming with us. And hopefully, we'll have another companion. That girl, Iris I think her name was. She and you are the only wargs of the original six, travelling in Sigvard's host, that survived the battle." He said.
"I gather you haven't asked her yet." Sylas said, with a smirk.
"No, I wanted to be done with you first, familiar face and all. And to be honest, that girl scare me a little." Aemon answered.
Sylas chuckled, " Yes, I get what you mean. She's only twelve, and already bonded to a wolf and a shadowcat. Bonding so many times at such a young age, changes a person." He sighed.
"And by that, I remember I need a suitable beast to bond with. And I would prefer it, if it were a bird." Sylas said.
"I'll see, what I can do." Aemon replied.
Sylas had turned to leave, when Aemon stopped him.
"Say hypothetically, could you warg into a dragon?" He asked.
"If I could have I certainly would have tried to, when you were slaughtering us." Sylas replied.
"So you can't?" He asked.
"Warging isn't that simple. The more closely one is acquainted with an animal the easier the bonding is. That's why bonding with dogs is easy. Bonding with wolves, or lions, or bears is harder. And bonding to birds is harder, still. For when a bond is forged, it works both ways. When bonded to a bird, one can lose contact with the everyday mundane things in life. Bonding to prey like elk or deer, can make a man cowardly. And as for trying to bond with a dragon, an ancient mythical beast that rules the sky. Even such an attempt, would turn the warg insane. So no, I don't think I can warg into your dragon." Sylas said.
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The wind felt like icy needles against his skin, as they flew over the endless frozen expanse North of the Wall.
They had set off two nights ago, from Queensgate. It had been quite the ordeal to convince Rickon to let him leave. And the only reason he'd agreed in the end, was because he knew that Aemon would have left with or without his permission.
And so they'd set off, all four of them Aemon, Rowan, Sylas, and the girl Iris, atop Vermithor.
But considering the tight confines of the dragon saddle, Iris had only been able to bring her wolf Silver, having to leave behind the shadowcat at Queensgate. She sure hadn't been happy about that.
Aemon had also found Sylas a falcon to bond with, the bird was even now flying alongside them.
It was getting dark so Aemon decided that it was time to make camp. As it so happened, they were flying over a fortified hill, referred to as the 'Fist of the First Men' on their maps.
Aemon decided that it was a good place to set up camp, for the night.
A little brook at the base of the hill satisfied their thirst. And come morning they could catch some fishes in it, for breakfast.
For now though, Aemon passed around the dried beef jerky and wedge of cheese that he'd picked up at Queensgate. It would last them for a while yet, but once it was finished, they'd have to hunt or forage for food.
So they all sat by the fireside in the waning light, eating their meagre fare - a boy, two grown men, a girl and a dragon.
Iris had proven to be quite the quiet girl. There ages being close Aemon has tried many a time to strike up a conversation with her. But it seemed the girl preferred the company of animals over that of men.
Even now, she sat curled up with her wolf Silver, feeding it strips of the dried meat.
Rowan sat by Aemon's side, alert and on guard, even while eating.
And as for Sylas, he had pulled out his lute - it was a crooked and ill-made thing, that he'd traded from one of the Black brothers for a few coppers.
Strumming the cords he hummed, filling the evening air with a sad and haunting melody, as they dined on salt pork and stale cheese.
After some time had passed and the darkness had truly set in, they decided to turn in for the night.
They hadn't brought any tents or rolls of canvas with them, since they were travelling on dragonback. So instead they chose to snuggle up by the fire, wrapping themselves in their thick furs.
Aemon had the first watch, so he sat down beside Vermithor's massive head. The warmth rolling off the Dragon keept him warm and toasty, even in the chill night air.
Other than the fact that they had a dragon protecting them, this was quite a good, defensible spot. Camping at the top of the hill meant they had clear views all around. This made anyone sneaking up on them extremely difficult. Also, there was a ringwall surrounding the hill crown. It seemed to be in pretty good shape, and should be defensible.
------------------
Aemon woke up with a jolt. Somehow he'd dozed off, while on watch. And now that he'd woken up, something felt different.
There was a sense of wrongness lingering in the air. An eerie lack of the ordinary sounds of the night. And now that he looked back, he saw that the fire they had built earlier in the evening, had guttered out. And an unnatural fog blanketed the hillside.
Aemon rushed to wake the others, he had a bad feeling about this.
As soon as he had woken up his companions, a shuffling, scraping, sound filled the hillside. And as he looked down, Aemon could see dozens of blurry, indistinct shapes scrambling up the hill.
Their features were obscured by the fog, but Aemon didn't waste any time. He rushed to Vermithor's side. Although, he didn't have the time toount the Dragon, he could command him to torch these enemies from behind the ringwall.
"Dracarys" He commanded. But no familiar bronze flames followed from Vermithor.
Surprised, Aemon turned to his dragon. The dragon was frozen still, it's gold pupils dilated. It almost seemed like Vermithor was afraid.
"What's the matter?" Rowan asked, "Why aren't you torching these fuckers."
"I can't", he screamed, "There's something wrong with Vermithor."
"Shit!" Rowan cried, loosing arrows down the hill.
Their only saving grace was that these enemies moved slowly, shuffling forward with an awkward shambling gait.
Aemon saw that something had affected Vermithor, and trying to coax him wouldn't do anything. So he joined the rest, as the first line of their enemies descended upon them.
As Aemon fought them, he realised something that chilled him to his bones.
These foes of theirs, were dead men. Their eyes burned a bright blue amidst their rotting faces. And even though they were slow, they were also relentless, stabbing them didn't even slow them down.
"Fuck! What the fuck are these monsters!" Rowan screamed, as he hacked away at one of them.
"They are called wights", Sylas answered, with a grim look on his face, "Before today, I knew of them only as myths and legends."
Even Iris fought with a shortsword, her wolf Silver fighting alongside her.
And even though once they started burning them with torches their situation improved, Aemon knew it was only a matter of time before they were overwhelmed.
There just were too many of them. Dozens to their four. If he only could get his dragon to help, he sighed.
But just then, his thoughts were interrupted by a loud shrill sound. It sounded like the sound, that ice makes while cracking.
And suddenly the wights stopped moving.
The fog that obscured the mountainside, through the entire fight started rolling away. And from it stepped out a figure from nightmares.
A horse's head emerged from the fog. Hoarfrost covered the horse like a sheen of frozen sweat, and stiff black entrails hung out from its open belly. And on its back sat a rider, pale as ice.
As they watched spellbound, the Other gracefully slid off it's mount, sauntering up to them in an almost carefree manner.
Sword-slim it was, with elegant features that seemed almost sculpted, on its milky white skin. And as it moved, it's armour shifted and rippled in a hundred different shades. In it's hand, the Other bore a beautiful crystal sword, which shone with a faint blue glow.
It was a creature that personified, the beauty and the deadly, perfectly.
By then they had recovered their senses, and immediately they jumped into the fray.
Both Rowan and Sylas had swung their swords at him. It was at the sametime, that Aemon had launched a flaming torch at the Other, while Iris' wolf Silver tried to take a bite out of its icy leg.
The wights had been slow and clumsy, while the Others were as light as snow on the wind. It twisted away from Rowan's sword its armor rippling, and it's crystal sword twisted and spun as it met Sylas' blade. The resulting screeching sound echoing through the hillside. And in the same fluid motion it intercepted the torch, sending it flying into a snowdrift, where it was snuffed out.
Aemon joined the other two in trying to hack at the Other, while the wolf weaved in and out trying to bite it. But the Other was just a little bit faster each time, nimbly evading or turning their attacks, with contemptuous ease. And even those that hit him, just glanced off its armor.
It was on the tenth strike, as Sylas' blade again met the Other's crystal sword, a screeching sound was heard, and the steel sword shattered like glass.
It followed it by kicking away Rowan, sending him sprawling onto the ground. And in a single smooth motion, it drove its sword through the wolf's ankle. If the wolf had been a moment slower, the sword would have been driven through its heart.
Immediately Iris' pained screams filled the hillside, as she rushed to her wolf lost in her grief.
And it was as if Aemon could foresee, what would happen next. The Other would drive its sword through the defenseless little girl.
So in that moment of rashness, spurred on by either stupidity or bravery, Aemon blocked the Other's path. Swinging Darktide out in a wide arc, he met the Other's descending blade. The blade held, against the Other's magical sword. But the force behind the blow itself was immense, and even though he braced himself for it. It just wasn't enough. Darktide was ripped from his hand, sending it skittering onto the ground.
This was it, Aemon thought. All his dreams, goals and preparations were for naught. In the end, he would die in a faraway corner of the world, having changed nothing.
As the Other's magic sword descended on him, it was as if reflected in its crystal surface, Aemon could see all his many regrets.
But before the blade could pierce through his flesh, severing his muscle and bone, it halted its descent.
He heard a sharp cracking sound, like the sound ice makes when it shatters beneath a man's feet. It was followed by a sharp shrill screeching sound, that filled the surroundings with a discordant cacophony.
As he looked up, Aemon could see a pitch black arrow sprouting from the centre of the Other's chest.
Rivulets of pale blue blood steamed and hissed around the wound in its chest, as it's armour melted into a puddle at its feet.
The Other was dissolving. In twenty heartbeats the flesh was gone, swirling away in a fine white mist.
What remained were its bones. Pale and shiny, like milkglass and they were melting too.
Soon only the arrow remained. Smooth and black, obsidian. Dragonglass.
Just as Aemon bent down to pick it up, the wights that had been frozen still till then, were whipped into a frenzy, rushing at them once again.
But before they could fall on them, a murder of crows fell upon them, tearing at their flesh savagely.
And as they looked down at the bewildering scene, a rider cloaked in black started riding up the hill in haste.
Startled, Rowan called out, "Who goes there, show yourself."
Surprisingly, the man pulled up just short of them, and although he kept his face covered, he answered them.
"Aemon Snow I come my master The Three-Eyed Crow's behest. He wishes to meet you." He said.
"Are you the one who saved us?" Aemon asked.
"I killed the Other, yes." He said.
"Then you are my benefactor. Thank you." He said, bowing.
"There's no need for thanks. Fighting against the Others is my life's mission." The cowled man, replied.
"So tell me Aemon, will you accompany me to see my master?" He asked.
And although, he knew nothing much about the man, who hid his face and had swollen black hands. He felt instinctively that he could be trusted. Moreover, he had saved his life.
"Why were the Others here?" He asked.
From what his 'Book' indicated, there should be no Other activity for at least two more centuries.
"I may have an inkling, but the true complete answer only my master can give you." He said.
"So this Three-Eyed Crow has all the answers?" Aemon asked.
"Yes, there's nothing that he doesn't see. He is the last greenseer." He answered.
"Very well then, we'll go with you to meet him." Aemon said.
"Rowan, Sylas, Iris, change of plans, before we go looking for wargs to recruit. We'll first meet with this Three-Eyed Crow." He declared.
-------------------
It had been quite the long journey and he hadn't even been able to fly ahead atop his dragon, not knowing the destination well enough. So he had to circle back multiple times, keeping pace with the rest.
The destination itself, once they'd reached was incredible. It was a massive underground cave system, located in the heart of the haunted forest along a wooded hillside, east of the Fist of First Men.
It had thousands of caves, some even unknown to the Children of the Forest that lived here. Within the confines of the caves lived over three hundred singers.
The hooded man had left them at the entrance where he stayed with Aemon's dragon. Apparently all ancient places like this were warded against creatures like him.
He had told them that he was a dead man raised again, like the wights. But unlike them, he was free and not a slave to the Others.
After they parted ways, a golden-eyed singer girl called Leaf served as their guide, showing them all the major areas of the cave system.
Although Leaf was young, barely Eighty years old she was the only one of the singers who spoke the Common Tongue. The rest all only spoke their True Tongue. In which they sang many beautiful songs.
In this settlement the children lived, isolated from the rest of the world.
Leaf finally led Aemon to the Three-Eyed Crow. Although, to meet him he left behind his companions with the other singers.
The Three-Eyed Crow was a pale emaciated man, with nearly chalk-white skin. He had fine white hair, long enough to reach the floor. His once rich clothes were now no more than rags. With it he also wore a silver direwolf brooch on his chest, it's shine long since faded.
The man was seated on a weirwood throne. With weirwood roots surrounding him, seemingly growing through his body. It was as if the man had fused with the tree.
But the most distinctive thing about the man were his eyes. Dark eyes like pools of liquid darkness, that seemed to draw one in.
"So you must be Aemon Snow I gather." He said.
"Yes, I am. I was told that you wished to meet me." Aemon replied.
"I did. For you are the root of all my problems, boy." He said.
"You bear a vile scent, boy. A product of immensely powerful sorcery, you are wrong. And your presence has changed too many things. The Others would have remained in the Land of Always Winter for centuries more, but you have changed that. Even now, they awaken to encroach upon the Realms of men." The Three-Eyed Crow said.
"What do you mean?" Aemon asked, his voice quivering.
The Three-Eyed Crow gave him a stern look, "You know very well what I mean, boy. Somehow, you came to be born in our world. An aberration that has made all future paths uncertain. Things that were clear as day to me once, are now clouded mysteries. Events that were set in stone, are now as changeable as water. It is your presence, interfering with Fate that has awakened our ancient enemies, the Others. Even now they rise from their millenia of slumber." He said.
"Are the Others going to invade Westeros?" Aemon asked, completely serious.
"Not yet, no. Most probably not even in your lifetime. But you still have hastened their arrival with your actions. And if because of this, we do not have our Prince by the time they arrive, we'll lose the Battle for Dawn." He said.
"What can we do then, tell me!" Aemon demanded.
The Three-Eyed Crow scrutinized him carefully, before replying.
"The only thing we can do now is to prepare. Since your presence is an undeniable fact, the most important thing is for you to ensure that the Realm keeps itself strong. That is the only way, we will weather another Long Night." The Three-Eyed Crow answered.
"That has always been my intention." Aemon answered.
"Very well then. I'll help you with it. I see that you do have some measure of warging ability, even a little bit of the sight." He said.
"I'm a warg?" Aemon asked, incredulously.
"Of course you are. Inexperienced you maybe, but you're definitely a warg. How else do you think you were able to get that dragon of yours to cross the Wall?" He asked.
"I thought it must have been because of my Valyrian blood." Aemon said.
"Your Valyrian blood certainly helped. No other warg can sieze control of a Dragon, but one of Valyrian blood. Your Valyrian blood gives you dominion over dragons and your First Men blood gives you the ability to warg. Without either of them, you wouldn't have been able to make your dragon cross the magical protections of the Wall. One of the true dragonlords of Old Valyria, might have been able to. But you Targaryens have lost too much of your magic, to hold such complete mastery over your dragons." The Three-Eyed Crow said.
As Aemon nodded in understanding, the Three-Eyed Crow continued.
"Unfortunately, I cannot help you with your gift. Any method I can teach you is too potent for one of your meagre capabilities. To learn from me, you must open your Third Eye, but you just don't have the ability to survive that. So instead, I would suggest you to learn as much as you can about warging, from those other warg companions that you brought here."
"I did intend to try to recruit more Wargs from the Wildling settlements beyond the Wall. But now I'm not so sure, with the Others and all." Aemon said.
"That is actually a good idea." The Crow said, "And as for the Others don't worry, the Other you fought, was the only one that had crossed into man's domain. The rest remain confined to the Lands of Always Winter, for now."
"Fine then, I'll continue with my original plan." Aemon said.
"One last thing, to help you on your way, I may have something for you." He said, motioning Leaf to approach him.
Soon after he whispered something to Leaf she left, returning sometime later with a bundle in her arms.
And as Aemon looked at it closely, he saw that it was two wolf cubs one pitch black with emerald green eyes and the other grey with bright yellow eyes.
"Boy, every warg needs a suitable beast to bond with, take these two Direwolf cubs with you. Some of the singers found them a moon ago, alone and freezing in the cold. Somehow, I feel you are fated for them." He said.
Aemon turned to look at the Three-Eyed Crow dumbfounded. Direwolves were only spoken of as legends south of the Wall. Giving not one but two, was truly a priceless gift.
"I don't think I can accept such a priceless gift." He said.
"Take it, boy. Your path is hard, you'll need every bit of help you can get. And if you're still reluctant, consider it a gift from one kinsman to another." The Crow said.
When Aemon looked at him curiously, he answered.
"You may have heard of me boy, before I was the Three-Eyed Crow, I was known as Brandon Snow. So yes, both you and I are kinsmen."
"You are that, Brandon Snow?" Aemon asked, bewildered. "But isn't he supposed to be over a hundred years old now?"
The Crow chuckled, "I am much older than that, boy. And the only reason I live still, is because I fused myself to this weirwood tree."
As understanding dawned on Aemon, he realised that this man was his ancestor.
So he asked him, "Why did you think, that you could kill dragons with weirwood arrows?"
And although it was difficult to tell with all the roots, Brandon seemed to grimace at the memory.
"So you've heard that tale." He said, "Well I was a young man back then. And as you know, young people tend to do silly things."
Aemon approached the two pups slowly. And just as he sat down before them, the one with the black fur walked upto him.
As Aemon stroked the cub's fur gently, he could feel an innate connection form between them.
"That's a female cub." Leaf informed him.
Aemon had decided, he'd bond with the black cub, saving the male with the grey fur, for one of the Starks.
His uncle Rickon, or maybe even his cousin Cregan. Infant though he may be now, he would do great things in the future.
And as for Aemon's own green-eyed black direwolf cub, he decided that she needed a name.
"Shadow" He named her.
-------------------