Maester Aemon
The maester's tower was in one of the corners of Castle Black, old stone with a narrow staircase that wound upward in a spiral. At the top I found a man coming out of the room before I could enter, short and chinless, with a few white hairs clinging to his scalp like something that had given up trying to cover the rest. Rounded, hunched shoulders. Pink, opaque eyes of the kind that don't focus on anything specific.
"Yes?" he said.
"Maester Aemon?" I asked.
"Inside." He gestured vaguely at the door.
"Thank you."
I opened the door.
The room was small and full. Shelves floor to ceiling with books and scrolls in varying states of preservation. A narrow window let in a strip of cold light. In a chair near the window, wrapped in a heavy cloak, sat an old man. Very old. The kind of old that arrives on the other side of a century, all thin skin and prominent bones and that specific serenity of someone who has already settled what needed to be settled.
"Clydas?" he said, with that weak but articulate voice, the kind that was strong once and keeps the habit of clarity.
"Maester Aemon. I'm Arthur Snow."
A short silence.
"Arthur Snow." He tilted his head slightly. "Lord Stark's son?"
"The same."
"How can I help you?"
I looked at the shelves. Hundreds of volumes, spines of all kinds, some thin and new, others thick and darkened by age.
"Would you mind if I looked through the books here? I've heard the books of the Wall were the oldest."
"Of course." The hands in his lap moved slightly. "What kind of book do you need? My sight is slowly leaving me, but I know where every book in this library is kept."
"Something about the construction of the Wall. How it was built. The magic they used."
Aemon went quiet for a moment.
"Unfortunately we have nothing of that kind here."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing." His clouded eyes went to the table. "But you might find something at the Nightfort. It was the first of the castles abandoned by the Watch. They probably took most things when they left, but perhaps something remained."
I stood looking at the shelves while I processed that.
"I've heard stories about the Nightfort. When I can, I'll pay it a visit." I took a volume from the nearest shelf, ran my fingers along the spine. "Disturbing stories."
"All true," said Aemon, with the simplicity of someone who sees no reason to soften things.
I put the volume back and continued along the shelves. The silence that followed was the comfortable kind, between people who don't need to fill space with words.
It was Aemon who broke it first.
"You have Valyrian features." It wasn't a question. "Not all of them, half perhaps. But the jaw, the structure of the face. Reminds me a little of my brother."
He didn't specify which.
"How is Winterfell?" he asked after.
"Well. My father is in good health. Moat Cailin has been completed. My brothers are scattered learning what they need to learn."
"And your mother?" The voice had that specific quality of someone arriving somewhere carefully.
I understood what he was asking. A Snow with Valyrian features, son of a Northern Stark, traveling beyond the Wall with a group of warriors. It was natural to draw the conclusion.
"I carry no black blood, Maester Aemon." I answered with a smile. "My mother was Jaenara Pendragon. Daughter of Ulther Pendragon and Igrane Rogare Pendragon."
The silence lasted a few seconds.
Then Aemon opened a smile. Made of gums, because there were no teeth, but genuine.
"I apologize for that." He shook his head slightly. "But I am glad that in some way we are kin. My great-great-grandmother was Larra Rogare. From what I knew, I thought the Rogares had ended."
A silence settled.
"I am glad it continues in you."
"Not only the blood."
I drew Truth a few centimeters from the sheath, enough for the Valyrian steel blade to catch the light from the window.
Aemon went still for a moment. Even with his almost blind eyes there was something in him that oriented toward the sword, as though Valyrian steel emitted a presence that did not depend on sight.
"What a blessing," he said, in a low voice. "It was not lost. I am glad it is with you, young Arthur. May it serve you well."
"Thank you, Maester Aemon."
"Just Aemon." The toothless smile returned. "We are kin. You can set formalities aside." He gestured to the nearby chair. "Come, sit. Tell me about yourself."
I sat. I talked.
Not everything, but enough for the conversation to take root. Aemon listened with the attention of someone who has lost part of their sight and developed in compensation another way of attending to what is in the room. When he went quiet it was because he was thinking, not because he had stopped listening.
When we reached a certain ease, I asked the question I had been keeping.
"Aemon." I kept my voice low. "Have you ever heard of the glass candles?"
He looked at me with those opaque eyes for a second, a mix of suspicion and curiosity that didn't quite become distrust.
"Of course. Ancient Valyrian artifacts. There are some at the Citadel." He raised his face slightly. "When I performed my oath ceremony as an acolyte, I had to keep vigil in a crypt lit only by three black candles, with no other light. I spent the night in darkness. They say the ritual serves to demonstrate that, even with all the knowledge we acquire, there are still things that are impossible."
"Do you have any theory about how to light them?"
He looked at me for a somewhat longer moment.
"I remember reading something about it in the past. But I don't remember where. Perhaps it is at Dragonstone, in one of the tomes my family brought from Valyria."
I kept that.
"As a matter of interest," Aemon continued, "your mother's family, the Pendragons. I also remember reading something about them. I am almost certain they were among the forty Dragonlord families of ancient Valyria. I don't know their exact position in the hierarchy, but perhaps close to mine. The Targaryens were the last in the Dragonlord hierarchy."
"Do you know if I could have access to those books?"
"I couldn't say." He inclined his head slightly. "I could try sending a letter to Rhaegar and see what I can arrange for you. They are family books, so I don't know if it will be possible. But there is no harm in trying."
"I'm grateful, Aemon. It is more than I expected."
I looked at the shelves and then at him.
"As thanks for your help, let me think..."
"You don't need to give me anything, young man."
"I insist. We share blood." I pressed his shoulder gently. "Your eyes. You said your sight is slowly leaving you. Do you mind if I take a look?"
"It doesn't matter." The smile returned. "These old eyes have already seen everything they needed to see. It is a consequence of age."
"The only certainty in this world is death, Aemon. And sometimes not even that."
He went quiet with that phrase for a second, tasting it the way old people taste certain ideas.
I leaned closer. I took the candle from the table and tilted the flame so the light fell directly on his eyes.
"Can you see the flame of this candle?"
His eyes moved slowly, trying to focus. The clouding over the lens was visible even in dim light, a milky circle spread across the center that prevented light from passing through as it should.
"And this?" I held a metal ring a few centimeters from his face. Aemon's hand moved slowly, feeling the air before touching the metal.
I sighed. "Your eyes are taken by cataracts. Any close reading will become impossible without help."
He noticed the tone and answered before I could continue.
"Don't worry, boy. I have seen and lived everything I had to see and live. The loss of sight shook me when it began. But I grew used to it. I don't fear going blind."
"You don't need to fear it." I stepped back. "I think I can help. You may not see perfectly, but it will improve. I would need to perform a kind of surgery on your eyes. Before that I would need to prepare some things, which will take time."
Aemon went still.
Then he nodded once, with the calm of someone who has already learned that the world's surprises never end.
"I'm not going anywhere."
I stood up slowly.
"At dawn my friends and I will be going beyond the Wall. I have some things to resolve. But when I return, I will find what I need to help you."
"Thank you, Arthur. For worrying about this old man."
"Think nothing of it." I took a step toward the door and turned back. "If you'll allow me a question, Aemon."
"Of course, boy. Say what you want to know."
"Why the Wall? With your knowledge and wisdom, you should have been an Archmaester at least."
The old man smiled slightly, his clouded eyes aimed at some imprecise point between me and the window.
"When my father died, many said I could be king. A maester on the Iron Throne." He let that sit for a moment. "Imagine that. Some thought it a fine idea. Others, a dangerous one."
He passed his fingers along the chain at his neck, his thumb rolling slowly over each link like someone counting rosary beads, his clouded eyes lowered into some memory I couldn't see.
"At the Citadel I learned many things, boy. I learned that knowledge is power. I learned also that men who fear certain truths prefer to bury them."
"I was a Targaryen who studied ancient histories, prophecies, dragons. There were those who thought it better that I wear chains. Or that I disappear."
His voice grew quieter, not sadder, just more ancient.
"At the Wall I am not a prince, not a claimant, not a threat. I am only an old maester serving men who have forgotten why the Wall was raised."
His clouded eyes went to the window.
"And sometimes, boy, the safest place to keep certain truths is at the end of the world."
"I will warn you in advance." His old fingers tightened on the chain at his neck. "From your question about the candles, I presume you have one. Perhaps inherited from the Pendragons." His eyes turned in my direction with that strange precision of someone who cannot see well but points true. "So I ask that you be careful, child. The world is not kind to certain kinds of knowledge."
"There are men who wear chains of learning and say they serve truth. But certain truths they would rather see buried. Dragons, prophecies, glass candles. Ancient flames that illuminate things many wish to keep in shadow. At the Citadel I learned that fear can hide behind reason. And men who fear fire will do everything to put it out."
He turned his face in my direction.
"If you possess one of those candles, use it with wisdom. And with silence. There is an old saying, child."
"The flame that burns most brightly tends to go out the soonest."