Chapter Text
The Wall 102 AC
Aemon Targaryen/ Jon Snow
Upon their return to the Wall, Aemon and the Night's Watch were met with sad tidings that cast a shadow over the already chilling northern landscape. As they approached the towering structure of ice and stone, the air carried whispers of tragedy that mirrored the desolation of the lands beyond the Wall.
The grim news unfolded as they were informed of the havoc wrought by the wildlings who had already crossed south of the Wall. The villages, once thriving with life, now lay in ruin—smoke rising from the remnants of burning homes, the acrid scent of destruction lingering in the cold northern air. The reports show that the wildlings were growing closer to the Wall instead of going further south. The crisp winds seemed to carry echoes of the screams that had accompanied the fiery onslaught.
The reports spoke of widespread devastation, with nearly five thousand commonfolk meeting a grisly end at the hands of the marauding wildlings. Their lives, like fragile candles in the wind, were extinguished amid the chaos and brutality of the invasion.
The wildlings, driven by a ruthless determination, had claimed lives and set fire to the precious forests and woods that adorned the northern landscape. The crackling flames devoured the greenery, leaving behind a desolate landscape where once-promising crops struggled to survive. The heart of the North, already burdened by the looming threat of winter, now bore the scars of a conflict. But still, the Night's Watch would not act; their duty was to the Wall, and while Aemon hated to admit it, he was needed here as well due to the overwhelming numbers of the wildlings coming from beyond the Wall.
The return to the Wall was marked by the biting sting of harsh winter winds, each gust carrying with it the cold whispers of the North. As Aemon and the Night's Watch approached the colossal structure, Balerion's triumphant roar echoed through the air, a proclamation of their return that resonated across the icy landscape.
The vastness of the black dragon, perched regally above the Wall, cast a shadow over the men below, a stark reminder of the mythical power that stood with them. The awe-struck gazes of those who manned the Wall bore witness to the colossal creature, a living testament to the Targaryen legacy now entwined with the Night's Watch. Aemon wondered if Balerion's weight was enough to break the Wall before he had fully made it to the North, but now he knew his answer.
The sight of Aemon, accompanied by the presence of Ghost, left the onlookers in awe. With fur as white as the snow-laden landscape, the dire wolf stood by Aemon's side, a silent guardian that had proven its loyalty beyond the Wall. Whispers of the battle at Osric's Keep spread like wildfire among the Night's Watch, and the tales painted Aemon as a figure of resilience and courage.
Word of the boy's deeds and the mythical companionship of a dire wolf and a dragon led the men of the Night's Watch to christen Aemon with a new title—the White Wolf. The name carried with it an air of both reverence and mystique, signifying not only his connection to the noble house of Stark but also the extraordinary events that had unfolded beyond the Wall.
As the snow continued to fall, covering the Wall and its surroundings in a pristine blanket of white, the men of the Night's Watch looked upon Aemon, the White Wolf, and his formidable companions with a mixture of admiration and trepidation, aware that the forces beyond the Wall were far more complex and dangerous than they had ever imagined.
In the sad days that followed their return to Castle Black, a sense of urgency gripped the Night's Watch as they prepared for the impending clash with the wildling army. The courtyard echoed with the sounds of blacksmiths hammering away at armor and blades while the cold winds whispered through the towering structures of Castle Black.
Aemon took an active role in the preparations. His left eye, still bearing the scar from the skirmish at Osric's Keep, was a constant reminder of their challenges. Alongside Lord Commander Benjen Stark, Aemon strategized and coordinated the efforts to fortify the Wall and ready the Night's Watch for the onslaught on the horizon.
The men trained tirelessly, honing their skills with swords, bows, and other implements of war. Balerion's imposing presence added an air of both reassurance and fearlessness to the training grounds. The dragon's fiery breath, a display of its might, was a stark reminder of the power that stood with the Night's Watch.
Ghost, the dire wolf, prowled the snowy grounds with an eerie grace, a silent sentinel overseeing the preparations. Aemon, attuned to the bond between him and Ghost, found solace in the wolf's company as they surveyed the Wall together, each lost in their thoughts.
The atmosphere within Castle Black was tense, laden with the weight of impending conflict. Every man knew the magnitude of the battle they were about to face, and the importance of their preparations echoed through the ancient stone halls. As the days passed, Aemon's stature among the Night's Watch grew, his actions at Osric's Keep cementing his place as a figure to be reckoned with.
Aemon stood atop the Wall, gazing southward as the winds whipped through his raven-black hair. A different kind of chill consumed the bitter cold bit at his face, but his thoughts – the chilling realization that the impending storm approached from both ends of the realm.
From his vantage point, Aemon pondered the fate of Winterfell. The North, a vast and storied land, was undoubtedly a formidable ally. If the Northern lords had rallied their banners and set forth for the Wall, the Night's Watch could stand a chance against the impending onslaught of wildlings. Yet, uncertainty lingered in Aemon's mind, a gnawing worry that the vast wilderness and the relentless wildling threat might have delayed the North's arrival.
Ameon thought that the Northern lords had reached Winterfell and should be on their way to the Wall. The question was, did the wildlings already south of the Wall slow them down? While nearly tens of thousands came across already, Aemon wagered due to them not knowing how to deal with such large numbers as a single unit, and due to the northern lords fighting back, the number of wildings south of the Wall was just north of ten thousand now, half of what they crossed with just about a moon ago.
The Night's Watch prayed for the sight of familiar banners approaching from the south. The arrival of Northern armies would tip the scales, bringing hope to Castle Black and bolstering their defense against the hordes that lurked beyond the Wall.
As the days passed, Aemon's anxiety grew. The Night's Watch diligently continued their preparations, but the knowledge that the wildlings could descend upon them at any moment loomed heavily in the air. Six thousand courageous and resolute men could not hope to withstand the overwhelming force that the wildlings represented.
Aemon's thoughts were on the absence of any Targaryen emissaries. There were no other Targaryens on the Wall when he returned, no tell of other dragons, and no word had spread to the Wall that Red Keep informed the realm of a missing prince, especially one who was third in line for the throne. But the most surprising person was not there, Daemon himself.
Daemon Targaryen, Aemon's father, was a great influence in the Red Keep, even if he was off building Summerhall, yet the news of Aemon's flight seemed to have eluded him. If Daemon was not here to bring Aemon back, that meant he had yet to learn of Aemon's disappearance, and the only way that is possible is if no one is speaking about the disappearance, even in the Red Keep. The Targaryens were trying to keep Aemon's disappearance secret and if they sent any dragon rider out to find him, they would undoubtedly draw attention and the anger of Daemon for them not being able to keep Aemon in the Red Keep.
The night unfolded in an abyssal cloak of darkness, the heavens obscured by thick, brooding clouds that denied the stars their celestial dance. The biting winds, laden with the promise of winter's frigid breath, whipped through the air, carrying a relentless barrage of snowflakes that stung like icy needles. The harsh blizzard, a herald of the impending winter, sought to ensnare the world in its icy grasp.
In the heart of this wintry tempest stood Aemon, his silhouette barely discernible against the backdrop of the raging storm. The Night's Watch, recognizing the symbolic might wielded by the boy with a dire wolf and a dragon, had reluctantly given him a watch to uphold. The snow assaulted him with a fervor akin to hail, a relentless onslaught that tested the resilience of those who dared to venture into the night.
Wrapped in layers of black, Aemon gazed into the swirling void, his eyes searching for any movement amidst the blinding white expanse. The Wall, a silent sentinel, loomed large, its icy surface glistening in the muted glow of the snow-laden night. Balerion, the Black Dread, perched atop the Wall, a silhouette of power against the indomitable forces of winter.
As the blizzard raged on, Aemon's thoughts were a storm of their own. Winter was not merely a season but an omen, a harbinger of challenges yet to unfold. His watch, a solitary vigil in the heart of the storm, embodied the quiet defiance of a realm bracing itself for the unknown. In the stillness of that wintry night, the boy with Targaryen blood and Northern resolve stood guard, a living testament to the intricacies of fate and the dance of elements beyond mortal comprehension.
In the pitch-black heart of the night, Aemon's gaze fixed on the horizon beyond the Wall, his eyes piercing through the veil of the snow-laden blizzard. The world around him was obscured, every detail drowned in the relentless assault of swirling white flakes. But amidst the frozen chaos, a faint glow flickered on the edge of the known world.
Aemon squinted, the orange hue barely discernible against the vast canvas of winter's ferocity. The glow, a mere ember on the distant landscape, swelled and intensified. It transformed into a raging inferno, a conflagration that consumed the very heart of the forest just a stone's throw from the Wall.
As realization dawned upon him, Aemon's mind echoed with the words of the Night's Watch deserter, a grisly insight uttered by a wildling doomed to fall. The deserter had forewarned of a fiery spectacle meant to herald the advance of the wildling army. Now, standing witness to the colossal blaze, Aemon comprehended the magnitude of the impending threat.
Once cloaked in the serene beauty of snow-laden branches, the entire forest was now a pyre stretching towards the heavens. The flames danced with an untamed fervor, casting grotesque shadows that flickered and contorted in the relentless gusts of the blizzard. Aemon's heart quickened, for the fire that now raged before him was not merely a destructive force of nature—it was a signal, a herald of the encroaching storm that bore the weight of an entire civilization seeking to breach the Wall.
The night shuddered beneath the echoing proclamation of Balerion's thunderous roar, a sound that seemed to resonate with the very foundations of the Wall itself. The roar was more than loud enough to wake the sleepers. Aemon, already poised to signal the impending threat, found himself bowing involuntarily before the colossal resonance, a symphony of might that overpowered the wintry cacophony surrounding Castle Black.
As the echoes of the dragon's roar reverberated through the frigid air, Aemon surveyed the Wall's expanse. His keen eyes discerned the hurried response of the Night's Watch, a synchronized ballet of men hastening to their posts, scaling the icy heights to brace against the imminent assault. The urgency sparked by Balerion's bellow rippled through Castle Black, an unspoken pact amongst brothers clad in black to stand vigilant against the encroaching storm.
Aemon, still kneeling from the roar, gradually rose, his ears still ringing with the echoes of draconic might. Despite the overwhelming tumult, he knew the dance had begun—the wildlings, driven by the infernal glow beyond the Wall, were surging forth like an unbridled force of nature. The Night's Watch, bound by oaths and centuries of tradition, rallied to defend the realm from the tempestuous tide that threatened to engulf the Wall.
The abyssal sea of torches emerged from the incandescent inferno beyond the Wall, a relentless surge of wildlings advancing like a tide of living flame against the stark canvas of the frozen landscape. Aemon's gaze, fixated on the spectral glow that heralded their approach, carried the weight of a leader yearning to be a warrior, yet the constraints of circ*mstance held him back.
Amid the chaos, the prospect of unleashing Balerion's might was a tantalizing thought, a dormant desire kindling in Aemon's heart. Yet, the dragon's enigmatic reluctance to soar beyond the Wall tethered the young Targaryen to the realm of longing ambitions. The flames of a dragon might have devoured the sea of torches, but Balerion, steadfastly grounded, remained a sentinel of the Wall.
Aemon grappled with the internal strife of choices, torn between the duty to engage the force beyond the Wall and the immediate threat looming over Castle Black. The chilling reality echoed in his thoughts—the castle was under siege, its defenders counting on ice resilience against the fiery onslaught. If brought too close, the flames that could annihilate the wildlings might also reduce Castle Black to ashes.
Aemon's voice cut through the biting wind, clear and commanding, as he surveyed the Wall and its defenders, his dark eyes revealing a determination beyond his years. "Where is the Lord Commander?" he inquired, the urgency in his voice underscored by the imminent threat that loomed beyond the icy barricade.
"The wildlings hit the south side just before Balerion roared. The Lord Commander and the First Ranger are holding the line at Castle Black," one man explained, the gravity of the situation etched on his face.
Aemon's eyes scanned the nearly five hundred men stationed atop the Wall. The scared left eye seemed to be highlighted by the fire pits on the Wall, his black cloak making him as though he was a living shadow in the blizzard. No commanding officers were present, leaving an ominous void in leadership. His young shoulders squared, and Aemon stepped forward.
Aemon looked onto the fires across the Wall, the sea of wildlings, and their torches. Aemon looked to the men as they had arrows in their buckets and holsters near the small platforms of wood to fire off. "Ready your arrows and bring barrels of oil," Aemon ordered with a firmness that brooked no dissent.
"Why should we listen to a child?" questioned a skeptical voice. Aemon turned around to see many men supporting the brother in question. Aemon understood the thought; no man would listen to a child in times of war. But Aemon also noticed the man opened up the statement for others to try and claim the position for themselves and become the leader of this group to face the wildlings. The man was going to continue before something tackled the man from behind, sprawling him on the ground flat. The man looked up only to see the bloody red eyes of Ghost. Ghost was unnaturally calm and quiet, but his snarl was clear to see; he was more than willing to rip the man's throat out. Aemon, ever the mediator, gestured for Ghost to step back, affirming his control over the dire wolf.
"Anyone else wishes to take charge?" Aemon challenged the assembly, met with a resounding silence. "Ready the arrows and the oil. We defend the Wall."
The Wall stood as a colossal barrier, its icy surface gleaming ominously in the torchlight. The men dipped the arrowheads in the oils around them and pushed the arrowheads into the torches by their sides. Four hundred men had their arrows in a blaze as another hundred were ready to switch out empty arrow holsters. They drew their arrows, ready to fire as the mass of wildlings began to run out of the forests rather than their slow march.
Aemon's voice, though youthful, resonated with an authority that belied his age. "Fire!" he commanded, his words cutting through the howling wind.
In response, a symphony of tensioned bowstrings sang as arrows were sent soaring into the frigid night. With grim determination etched on their faces, the men on the Wall became a relentless storm of fire.
As the arrows arched through the air, they left trails of radiant light against the ink-black sky. The men worked with practiced efficiency, dipping fresh arrows into barrels of oil and hastily igniting them. The Wall became a forge of flame, and the night sky erupted with a cascade of fiery projectiles.
The volley descended upon the wildling horde below like a tempest, each arrow carving an ephemeral streak of brilliance before meeting its target. Hundreds of feet down, the chaos unfolded beneath as the flaming arrows found their marks. The snow-covered ground became a chaotic dance of flickering flames, illuminating the faces of the wildlings caught in the onslaught.
The air crackled with the hiss of burning flesh and the triumphant cries of the Night's Watch. The Wall, once a stoic guardian against the unknown, now bore witness to the unleashed fury of its defenders. Aemon, atop the icy precipice, watched the inferno of falling stars he had orchestrated, knowing that this was only the beginning of the battle to safeguard the realms of men.
The falling arrows descended like celestial bodies, leaving trails of fiery brilliance that cut through the biting cold of the blizzard. Each flaming streak painted the night in hues of orange and gold, briefly eclipsing the relentless onslaught of the snowstorm. In the harsh winds, the arrows danced like falling stars, their glow a stark contrast to the desolate landscape.
The wildlings, charging through the deep snow, were met with the searing rain of fire over and over again. Panic and confusion spread among their ranks as the relentless barrage forced them to veer off course, desperately trying to avoid the deadly trajectory of the flaming arrows. The blizzard, unforgiving and relentless, howled in protest, but the Wall stood tall, a bastion of defiance against the encroaching darkness.
Despite the biting cold and the fury of the storm, the Night's Watch persisted in their volleys. Fresh arrows continued to rain down, each one a harbinger of destruction for any wildling daring to approach the base of the Wall. The men on the Wall, faces obscured by fur-lined hoods and frost-covered beards, stood as a united front against the advancing horde.
As the flaming arrows continued to descend, Aemon surveyed the unfolding chaos below. Despite the onslaught, the wildlings pressed on with determination, reaching the base of the Wall. He could see them preparing battering rams, chopping down trees to construct makeshift siege weapons.
Aemon called out to the men on the Wall, rallying them in the face of the impending assault. "Prepare for a breach! Ready the defenses at the outer gate! We can't let them break through! Grab the barrels!"
Fueled by a shared sense of duty, the Night's Watch hastened to reinforce the outer gate. Men rushed for the barrels of oil that would be needed, and men readied themselves with flaming arrows, aiming for the wildlings attempting to scale the Wall. The sound of clashing weapons, grunts, and the howling wind created a cacophony of battle.
Aemon, with Ghost by his side, observed the chaos, his young voice carrying authority. "Hold the line! We can't let them breach the gate! Pour the oil and ready the arrows. We stand united against the storm!"
As the wildlings persisted in their attempts to break through, Aemon's eye darted across the Wall, seeking any signs of weakness. The bitter cold and the relentless blizzard were formidable foes, but the Night's Watch stood firm, their actions guided by the urgency of the impending threat.
Aemon continued to bark orders. "Prepare the boiling oil We cannot let them breach the outer gate, or Castle Black is lost!" The urgency in his voice matched the dire circ*mstances unfolding below. Aemon, his lone eye scanning the scene, shouted to the archers on the Wall above, "Keep those arrows raining down on them! We need every second we can get!" The archers responded with a renewed flurry of arrows, each one aimed at halting the advance of the wildlings below.
Aemon watched a large horde of the wildlings that were now concentrated at the large gate. The battering rams made from a cut-down tree slammed into the gate; it would do nothing for now. Aemon could see the horde growing in size, and Aemon realized they were using chains and rope to try and hook around the gate; they were trying to loosen the hinges with the repeated hitting of the battering ram to pull the damn thing down with force.
In the harsh darkness of the blizzard, Aemon's sharp command cut through the wind. "Light the barrels! Drop them over the edge!"
The Night's Watchmen swiftly responded, igniting the barrels filled with oil and fire. With a fiery glow, the barrels were released from the top of the Wall, hurtling down toward the mass of wildlings attempting to breach the gate. The barrels erupted in a blaze upon impact, casting an eerie light on the chaotic scene below.
Aemon continued to direct the defense efforts. "Keep them at bay! Drop more barrels when you see a concentrated group. We cannot let them break through!"
The Night's Watchmen maintained a rhythm, coordinating their actions to thwart the wildlings' advances. The fiery explosions created a barrier of light in the abyss of the blizzard, briefly illuminating the fierce struggle between the defenders of the Wall and the relentless onslaught of the wildling horde.
As the blizzard raged on, the wildling hordes persisted in their relentless climb up the Wall. Despite their valiant efforts, the Night's Watch defenders found themselves overwhelmed by the sheer numbers that ascended, rendering the archers' arrows ineffective against the swarm. For every man they shot down, five more would rush through the opening as the fiery arrows illuminated the ground, just enough for the men to know that they must go to the Wall and not get lost in the piles of bodies, arrows, and chaos.
The wildlings, undeterred by the fiery rain of arrows, had managed to construct makeshift ladders and siege engines from the bones of ancient mammoths and trees from the haunted forests beyond the Wall. Giants, their eyes burning with primal rage, swung colossal clubs and battered at the ice, seeking to breach the ancient barrier. All knew it would not do much, but Aemon realized the giants were using themselves as a sacrifice to take the onslaught of arrows so that fresh wildlings could continue fighting as the giants protected them overhead by taking on the arrows.
The flaming arrows continued to rain down, casting an eerie glow upon the battlefield. Yet, as the flames danced and flickered, they failed to stem the inexorable advance of the wildlings. It was as if an otherworldly force propelled them forward, an unrelenting determination that transcended the mortal realm.
No matter how many wildlings fell to the fiery barrage, more took their place, scrambling over the bodies of their fallen comrades with a primal ferocity. The Wall, once thought impregnable, now stood as a last bastion against the relentless surge of the free folk. They rushed forward and continued to climb the Wall as the giants protected took on all the arrows themselves as living shields in the hope that the wildlings broke through.
Aemon, standing atop the Wall, assessed the dire situation. The giant scythe was their last hope, a formidable weapon designed to sweep away climbers. However, to Aemon's dismay, the lever to release it was jammed. The massive throng of wildlings continued their ascent like an unyielding tide, threatening to breach the Wall.
"We need that scythe! Someone get that lever unstuck!" Aemon shouted, his voice carrying over the tumultuous winds. The Night's Watchmen scrambled, attempting to free the mechanism that could potentially turn the tide of the battle.
As Aemon's desperate cry for the scythe pierced the frigid air, Balerion, the giant black dragon, let out a deafening roar that echoed across the icy expanse. The dragon, perched atop the Wall, spread its wings wide as it responded to the command.
Aemon looked at the dragon, which was larger than the Wall. Aemon knew what words he needed to say, but never before had he said them to kill so many. And yet, he cared little for what he was about to do; it was needed. He had yet to say the words in this lifetime that went hand in hand with being a Targaryen and a dragon rider. But for now, that didn't matter. He brought wildlings' blood when he fought them with his swords when coming to the Wall the first time, and now, he shoots them with arrows; now, he will bring the fire.
Balerion, the mighty dragon under his command, awaited in the shadows, its massive form concealed by the cover of night. The flames flickering in the distance seemed to reflect in Aemon's troubled eyes as he grappled with a decision that weighed heavily on his conscience.
In the recesses of his mind, the faces of Val and Ygritte emerged, their features etched with memories of love and shared moments in the harsh lands beyond the Wall. Val, a woman of wild beauty with hair as white as the snow itself and eyes that sparkled with an untamed spirit. Her strength and resilience had earned her a place of respect among the free folk, and her bond with Aemon had transcended the boundaries of the Wall.
Ygritte, with her fiery red hair and piercing blue eyes, haunted Aemon's thoughts as well. She had been his companion in the wild, and their love had bloomed amidst the dangers of the untamed north. Her laughter echoed in his mind, a painful reminder of the warmth they had found in the midst of the icy wilderness.
The mere contemplation of using Balerion's destructive power against the wildling horde gave Aemon a horrifying vision of Val and Ygritte consumed by dragonfire. The guilt gnawed at Aemon's heart, a visceral struggle between duty and the preservation of the lives of those he once called kin.
He envisioned the dragon's flames engulfing the bodies of Val and Ygritte, their forms twisting and contorting in the searing heat. The anguish etched on their faces, the betrayal in their eyes, became a haunting specter that fueled Aemon's internal conflict. The very idea of sacrificing their lives to protect the Wall tore at his soul.
Aemon perched atop the Wall, saw and heard the Ygritte and Val burning alive as they screamed and screeched. As he considered the devastating power of Balerion's fire, the faces of Val and Ygritte twisted in agony amid the searing flames. The imagined screams of the two women, once beloved, now consumed by dragonfire, echoed through Aemon's conscience like a haunting refrain.
Yet, in this internal struggle, another voice intruded upon his thoughts. A voice, disembodied and chilling, whispered words that sent shivers down Jon's spine. "Burn them all," it whispered. "Burn them all," it said gradually louder. "Burn them all!" it roared in his head. Aemon's eyes looked on Balerion, but for a fleeting second, just longer than a heart, he saw no one but an older man on the Iron Throne, the Mad King, Aerys II Targaryen. The words, a sinister reminder of the madness that had gripped the ruler of the Iron Throne, reverberated through Aemon's troubled mind. Aemon saw him moving fervently on his chair as he ordered more wildfire; he ordered the same acidic green flames that Aemon's former dragon, Rhaegal, breathed. Aemon had always thought of the Mad King when Rhaegal breathed his flames, but this was the first time that Aemon would use the flames on the armies of the living. He always had used dragons as intimidation, but never had he let the flames loose on such a scale.
The memories of Aerys and the tales of his cruel reign surfaced in Aemon's thoughts. Aerys, driven to madness, had reveled in burning his enemies alive, reveling in the sad*stic pleasure derived from the screams of those consumed by the flames. The image of women and children meeting a fiery end at the Mad King's command haunted Aemon, a stark reminder of the dark underbelly of power.
The burning visions persisted, and Aemon found himself slipping into a dark contemplation. The desire to end the threat before him, to ensure the safety of the realms of men, clashed with the horror of becoming a merciless executioner. The imagined screams of innocents, akin to the tormented cries heard during the Mad King's reign, tore at Aemon's soul.
In his tortured imagination, Aemon began to see himself as a mirror image of the Mad King, a ruler driven to madness by the weight of responsibility and the harsh choices demanded by war. He envisioned the dragonfire consuming not just the wildling invaders but innocent men, women, and children caught in the fiery maelstrom. Aemon was sentencing many women and children to suffer and starve if he were to burn this army, for there would be no one to protect them in the North. He might as well of burnt the women and children alongside the armies. He was no better than the Mad King. He was no better than Daenerys as she burned King's Landing. He would never be better. Maybe it was the curse of their blood to always burn anything and everything in their path or anything around them. He would burn them all, and it hurt him.
The echoes of the Mad King's madness still reverberated in his mind, a dark specter threatening to consume his sense of duty. As the imagined screams of innocent lives intertwined with the haunting memories of Aerys the Mad King, Aemon found himself paralyzed by indecision.
A familiar voice broke through the cacophony of conflicting thoughts. A wise and weathered voice, that reminded him so much of King Jaehaerys. He thought it was Jaehaerys for some time but somehow it felt wrong. The man was the blood of the dragon, the voice was old and frail, but it sounded lonely.
"A Targaryen, alone in the world, is a terrible thing," he heard the voice whisper in his head. Aemon now knew that voice; he knew who it was, his namesake.
Aemon could see the older man in his mind now, see him sitting on a chair as they spoke in the library. "I need your advice. There is something I want to do, something I have to do but...it will kill a part of me doing it," Aemon whispered to himself.
Maester Aemon was resolute even if he did not look the younger Aemon in the eye. "You have already died twice before," the old man said with no hesitation. "Do it."
Aemon knew these were merely words in his head; he knew that this was not truly happening, but some part of him latched on to it as if it were. Some part of him desperately needed that familiarity of his old life and the wisdom of those who knew his life well. "But you don't even know what I plan to do," Aemon pointed out in his head.
"It does not matter; you do. You will find little joy in your new life, Aemon," the older man said as he touched Aemon's cheek. "I think the gods have cursed you to be born in times in which our family is teetering on death's door. But with any luck and the majority of the stubbornness given to you by your mother and father in both lives, you will find the strength to do what needs to be done. Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Winter is almost upon us. Kill the boy and let the man be born," the maester's words echoed in Aemon's mind like a beacon of clarity.
With the words of Maester Aemon echoing in his mind, Aemon steeled himself. The conflict within him did not vanish, but a newfound resolve took root. He knew that to protect the Wall and the realms of men, he had to make a choice that pained his very soul.
In that moment of clarity, Aemon's gaze returned to the chaos unfolding below. The wildling horde pressed relentlessly against the Wall, and the fiery glow of Balerion's potential unleashed destruction lingered in the distance. Aemon, with a heavy heart, prepared to give the command.
"Dracarys!" Aemon repeated, his voice carrying the weight of ancient Targaryen authority. Balerion, seemingly understanding the urgency, opened its maw wide, unleashing a torrent of searing black flames down upon the climbing wildlings. The fire roared and crackled, engulfing the Wall in a blaze that illuminated the night like a monstrous beacon.
The dragon's black flames, as if conjured from the depths of the abyss, engulfed the landscape, stretching as far as the eye could see. The once frigid air now shimmered with an infernal heat, and the entire horizon became a sea of black fire, a menacing veil that devoured all in its path.
The flames, black as the darkest night, danced with an eerie beauty, casting an ominous glow that painted the frozen landscape in shades of shadow. The firestorm blazed with an intensity that seemed to defy the natural order, consuming everything in its relentless advance. It was a sight both mesmerizing and terrifying, as the very essence of darkness itself manifested in the form of relentless, all-consuming flames.
The wildlings, caught in the inferno, screamed in agony as the flames consumed them. The relentless assault that threatened to overwhelm the Night's Watch now met the unstoppable force of dragonfire. Aemon watched as the cascading flames carved a path of destruction through the wildling ranks, halting their ascent and turning the Wall into a wall of fire.
As Balerion unleashed his fiery breath, the very essence of darkness seemed to manifest in the form of black flames. Once shrouded in the icy grip of winter, the lands beyond the Wall now succumbed to the relentless assault of a supernatural inferno. The cold, which had gripped the region with its icy tendrils, melted away in the face of the searing heat radiating from Balerion's breath.
The flames, an obsidian cascade of pure destruction, devoured everything in their path. The intense black blaze consumed trees, frozen earth, and any unfortunate wildling caught in the dragon's wrath. The heat emanating from the fires was so intense that Aemon, standing atop the Wall, felt the warmth despite the freezing winds that whipped around him.
The paradox of the scene was mesmerizing – a black sea of flames against the backdrop of a dark, stormy night. The contrast between the ethereal black fires and the snow-laden landscape created an otherworldly spectacle. The flames seemed to defy the laws of nature, burning hotter and darker than any fire had a right to.
In the midst of the chaos, Balerion's colossal form remained a silhouette against the blazing abyss. His wings, extended majestically, cast a shadow over the tumultuous scene unfolding below. The dragon's roars merged with the crackling of the black flames, creating a symphony of destruction that reverberated across the desolate landscape.
Aemon, his eyes fixed on the apocalyptic display, couldn't help but marvel at the sheer power unleashed by the ancient dragon. It was a cataclysmic force, a manifestation of Targaryen might that surpassed the limits of mortal comprehension. The air seemed to pulse unholy as Balerion continued to breathe forth the dark fire, a force that transcended the boundaries of the known world.
Balerion's black flames surged forth like a boundless sea of darkness, an all-encompassing inferno that devoured the landscape. The intensity of the flames was so overwhelming that attempting to gaze directly into the abyss of black fire was akin to staring into the sun. The sheer volume of the dark blaze dominated the visual field, leaving nothing beyond the Wall visible except for the ominous, all-consuming blackness of the dragon's breath. The dark storm, once a formidable force, now paled in comparison to the otherworldly spectacle of Balerion's relentless onslaught, rendering the entire scene an indistinct canvas painted in the hues of an ethereal, consuming darkness.
The ceaseless torrent of Balerion's black flames spanned an eternity, an infernal cascade that seemed to defy the boundaries of time. The relentless outpouring engulfed the lands beyond the Wall for more than ten minutes, leaving nothing untouched in its wake. As the dragon's breath finally subsided, the once-climbing horde of wildlings was reduced to smoldering ruins, the fires reaching down to the scorched ground below.
The heat generated by the conflagration was so intense that it melted the once-pristine snow, leaving behind a desolate landscape charred by the dragon's wrath. The breath had traversed a mile, reaching halfway to the distant tree line, a testament to the overwhelming power of Balerion's fiery exhalation. The aftermath lay before the Wall, a scene of destruction and desolation, the blackened earth bearing witness to the awesome might of the dragon's dark flames.
Amidst the charred aftermath, a hushed silence fell upon the Wall. Initially frozen in awe and dread, the Night's Watchmen began to register the extent of Balerion's devastation. The eerie glow of the remaining embers cast shadows on their faces, revealing a mix of relief and disbelief.
A single cheer pierced the quiet, erupting like a spark that ignited the spirits of the men. The contagion of joy spread swiftly, each man joining the chorus of celebration. They clapped each other on the back, shared wide smiles, and exchanged words of gratitude for the dragon that had become their unlikely savior.
In the midst of the revelry, Aemon stood, his eyes wide with a mix of emotions. He marveled at the power of the dragon he commanded, the creature that had staved off an impending threat. Yet, beneath the surface of relief, he couldn't shake the weight of the responsibility that came with wielding such formidable might. The cheers echoed through the frigid night, a symphony of triumph over the silent battlefield.
Amidst the jubilation, Aemon's cry cut through the celebratory air. "Quiet!" he commanded, the authority in his voice quelling the cheers.
As the men hushed, a panting brother from the Night's Watch stumbled towards Aemon. "We're under attack!" he gasped, urgency etched across his face.
Aemon, his brow furrowing, demanded, "What happened?"
The man took a moment to catch his breath. "Ten thousand wildlings, they've breached the south side of Castle Black; the Lord Commander could not stop them from entering. We need every man, and the Lord Commander requested Ghost and your aid. Castle Black is in peril, and they can't hold much longer!"
Aemon cursed under his breath, the weight of the situation pressing upon him. He knew the delicate balance between defending Castle Black and the Wall itself. "If we leave the Wall, they'll climb it once more," Aemon muttered, contemplating his dire choices. The fate of Castle Black hung in the balance, and Aemon found himself torn between the duty to the Night's Watch below and the defense of the Wall.
The heavily breathing black brother looked at Aemon. "My prince, we need you. The Lord Commander says that he needs the dire wolf; no one's going to be able to see him in the snow, and he knows the wolf won't leave you."
"We need to hold the Wall!" one of the men argued for Aemon.
"And if we let Castle Black fall, those wildlings would march right on up here and kill us before letting those north of the Wall through the gates," Aemon returned.
"Your grace, they already made it through. They are bleeding through the front gates and spilling over the south archway of Castle Black. If we don't act now, we are all doomed," the man confirmed.
Aemon did not know what to say. He looked around the brothers and asked for the man with the most seniority out of the five hundred atop the Wall. A middle-aged man with a balding head, a beard reaching his waist, and piercing blue eyes came forth. He named himself Ragnar.
"Brother Ragnar, you have the Wall. I'm leaving you just a bit more than half of the men here to defend her." Aemon, with authority in his voice, gave swift orders to the Night's Watch atop the Wall. "Two hundred archers, down to Castle Black! Ready yourselves for the fight," he commanded, his words firm and decisive. The archers nodded, promptly moving to carry out his instructions.
Turning to the colossal dragon, Balerion, Aemon spoke in High Valyrian, his words carrying the weight of command. "If the wildlings reach halfway up the Wall, unleash your flames upon them. Burn them all."
Balerion roared loudly in response, half of the massive dragon's body perched out of the Wall as his neck loomed over the Wall, allowing his massive head to rest comfortably over the Wall. Aemon knew the wildlings would not be bold enough to climb the Wall once more now that they knew the giant beast they had been seeing that roared like tornado winds could breathe fire. They would be running to the outer gate since one of the heads of the flames reached the ground, save for a few strands, and many would die, but it was a worthwhile risk for them.
Addressing Ragnar, Aemon issued further instructions. "If any wildlings breach the outer gate, drop the flaming barrels upon them. Do not let them pass."
"Your dragon won't listen to me. Without you, he'll have no reason not to burn us all," Raganar returned.
"Well then, don't give him a reason then," Aemon returned. To the remaining two hundred men, he rallied them with determination. "With me! We descend to Castle Black. The Castle Black needs our aid."
As the men below the Wall prepared to descend and face the impending threat, Aemon led the way down towards Castle Black, his resolve unwavering in the face of the imminent battle. The men going down would only be able to go down a dozen or so at a time, and that meant that the first group had to ensure no wildlings attacked the elevator for the others to come down and fight back. Aemon, with Ghost, led the first group of about a dozen or so men as they descended the wooden, frozen elevator.
As Aemon descended on the wooden elevator, the chaos at Castle Black came into full view. The night air was filled with the sounds of battle – the clash of steel, the screams of men, and the roar of flames. Wildlings and Night's Watchmen were locked in a deadly dance of combat, and Aemon could see the brutality of the fight unfolding below.
The courtyard was a chaotic battleground, illuminated by sporadic bursts of flame from burning structures. The air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and the metallic tang of blood. Aemon's gaze darted across the scene, taking in the gruesome details of the fight.
A sword against axe, dagger against spear – the clash of weapons created a symphony of violence. Bodies fell in quick succession, blood staining the snow-covered ground. Wildling warriors' faces contorted in rage clashed with Night's Watchmen, who fought desperately to defend their stronghold.
Aemon's eyes widened as he witnessed the brutality of the conflict. He saw a Night's Watchman fall, a wildling's axe cleaving through his armor, leaving a trail of crimson. Another Wildling, a woman with fierce determination in her eyes, lunged at a Night's Watchman with a crude spear. But a stray arrow pierced through her neck, and she began to gurgle and choke on her own blood.
The fight was relentless; each swing of a blade or thrust of a weapon met with fierce resistance. Aemon, gripping his sword tightly, felt a surge of urgency.
As the elevator reached the ground, Aemon leaped into action, his sword drawn and determination etched on his face. The fight between Night's Watch and wildlings intensified, and Aemon joined the fray, his every strike aimed at protecting Castle Black from the impending threat.
Aemon stood his ground at the base of the Wall, surrounded by a dozen Night's Watchmen, ready to defend the wooden elevator that would bring reinforcements from the top of the Wall. The chaotic battle between Night's Watch and wildlings raged around them, but Aemon focused on the task.
As the first wave of wildlings approached, Aemon readied his sword with a swift, practiced motion. Ghost, the silent dire wolf by his side, mirrored his readiness, teeth bared and eyes fixed on the incoming threat.
Aemon led his small band of Night's Watchmen with determination. The wildlings charged with ferocity, but Aemon's skill with a blade was evident. His movements were fluid and precise, a dance of deadly efficiency. With a swift slash, Aemon incapacitated a wildling, leaving them vulnerable for Ghost to deliver the finishing blow.
The dire wolf moved with an eerie grace, his white fur blending with the snow-covered landscape as he lunged at the wildlings. His jaws closed around the arm of an approaching enemy, tearing through flesh and causing chaos among the wildling ranks.
Aemon and Ghost fought as one, a seamless collaboration of boy and beast. Aemon's sword flashed, parrying attacks and delivering well-timed strikes, while Ghost's feral instincts complemented Aemon's every move. Together, they formed a deadly duo that struck fear into the hearts of their enemies.
Aemon's leadership kept the Night's Watchmen cohesive, defending the vital elevator. Each swing of his sword was met with Ghost's swift and lethal interventions, creating a lethal synergy that pushed back the relentless onslaught of wildlings.
As the wooden elevator continued its ascent and descent, more Night's Watch reinforcements joined the fray. Aemon and Ghost, undeterred, remained at the forefront, a formidable force against the tide of wildlings. The battle at the base of the Wall became a testament to their resilience and unwavering determination to protect Castle Black.
In the chaotic maelstrom of battle, Aemon, a mere child, moved with an unnatural grace. His slender frame weaved through the clashing combatants, his movements anticipatory and precise. Beside him, Ghost, the towering dire wolf, fought like a mythical beast unleashed upon the battlefield.
As the wildlings closed in, their raucous cries cutting through the frigid air, Aemon's senses heightened. He read their intentions before the first strike was launched, a skill honed through training and the dire circ*mstances of his young life beyond the Wall. Aemon's small sword became an extension of his will, a deadly instrument that he wielded with preternatural finesse.
The wildlings, larger and more robust than the young prince, underestimated the combination of Aemon's agility and Ghost's relentless ferocity. Ghost moved like a white shadow, his massive form dominating the battleground. With each swipe of his powerful claws and every snap of his formidable jaws, the dire wolf dispatched wildlings ruthlessly.
Aemon danced between the chaotic clashes, avoiding blows that would have proven fatal for a child of his stature. His dodges were a testament to the instinctual connection he shared with Ghost, a bond that transcended the boundaries of human and beast. The dire wolf, attuned to Aemon's every move, became a guardian, ensuring no harm befell the young boy.
As Aemon and Ghost moved in harmony, their adversaries found themselves outmatched. The wildlings, driven by desperation and aggression, telegraphed their attacks with a stark predictability. Aemon exploited these openings, his movements a ballet of evasion and retaliation. His sword struck true, finding vulnerable points in the wildlings' defenses, while Ghost's powerful presence created a barrier that none dared to breach.
The battlefield around Aemon became a tableau of chaos and carnage. Ghost's eyes burned fiercely as he relentlessly defended his young charge. Aemon, though inexperienced, fought with a determination that transcended his age, his small form a whirlwind of calculated strikes and evasive maneuvers.
Aemon, having facilitated the arrival of reinforcements, moved away from the elevator, determined to contribute to the defense of Castle Black. The battleground was a chaotic violence, the clash of steel against steel, and the screams of the wounded.
The wildlings pressed forward with a savage fervor, their sheer numbers threatening to overwhelm the Night's Watch defenders. Aemon, with his small stature and Ghost by his side, moved gracefully through the chaotic fray. His movements were a dance of evasion, every step guided by an instinct cultivated through harrowing experiences beyond the Wall.
Atop the roof, a Night's Watch archer and a wildling marksman engaged in a deadly contest. Arrows whizzed through the air like vengeful spirits as the archers sought to outdo each other's skill. The twang of bowstrings echoed in the icy winds, and the clash of arrows filled the frozen night. The duel ended abruptly as one arrow found its mark, plunging into the eye of the wildling marksman.
As Aemon and Ghost moved through the chaos, a group of wildlings emerged from the darkness. Aemon, with a sword in hand, faced off against two attackers while Ghost prowled at his side. With swift swordplay, Aemon deflected the initial strikes, parrying blows with skill. In the shadows, Ghost lunged at the unsuspecting third wildling, ripping into their throat with feral precision. The element of surprise allowed Jon to dispatch his opponents swiftly, their bodies falling lifeless to the snow.
On the battlements, a Night's Watch swordsman clashed with a wildling warrior. Steel met steel in a furious dance, sparks flying with each clash of blades. The bitter cold air carried the grunts and curses of the combatants as they fought for dominance. In a moment of vulnerability, the Night's Watchman's blade found its mark, piercing the wildling's side.
A burly wildling armed with a massive club charged toward Aemon. Ghost, ever vigilant, leaped in front of Aemon, acting as a living shield. The wildling's club met Ghost's form, but the dire wolf held firm; the dire wolf was the size of a horse, and a mere sing of a club would not deter him. Seizing the opportunity, Aemon circled the distracted foe and delivered a precise strike with Longclaw, crippling the wildling. With a feral snarl, Ghost lunged forward, tearing into the wounded enemy and finishing the fight with a savage display of primal strength.
Amidst the chaos, a berserker wielding a massive axe charged through the melee. The Night's Watch defender, armed with a shield, desperately tried to parry the brutal strikes. The clash of metal and wood resounded, but the berserker's relentless onslaught proved too much. With a thunderous swing, the axe cleaved through the shield, finding its mark and ending the defender's resistance.
In the courtyard, a group of Night's Watch brothers faced off against a band of wildlings. The clash of weapons echoed off the stone walls as swords, spears, and daggers danced in a chaotic symphony of violence. The ground became slick with blood, and the cries of the wounded mingled with the clash of arms. The Night's Watch held their ground, but not without paying a heavy toll.
In the midst of a skirmish, Aemon found himself surrounded by a trio of agile wildlings. Ghost, a blur of white fur and red eyes, circled at Aemon's side. The wildlings attacked in a coordinated frenzy, but Aemon's swordsmanship held strong. With each swing of the sword, he deflected their strikes while Ghost darted in and out, slashing at exposed limbs. The dance continued until one wildling, weakened and disoriented, fell prey to Ghost's relentless assault, the dire wolf tearing into their limbs with a ferocity that left no room for escape.
A narrow staircase became the setting for a desperate struggle. A Night's Watchman, outnumbered by wildlings, fought for his life with a combination of skill and desperation. The staircase turned into a bloody battleground as each step became a potential death trap. In the end, a wildling's dagger found its mark, leaving the Night's Watchman lifeless on the cold stone steps.
As the moonlight reflected off the icy ground, Aemon faced a skilled wildling warrior. The clash of steel echoed in the frozen air as the two combatants engaged in a duel of blades. With calculated precision, Aemon blocked and dodged the wildling's strikes. At the opportune moment, Ghost lunged from the shadows, tearing into the enemy's arm with a swift and deadly attack. The wildling, now vulnerable, fell to Aemon's sword, the clash of metal against bone ending the confrontation in the cold silence of the night.
A massive Night's Watchman faced off against a towering giant armed with nothing but a spear. The ground shook with each step as the giant swung a makeshift club. The Night's Watchman, nimble and determined, darted between the giant's legs, delivering precise strikes with his spear. In a daring move, he drove the weapon into the giant's ankle, bringing the colossal foe to its knees. But before he could end the giant, the giant used its large club to slam down on the Night's Watchmen within a single heartbeat; it was as if the club had always been there.
In the thick of the melee, the Night's Watch fought valiantly, but the wildlings, driven by desperation and a thirst for revenge, fought with brutal ferocity. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, and the ground beneath Aemon's boots was slick with a morbid co*cktail of snow and gore.
The gruesome scene unfolded with each clash of blades and every desperate swing for survival. Wildlings, their faces contorted in a feral rage, struck with merciless brutality. Night's Watchmen fell, their cries mingling with the cacophony of battle as the relentless assault threatened to breach the defenses.
Ghost, the towering dire wolf, moved with primal savagery, his fangs and claws leaving a trail of mangled bodies in his wake. His white fur was stained crimson, a stark contrast to the surrounding chaos. Aemon, despite his youth, fought with an unyielding determination, his small sword a deadly extension of his will.
Limbs severed, bodies sprawled in unnatural positions, and crimson stains on the pristine white landscape painted a vivid portrait of the grim struggle.
Wildlings, their faces contorted by the harsh winds and the ferocity of battle, surged forward with a primal hunger for blood. Outnumbered and facing a relentless onslaught, the Night's Watch fought desperately to hold their ground. The clash of swords and the twang of bowstrings filled the air as the combatants met in a maelstrom of violence.
Swords swung with deadly intent, cleaving through the air and finding their mark on both sides. The metallic ring of blade against blade echoed through the night, punctuated by the desperate cries of men locked in mortal combat. Some Night's Watchmen fell under the sheer force of the wildlings' strikes, their bodies crumpling under the brutal assault.
Spears thrust forward like deadly serpents, seeking out vulnerable points in the Night's Watch's defenses. The cruel tips found flesh, and the cries of the wounded mingled with the clatter of armor and the visceral sounds of combat. In the chaotic swirl of the battle, faces contorted in pain and rage became indistinguishable from one another.
Arrows soared through the air, their deadly flight leaving trails of death in their wake. Night's Watchmen fell with fletched shafts protruding from their bodies, victims of the relentless barrage from the wildling archers. The merciless rain of arrows added to the nightmarish panorama, turning the once-clear sky into a canvas of death.
Gruesome kills unfolded in the snow-covered expanse. Wildlings, driven by a savage determination, employed crude but effective methods. Blades slashed across throats, leaving crimson arcs against the pristine white backdrop. Limbs were severed with brutal efficiency, and the air resonated with the sickening thud of bodies hitting the ground.
The brutality was not confined to one side, as Night's Watch blades also found their mark. Desperation and survival fueled the ferocity of the defenders, and each swing of a sword or thrust of a spear was an act of defiance against the encroaching horde.
The night was ablaze with the chaotic dance of shadows and flickering torchlight. Aemon, with a sword in hand and Ghost by his side, moved with an unnatural grace through the melee. An arrow sliced through the air towards Aemon's face, but with a swift and practiced motion, he intercepted it with his sword, the blade cleaving the projectile in twain.
With a pirouette of lethal elegance, Aemon cut down a wildling who dared to approach him. His sword moved with a fluidity that defied his age, striking true and leaving his foe sprawled in the snow. Meanwhile, Ghost prowled through the battlefield, a white blur of fangs and fur. The dire wolf lunged at a wildling, pinning him to the ground, and with a vicious bite, tore out the man's throat.
The chaos of battle intensified, and Aemon's attention was drawn to a dire situation. A dozen wildlings encircled his great-grandfather, Lord Commander Benjen Stark. Aemon's eyes widened with a fierce determination, and he let out a primal roar that echoed through the tumultuous night. With Ghost by his side, the boy charged headlong into the fray.
Sword and fang worked in tandem as Aemon and Ghost cut a path through the wildling ranks. Aemon's blade found its mark with deadly precision, and Ghost's ferocious attacks left a trail of fallen enemies. The Night's Watchmen, initially surrounded, now found a swift and unexpected ally in the form of the White Wolf and his dire companion.
As they neared Lord Commander Stark, Aemon's strikes became more fervent, a storm of steel that cleared a protective circle around his great-grandfather. The air was filled with the metallic symphony of clashing blades, and the ground beneath them was stained with the lifeblood of the fallen.
Aemon found himself locked in a tense struggle with a young wildling, their blades clashing in a symphony of steel. Despite the wildling's strength, Aemon's skill allowed him to hold his ground. Sensing an opportunity, Aemon swiftly drew a dagger from his back pocket, a blade that gleamed in the pale moonlight.
With a determined thrust, Aemon drove the dagger into the wildling's face, the steel finding its mark with a sickening crunch. The young wildling, just a few short years older than Aemon himself, crumpled to the ground, defeated. Aemon's eyes, though filled with the gravity of the situation, betrayed a steely resolve as he moved with a preternatural confidence.
With a swift command, Aemon directed Ghost, the mighty dire wolf, to the aid of Lord Commander Benjen Stark. The massive wolf moved like a white streak through the chaos, closing the distance with an almost supernatural speed. Ghost lunged at a wildling who had been poised to strike at the Lord Commander from behind. Fangs sank into flesh, and a spray of blood marked the dire wolf's swift, lethal intervention.
Ghost's intervention brought precious moments for Aemon to reach his great-grandfather's side. The Lord Commander, now aware of Aemon's presence, fought with renewed vigor as the boy joined the fray. Aemon's sword and dagger became an extension of his will, each strike precise and calculated.
Aemon and the Lord Commander formed a formidable duo, cutting down wildlings with lethal efficiency. The battlefield echoed with the sounds of clashing steel, the roles of Balerion high above the Wall, and the cries of the fallen. The defenders of Castle Black, inspired by the valor displayed by the young Targaryen and the seasoned Lord Commander, began to turn the tide against the encroaching wildling onslaught.
As dawn broke over the battered landscape, the trio of Ghost, Aemon, and Lord Commander Benjen Stark fought on, rallying the beleaguered Night's Watch. The first light of morning cast long shadows on the battlefield, revealing the aftermath of a night steeped in chaos and conflict. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, and the ground was littered with the fallen from both sides.
The Night's Watch, under Aemon's and the seasoned Lord Commander's leadership, had weathered the wildling onslaught's initial storm. The sun's rays painted the snow-covered grounds in hues of pink and gold, a stark contrast to the violent struggles that had unfolded under the cover of night. Ghost, the mighty dire wolf, stood beside Aemon, a silent and formidable guardian.
The skirmishes that remained were sporadic, as the wildlings, thwarted in their initial assault, regrouped for the inevitable nightfall when they would launch another wave. The Night's Watch, having withstood the initial onslaught, began to consolidate their defenses, tending to the wounded and reinforcing key positions.
A sense of weary triumph permeated the air as the Night's Watch surveyed the battlefield. Aemon's young but resolute presence, coupled with Lord Commander Benjen Stark's seasoned leadership, had inspired the men to stand firm in the face of adversity. The Night's Watch had won the first wave, a hard-fought victory that set the stage for the challenges yet to come.
The cheers of victory echoed across the Wall as the Night's Watchmen celebrated their hard-fought success against the wildling onslaught. Amidst the jubilation, Lord Commander Benjen Stark approached Aemon, a stern yet approving look on his face. He checked Aemon's face and looked over his scared left eye. He grabbed Aemon's face gently and turned his face several times to make sure he wasn't hurt.
"Good job, lad," the Lord Commander said, clapping Aemon on the shoulder. "You held your ground. Are you unhurt?"
"Ready for the night to come, Lord Commander," Aemon made sure to say the last part for the men around them to know that Aemon would follow the rules of the Wall rather than focus on his family relations.
"Good man," the Lord Commander said. Aemon knew that Stark men did not mince words; Benjen called him a man because today, Aemon, to Benjen, was just as much a man as any on the Wall. Aemon knew the North, and once a boy was able to fight off a wildling, no one in the North would refute him as a man of the North.
"Are you well, Lord Commander?" Aemon asked in a lower voice so that only his great-grandfather could hear him.
The Lord Commander was as serious as the grave before ruffling up Aemon's hair slightly. "It would take more than a few wildlings to kill me, little wolf."
Aemon smiled; his great-grandfather was Stark through and through, cold as winter, stoic, and unyielding. Aemon, oddly enough, felt more centered by the lack of emotion on his face than if a person was fretting over him. Aemon remembered hearing Tyrion tell him once that Northmen don't smile or laugh in fear the laugh freezes in their throat and kills them, and right now, seeing the face colder than the Wall itself ensured Aemon had no ensuring he had no fatal wounds was as though he was back in Winterfell once more and Uncle Ned was checking over after a difficult spar.
"You might have taken down two hundred men among you and the wolf," the Lord Commander told Aemon slightly.
Aemon, still catching his breath, nodded in gratitude. "Ghost and I did our best."
Lord Commander Stark then turned his attention to the formidable dire wolf at Aemon's side. "And Ghost, my friend, you were a true warrior tonight. Your loyalty to Aemon did not go unnoticed."
Ghost, his fur stained with the blood of fallen foes, wagged his tail enthusiastically, seemingly understanding the words of praise. The bond between Aemon and his dire wolf was evident, a connection that transcended the spoken language.
As the cheers continued around them, Lord Commander Stark maintained his composure, a stoic figure amidst the revelry. "This victory is but the first chapter in the battle to come. We've proven we can withstand their initial assault, but the night is long, and the wildlings won't rest. We must prepare for what lies ahead."
"Aye, Lord Commander!" the men screamed.
"Our victory tonight is a testament to your bravery, but the fight is far from over. We must prepare for the night to come." The men listened attentively as Stark continued, "First, we honor the fallen. We count our dead, give them their funeral rites, and burn their bodies. Let them find peace in the flames." A somber hush fell over the gathered Night's Watch as they began the grim task of accounting for those who had sacrificed their lives in the battle. "Half of you, take the time to rest," the Lord Commander commanded. "The other half will be on watch, preparing for the return of the wildlings. We rotate in a few hours; those who rest now will be ready to stand guard when the night is at its darkest."
It took some time to get the men of the Night's Watch onto the pyre they had made. The Lord Commander stood before the gathered brothers of the Night's Watch, the flickering flames of the funeral pyre casting an eerie glow on his weathered face. The air was heavy with the scent of burning wood and the weight of loss.
"Brothers," he began, his voice carrying a mixture of sorrow and pride, "we stand here today to honor those who have given their lives in defense of the realm. They were not just good men; they were great men, true brothers of the Night's Watch." He gestured towards the pyre where the fallen lay, their forms outlined by the dancing flames. "These men fought through the night, against overwhelming odds, not for glory or fame, but for duty, for the oath we all took when we swore to guard the realms of men." The Lord Commander's eyes scanned the faces of the assembled brothers, each one reflecting the pain of loss. "In the darkest hours, we find our true friends on the battlefield. These were not just comrades; they were our brothers. They served with strength and honor, and they served truly." A solemn pause hung in the air before he continued, "Now, as the sun rises on a new day, we must bid farewell to these valiant souls. Their watches have ended. But let their sacrifice not be in vain. Let us remember their courage, their loyalty, and the bonds that unite us as brothers of the Night's Watch. And now their watches have ended."
"And now their watches have ended!" the men responded.
With a final nod, the Lord Commander stepped back, allowing the flames to consume the fallen. The crackling of the fire seemed to echo the eulogy, a lament for those who had given everything in service to a cause greater than themselves.
A brother ran down from the upper watch tower that was meant to scout for forces. The Night's Watchman, breathless and wide-eyed, stumbled towards the Lord Commander and his assembled men. The Lord Commander's eyes narrowed as he listened intently, his gaze fixed on the messenger.
"They're coming, my lord," the man gasped, "from the south."
"More wildlings?" Aemon asked.
"It's not wildlings. Banners. Banners of Manderly, Glover, Flints, Karstark, Reed, Bolton, and many more. And the dire wolf of House Stark flies high among them."
The Lord Commander's expression shifted, a mix of surprise and concern. "Dire wolf banners? Are you certain? How many men do they bring?"
The Night's Watchman caught his breath before responding, "Aye, my lord. I saw it with my own eyes. Tens of thousands, maybe forty thousand. It's an army, not a raiding party."
"They came to aid us. The North remembers!" a man screamed scream.
"For the Wall!"
As they screamed and prepared for the coming aid and for the night to come, Ghost stood next to Aemon, ready to face the night to come alongside his owner. Balerion roared loudly into the skies above, the massive dragon landing near Castle black as the ground trembled under his foot. He roared louder still towards the south. The North remembers. But a dragon never forgets.
