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“All he does is consult with those maesters all day. I see neither hair nor hide of him.” Elia looked towards her brother, dark eyes shining with a strange light. “You must impress upon him the necessity of allowing the boy’s kin to take care of him. Lyanna Stark’s son belongs in the North.”
Doran’s expression did not falter in the least. “He is loathe to give up the woman’s bones, for all the good they do him and you think anything might convince him to give up the child? You forget, that is his son just as much as the Stark girl’s.”
“I do not want him here.”
<*>
The winter chill stretched its barbed grip across the white courtyard. “Hold on tight, Aemon.” Rhaegar cautioned his youngest son. “We wouldn’t want you to fall out of the saddle.” The exuberant child let out another cheerful whoop.
“I shan’t. Uncle Ben says I am like mother. She never fell out of her saddle. He says he will teach me what he taught her when we go to his home.” The nonchalant comment caused him to freeze for one long moment.
Fury swept over him like a tidal wave of monstrous proportions, leaving sense floundering. Head spinning, he tugged hard on the horse’s reins.
<*>
The small boy lay dead at the foot of the bed, his face a fair purple shade. Rhaegar looked over at the white-faced Grand Maester. “You will find out what he has been given. Report to me as soon as you have.” Aegon’s whipping boy, he of dark hair and even darker eyes, as many Dornishfolk were, dressed from head to toe in Aemon’s garb paid the price of some twisted plot.
It could have been his hair. It should have been Aemon; all signs pointed to it. Who would be so daring? Turning to Arthur, he followed with, “Find Aemon. Bring him to me. Mention not the child’s death.”
<*>
These are, naturally, ridiculously tall tales. The dead do not walk this earth any longer. However, one cannot help but be attracted to such whispers. The undeniably fascinating nature of such horrifying resurrections remains at the forefront of these narrative concoctions. You would be surprised to hear even half the rumours coming from the wild North. I will send some volumes your way as soon as may be; they are bound to provide ample entertainment. Should I hear anything of further interest, I will be sure to report it forthwith. Give all my love to little Aemon and bring him along when next you visit the Wall; he would not be the first Dragonseed to make a conquest of great achievements upon walls of ice.
<*>
The hardy screech carried along the hallway, down into the darkening courtyard. “Not going!” Aemon wept, holding onto his father with an iron grip he almost could not credit. But the thought of being taken away from the man whose love and devotion had nourished him throughout his years. Clenching his fingers into the heavy robes he could comfortably reach from his diminutive height.
A warm palm rested then against his cheek. Disappointingly there came no words of comfort. “Be a good boy now, Aemon. Your uncle Benjen will teach you all about horses.”
“No!” he shrieked, jumping away as though scalded. His own father had betrayed him.
<*>
“It might suit Your Majesty’s requirements, or nay. The best way would be to let the flames tell their tale.” Rhaegar pondered those words as he gazed into coal-red eyes of the priestess. The leechcraft laced in her voice soothed him. She was undeniably skilled.
“You would have done better to come before my father. He would have gladly fed as many unfortunates to the flames as your heart desires.” Her lovely face remained impassive, but the woman gave him a bow as he dismissed her.
“Your Majesty shall soon learn the truth. I will be waiting.” With that last ominous promise, she departed.
<*>
“You must trust me,” his uncle said. “Jon is a common enough name and you have a Northerner’s look. The ruse must hold until we are safe. Do you understand, Jon?” Aemon thought to ignore the question. They had ripped him away from his father, a man he would never again see, they had taken the miniature of his lady mother he’d been gifted and then they wished to strip him of the last vestiges of his old life. His name was his own.
“Only until we reach safety,” he allowed. Mother had named him Aemon; but perhaps she would understand the need.
“The Wall will shelter us.” It hadn’t sheltered his father, Aemon thought not without a note of bitterness.
<*>
“Long live the King.” Elia raised her cup, brining the fragrant wine to her lips. Indeed, long live her son, long may be reign. “My heart squeezed with fear not a fortnight past, wondering what those Northerners were planning. I did not expect fortune to turn upon them so fast.”
“She is a fickle mistress, as they say,” Oberyn grinned, enjoying his own drink. “Whatever their plans, the little pawn is gone and buried. There is no surer removal of an impediment than that. You might consider getting rid of your little witch now. She can surely be of no further use.”
<*>
Blood trickled down his face, the sting forcing one of his eyes closed. “Now will you show me?” Rhaegar demanded, staring at the rotting corpse enthroned before him. To his credit, Aegon the Unworthy’s son had learned something of keeping an oath within the Night’s Watch, for no sooner had the words left his lips than the pressure upon his forehead became unbearable.
Just like that he found himself staring at a helpless Lyanna whose horrified gaze darted between a goblet and blood-stained sheets. “Ser Arthur!” she cried out. “Summon the midwife!” She did not rise from her mound of furs, but instead struggled to regulate her breathing. “Have no fear, my child; mother will protect you.”
<*>
The heavy mantle about his shoulder was tattered and worn, eaten through by frost and lack of care. Aemon eyed the man mounted upon the great beast warily. “You know what those were, do you not?”
“Are introductions not in order?” the stranger rasped. Oddly enough no vapor followed his words.
Gritting his teeth, Aemon glared to no avail. He gave up, as the cold was starting to bite. “Very well, they call me Jon Snow of the Night’s Watch.”
“Coldhands.” That was an odd name. “I know what they are. It would be best to return beyond your Wall.” A glint shone through those dark eyes and for a brief moment Aemon thought he saw a swirl of deep purple in those pools of onyx.
A trick of the light, no doubt.